Riding to Wales (part 1)

I’ve recently returned from a short trip to Wales with Pete. It was a bit of a last minute affair and I will confess that I paid less attention than I should have to the planning stage. And the financing the trip stage. Pete assured me that there was the odd hill involved – he mentioned something about a power station, too, which I ignored – so I left him to it, and immediately logged off the interwebs to merrily dream of soaring green mountains with desolate stretches of smooth, neverending tarmac threading their way towards the sky.

Since Pete had done all the planning all that remained was for me to pack my saddlebag and sort out my bike. Whilst the saddlebag is a sure bet to make most hardened ‘roadies’ (read bike snobs) cringe, I find them rather useful for trips such as these, enabling one to carry the small amount of clothing and spares needed for a 5 day trip. No camping this time – youth hostels, B&Bs and parental accommodation.

Day 1 began after we eventually got on a train to escape London, before we set off on our 100 mile first leg to Pete’s parents’ house. Unusually hot summer weather was promised for the entire week, and we baked for those 100 miles, with the company of screeching Kites as we leisurely peddled our way through the Chilterns.

The windmill at Brill.

Valley of the Kites.

Day 7 and 8: Swale and homeward

The final chapter of my mini touring adventure has been a long time coming. On my return I was waylaid with work, email, and planning other adventures; the latter always seems more pressing than mulling over what’s been and gone.

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Day 7: Herne to Chatham (~75m)

“The route home tomorrow is familiar, at least in part. I’m looking forward to my own bed and giving my knees a rest. The navigation has been exhausting but I am quite happy that only once or twice have I felt completely lost. Home tomorrow.”

Another cold and lonely night at a strange campsite. This one was clearly for caravans – thankfully I wasn’t wedged between two of them, as I had the campsite to myself. I awoke to another wet morning and packed as quickly as possible, before heading out into the morning Kentish traffic. After a failed attempt to find a bridleway, I plodded my way uphill through Blean woods, shedding layers as the cloud cleared and the heat finally returned.  After a couple of hilly miles, I gradually descended until the hills of Kent receded, still visible to my left, the flatlands and marshes stretching away to my right.

Days 5 and 6: The Kent Coast

Day 5: Pett to Barham ~55m

“It’s raining again. Still, I am dry inside the tent. All my clothes are still damp. My legs are beginning to feel very weary, It’s a good thing the hills are mostly behind me, as any sign of gradient has been met with very heavy legs. Otherwise, it’s been a day of two halves – weather wise, anyway – and more like I expected from touring, although I have myself to thank for the distances.”

So goes the first paragraph from my notes that day, which, in addition to the damp, have the distinct whiff of self-pity. I do remember it feeling like the lonliest day, something I didn’t mention. I only stopped in Winchelsea in the morning to fuel up whilst the sun was shining, and only passed through very small villages until I came to my quiet campsite in the evening.

It was bright and sunny when I left, however, as I cruised along a wide A-road towards Winchester and Rye, away from the hilly weald of East Sussex. I picked up some cheese, juice, bread, new batteries (and dry matches) in Winchelsea, a sleepy town surrounded by strange church ruins. I plugged my way along the flat straight road to Rye, and soon enough I was following the Military canal, heading North for the first time on my trip.

The cloud closed in as I made my way to the quiet maze of smugglers lanes to nowhere around Romney, and that miserable and familiar English grey sky stayed with me the rest of the day. I noticed the birdsong – I  didn’t recognize any of those birds. It was a refreshingly different soundtrack. As it begun to rain once more I stopped under a tree by the church in St Mary in the Marsh and stuffed my face with bread and cheese. It was cold – my hands were freezing again.

 

The endless flat was beginning to lose its appeal as the first ridge of the North Downs announced a change of scenery from some way off. Up the steep climb of Lympne hill, probably the toughest climb on my trip, with sections over 15%. My breath clouded as I slowly dragged myself and my heavy bike up the slope. I was surprised to have to dig in once more as I paused to scoff a banana as the road crossed the pilgrims way; a track I’d last crossed about 250 miles previously.

