Gentleman Cyclist

A glorious ride in perfect weather involving apple pie and cream at Rayne tea room and a very good two course lunch for £7.50 at the Compasses, Pattiswick. There was plenty of interesting wildlife: three fallow deer, at least two buzzards, a kestrel, a good view of a green woodpecker and loads of colourful pheasants, partridges, and even a few guinea fowl. The day was marred rather by my witnessing the birth and gruesome death of a piglet, victim of its own kind. Knowing in advance that such things happen does not prepare you for seeing it happen, largely, I suppose, because a new-born piglet looks so very human. I did not have bacon for lunch.

I’m intrigued by Wales. Although they’ve won a grand slam, and that gives the pundits the chance to talk their game up, all their games were close – just one score against England, Ireland & France, a struggle against Italy, and Scotland just rolled over.

Thinking back to the 70s team, and even their previous two grand slams (which as a Welsh supporter I regard as flashes in the pan) there were games in which they really cut loose. I’m thinking of the 2005 matches against Scotland and Ireland, where, IIRC, Wales were completely out of sight by half-time in both matches but lost the second half of each. In 2008 they conceded only one try in the whole championship and, in the final game, against France, ground them down to the extent that they had the last 20 minutes to themselves – very much as England did to Ireland today. Well done to England!

There was one interesting set of statistics read out at the start of the match. Before today, Wales and France had met 89 times with 43 wins apiece and three draws. Wales had scored 1305 points, France 1304.

Possibly the highlight of today’s game was the tackle by Dan Lydiate in which the crunch was picked up by the ref’s microphone.

The past four Thursdays have been beautiful sunny days round here, and three of them have been unusually warm.

23rd Feb: 18.8°C
1st Mar: 17.3°C
8th Mar: 13.4°C
15th Mar: 17.6°C

There hasn’t been another day this year on which the temperature has exceeded 17°C although last Saturday and Sunday came close.

Posted on 10 March 2012

That was indeed a wonderful day. The weather was very pleasant and after 11ses I removed my longs, carefully checking that I’d remembered to put my cycling shorts on before doing so. What really makes these days so much fun is the lovely people though. I’d ridden with everyone before at one time or another, but in many cases too long ago.

The Low House was its usual splendid self. Fifteen of us sat down to lunch and Pixieannie graced us with her presence and showed me 50% of her new piercings.

We benefited from a very helpful tailwind before lunch and it was only when the road kinked briefly to the north-west that we realised how helpful it was. After lunch, I think it had dropped rather so that was a bit of luck.

I took some photographs.

Don’t tangle with this grim-looking lot

Wobbly John – a picture of sartorial elegance.

Jane and Nutkin

Over the shoulder: Loadsabikes and Annie-not-currently-of-this-parish

L to R: Loadsabikes, Marco Stefano, Morrisette, Mrs. Miggins, Canardly, Jane, Nutkin, Wobbly John, Mrs. Wow, Annie-not-currently-of-this-parish, Petes46.

Here are some photos of our ride yesterday, and the picnic.

Jane and I met at Billericay in order to cycle the old (pre-2012) SEG-75 mile route. At about 4 a.m. I had my doubts that I would make it as I lay wide awake, my nasal cavity informing me that I was probably getting a cold. Lest I let Jane down, and not having her phone number, I left my nice warm bed with my nice warm wife slumbering gently in it and made my way downstairs to the computer, visiting the whisky bottle en route, PMing Jane to ask her to phone me soon after 7 to check whether I was fit to ride. Her call arrived just as I got out of bed for the second time, and I decided that I was.

We left Billericay at about 9.30 and headed towards Ramsden Heath. I pointed out to Jane, who wanted to know, various places of interest along the way: my brother’s house, the chapel where my mother played the organ for many a long year, the assortment of luxury apartments which occupy the site of the house I was brought up in, the Indian restaurant that used to be the De Beauvoir Arms (known to all locals as “The Beavers”: in my youth, the expression “to go up the Beavers” was used widely and with no hint of mirth by many a thirsty young man from Downham and Ramsden Heath). Then we passed the private residence which used to be the school I attended during the winter of 1962-63, the pond that froze solid and we used to slide on, the water treatment plant which was my brother’s place of employment for 42 years, and the primary school where my sis-in-law was deputy head. Jane herself was familiar with some of these places, having lived in Wickford in her youth.

The weather was generally benign. Thin cloud, weak sunshine, mild, a gentle headwind – very much the sort of day and landscape to be painted in watercolours. We passed through Stock and Margaretting and soon we were in Writtle and I was forgetting whether we had to turn right or left for the tea room. I got it right second time and we sat outside, Jane equipped with her second choice of cake (coffee and walnut) and a cup of coffee, me with a pot of tea with scones, cream and blackcurrant jam. This tea room is now run by the Wilkins jam people, of Tiptree (by coincidence Auntie Helen and I passed another, in Dedham, yesterday). While we were there, a former teaching colleague of mine, one Mr. Werrett, turned up with his wife, and I made a great effort to pretend not to be there and he took the hint and didn’t engage me in conversation.

