The Brampton Valley Way & Northamptonshire - a Cycling Perambulation

I've got another cycling narrative for you, and this time we're off to exotic Northampton. Having undertaken this trip in mid-September, the weekend in question seemed like the last chance to undertake a short camping adventure in 2017.

I alighted from my train in England's second biggest town without 'city' status after Reading, although locals will still tell you that the epithet 'largest' belongs to Northampton. Heading north along suburban roads, I spied a corner shop. However, with none of those 'animal fat' fivers and tenners in my pocket, my options were a 50p charge for using a card or a cash machine that charged £1.85. Considering I only wanted a can of soft drink, I ditched my own advice to support the little man and headed for Asda instead. The shame!

I then took a path behind some houses and industrial units out to a road, bridged the railway and picked up the Brampton Valley Way, -an old track-bed I'd cycled this time last year and wanted to revisit. According to Wikipedia, the railway line closed relatively late in 1981 – I guess we can't blame Dr. Beeching for this one.

There are lots of little viaducts over fields on the route and a couple of miles where the path runs beside a preserved section of the line. The scenery of gentle rolling hills is 'pleasant in an unspectacular way,' to apply William Cobbett's quotation about my own local area in Kent to a different county. However, I soon had to shelter beneath my tarpaulin on a bank during a shower. My blind optimism about the weather had failed me. After the weekend I would know once and for all whether to trust the forecast and if a high of 14 degrees and a low of 7 degrees is tolerable for my basic kind of camping.

Although I'd ridden through them last year, the two tunnels of 400m+ were still a bit scary, with no lighting as you head towards that distant arch of light at the other end. However both paled into insignificance compared to the pitch-black Netherton Tunnel on the Birmingham Canal network which I cycled last year – at 1.7 miles, this really got the pulse racing. I did pass one other cyclist as I rode through, so perhaps I'm not the only one who relishes a ride where you see absolutely nothing!

While I was telling you about that, we've passed into Leicestershire and arrived at Market Harborough (roughly twenty miles north from my starting point), I headed for Wetherspoons. I enjoyed this pub much more at 5pm, than last year when I got there mid-evening and found it to be packed to capacity. I sat in a booth, charged my phone, dried my tarpaulin and wrote up my notes on the journey so far. As time progressed the voices around me got louder and the language grew more colourful. Time to go!

I picked up a lane eastward which was like a switchback ride with all its undulations. The views were pleasant as dusk fell, and I rode a brief semi-circle through the small town of Desborough. Now heading south, the next town I reached was Rothwell, where I got a delicious kebab and some supplies in a shop. A woman was having an argument with herself as I ate sitting on a wall. I suppose it's one way to make sure you always win in a debate! The town was certainly lively for a place of its size and I had a wander around the square, pausing outside the church to listen to a brass band inside.

It was dark as I rode the lane towards Kettering (north side). After passing a huge industrial building that reflected the streetlights around it, looking like a streak of sunset in the sky from a distance, I took a gravel path which curved into the woods, and found a place to camp. I was a little worried as the cold ground was sapping my heat by 10pm and the temperature was to drop another four degrees. Wearing my coat in the sleeping bag solved this, although the drips from the trees weren't particularly welcome.

The following day I got up at about 7.45 and rode into Kettering. There was a handy cycle path by the road nearly all the way to the centre, which on an Sunday morning was as silent as one of those tunnels. Lacking imagination, I headed for McDonalds for breakfast. Beyond, my ride presented me with a long climb up from crossing the River Ise to the little town of Barton Latimer.

My route back to Northampton mostly consisted of one long, relatively flat lane, which would put many Kent B-roads to shame in its directness. The ride to Little Harrowden and past Sywell Airfield was stunningly quiet apart from the odd passing cyclist, but once I hit the edge of Northampton this all changed. The five-mile, gradually descending suburban road to the centre reminded me of the A5 going into London.

Sadly, my reliance on big chains continued as I headed for another Wetherspoons for lunch. This one was called The Cordwainer (which means shoemaker) and I sat upstairs and tucked into an avocado bagel and salad. An old man had joked about being a gentleman for not pushing in front of me at the bar. Obviously the requirements for being a gentleman these days are less stringent than of yore! The lack of a queuing system is a common problem with these large pubs (I've walked out my local branch before). The bar steward usually asks 'Who's next?' and about a dozen people reply. The largest one then invariably gets served first.

There were no such problems in Northampton on a Sunday lunchtime, and after a couple of pints I merrily wended my way to the station and put the lid on my camping trips for 2017. There are plenty more to read about in my book, 'Stair Rods and Stars.' The digital editions of most my books are now free, so if you've enjoyed this narrative, why not have a look on Kindle, iBooks, etc. and go 'the full cycle?'

The New Forest & Bournemouth - a Cycling Perambulation

The journey from Kent to the New Forest by train is something of an epic, although remarkably cheap if you travel along the South Coast via Brighton and Southampton. I alighted at Brockenhurst, with the feeling that astronauts must get after travelling to the moon and first setting foot on the lunar landscape as I headed south along a B-road. My aim was to cycle a former railway track-bed to Ringwood, but a sign said 'Residents Only' (or words to that effect) at the point where it left the road. So I decided to ride a big square to get onto the route further west, encountering my first New Forest ponies under a bridge. I then recapped the eastern end of the track-bed and it turned out that perhaps the sign had been aimed at vehicles rather than bikes, for I passed many other cyclists oblivious to this prohibition.

