Off roading without a mountain bike

The best laid plans of Mice and Men often go awry. (I know, I know, Robbie Burns didn't say it quite like that!) The plan had been for Mick and I to get off nice and early and as it was going to be sunny, ride down to Weston again, as I wished to make some improvements to the route. But we were hindered by the following factors:


1. It was not sunny, it was cold and foggy
2. We decided we couldn't leave without first consuming an egg and bacon roll at Wetherspoons next to the station.
3. On leaving Wetherspoons I realised I had lost my gloves and spent half an hour looking for them in the pub and in the station.
4. Advancing years combined with too many cups of tea necessitated a ridiculous amount of loo stops.


It therefore took two hours to cycle from Temple Meads station to Ashton Court, a distance of about two miles.

Having lost my gloves I was forced to wear Mick's Maintenance Marigolds

The new cross harbour ferry in Bristol Docks

Annoying sign at toilets in Ashton Court. Is a rubbish bin too much to ask for?

After this inauspicious start we made good time though, initially retracing the route of the previous ride (but without the Nailsea loop) along to the top of the Strawberry Line at Yatton. The path is initially very rutted and we bumped our way slowly along before it smoothed itself out. At Congresbury there is a stretch of the A370 to be traversed before rejoining the old railway line; we were pleased to see work going on to build a parallel cycle path linking them , away from the traffic.

New ramp on section linking two halves of the Strawberry Line

Several posts had posters asking for information about Peppa, a dog that had gone missing in the area. Plastered over the top was a second notice saying that the dog had been found - safe and skinny - having fallen down a mineshaft.

Thatcher's orchard - Katy Way through young trees which presumably will one day produce Katy apples for Katy cider

 Down through the Thatchers cider orchards and then at Winscombe I led the way off the path. I had a shortcut to try so we picked up the quiet lane that ran around the back of Crook Peak, emerging near the Webbington Hotel and the M5. Mick was suitably impressed.


Feeling peckish we stopped for some scram at a farm gate (Mick is on catering and surpassed himself with Yorkshire ham and mustard rolls, pasta and pesto salad, little cheeses and some energy bars. I had brought a little picnic blanket so we sat and had a feast.) Replete, we re-mounted our bikes and headed on towards Bleadon. On the way up the hill, Mick started the campaign. Opening gambit was a query about the time.
'Almost one o'clock,' I replied.
'Ok. We've made good time since leaving Bristol haven't we?'
'Not really!'
'Are you cold? Would you like to warm up somewhere?'
'No I'm fine.' (I was cold actually but I knew what he was doing and I like winding him up.) We passed through the village and I swung left, ignoring the turning to the Queens Arms on the right.
'Shall we pull in a second?' said Mick, sounding a little panicky now.
I pulled in, trying not to laugh. 'What is it?'
'Um, you don't fancy the pub?'
'Oh ok. Maybe we could have a coffee.'
Mick, now in sight of the pub door, had finally had enough. 'What are you, my effing doctor? I'm having a beer!'

Happy now

After a pint I was still shivering and went to the Ladies and stood under the hot air dryer for a while. The weather was not behaving today. When we left we (I) decided to try following a back route into Weston. This should be Route 33 but it evidently requires some work. The quiet flat lane was pleasant but then we turned right, into a field of shitty, runny slurry. 'Ugh!' said Mick,  who is borderline OCD, 'I'm covered in crap!' We made our way through the stinking slime and into a field before emerging under the cliffs at Uphill quarry. On the top was the roofless church of St Nicholas, below which some lunatic was hanging off the cliff on a rope. The church looked interesting so we made our way round to the other side of the quarry, tied up the steeds and climbed the hill to the church. Which was locked. A sign outside said the church was open to all. Not today it wasn't.

 If you think it looks bad you should smell it!

 

Hanging about in Uphill

  

St Nicholas church, Uphill

  

Eh?

Leaving Uphill we followed the road next to the beach until it abruptly ended in a carpark. We could see Weston front, a few yards on, and so decided to cycle along the beach. 'It's quite hard going!' said Mick, puffing, his wheels gradually sinking deeper into the sand. It was a bit of an effort but better than going all the way round and soon we were coasting along the promenade on shit and sand smothered bicycles.
'Shall we have a bag of chips each today?' I said. 'I think we've earned them.'

