Chepstow from Brynmawr: Life's Little Curved Balls and the Pitfalls of Assuming Your Standard Issue Teenager Can Organise Stuff.

It started out badly and went steadily downhill from there. Standard Teenager asked Standard Dad if he (Standard Teenager) could do  a bike ride from Brynmawr to Chepstow today. Dad agreed. Son told SuperMum his plans for the trip. Son, apparently, did not tell Dad. Son had forgotten that Standard Dad does not come with with the super enhanced features that SuperMum does, such as an ability to tell the future (she always knows what's for tea) and read minds. Consequently, Dad, after he walked the dog (Super Deluxe Edition), went out to do some shopping- without telling anyone. Dad was gone for ages.
Subsequently, a three way row developed when, at last, Dad arrived back, and only ended when everyone, including the bike, slammed into the car in a fit of pique (alright, maybe not the bike). And this, folks, is when the best laid plans of the Pride and Joy, fell apart. And I use the word "best" in the same way my teenager evidently does.
The first part of this comedy of errors was not, it's fair to say, his fault. Other than if he had told his dad, in plain English (something, along with his table manners, we have to work on. Someone, after all, might want to marry him one day) that he wanted he be gone by about 11am, and not, as he did, "earlyish"(bearing in mind that the P&J thinks 11am is a reasonable time to get up in the morning), then Dad would have made some effort to be back by 11am, raring to go, and we might have missed the irksome bit of misery looming like a flood of cold mushy peas on the M5.

The tailback started in Avonmouth. You know, that roundabout regulated by a series of traffic lights and, apparently, invisible yellow boxes? Yes, that one. The one with a generous, almost non-stop supply of large, articulated lorries joining it from the left. An hour it took. No, not to get past the roundabout. To go half a mile. Apparently a four car shunt was responsible.
By the time we had got across the Severn Bridge, which, miraculously, managed to stay up until we got to the other side, we were running an hour and a half behind.

 "Shall I drop you at Blaenafon, or do you want to try from Brynmawr? It's only two miles further on, after all?" says Dad. The fool! Has he learned nothing from this day?
"Yes, I might as well," responds the P&J.
"Do you know where it is?" asks Dad.
"Yes," replies the P&J confidently. Confidently! Any owner of a teenager should know what that means!
Pause.
"Well?" asks Dad. "Where is it?"
"It's near a pub."
"And what's the pub called?"
"I don't know. I'll know it when we get there." You've got to admire their optimism, haven't you?
Off we set, to Brynmawr, looking  FOR THE ONLY PUB ON THAT ROAD. "There's a pub," I said, apparently to myself, as we drove past a pub like building called The Racehorse Inn. Or possibly the Jockey and Something (Dad). Or How the Bloody Hell Would I Know (P&J). Either way, it's the only pub on the A4248.
Consequently, we went further than we had to, possibly to Brynmawr, possibly to Beaufort. I don't really know. I'd lost the will to live by then.
We turned around, we drove back. There was no cycle path "near" the pub. We drove on. Miraculously, both the P&J and Dad saw the sign for the cycle path at the same time. Clearly my son uses the adverb near in the same cavalier fashion he uses best.

 So we got him and the bike out of the car, put the front wheel on the bike, and off he went. We had agreed he would not make Chepstow before it got dark, so we were to meet him by the rugby ground in Caerleon, unless he rang to tell us differently. That put paid to my plans for a teashop in Chepstow that afternoon.
 After a necessary and urgent visit to the customer facilities at Tesco in  Cwmbran, we went in search of coffee and something to eat. Another little tea house, perhaps, a little gem tucked away in the hills, with a roaring fire

 (it was bitter, frost lay all day. I'm just telling you so you'll understand we were very, very cold. Hence a roaring fire would be very welcome. Okay?) and large, fluffy, homemade cakes? No. It was a Subway sandwich bar, at the rear of a Spar shop in Cwmbran. A slice of vegetarian something or other (possibly a veggie burger that had been run over and sliced into rectangles. Who cares? Like I'm going to want one again.), and a bit of salad pressed between two pieces of carpet tile. But it was edible if bland and the coffee was hot, which was what we wanted. And we could eat at the bar, which was just about warmer than the car. Then, collecting provisions for our son, we made our way to Caerleon.

 What can I say about Caerleon? It's always worth a visit. They really embrace their Roman past and the museum always puts on events for the kids, a lot of which are free. And, most importantly, they have some very good eating houses. But I digress.
We arrived in Caerleon fully knowing all the tea and coffee houses would be closing, so we did a big walk around the block, seeing how many photo's my phone camera would take in the gloaming.

We arrived back at the rugby ground just as the P&J did. And just to show HOW COLD IT WAS, when the P&J took off his coat, he was steaming. He also claimed he had frostbite. Something of an exaggeration, so I ignored his whinging. I told him to put 2 pairs of socks on before we set out. Did he listen? No.
He reckons it took him an hour and three quarters to cycle from Blaenafon/ Brynmawr to Caerleon. And much to my relief, he didn't fall in the canal. Maybe he'll leave that until another day, when things seem to be going just too well.


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