Most visitors to Europe spend a good deal of time viewing impressive old places of worship, places that date back centuries and which hold their own special stories. We view the old churches and cathedrals from the outside, often lit at night; from the inside, marvelling about the architecture and appointments; we sometimes climb steep, spiralling staircases to gain views from high vantage points on towers or domes. Very few of us ever visit the churches in the way they are intended: by attending a service.

This Abbey calls to me. Its faded grandeur, obvious chequered history, and small town proximity call to me in a way that the grander cathedrals in more touristy towns do not. I resolve to attend the 9am service. Neil decides to come along with me.

I think Neil’s mother is doing a happy dance in heaven right now. I can already hear her saying “I knew that girl would be good for him!”

Now I was raised a Catholic. I attended Mass every Sunday and Holy Day throughout my childhood, received all applicable sacraments, and I still attend Mass on occasion with my mother. Malmesbury Abbey is, of course, Church of England. While growing up I was taught that I was not permitted to attend services at another Church, the Catholic Church being the true Church and all.

I am not struck dead upon entering the Abbey. In fact, I am greeted and welcomed warmly. I had hoped for a grand service, with organ and choir, but instead, this 9am service has a meagre congregation of less then twenty, where Neil and I are amongst the youngest – a rarity these days. (We find out later that the 10:30 service is where you find the hip people and music.)

The service is eerily similar to the Catholic service – but with very distinct differences. Firstly, the language is old and awkward. Knowing that the Catholic service has been through recent, shall we say, upgrades, I find this strangely anachronistic. Secondly, and most notably for me, Queen Elizabeth is named in the text in places where I would expect references to the Pope or Bishops in the Catholic service. I can see Henry VIII’s hand in there, as if with a black marker, striking out the Pope’s name and writing in his own when he assumed the position of head of the Church of England.

We are singled out by the Reverend after the service. He offers us warm handshakes and words of welcome, and we chat with him a while. He becomes somewhat less interested in me when I explain my Catholic background; Neil, with an Anglican background is slightly more interesting. He is unperturbed when we explain than neither of us is on first name terms with God, and fishes out some booklets for us to take away.

I have to say, I felt more welcomed at this Church of England service in an Abbey far away from my home than I have ever been in any Catholic Church I have visited.

While we have been inside, rain has set in, and we dash to a local cafe for a post church breakfast, where we rub shoulders with local cyclists just like almost any cafe in Melbourne on a weekend. It seems there will be a break in the rain at around noon, so we hang out at our hotel until then. We have only a little more than 35km today, so we should be able to make it to Thornbury in a couple of hours.

When the rain eases, just after noon, we pack up and hit the road. Today we head slightly up for a while, a little more up, and then, after about 20km, we tip over the edge of the Cotswold escarpment for a short and sharp downhill.

Not far out of Malmesbury we are overtaken by a cyclist, who is going home with his Sunday shopping. As it is with cyclists, we strike up a conversation, and we ride with him until Sherston, his home village. After we part company with him we ride another 10 or so kilometres of reasonably gentle uphill, stopping briefly in Hawkesbury Upton for a snack before we start the downhill leg.

This is my fourth cycling trip in Europe. Each previous trip I have had a spill at some point, once by hitting a kerb at speed, once after being hit by a turning car, and once by just slipping off the asphalt when extremely tired. On this second last riding day, you would think I had escaped the curse … but I guess you know where I am going now.

Drivers in the UK are exceptional when it comes to giving cyclists space (except, generally, BMW and Audi drivers). They crawl along behind, waiting for a safe opportunity to pass, which does add a certain stress to me as a cyclist. I am riding along the main through street in Hawkesbury with a car crawling along behind me, and feel the need to give the car space to pass. So I accelerate, and aim to jump a low kerb onto the footpath to let the car pass. My heavy bike has other plans, and, instead of jumping the kerb, it runs a tyre along the kerb, tipping me off and landing on top of me.

Massive embarrassment. Knee skin gone. Tights ripped. Flailing on my back like an upturned turtle, pinned by 30kg of bike and gear. I would like to sink into the ground, but the car stops, a window winds down, there are enquiries as to my health. I say I am fine; they leave. Another car stops, same enquiries. Neil rushes around and parks his bike and lifts mine off me. A pedestrian gives helpful comments about how embarassing it is to fall when you can’t get your shoes unclipped. I want to snarl at him, but smile, and say that wasn’t exactly what happened. Neil wants to mop up blood and tend to me. I get on my bike and get out of there.

We pause at the edge of the escarpment, at the Somerset Monument, which has stood here since 1846, a monument to Robert Edward Henry Somerset, a general at the battle of Waterloo, and, presumably, a local.