Cycling on the beach

It's quite hard going!

Birnbeck Pier

Same road back round to Kewstoke as before but this time I was keeping an eye out for the left turn to take us out towards Wick St Lawrence and Bourton, a longer route than the A370 but flat and quiet. We passed

Very, very old

RCH Brewery, producers of Pitchfork and other fine ales, before continuing to Puxton.
Time was getting on but Mick persuaded me that we should stop and have a look at the little church. I'm so glad we did, it was wonderful. Holy Saviour Church is a Grade 1 listed building dating from the twelfth century with a dramatic leaning tower. It was open, and the interior was ancient too, with unusual old box pews and Jacobean pulpit. I loved it.

The Leaning Tower of Puxton

The road back was a gamble - it was marked as a bridleway on the map. It was not a good choice - full of massive ruts and potholes - and hellish to cycle. 'Hope my frame survives this,' said Mick. A farmer coming the other way in his land rover gave us a strange look. 'I expect he's thinking "unbelievable, what are they doing here when she's carrying a bloody map!"'
Around the corner it got worse as we were confronted by three massive puddles. no choice though so we peddled through them, trying desperately to keep up momentum in the mud and not put our feet down.
'Interesting choice Routes,' Mick commented on the other side, after we had also negotiated passing three massive Dobermans. On we went, bumping up the Strawberry Line. I felt like my brain was leaking out through my ears. Finally, and this one was not my fault, Mick said he knew a shortcut back into Yatton. Which it was. Through a farmyard.

On Ellie's 'improved' route

Weary and with the fog descending lower, we cycled back to Bristol. The sun had not put in appearance all day, the bastard. I began to worry whether I would be allowed on the train with my stinking, shit-soiled bike. We stopped for a quick pint in the 'Spoon before going our separate ways.
'That route,' said Mick, after sinking a long draught of beer, 'was definitely NOT an improvement.'
I had to admit he was right.

Oh, and  when I got home - my gloves were on the chair in the garage - right where I had left them.
Our route is here

The Weston Figure of Eight

'Hills, hills, hills,' said Mick. 'We can't have too many hills. When we're training. What about cycling the two gorges - Cheddar and Burrington?'
We were deciding where to go on today's ride. 'Ok,' I said, 'Cheddar Gorge it is.'
We decided to try out the relatively new Sustrans route which takes cyclists west out of Bristol, the Festival Way, and then head down the Strawberry Line to Axbridge and Cheddar before climbing up onto Mendip.

In Bristol city centre I decided to deviate from our usual cross-Bristol route and swung left down the road. St Philips is not the most salubrious part of Bristol and the locals evidently derive entertainment by slinging empty beer glasses (or full ones for all I know) at walls as they drive home from the pub. We proceeded along the road next to the Cut which was busy with lorries and vans all driving like maniacs. It was with some relief that we got onto the traffic free chocolate line.
 

Chocolate Line

 

Create Centre

At the end of the choccy line, the Create Centre occupies one of the old tobacco bonded warehouses. It's an Environment Centre where everyone is very keen on recycling and green energy and things of that nature. It also had two things I wanted: 1. a toilet and 2. a free cycling map for North Somerset. Emerging in improved physical comfort and with a new map on my barbag, I was feeling cheerful as we headed across Bristol's spaghetti junction of Cumberland Basin and through the grounds of Ashton Court mansion house. Deer were grazing in the park and the mansion looked splendid in the sunshine. We coasted out the other side of the grounds and across the road, intending to head down through Long Ashton.

Suddenly Mick yelled out to me to stop. He had a puncture. Some people seem to get a puncture every time they go out, but with our solid kevlar tyres, this was a novelty. Mick calculated he last had a puncture in early 2009 and so initially this was disconcerting.
'I'm not being funny...' said Mick (a phrase which invariably precedes criticism in my experience) 'but this is your fault.'
'How so?'
'For taking us along that shitty road. The day is ruined now!'
'Ah. I see.' Feeling conciliatory (for once!)  I agreed that the fault had been mine and placated him by saying,' 'The day is not ruined - and you can show me how to fix a puncture.'
He cheered up immediately at this - blokes adore being able to explain to someone how to do something practical, don't they? 'Oh yes, ok then. Pass me the tyre levers.'