Resuming a westward course, after a few miles I reached the remnants of a station where an elderly couple warned me so that I didn't ride over an adder. The old man remarked that it looked beautiful, but having never been a huge fan of snakes I politely voiced a counter-opinion! We watched it slither away into the long grass, and breathing a sigh of relief, I continued. Yet, within a few minutes of resuming my ride, I nearly rode over another one. The snake coiled upon itself in defence and I vowed to get well out of this area before thinking about camping. Later, when I crossed a lane, the way it curved up the hillside reminded me of the shape of the snake, but I found this much more attractive (sorry, nature lovers!).

At the end of the track, I turned right towards the village of Burley and took a short cut up Honey Lane (a pleasant name for a muddy track). About six ponies were coming the other way, like a family out for an afternoon stroll. After more lanes and a short resurgence of the track-bed, I headed into Ringwood. A hiker asked me for the very specific amount of £1.50. Thinking he might be homeless I took pity, but afterwards felt that I might have been conned. It's always so tricky to know what is the right thing to do in these situations.

To the south of the town, the railway route continues westward, now named the Castleman Way (or Castleman Corkscrew due to its circuitous route to take in as many towns as possible between Brockenhurst and Poole). It bridged a few rivers and was a straight, lightly forested route, at times running as two trails side by side.

I decided to stop at a pub in the village of West Moors. Relaxing with a pint, I took in the vibes of the radio station which was playing non-stop rock classics. The bar staff said they receive mixed opinions from their customers but thanked me for my complimentary feedback (guitarist's pun intended). I enjoyed a healthy salmon dinner before moving on.

The route beyond deviated from the old rail route, using various woodland tracks, eventually steering me onto the main road into Wimborne Minster. At Leigh Common, I headed into the woods in search of a camping spot. There was a trail on a wooden platform over wetlands – the longest of its kind that I've seen. I eventually made my bed beside a fence. Some young men in fields nearby seemed to be getting drunk, and when they went quiet, some noisy teenage girls started shrieking with merriment. Naturally, I kept as inconspicuous as possible until my eyelids grew heavy and the revelry subsided.

It amazed me that the footpath behind the fence was busy even before it got light. After some dozing, I packed everything away and rode into Wimborne Minster, choosing a Polish cafe for a traditional English breakfast. I had a look inside the minster before taking a course southward from the town, accidentally frequenting the ladies' - twice! The funny look I got the second time was what gave the game away.

Rejoining the track-bed, which now began a long descent towards Poole, tiredness began to encroach, so I stopped for a rest in a wooded glade near where the path bridges the mighty A35. I used my rucksack as a pillow and actually dozed, dreaming in sounds only (strange things happen when asleep in the woods!).

After the bridge there were some estate roads (these look the same in every town) and soon after I got a bit lost, finding my way through Upton Park, to a path which ran along the top of Poole Harbour. The harbour is often claimed to be the second largest natural harbour in the world after Sydney. This upper part is also a nature reserve (read 'covered with algae'). When I reached Poole 'Old Town,' I decided to explore. The Lower High Street was very quaint, but further up were all the usual stores (like those suburbs – the same in every town – except in my home town where far too many shops are displaying 'To Let' signs to befit the 'boom town' epithet often bestowed upon it). I returned to a pub in the quaint part and took in the vibes of the beer garden, after watching an elderly couple drink up rapidly and leave having been blasted with rave music from the juke box inside. I knew it was a mistake when they came in and sat right beneath the speaker.

The next part of the ride along Poole Harbour was the day's high point, with views to Brownsea Island (site of Baden-Powell's first scout camp) and the Purbeck Hills across the water and a pleasant green ever to my left on the landward side. However, disappointment followed at the end of Shore Road – I wanted to ride the sea-wall to Bournemouth but bikes aren't allowed on the esplanade in July and August. An RNLI collector ventured, 'You're probably wondering why we are here?' I replied, 'To be honest I'm wondering if I can bike along this sea-wall!' His response was informative, so I put some coins in the bucket before pounding eastwards along the leafy cliff-top roads instead, gently curving, with a suspension footbridge over one of the 'chines.'

I breezed through Bournemouth and on to Boscombe, where I saw the first signs of High Street decline on this trip. I imagine that Internet shopping is to blame for the traditional High Street's struggles along with the perpetual recession and the continued policy of lower tax for businesses locating out of town. I also saw a 'Doctor Who' style police box at the start of the pedestrian area. Maybe such a TARDIS could whizz me back to a time when our High Streets were buzzing!

The rest of the ride took me through interminable suburbs as far as some woodland near the village of Hurn. Here I made the pivotal decision to go home. The threat of rain for most of the next day was one reason, but I was also nearing the New Forest again; as the afternoon progressed I would soon need to find a camping spot and there is a ban on wild camping across the whole of the New Forest (and who would want to with all those snakes?). So another adventure drew to a close. There are plenty more to read about in my book, 'Stair Rods and Stars.' The digital editions of most my books are now free, so if you've enjoyed this narrative, why not have a look on Kindle, iBooks, etc. and go 'the full cycle?'