Lympne Hill looms after the flatlands…

The downs, again.

 

I rode slowly through the Elham valley, normally a scenic, relatively flat road through otherwise steep countryside: that day shrouded in mist. I  was feeling tired, and so was annoyed to have to backtrack to find a cashpoint. I cooked up some spaghetti for supper and promptly fell asleep.

Day 6: Barham to Herne ~55m

Another day of eating – I have bought/consumed:

• Chunk of Ottinge cheese
• Loaf of Ottinge bread (from just up the hill)
• Pot of Ottinge yoghurt
• Flapjack
• Chocolate cake
• Tea and scone
• Fish and chips
• Bottle of Whitstable IPA

Not bad, then. Ottinge was a dairy close to the campsite.

After another late start, it was thankfully dry as I rolled mostly downhill towards Sandwich and the Kent coast. I rode on some familiar roads – from a 200km audax I’d ridden some 2 years before. A depressing thought; my distances are small in comparison to those long days. The valley was full of flaxen fields contrasting with the grey sky. As I stopped in Sandwich (forgoing the opportunity to see the seals)I saw ‘normal’ cyclists for the first time since leaving Bexhill, just families out for a ride, people doing the shopping.

An ugly bike, Sandwich.

Eaten from the tub, like a savage (ruing my lost wooden spoon)

 

At Pegwell bay the official ‘bike path’ commenced. I’d had my doubts about this, but ultimately, the Viking Coastal trail which winds it’s way around the eastern knob of Kent from Ramsgate to Whitstable, was definitely one of the highlights of the trip. From that point onwards it was essentially 30 miles of traffic free path through rugged marshland and chalky low cliffs, with the pungent salty air filling my beard. I was fortunate enough to have a tailwind, too.

Pegwell bay

There’s a beach down there…

Shelter. It was cold.

Broadstairs, where I happened to see the sun for a minute or two

 

For long sections it was just me and the sea. Expansive views. I thought about trying to find a ferry to Scandinavia. The lure of fish and chips in Whitstable was stronger, though. I made a plate of the aforementioned disappear and found some beer to lug inland to my campsite. Grey all day. But a good day, with plenty of relaxing stops to warm up, and cheery well-wishes from everyone who served me. I was allowed to keep my bike in the fish and chip joint which made me quite happy.

Days 3 and 4: Along the South Downs

Day 3: Abottstone to Pyecombe ~ 75m

This was probably the highlight of my mini-tour. It was the lngest day distance-wise, had scorching summer weather and the was easily the most scenic. It was topped off by a great camping site perched in the heart of the Downs outside Brighton.

I was in a good mood as I settled down to make some notes that night.

“Today has been very different. As I write I have a log fire before me. Wolstonebury Hill slopes up and to the North, beyond that, there is only the fading light in the evening sky.  The ever-present hum of the A23 in the valley below is the only noise breaking the peace; the sleepy village of Pyecombe*  is nestled into the side of the valley above it. I have the campsite to myself. It is almost too dark to see the lumps of milk powder in my tea.

The day started with quiet and wide B-roads out of New Alresford, gently rolling and furrowing their way through the spring landscape. It was still early morning, and with an appetite for exploring, I took an unsigned lane roughly towards where I thought I should be heading. What I saw hinted at the views of the downs to come – I could see the back of the Meon valley I’d avoided thus far. The lane twisted and climbed higher to West Tisted and to a 12^th Century church, where I stopped for a snack and had my first encounter of the day with a native – a friendly and knowledgeable churchgoer.

The day was heating up as I made my way through a maze of lanes around Froxfield, the rapeseed glowing brightly along banked lanes lined with bluebells. I climbed gradually towards Steep, where the road descends fantastically towards Petersfield, clinging to the sides of the hill and offering views along the wooded escarpment. I stopped for Coffee in the town square as preparations were underway for bank holiday festivities.