At around 11.30 we headed off again, towards Chelmsford initially and then along the Chignal Road. We gradually worked our way northwards, through Pleshey, past the Leather Bottle where there were no checkpoints today and it was far too early for lunch, and on through Felsted, and eventually arriving at the Blue Egg for lunch at 1.30ish. It was remarkably crowded, partly because it’s half term and many of the diners were children, but also because the food is especially good. Jane and I had identical lunches: a large bowl of wild mushroom soup each and half a “galette”, although this galette was by no means similar to the galettes I had eaten in Brittany last summer. It was, however, very good, and we agreed that, had we known how much soup and bread we were to be served with, we would probably not have had the galette.

At approximately 2.15 we were on the bikes again and back-tracking along the route of the Dun Run towards Stebbing. I was becoming increasingly concerned as my bowels were making their presence felt and I was not aware of any suitable venue for evacuating them anywhere along our route. In France, most villages have their conveniences, but not so England. We went back into Felsted and, on a whim, headed into the village centre where I thought there might be a loo, but although Felsted has a large and influential public school which has, in recent years, provided more than its fair share of cricketers to the England team, it does not have a public lavatory.

The church was open and I thought to myself “There’ll be a loo in there!”

A man was painting a wall and two others were watching him.

“Can I help?” asked one of the spectators.

“Is there a loo in here?” I replied.

“Well, there is, but I don’t think I can let you use it.” said he

“It is the Lord’s Will!” was my retort.

And faced with such an overwhelming theosophical argument, he relented and went back to watching paint dry. I emerged in much greater comfort than I went in, and praised the Lord in his wisdom and mercy.

From that point on there were no further stops for food or anti-food, although we admired some optimistic rooks building their nests and, shortly before reaching Mill Green and The Viper pub, we stopped for a few minutes whilst a large herd of fallow deer made up their communal minds whether or not they were going to cross the road. We tried guessing how many there were. I don’t think there were more than 100, but I could have been wrong. It seemed that our presence was a major factor in their decision to head back towards the woods on the other side of the field, where they stopped for a bit. We carried on and I informed Jane about Charles Kortwright, who was born in Fryerning Hall, along our route, and who was said by some, including the late Mr. Arlott, to have been the fastest bowler of all time and who coined the snappy phrase “Are you going, Doctor? You’ve still got one stump standing!”

From such a gentle day weather-wise, we were treated to a magnificent sunset, full of orange, purple and vermilion, as we freewheeled down the road into Ingatestone, allegedly closed, but we laughed at the silly “Road Closed” signs and went that way anyway. We both decided that riding through the Buttsbury ford would have been A Mistake and at about 5.50 we arrived at Billericay Station. Within a couple of minutes I was on my train, about 5 minutes later Jane was on hers, and I am now in a lovely warm house with working central heating, and full of stew and dumplings.

I’d like to thank Jane for her spiffing company and her comment about my trim bottom, and look forward to another splendid ride in the not-too-distant future.

England v Wales should be very interesting – but England v Wales is always very interesting!

I thought Scotland, had they taken their chances and not hit the self-destruct button when they did, had it within them to have won either match. Against England, their generous errors were sprinkled liberally throughout the match. Against Wales, they concentrated them all into a 15-minute spell that proved decisive. If you take out that 15-minute spell, Scotland won the rest of the game.

Wales had massive pressure against Ireland for much of the first half, but were behind for almost the entire match. I think, before the days of the referee’s action-replay comfort blanket, Wales would have been awarded a try when they crossed the line with ball in hand, but no-one could see whether it was grounded because it was entirely obscured by bodies.

So, both teams are on 2/2 but both teams could just as easily have been on 0/2. I think the difference between them has been style. Wales have been very exciting to watch and England haven’t – not necessarily their fault of course. Murrayfield and Rome were both numbingly cold quagmires, whereas Dublin and Cardiff-with-the-roof-closed were much more conducive to entertaining rugby.

Traditionally when England and Wales meet for what might be a Championship decider, the press go into fever mode and that, I think, has hyped the players up and occasionally led to a dirty game. So much publicity has been given to foul play over the past few months, what with tip-tackles, red & yellow cards for all sorts of stuff, that I’m sure the coaches will stress the importance of keeping on the right side of the referee. There’s a fine line between imposing yourself physically in a hard-but-fair game and going ott and it becoming a bad-tempered punch-up.

There’s also the unknown quantity of the fitness of the Welsh players. So far they’ve managed wins when many of their key men have been injured. How will they do when they are all fit? And will they be in time for the England match?

I’d say it’s too close to call. However, if it’s a flowing. entertaining game, I’d expect Wales to win, and by a reasonable margin. If it’s not, England may well win but it will be close.

Footnote: it was very close. The teams traded penalties for 75 minutes and at 12-12, Scott Williams won the match when he robbed Courtney Laws, kicked ahead and scored close to the posts. Wales won 19-12, but only after England had a reasonable claim for a try disallowed in the dying seconds.