Ashton Court

Once fixed, we set off again, down through Long Ashton and then along the lovely new cycle path out towards Backwell and Nailsea, where we conducted a huge loop round Nailsea Moors through Chelvey and Claverham and then headed towards Congresbury and the Strawberry Line. Time was getting on and it was my turn to sulk. 'If we had not followed your suggestion to go via Nailsea,' I grumbled, 'we would be in Cheddar by now. We're hopelessly behind.' Mick, in turn, placated me by saying, 'Look you know I'm crap at routes.  Don't listen to me, I talk bollocks.' And so, between us, we managed to get to Axbridge without an argument, something of a triumph in the circumstances.

'Motivation Corner' near Claverham village

Heare lies the bodey of poor Atkins - St Bridget's, Chelvey

Strawberry Line

In Axbridge we stopped for a cup of tea in the Almshouse. It dates from 1433 and offers cake instead of alms these days, but is a delightful cafe, although Mick failed to take into account the low beams and twice banged his head on them getting upstairs. Whilst we supped on our drinks and Mick rubbed his forehead, the chap on the next table, who was sitting alone, turned to talk to us.
'Bet that hurt,' he opened.
'Yep,' said Mick.
'I had a bike in Germany,' he said. 'When I moved here I was going to buy another one but I looked at the roads and changed my mind. Too dangerous.'
He went on to tell us he had lived in Berlin but had been brought up in Saarland on the French/German border. 'I was born in France but then moved to Germany,' he said. 'Without moving house! I used to do a bit of smuggling in the old days.'
'What, cigarettes?'
'No, antique jewellery. My 70 year-old aunt used to help. Sometimes I would call on her and she would say 'Ooh lovely, are we going smuggling today?' Of course, with the EU free movement of goods that all went. You should go to Weston from here,' he offered, as I pulled out the map to have a quick look. 'It's a lovely road.'
I looked at Mick. 'Shall we?'
He shrugged. 'You're Routes.'

So on leaving the cafe we headed west and crossed the A38 at Cross. The road skirted the end of the Mendips. Towering above us on our right was the 600 foot Crook Peak whilst across the  flat moors to our left,the distinctive Brent Knoll rose up in the distance. The road undulated along, hopping over the M5, before the short, puffy climb up to the village of Bleadon. We whizzed down the other side and at the bottom we paused before turning left. Up on our right was a rather inviting looking pub, the Queens Arms, a Butcombe pub. No words were needed, we turned right and tied up the bikes and went in for a pint. I liked it. The pub had not been mucked about with and there was a nice old-fashioned seating area. And it opened all day! Two pints of AH's Rare Breed later we re-emerged, blinking after the darkness of the pub.


It was only a ten minute hop down the main road to Weston sea-front. We pushed the boat out and bought abag of chips to share. Twelve quid on beer without a second thought but we demurred over two bags of chips! Priorities, I suppose. It has been a while since I have been to Weston-super-Mare and I was mightily impressed. The promenade has been resurfaced and revamped and the beach looked clean and ready for the new season.

Weston-super-Mare

Weston Pier - victim of fire but now refurbished

 derelict Birnbeck Pier

Birnbeck Pier

We cycled past Marine Lake and round the headland where the derelict Birnbeck Pier juts out mournfully into the estuary. The Pier has recently been bought by developer Wahid Samedy of CNM Estates who also own the site previously occupied by the Royal Pier Hotel until it was unfortunate enough to catch fire twice in twelve months. (Fires do seems to be a problem in Weston. The Grade 2 listed Grand Pier burnt down in 2008 and was totally rebuilt. The historic Victorian Royal Pier Hotel caught fire in June 2009 annd September 2010. In 2011 another derelict hotel, the Bayside, was destroyed by fire. Firefighters in Weston must hardly get a wink of sleep.) CNM Estates have plans for some very low key development on the site which you can see here. I think this looks tremendous and so in keeping with the Victorian surroundings at this end of the town. Not. Apparently Mr Sameday is currently preparing a 'Masterplan' for the entire site and the council, for some reason, appear to be giving him their blessing.

The Toll Road (which no longer collects tolls) hugs the edge of the coast round to Kewstoke. The road is notorious for accidents and has rumblestrips along its length, great fun for bumping along and making silly aaaahhhh noises, although one can use the cyclepaths alongside each one if not in the mood to have one's brain shaken about.

