Ashford (Kent) to Deal and Dover - a Cycling Perambulation

Spring is coming but winter wasn't really so bad. February presented us with the hottest winter temperature ever recorded in the UK. Whilst this was very pleasant, it worried me a little because I do wonder what extremes of weather we are unleashing for our descendants. Well, not mine as I don't have any, but you get the point!

Whilst any weather incident is just a single event at a single location, folk on both sides of the climate change debate (perhaps including me) often claim it as evidence for their view. The best way to get an objective view must surely be to be to consult the scientists, and I would recommend a book called 'Our Future Earth' (which was written by a geologist called Curt Stager) for anybody seriously interested in the subject and what is most likely to happen in both the short term and the long term. Personally I think we will pass the often talked about 'point of no return' (if we haven't done so already). After all, when you look at the chaos surrounding one country leaving the EU it is hard to imagine the whole world even agreeing on the science (Mr Trump, anyone?), let alone putting something concrete into action for seven billion people.

By the way, that's a US billion by the way. I heard that our good old British twelve-nought billion was signed out of use by the government in 1974, and as Michael Caine used to say 'Not a lot of people know that!' Hey, let's start a political party and get our Great British numbers back. Anyone else up for the nine-nought milliard, the fifteen-nought billiard and the eighteen-nought trillion? If you're a wealthy city stockbroker I imagine you'd dearly love a game of billiards, but you'll have to settle with playing 'milliards' for now!

Well, I'm actually here to talk about a bike ride. Observing a strong westerly March wind, I decided to let it blow me eastward from Ashford in Kent and see where I ended up, so I set off on along the suburban Hythe Road and cut down past the Hooden on the Hill pub to take the lanes to the village of Wye, passing the old sign in the photograph. At one point I had to lift my bike over a fallen tree which a man was in the process of cutting up with a chainsaw. These winds were serious!

I surprised myself by riding all the way up onto the North Downs past the crown chalk carving which looks out over the Stour Valley. Some walkers cheered me on half way up the climb, and as I came along the top of the ridge by the Devil's Kneading Trough restaurant the side-wind almost blew me onto the grass verge a few times. I continued on through Hastingleigh and walked up a steep hill towards the hamlet of Elmsted, by which time I was deep in the rolling green hills. I turned left and descended into a valley, climbing Dean Hill and continued out to Stone Street, the Roman Road that runs from Lympne to Canterbury.

Beyond this was the village of Stelling Minnis with its many little greens on either side of the road. A 'minnis' in an area of common pasture land, and Stelling Minnis's is one of the last manorial commons in Kent, according to Wikipedia. I then took the lane towards Bridge which descends into an empty valley through the hills and eventually passes a former home of James Bond author, Ian Fleming. However, I turned off a few miles before this and climbed eastward towards Barham. At the top, I was surprised to get a glimpse of the port of Ramsgate around twenty miles away before the lane descended through woodland and then climbed a very steep hill back onto the plateau. The sign said that the gradient was 23%.

Soon I descended to Barham village and the climb past the church and cemetery wasn't so harsh. I crossed the A2 dual carriageway and headed for Snowdown, which lived up to its name as a harsh hailstorm came on and I pedalled like mad to get to the station for shelter. Upon realising that catching the next train involved a two-hour wait I concluded that it would take less time to wait for the sun to return and I continued to Nonington which is really quite picturesque with its thatched roofs.

I had to cut through a copse to get around another fallen tree and the lane eastward was surprisingly hilly but without the dramatic scenery I'd become used to. I was impressed at how well shielded the noise from the A256 was as I approached it, but I had to revise my views about the road's 'great design' when I had to sprint across each carriageway lifting my bike over the central crash barrier to reach the country lane on the other side.

There was a long straight on the next lane and I turned right to head into Northbourne. By now I'd lost my hat and this profoundly annoyed me. I seem to lose a woolly hat every winter, and as I had held onto mine well into March it felt like I'd fallen at the last hurdle. Quelling the annoyance, my idea was to head into the seaside town of Deal via Great Mongeham and catch the train home, but it was a rail replacement bus which means 'no bikes allowed.'

Disorientated, I was tempted to pop into the Sir Norman Wisdom, a Wetherspoons pub named in honour of Deal's most famous resident (although Carry On comedian Charles Hawtrey also lived there), but I eschewed this option and pounded my way along the A258 to Dover instead. This ride was nothing short of gruelling, being nearly all uphill and against the wind with a constant flow of traffic. When I reached Dover I cruised down the steep hill past the castle and headed for the Wetherspoons pub there instead.