The B road out of town wound its way towards Nursted, and suddenly the familiar lumps if the Downs were before me. It felt as if the first two days were merely a preamble to this part of the ride. The Downs were on my right; and there they stayed for the best part of 40 miles of rolling lanes along the foot of the hills, through quiet villages and deserted lanes. Bepton, Cocking, Treyford, Graffham, Berwick; all separated by winding roads with stunning views. I took to the odd bridleway too – a time-consuming but satisfying diversion.

As I progressed I realised portions of the route were familiar from an audax I’d ridden a couple of years ago, on a cold January day. A short and steep climb near Codwaltham tested the legs that day, when ice gathered at the foot of the slope. It was harder today.

I shortly ran out of maps and my phone ran out of juice too. A long bridleway section slowed my progress. A troupe of MTBers flashed by in the other direction, mostly ignoring my salutations. After a horrible section of straight and fast B road into Storrington I wanted to avoid the A roads as I approached Brighton, but became quite frustrated when a particular Bridleway narrowed to a single-track path up a short, branch-strewn incline. Finally I emerged onto the road to Fulking, and the Downs re-emerged once more in the evening light. The spine of combes and bostals stretching away behind me. One last climb, I thought, as I wrangled my bike up a short incline towards the Devils Dyke road, reveling slightly in the fatigue and my newly bronzed, glistening arms. There was one more climb – first up to the footbridge to cross the A23 to Pyecombe, then continuing up the ancient track to the farm and my campsite. I have a day of more familiar roads tomorrow. I think today will take some beating.“

* The -combe rhymes with boom, apparently, for non-sussex speakers…]

Day 4: Pyecombe to Pett ~70m

What to say about this day? It kind of tainted the rest of the trip and showed how badly prepared I was, how easily my routines could be broken. 

I woke to the gentle patter of rain on the tent; something I’d feared but expected the night before. The tent magnified the sound, and I dawdled for a while, hoping it would stop. I eventually packed. Packed wet and slow. I made my way gingerly down the farm track and up and over Clayton hill, almost enjoying the grisly challenge. It was 9am – everyone had their headlights on. The noise of fast, wet tyres on tarmac was a little overwhelming. I followed the familiar ‘underhill’ lanes towards Lewes. Stupidly I decided to explore the odd hill around the town, went up the High street (twice), and eventually found a tea shop on the outskirts where I stopped for a second breakfast of Mushrooms on toast and tea. I needed to warm up. The rain didn’t stop. “Will you be getting the train?” the waiters asked.

I made my way to the familiar flatlands past Glynde. I was soaked through, although my feet were ok. My hands were freezing. I even put my buff on around this point. I stopped for tea in Arlington, ignoring several “Road closed” signs. I ate my tea and scones while the tea ladies managed to tell everyone and no one at length about the folly of the road closures. It carried on raining.

I’d arranged to meet my parents in Hastings later on, and was making slow progress. I’d planned to ride over Exceat and Birling gap (the highlight of an otherwise fairly boring days riding between the downs and Kent) and was loathe to skip it just to be ‘on time’. I was getting stomach cramps and stopped for a loo break. There was no dryer in the toilets, but when I emerged it had stopped raining. I puffed my way up Exceat, trying to steal views over Cuckmere haven without weaving all over the road. My breath formed dense clouds in front of me as I climbed. (Impatient motorists formed dense queues behind me.) Finally it got a little brighter, and the sun emerged as I descended on Birling gap. I shed some layers and enjoyed the almost deserted climb; less so the descent into Eastbourne, as my brakes seemed to be completely glazed. I chanced upon a bike shop and bought some better ones, to be fitted later.

What followed was an irritating couple of hours where I tried to make good time to Hastings, having misjudged the distance, and the ease of getting there. I started cursing NCN2 and its crap cycle paths and confusing signs. I tried to recharge my phone in Bexhill and found a puddle in the bottom of my pannier from the 4 hours of rain earlier. I followed a ridiculous section of bike-path-cum-drain-cover through Hastings, by this point late, frustrated, incoherent, and still damp, and eventually met my parents. I was fed tea and cake in a pleasant little café in the Old Town. The grind out of Hastings was long, tough, and a bit grim but by that point I didn’t really care. The sun came out again as I burrowed down the lanes behind Hastings to my campsite, going down hill at about 5mph as my rear brake was completely shot.

