Off and away. But Braunton boasted little fan-fare for the Bourgeois Bicycle Caravan as she sailed southwards, along route 27, with bow grimly aiming at France. After deliberations in Weare Giffard and some timely advise from Grandpa Sid about the dangers of pissing into funnels at great altitudes, the troupe crossed the shoulder of mighty Dartmoor. Not before camping in a pikey stronghold that housed all manor of immobile mobile homes and some “loud-as-fuck” owls.
Once Hellybutt had decided that it was far more beneficial to not trust the lies of locals, who had obviously never left the confines of their village, the road suddenly became clear and the descent began into the ancient port of Plymouth. The ferry booking to Roscof was also professional executed.
It seemed that the idiots had taken over in Plymouth and Bodean was glad to be leaving his pagan kin behind - “HOIST THE GODDAMN ANCHORS” he screamed as the ferry pulled away.