I must admit I have become quite a fan of Tim Martin's chain over the years, as you pretty much know what to expect when finding yourself in a town you don't really know, and real ale drinkers seem to make up a considerable part of the target market which has got to be good! The chain is actually named after one of Mr Martin's old teachers who said that he'd never amount to anything. Bringing things full cycle (excuse the pun) the only thing that may cause rancour with some customers is Mr Martin's somewhat outspoken views on that old chestnut, Brexit (he is an impassioned 'no deal outtie'). To be honest I've developed Brexit fever which means turning Jeremy Vine's daily debate off the radio and switching to Classic FM.

All there was left to do for me on my ride was to wander up the High Street and catch the fast train back home. If you want to know what a post-M&S High Street looks like, head for Dover – it's probably coming to a town near you next. High town centre rates? We're all in the same boat. And it's sinking!

Ad break: If you've enjoyed this narrative, there are plenty more in my book 'Stair-Rods and Stars' which documents ten cycling trips in Southern England and can be bought on Amazon (digital format too). Some of my older books can even be downloaded for free.

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?'

Wendover, Wallingford, Watlington & Wetness - a Cycling Perambulation

This is a short resume of a cycling expedition that is featured in more detail in the 2016 book 'Stair-Rods and Stars' (ISBN: 978-1513605258) - available now on Amazon and by order from all good book shops.

My most recent cycling expedition took me along the Chiltern Hills and involved camping for two nights, as always eschewing the option of paying to use an official site, and instead diving into the nearest wood as things get dusky. I alighted with my bike at Tring station and headed southwest along a B-road which forms the Upper Icknield Way. I diverted down Tringford Road to join the towpath of the Wendover arm of the Grand Union Canal, but discovered that the gap on the map, which I'd assumed to be a tunnel, was actually a gap of several miles in the middle where the canal was allowed to dry up. I rejoined the B-road and bridged the A41 (pictured), which was the tenth longest road on the UK until the authorities decided to hack out the middle chunk and renumber it as a B-road!

After enjoying the impressive view, I descended Tring Hill and rejoined the towpath, which was hard surfaced here (as opposed to just grass) and very pleasant, winding beside the narrow, often overgrown waterway to Wendover. After a look at this pleasant town, which reminded me of Cranbrook in Kent, and visiting a micro-brewery (basically a pub in a shed) where I sampled the excellent Chiltern Gold ale at £2.20 a pint, storm clouds were gathering. Lightning flashed around as I continued southward on the bike. When the hail started, I was just outside Princes Risborough and had no option but to lay on the grass verge and pull the tarpaulin I was carrying over myself and wait half an hour for the torrential downpour to subside.

I then headed for the nearest Tesco (not something I make a habit of) and used their hand-driers to expunge the absorbed liquid from my clothes and stock up on a few supplies. I then headed for the hills to set up camp for the night. A tree groaned and creaked above me, and having seen what an uprooted cherry tree can do at my regular camping woods near Appledore in Kent, I decided to pick up all my gear at midnight and move twenty feet away.

The next day involved cycling the Ridgeway trail to Watlington. This runs along the bottom of the hills (unlike the western section beyond Goring) and passes beneath the dramatic M40 cutting.

Just after Whatlington, the Ridgeway departs as a footpath, but the byway continues as Swan's Way (reminiscent of Proust?). I then followed the undulating lanes to Goring on Thames, heading for the first pub I could find for a calorific breakfast. I was stunned to learn that this would cost £9.95 and didn't include a drink. So I opted for a £7.95 'smoked haddock and poached egg' instead. I think they call this 'nouveau cuisine' but I just called it small!

£13 lighter (I had two cups of tea), I had a wander up the Thames path and tried some crab-apples, before the drizzle sent me scuttling to the nearest bar, which was actually a hotel. The beer was £4.10 a pint - expensive in my book but maybe about standard for such a plush establishment.

I sat on some decking, watching the boats on the Thames, while a friend confided in me about his relationship troubles on the phone. I then decided to cycle the Thames Path to Wallingford. Eventually leaving the Thames to join the A329.

From a board in the centre of this pleasant town I learned that William the Conqueror had travelled here seeking to cross the Thames. Initially he was refused, but when he returned with something resembling an army, permission was granted and the town was rewarded with an extra hour of trading after the 8pm curfew. I also learned that the town doubles as Causton in the TV series 'Midsummer Murders', so I took a few pictures to show my mum.

