day 9, Wednesday 6th July
After a good brekkie we are told today is quad biking. Captain Dai ‘Posh’ Edwards does some TV whilst the rest of us dress ‘rough’ and head onto the bus. A few of us confess we are a bit nervous about quad biking and these nerves only grow when we see various farmers bringing their quad bikes along as we don’t fancy having to pay for one if we total it. As it turns out we have got the complete wrong end of the stick. The local farmers have given up a days work to take us out on their bikes. We saddle up, mainly two to a bike. I get Louie again as he trusts me after the white water rafting not to get him killed. John Horwood wonders aloud whether we should all have crash helmet and goggles.
In convoy we go off and take to a track around hills very much like Betws or the black mountain although I’ve never seen cattle on such terrain back home. It turns out we are on some old mining tracks that are just about ideal for quad bikes. The bikes are pretty awesome and seem able to deal with all sorts of mud/steep slopes etc except the one Dai Newson and Ron are on which gets stuck. We stop to right our name on the inside of a tunnel that the miners carved out and have photos taken with some silver ferns. There is also a stop to visit the last occupied farmhouse on the mountain. Abounded since the 30s the owner shot himself and his wife was never found after getting into trouble with the banks. The scenery gets more and more spectacular until we stop for lunch on a mountain top. We spread out to have a bit of space and admire the views which stretch for miles and are topped off by snow covered mountain in the distance. We go back a different way and the flora (plants not margarine) reminds me of a fair ground safari ride so that I almost expect a plastic zebra to poke it’s head out of a bush as we go past. We stop at a lost ‘shaky’ bridge for another photo. I nudge Louie whenever we go near a sheer drop (every couple of minutes) to which he responds with things like “Oh my Lord” and clutching his chest to make sure his fags are still there. We marvel at the sights, the ability of the bikes and the miners who used to work there before the war. (basically I think they realised there were much easier ways of making money once they had travelled a bit). One of the farmers apparently broke his pelvis out there once and rode back the 6 odd miles, closing the various gates behind him. It was hell of an experience and even more so because the farmers had given up their day for us.
Back in the hotel I had a look at the various cuttings on the wall including those of ‘Presidents day’. The current holder is our landlady and previous presidents include a goat. It’s obviously quite a party with a lot of visitors, apparently the hotel is full most weekends.
A cracking meal is followed by some killer pool with the locals and a guitarist (with backing tapes) goes through his ‘wedding’ set (Brown eyed girl, money for nothing, the birdie song). In the middle of this one of the farmers turns up with 20 sheep for entertainment….
A sheep shearing competition. In teams of 4 fastest to shear a sheep, eat a pie, eat a pack of chips (crisps) and skull (neck) a pint wins. Marshy and Henry, our Scottish tour member, are both sheep farmers so with a couple of locals we manage 4 teams. Louie cocks the time up or we would have won (honest). The fastest time is about 1:30 but the record (without the crisps) is about 44 seconds! After that I get called up to shear a sheep myself, which is blydi hard work. Some of the other boys have a go. Rob declines because it would be cruel to the sheep if he cut it (like I did) but continues to eat meat for the rest of the tour.
The night goes into morning and I find I am even developing a taste for Marshy and Gappas fav tipple: rum and coke. When the bar closes our stokes from the bus ensure an extra hour or so drinking before bed.
In convoy we go off and take to a track around hills very much like Betws or the black mountain although I’ve never seen cattle on such terrain back home. It turns out we are on some old mining tracks that are just about ideal for quad bikes. The bikes are pretty awesome and seem able to deal with all sorts of mud/steep slopes etc except the one Dai Newson and Ron are on which gets stuck. We stop to right our name on the inside of a tunnel that the miners carved out and have photos taken with some silver ferns. There is also a stop to visit the last occupied farmhouse on the mountain. Abounded since the 30s the owner shot himself and his wife was never found after getting into trouble with the banks. The scenery gets more and more spectacular until we stop for lunch on a mountain top. We spread out to have a bit of space and admire the views which stretch for miles and are topped off by snow covered mountain in the distance. We go back a different way and the flora (plants not margarine) reminds me of a fair ground safari ride so that I almost expect a plastic zebra to poke it’s head out of a bush as we go past. We stop at a lost ‘shaky’ bridge for another photo. I nudge Louie whenever we go near a sheer drop (every couple of minutes) to which he responds with things like “Oh my Lord” and clutching his chest to make sure his fags are still there. We marvel at the sights, the ability of the bikes and the miners who used to work there before the war. (basically I think they realised there were much easier ways of making money once they had travelled a bit). One of the farmers apparently broke his pelvis out there once and rode back the 6 odd miles, closing the various gates behind him. It was hell of an experience and even more so because the farmers had given up their day for us.
Back in the hotel I had a look at the various cuttings on the wall including those of ‘Presidents day’. The current holder is our landlady and previous presidents include a goat. It’s obviously quite a party with a lot of visitors, apparently the hotel is full most weekends.
A cracking meal is followed by some killer pool with the locals and a guitarist (with backing tapes) goes through his ‘wedding’ set (Brown eyed girl, money for nothing, the birdie song). In the middle of this one of the farmers turns up with 20 sheep for entertainment….
A sheep shearing competition. In teams of 4 fastest to shear a sheep, eat a pie, eat a pack of chips (crisps) and skull (neck) a pint wins. Marshy and Henry, our Scottish tour member, are both sheep farmers so with a couple of locals we manage 4 teams. Louie cocks the time up or we would have won (honest). The fastest time is about 1:30 but the record (without the crisps) is about 44 seconds! After that I get called up to shear a sheep myself, which is blydi hard work. Some of the other boys have a go. Rob declines because it would be cruel to the sheep if he cut it (like I did) but continues to eat meat for the rest of the tour.
The night goes into morning and I find I am even developing a taste for Marshy and Gappas fav tipple: rum and coke. When the bar closes our stokes from the bus ensure an extra hour or so drinking before bed.
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