In my notes I seem to have had serious doubts at this point about whether a touring trip around the South East was a good idea or not.

(No pictures from this day as everything went a bit tits up and I’d run out of batteries for pretty much everything – phone, camera, phone charger device etc.)

Days 1 and 2: Surrey and Hampshire

Day 1: Nunhead to Alfold ~ 58m 

Two days before I departed, I’d been stuck in a freak hailstorm cowering underneath a stranger’s porch with 6 or 7 miserable and wet children. It didn’t look good for the week ahead.

Thankfully the weather brightened, and after sloppily gathering together everything and stuffing it (badly) into one pannier, I managed to head out at about 10:30. As I withdrew some cash a friendly stranger asked about my trip and we exchanged cycling tales; he recommended I leave the country as soon as I could and head for Belgium and Holland, but wished me well nonetheless. I slowly made my way up College road in the sunshine, and along the familiar and rather dull journey out of London through Elmers End.

From the top of Tandridge

Chugging along on my heavy bike it felt a little lonely. Surrey was quiet and bright and the roads were smooth and gently undulating, constantly flanked by Oak and Beech trees and high farm hedges. Occasionally the boughs would give way to a vista of the famous Surrey hills, which I’d purposefully flanked all day. Quite by chance, much of my route took in the Surrey cycleway, as I saw signs for it all day.

I arrived quite late at my campsite, and couldn’t find any local shops that were open. I settled for some eggs from a roadside house in Alfold and made myself a simple omelette that I ate in the fading sunlight, followed by tea from my little kettle – a supper ritual that I followed most evenings.  It was a pleasant place to pitch: a small site of friendly caravaners next to an orchard of fruit trees, where chickens and sheep were left to graze. Ducks waddled through the grass nearby, and I could hear a Cuckoo in the nearby woods.

Day 2: Alfold to Abbotstone ~ 48m  

A relatively short day. I struggled to find campsites in Hampshire, and on top of that I’d planned a longer ride the day after. The night was cold, but the sun was shining from the early morning and soon after leaving the campsite I was peeling off layers, heading out straight into the Surrey lanes where I’d left off the evening before. I took a small diversion down an unmarked lane and descended through quiet woodland casting dappled shade on the smooth tarmac – refreshing after the potholed lanes of Kent. I emerged into Chiddingfold where the peal of church bells announced the morning service.

After some tricky navigating through Haslemere, I wound up in some more bucolic lanes and slowly made my way up a gentle climb towards Selborne. where I paused for lunch. I had to find some shade because it was rather hot. As I made my way out of Selborne, more rapeseed fields clung pressed in on the roads, and what followed was a glorious couple of miles through quiet farmland and a reasonably long climb up towards Four Marks. The climbing is slow, but all the more rewarding for it. I saw a bird of prey at this point but couldn’t recognise it – I suspect it was a Red Kite. I stopped briefly to figure out the way to my field for the night but otherwise ploughed on into what was flatter farmland outside of Winchester, followed by a fantastic cooling descent towards New Alresford. I dropped off my stuff, and as it was still early headed into town to pick up some supplies – bread, local cheese, a hearty pasta meal as well as a bottle of Old Dick (snigger). I scoffed the cheese and some biscuits under a tree in the woods surrounding the campsite, and quaffed my beer while planning the next day’s route. 

So far the solo riding hasn’t bothered me – a couple of brief conversations with other campers is enough to remind them and myself that I’m not a complete nutter. ‘Normal’ people in non-cycling attire come up to me quite often during the course of the day and wish me luck. That seems enough…

(In my little journal I have a rather long paragraph whinging about the campsite. *snip*)