Neil stares dubiously at my ripped tights and bleeding knee, but I don’t want to stop, and we tip ourselves over the edge and … ride very carefully down the steep, slippery, oily road. It’s a bit, nay a lot, disappointing. I had imagined an ear flapping, exhilarating downhill, but in these conditions I have to make a slow and controlled descent, which is no reward for all the climbing of the past couple of days.

Even on a slow descent Neil is faster than me, and he races ahead at the bottom. I feel a little discomfort in my knee and haul at my tights. My knee frees up, but what I’ve done has hauled embedded tight material out of the wound, and by the time I pull up beside Neil my knee is freely bleeding and I have to agree to deal with it before we move it.

This is time we cannot afford. There are black and ominous clouds. The day is turning to poo.

After rudimentary first aid we get going again. The rain starts, and we shelter under a sparse tree at the side of a road. The rain becomes heavier and heavier, and we have no option really but to push off and suck it up. We have only about 15km to go.

Bad decision.

The rain sheets down. It comes at us from all directions. The road floods and rivers of water pour down at us. Of course, we are going up a bloody hill. Life is becoming more miserable. If only I hadn’t fallen off my bike. If only we hadn’t stopped to patch up my knee. If only I could ride faster up hills. Ah damn it. We still would have been caught and we still would have been sopping wet.

We limp into Thornbury.

Tonight we are booked into Thornbury Castle. This is my cherry on the trip. I found it in early trip planning and was immediately sold on it as a Tudor-era castle. My childhood princess fantasies and mild Tudor obsession give this place all the ticks.

I think I can see the castle in the misty distance. The rain has eased a little and I coast down a hill, with Neil trailing behind me. When he catches up his face is full of horror. He says he was so worried about how fast I went down the hill. Fast? I was braking the whole way down. We travel a little further before he realises he has no brakes. No brakes. They have disintegrated and rubbed off in little greasy patches on his rims.

We make a pathetic and slow procession through town and to the castle. My ideas of a grand sweep (in sunshine of course) into the castle courtyard and being greeted like royalty by castle staff disintegrate. We crawl to the castle gate and Neil shelters while I make my drippy way to reception.

I have to hand it to the castle staff. They maintain all appearances of polite  deference when a muddy, drippy, sodden wannabe princess shows up. I am handed a towel, our bikes are dispatched to the Tudor Hall (if you please) and we are shown to the De Clare chamber, where Neil disappears into the shower for at least half an hour, and I lounge on the four poster bed watching the final stage of Tour de France.

Our chamber is warm and dry (as you would expect). It is furnished richly, but has a tiny doorway into the bathroom where I can fit upright, but anybody taller than my 5’5″ would have to duck. I guess bathrooms weren’t such a thing back in the Tudor days, and most people weren’t so tall.

We head into the bar for a post-ride beer. The weather has smartened up now, of course, the sun is out, and it would be nice to have a beer outside, but we are inside looking out into the grand castle grounds. We scurry up to the room again to see the end of Le Tour, then gussy ourselves up as best we can for dinner.

The castle dinner routine is familiar now. We go to the bar/drawing room for pre-dinner drinks and to choose from the menu. Neil orders a French 75, much like a gin and tonic but with champagne, something we are going to have to make after we get home.

When our first course is ready, we are escorted to the restaurant. We are attended by an older gent, a career waiter, who treats us with the polite deference and efficiency we have come to expect from these grand places.

Our dinner is included in our dinner-bed-and-breakfast package, and I am delighted to find there is a vegetarian menu. I feast on a beetroot dish, a truffle risotto, and follow up with a dessert simply named “Chocolate”.

We are surrounded by moneyed types. The couple behind us are obviously “somebodies”. Our waiter fawns over them, speaking, I believe Spanish and showing another string to his accomplished hospitality bow. Another table table of four just has that rich well-groomed European look. I feel a little dowdy, a little under-dressed, and little impoverished. But I eat well. I drink well. And when dinner is over we retire back to the drawing room for a nightcap. As do the moneyed types. We are almost on par with them. Which is pretty princessy.

Thornbury Castle well knows the moneyed types. Edward Stafford, 3rd Earl of Buckingham sought in the early 16th century to transform his family home at Thornbury into a palatial home. Unfortunately he ran foul of Henry VIII, who had him arrested, beheaded, and then took over his home. Henry and Anne Boleyn reportedly spent ten days at Thornbury Castle as part of an extended honeymoon, and the Duke’s Chamber here is said to be the room they occupied. I’m afraid when booking with $AUD, I couldn’t run to the Duke’s Chamber, but our chamber is a pretty good compromise.

As I walk around this place, this castle, at some point, surely, my footsteps intersect with the ancient paths of the royals of the Tudor time. That is a strange and satisfying feeling for a Tudor junkie. Can I say – Wow!

Stats for the day

• Distance travelled: 36.4km
• Climb: 361m
• Moving time: 2:12:05
• Average speed: 16.5km/h
• Average temperature: 16C
• See our ride on Strava.

Along the way today