Coming out of Weston was a route foul-up on my part which included a terrifying belt across the junction of the M5 with the A370 followed by a run along the latter for far too long until we could once again rejoin the sanity of the quiet lanes around Claverham and then pootle back home, rather pleased with the longest (albeit flattest) training ride so far.

Our route is here

A Radstock Reprise

I was annoyed at missing out on Stoney Littleton long barrow last time. I know it's not everyone's idea of an exciting venue but I like this sort of thing. Maybe I'm just a bit sad, as my daughter frequently points out. Anyway I decided there was nothing for it but to head back down to the badlands of Radstock and Midsomer Norton. I decided to fool Mick by heading off on the Avon circular to Chew Valley lake, planning then to execute a crafty left turn and swing across the A37, dash through Paulton and pick up the Norton Radstock Greenway. By the time he realised what was going on it would be too late. Luckily Mick takes no interest in pre-ride route planning and is happy just to follow my directions. 'I'm food and maintenance,' he says. Which means he gets to make the sandwiches and carry the pump while I get to obsess over a map and be very bossy.

So we set off merrily down the lane to Compton Dando and the Avon Cycleway. The route follows rural lanes through sleepy villages until we arrived at Pensford. It's a shame that the fast A37 races through the middle of the village. At various times Pensford has produced high quality cloth, copper, brass and coal; now it's a commuter village for Bristol and Bath. It is dominated by the glorious Pensford Viaduct. Built in1873 to carry the Bristol and North Somerset Railway across the Chew Valley, it finally closed after the '68 floods when it was declared to be unsafe although I can't help but wonder whether this was a rather convenient excuse. British Rail once tried to sell the viaduct for £1.00  but had no takers so it remains part of BRB (Residuary). It would make a brilliant cycle-path...
More country lanes to Chew Valley Lake and time for a cup of tea. As we sat enjoying our break and looking out over the lake, Mick pensively said: 'You know, I've always had a regret that I never became..'
'Became what?' I wondered. 'A brain surgeon? A father? A duck?'
'...a thief,' he continued.
'What?' I said, non-plussed. 'What do you mean, a thief?'
'I could have been rich,' he said. 'Look at all the money to be made out of ripping people off. Being honest is for fools.'
I looked at him aghast. 'Yes we're skint, I protested. But at least we can sleep at night!'
'Well, that's it,' he said dolefully. 'I don't sleep. I have insomnia. So I might as well have become a thief.'

Water level in Chew Valley Lake

Leaving the lake we cycled through Bishop Sutton then turned left and started the climb up onto Mendip. Mick started to get all excited. 'We're going to Priddy!' he exclaimed. 'Brilliant! A pint of Roger's Butcombe and a cauli cheese in the Hunters!'
'No, calm down. We are not going to Hunter's today.'
'Owwwww, why not?'
'Because I have other plans. We'll go to Roger's another day.'

I turned off before Mick spotted the Ring o Bells at Hinton Blewett where I knew I would have another rebellion on my hands. Instead we coasted down to the A37 at Temple Cloud, and cycled on through Hallatrow and Paulton to Midsomer Norton. Mick did have a point, this end of Mendip is the poorer, hardier end, and there was nothing very attractive about these places. Certainly no-where we felt like stopping. At Midsomer Norton, Mick swore as realisation dawned. 'We're going to fucking Radstock! Again!' He was incredulous at my nerve. To be honest I was now feeling a bit sheepish. I had been a bit of a cow, refusing any pub stops and disappointing him with a pointless ride up hills and down again. 'I wanted to see the Neolithic long barrow,' I mumbled.
Mick snorted. 'Well we're here now, come on then. Where is it anyway?'
'Stoney Littleton.'
'Where's that?'
'Other side of Radstock. By Wellow.'
'It had better be good.'