Posted on 16 August 2010

I awoke at 7 a.m. and I could tell it was going to be another beautiful day. I immediately resolved to visit Marloes beach and have a swim. I overlooked a short cut which would have saved me a mile or so for the sake of a few hundred yards of off-road but it didn’t matter.

When I arrived I had the beach to myself. It was every bit as wonderful as I remembered it from our family holiday here when I was about 13 years old.

For a combination of the clarity and warmth of the water, the scenery and the beautiful sand, I think this is the best British beach I have ever visited. Absolutely wonderful, and to be granted the privilege of the entire mile-and-a-quarter of it to myself was an unexpected treat.

When I was dry and decent again I cycled back into Marloes village and bought half a dozen eggs, a pack of bacon and some rolls, returned to the camp site and cooked myself a wonderful breakfast. I washed up and started to pack, but I had to wait a surprisingly long time before the tent was dry, in spite of the warm sunshine. At around noon I set off for Haverfordwest (my train was due to leave at around 5 p.m.) and by about 2 p.m. I was in the town searching for somewhere to eat.

I found a restaurant with some decking overlooking the Cleddau river. I ordered plaice and chips and soon struck up a conversation with the only two other people in the place. There was something remarkably familiar about the lady’s accent and it turned out that she had been a pupil at Temple Sutton School, Southend. There is no escape.

The trip back to Southend, in which I had to change trains at Swansea and, of course, to cycle across London late at night, was fairly tedious and I arrived home fairly close to midnight. It had, however, been a marvellous trip.

I awoke fairly early and could tell instantly that it promised to be a lovely day. I had a leisurely start and chatted to a few other campers, including one Tony Pember, a member of the audax fraternity and who is acquainted with Phil Chadwick and Steve Abraham.

I made for St. David’s where I had a stroll around the cathedral before finding a café. 

From there, it was the A487 again. Typically, you are riding at about 250′ to 300′ above sea level, with gorgeous views across St. Bride’s Bay, but every so often, where a stream has cut its way through the bedrock, there’s a swooping 1 in 6 descent and a similar climb up the other side. Usually there is a village and a beach. Thus I passed through Solva and Newgale before buying fish, chips and beer at the Mariner pub in Nolton Haven. There was a stuffed albatross on the wall, the poor creature’s wings having been subjected to some intricate origami to make them fit into the glass case.

There were plenty of people on the beaches enjoying the warm sunshine.

After lunch I found myself cycling in the same direction as a young couple and I foolishly tried to keep up with them. The lass was evidently a fairly inexperienced cyclist and had a build which promised to become more streamlined the more she practised. Each time we reached a hill I would try to keep up with her and after about the third climb I was ready to drop. I stopped in Broad Haven for an ice cream.

I eventually reached the West Hook campsite and, after pitching the tent, had a mediocre meal and poorly-kept beer at the Lobster Pot in Marloes village before cycling down to Martins Haven and finally to Wooltack Point to watch the sun set over Skomer Island.

Posted on 14 August 2010

I awoke early and it was still cloudy and cold I put an extra fleece on while lying in my sleeping bag. Charlotte slept through to 7.40 so I had a shower and washed yesterday’s shorts and top.

There was some rice left over form last night’s curry (camping stove made, of course) so I added and egg and fried it up. It was filing rather than appetising. Once we’d packed up our tents we headed for Mwnt beach via the footpath and a cowfield. Charlotte spent some time getting to know the residents better. 

On several occasions we noticed that the weather was very annoying: there was blue sky out to sea but as soon as the west wind started to rise, so clouds would form and obscure the sun. The higher the ground, the thicker the cloud. I had a pretty good swim. We were alone on the beach so I took advantage whilst in the water and had a skinny dip, my trunks draped over my shoulder, but there were too many people in the caravan site who were liable to come down to the beach at any moment so I was clad again when I emerged onto the beach. Charlotte, sadly, was hors concours so far as swimming was concerned because of the wound to her leg.

That’s the view over the Preseli mountains, over which Charlotte would have to ride later in the day on her way back to Haverfordwest station. Before we reached Cardigan the sky began to clear quite nicely.

We said our farewells and I headed off on my own, feeling a little down. I’m not that good with my own company and I definitely prefer that of someone else. However, the weather was doing its best to cheer me up and, for the first time on trip, I was treated to long spells of unbroken sunshine.

I found a very nice pub in Nevern and bought some lunch and then it was back onto the A487 into Fishguard. There were two chevrons to negotiate and I walked up the hill into the town. I can’t stand cycling really slowly when there’s fast traffic coming past.

I saw two promising-looking beaches on the map – Aber Bach and Aber Mawr. They were very pretty and I thought about a spot of wild camping there, but I didn’t really feel comfortable with that as I didn’t have sufficient water-carrying capacity.

After a few more miles I found myself in Trefin and its camp site. I pitched my tent, cooked some food, had an excellent shower in the new block and then had an early night.