9/9 Soft iron in Wales
Slept well, had a good breakfast, and now we come to the not‑so‑good part. The side stand can no longer hold. Better than if I couldn’t hold it any longer, but from now on the use of this soft iron is prohibited.
Mark, who happens to be the manager of the Ivybridge Guesthouse, rolls up his sleeves for me and arranges a workshop 8 km down the road. There I explain the problem to the boss, who gives the impression that he hasn’t had to work in a long time (so because of retirement, not for lack of money). I’m assigned an employee, and in a good hour the side stand undergoes a complete overhaul.
Despite previous welding work in recent weeks, new cracks kept appearing. I already mentioned why. Deck workers who interpret the allowable tension of a tie‑down strap as a recommendation. In any case I told the charmingly rugged workshop that no matter what we weld around and onto, and how ugly it looks afterward, only the function matters. So we flexed, hammered and brazed, and it was sheer joy. In the end we were all satisfied. I paid my small fee, and then got to talk more closely with the employee who was helping me.
I was surprised that he could barely speak English. Only when he said “da” twice did the penny drop. He’s Ukrainian and fled about two years ago from the Kharkiv area before the war. Hearing his story was something completely different from what the public broadcaster always makes us think.
Born in Potsdam in a Soviet barracks, not proficient in German, he has now found himself in a pretty shitty situation in his life. His family torn apart, he can’t see his daughter because of visa problems, and so on.
The stones that the so‑called “values‑west” lays down on the road aren’t without weight either. Ukraine good, Russians bad – it’s not that simple. The whole thing moves me because two worlds collide here. I’m making a colourful, boisterous tour with the AWO through Britain, and a Ukrainian whose homeland is currently being bombed and who can’t see his family is helping me.
We both think that all of this should end as quickly as possible, but neither of us has any notion of how or when that will happen.
Unable to change the great things of the world, I continue my journey with the most creative side stand that the AWO has ever given me. It was once again pure motorbike trekking over grass‑covered hills and through wooded valleys. It could have gone on for hours, if not for a noticeable temperature drop in the afternoon, from what felt like 18 °C down to 13 °C.
Unfortunately it took ages to find a café where I could warm up again. I was somehow crystal clear and, despite thick gloves, had icy paws. I suddenly felt like I was on the drive to the North Cape, only this time I was missing the handlebar grips.
The warm‑up phase lasted so long that I abandoned my far‑too‑ambitious daily goal, namely North Wales, and rather rode it out, choosing a campsite. I was desperately looking for a wild‑camping spot. But in one, the Welsh (and not only them) are quite strict about fencing off their property.
Tonight’s overnight camp is neither half nor whole, but when the eyes are closed, it’s half as bad.