We headed along the Collier's Way first on railway line and then country lanes. This time I was ready for it, and spotted the signpost for the long barrow. 'Where is it?' asked Mick.
'Up there,' I said pointing to the top of the hill beyond the stile.'
'Oh. Do we really want to go up there?'
'Yes we do. We've missed a lunchtime pint for this.'
So we tied our bikes to a gate and set off up the hill and across two fields. When we reached the long barrow Mick was impressed. 'It is amazing,' he agreed, conquering his claustrophobia to come and have a poke about inside. It's possible to go a long way inside - with side chambers coming off the main passage where the bodies would have been laid out.
'Lie in one, like a corpse' I suggested.
'YOU lie in one. I'm not!'
Outside I announced my intention to circumnavigate the site. 'Yeah, you would,' said Mick. 'Anyone else would just walk round it.'




We agreed on the walk back to the bikes that it had been jolly impressive though, and worth the effort. We headed up the hill to Wellow where we were unable to resist a quick nose down Railway Lane. Sure enough, just down the road was the remains of the old level crossing gates. The signal house had been converted to a dwelling as had the station, which for ten years was the residence of the artist Peter Blake. Even I, art philistine that I am, recognise some of this guy's work:





We slogged up Hinton Hill and crossed the A36, after which we enjoyed the long coast down to Iford Manor. Nestling at the bottom of the hill, Iford is a stunning Elizabethan manor house with Grade 1 listed Italiante gardens which have been described as one of the best in the country. They were designed by Harold Peto, architect and landscape gardener who lived here from 1899 to 1933 although sadly they were not open at this time of year. The River Frome which runs on front of the manor house (the Somerset Frome, and pronounced Froom not Froam) forms the boundary so whilst the Manor is in Wiltshire, the Bridge outside is in Bath and North East Somerset. Perched on the top - looking slightly incongruous and like she might want to jump at any minute - is Britannia, also a Peto addition.


We cycled into Freshford, past the closed Inn and through Limpley Stoke, past the closed Hop Pole. Well it was Tuesday afternoon so hardly surprising. By the time we had cycled back to Bath along the Kennet and Avon towpath we had a proper thirst on.

 
'Ah, back to civilisation,' said Mick with satisfaction. 'The pubs will be open here.' Sure enough the Royal Oak at Twerton, one of our favourites, was open so we spent a very pleasant couple of hours here before the last push home.

Plain Innocence

Neath Ales Dewi Sant

Ceiling of the Royal Oak

Mick having fun turning in front of petty 'no turning' sign

Aside from the beer desert, a very successful ride & I had finally got to see the long barrow. After two visits to Radstock in a week though, I don't think it'll be on our route for quite some time. I fear if I suggest a third trip there Mick may resort to physical violence.

Our route is here

A Radstock Ring

It's only a few weeks until End-to-End Ireland. Number of training rides this year so far - one. This will not do. I have been pottering about on my bike as usual but I need to get a few more longer rides under my belt  if we are not going to have a repeat of Lejog (lots of tears and fears). Plus I have somehow managed to acquire another fourteen pounds (weight not money) since that trip. There is definitely a need for some serious training.

Mick turned up on his Cannondale and, easing us into the ride gently, we set off along the Bristol-Bath cycle path. (Sustrans Route 4) which sugueways nicely into the towpath alongside the River Avon. Along the bank, large numbers of people in yellow high viz jackets were doing a fine job, litter picking and repainting benches. I stopped to chat to one of them, mindful of the current hoo-hah about people on benefit being forced to carry out unpaid labour. 'You're not on one of those schemes are you?' I asked.
He shook his head. 'No, it's all voluntary. The council advertised at the universities and colleges.'
"Well you're doing a fine job.'
'Yes,' he replied, 'only thing is, there's so many of us, we're running out of litter.'
Mick kindly offered to throw his gum wrapper on the floor to help out, but his offer was politely declined, and we went on our way.

In Bath I briefly led us onto a busy road before realising both lanes were for carrying traffic in the other direction. 'Oops,' I said, heading for the pavement. 'It's more than oops,' said Mick. 'I'll lead, you'll get us killed.' He led us to the bottom of Widcombe flight, and a brief respite from the traffic before we rejoined it again on Bathwick Hill. For speed we cycled to Bathampton on the busy A36, and I was relieved when the turning for the village came up on the left. I waited at the top of the hill for Mick who was a little way behind for a change.
'Ah, were you stood there waiting for me?' he asked.
"Yes,' I said, expecting him to thank me.
'I used to have a dog that did that,' he said.


In Bathampton the cafe, on a little boat on the canal was open. 'For that comment, you can buy me a coffee,' I told him.

After coffee we cycled along to Dundas aqueduct and the start of the Somersetshire Coal Canal. This is also the start of the Colliers Way, a newish Sustrans route, number 24. (Pdf of the Sustrans leaflet here).

We weaved though Monkton Combe, on a similar route to the one I had walked with Yvonne the previous week, passing the home of William Smith at Tucking Mill, the guy who is credited with producing the first geological map of Britain.

At Midford we joined the line of the old Somerset and Dorset Railway. The path started well with a tarmaced section through a short tunnel and past the old Midford Station. This is where the Two Tunnels  Greenway is planned to intersect with the Colliers Way, which will provide a brilliant circular route once finished. The New Somerset and Dorset Railway are working to reopen the old railway route, aiming to provide a much needed rail link for local communities. They have plans to rebuild the station in 50's/60's style and provide a cafe/info point etc. There are no immediate plans to lay track, although presumably it would be possible for the cycle path to run alongside, as it does in Bitton and in Okehampton. I think it's a long term project so no need to worry about it just yet.

Sadly the tarmac soon disappeared and the path got rather muddy. It looks like it's been scraped though so maybe there are plans to tarmac it soon. We passed one of Sustrans' art installations, 'Stone Column' by Jerrry Ortmans.

This piece is formed by seven stacked boulders reflecting the geological strata of the area (Chalk Cretaceous, Forest Marble, Great Oolite, Inferior Oolite, Blue Lias, White Lias, Pennant) to commemorate the pioneering work of William Smith, the 'father of geology' who once lived at nearby Tucking Mill and who worked as a surveyor constructing the canal system in the area.
(Sustrans website)

I rather liked it but Mick was not impressed. 'It's just a pile of rocks,' he said incredulously. 'Bloody hell, everything's "art" these days!' Sorry Mr Ortmans.

Rejoining a quiet road, we climbed up the hill to Wellow and forked off left down through a quiet lane. where we saw not one, but three green woodpeckers in the trees on our right.  At the bottom of the hill we had a choice and took the left turn up to Faulkland. It was a steep climb but I hoped it would be worth it, as Faulkland is where the wonderful Tucker's Grave pub is. We toiled up the hill and then down the road to the pub. Which was shut.



Instead we called into the Faulkland Inn. It's a bit restauranty, in fact the landlady straightaway reached for menus when we walked in. 'We'll just have a drink,' we said, although after half an hour Mick was unable to resist ordering a bowl of delicious, chunky chips. The beer was That Gold Devil from Devilfish Brewery situated just behind the village, and was a nice golden, hoppy beer. I did find it amusing though, when a rep from the brewery called into the pub and ordered half a lager whilst he was waiting for the Landlord.
Whilst we were supping on our drinks I said to Mick I would get the map out to plan the journey home. 'You mean this is planned?' he said. 'I thought we were lost.'
He asked to have a look at the map but I refused. 'I'm planning the route,' I said.
'That's the trouble with you short people,' he replied. 'You're dictatorial.'

It was cold, misty and drizzling up here on the edge of the eastern Mendips. Mick pointed out that this made it more realistic as a training ride as Ireland was likely to be cold, misty and drizzling as well.

The home route was rather hilly, down to Radstock, up to Clandown, steep down to Radford Mill, climb up to Timsbury. Mick decided the litter strewn lay-by outside a sewage works would be a good place to stop.
'I'm not eating here!' I exclaimed. 'It's disgusting.'
'It's not that bad,' he retorted. 'You've obviously never been to Bolivia.' Bolivia, according to Mick, is one vast rubbish tip. His description didn't fill me with an urge to visit.
As it was, we stopped at Timsbury churchyard to eat our sandwiches. 'Your place isn't any better,' he grumbled. 'It's full of dead people.'
'Well I'd rather eat with dead people than with used condoms and litter.'

From here it was a scary whizz along the dual carriageway of the A39 before joining the more peaceful lanes back to Saltford and home. Recovering with a cuppa I looked again at the map.
'Bollocks!' I shouted.
'What now?' said Mick, wearily.
'I've just realised we passed within yards of Stoney Littleton Long Barrow. We missed it! We're going to have to do the ride again.'
I ducked just in time. Mick had thrown his last cheese roll at me.

Our route is here