On the way back along the bottom of the Chilterns, this time on a B-road, I stopped at the Red Lion in Chinnor. A 6-year-old boy called Adam seemed fascinated by my maps and kept asking where various places he'd visited were. Relishing the attention, I stayed there for another half an hour!

I ended up back in Princes Risborough and made a beeline for the nearest kebab van, opting for a healthy 'shish'. Then it was back into the hills, to join the owls for the night.

The rain began at 5am and my tarpaulin had puddles in it by 9am, so I hastily packed everything away and had a free bath as I cruised back down the hill into Princes Risborough. Thankfully, there is a clock tower in the centre of the town, which is on brick 'stilts', so I sheltered underneath until the rain eased enough for me to search for a cafe.

After a £6 breakfast which included a cup of tea (hurrah!), I had to dispense with my plans to ride the old rail line to Thame and head for the current rail line instead. The journey to Marylebone was quite pleasant; the bike ride to St Pancras less so!

Another hour and I was home again and ready for a well-earned snooze. A real bed never felt so good!

Thames Path & Ridgeway West - a Cycling Perambulation

This is a short resume of a cycling expedition that is featured in more detail in the 2016 book 'Stair-Rods and Stars' (ISBN: 978-1513605258) - available now on Amazon and by order from all good book shops.

From a place called 'Home' in deepest Kent, I caught the train to London Charing Cross and began a mission to follow the UK's second longest river for as long as I could on two wheels; a mission I imaginatively christened 'The Thames challenge'.

A flurry of bells struck midday as I cycled past the houses of parliament – an appropriate soundtrack to mark the beginning of an adventure.

It was when the Thames curved away southward beyond Vauxhall Bridge that I was in territory I had not visited before, and I crossed the river several times trying unsuccessfully to locate the cycle route.

After sheltering from the drizzle by means of eating a pasty at a table outside a convenience store, I crossed to the north bank again and soon found myself cowering beneath trees in a park in Fulham as the skies opened more ferociously. Here, I observed other similar humans standing motionless with bikes beneath various bushes. It felt like watching meerkats in a nature programme. The rains stopped and the humans burst back into motion.

I returned to the south bank using the rail and pedestrian conduit of Barnes Bridge.

Richmond impressed me greatly with its rural feel and the first truly rustic looking bridge over the Thames I had encountered. This seemed an appropriate place to stop for a cup of tea. Later came Kingston's 'doshed up' river front, and Walton where the trail gives up the ghost for a couple of miles as the River Wey feeds in. Having survived a burst of A-road at rush hour, and negotiated my way around an area cordoned off by police at Chertsey, the official route reutrned to traverse the north bank to Staines. The Thames had made a huge 'u' shape which just dipped into Surrey. It had a much different feel now, being lined with small boats and regularly splitting into strands to pass through locks – a far cry from the mighty torrent through central London.

After fish, chips and mushy peas in a modern pub with a loud and lively barman who doubted my sanity(!), I contemplated the hotels of Staines (£100+ per room) for around half a second. I also dismissed my 'Plan B' of camping beneath a secluded arch in the road-bridge on grounds that, whilst the town seemed quite pleasant, it is nevertheless the setting for TV's 'Ali G' character and may have been chosen as the location for the 'urban gangster' for a reason. Instead, I found a copse around a mile beyond the M25 bridge and set up camp there instead. Much safer.

Around here is the first glimpse of nearby hills along the river's course since the brief escarpment at Richmond, and there are some information boards which I had passed a couple of times but failed to read, presumably informing people of the signing of the Magna Carta in 1215 at Runnymede. Power to the people.


I was attacked in the night. Not by boy racers from Staines or even by wild boar or common adder; instead I awoke with a swollen lip that felt as though I had just been anaesthetized for a rather large filling at the dentist's. Ignoring this I continued along the path and a section of B-road via the village of Datchet into Windsor (& Eton), eschewing the prospect of exploring the impressive castle in favour of a hearty breakfast in a cafe. Glancing in the mirror my lip looked somewhat crooked. However, today's plan was to press on to Maidenhead, Marlow and Henley, with the river now making a giant 'n' shape and the towpath adorned with annoyingly frequent signs all beginning with the word 'NO'. I ignored the ones banning cycling, on grounds that I wasn't harming anybody and that the Internet did state that the towpath could be cycled as far as Reading

Planes buzzed their way in and out of Heathrow airport above me as I rode through the playing fields that supposedly once sent the rich kids of Britain into an all-conquering nationalistic ego-trip. How little changes!

I relaxed with a bottle of life-giving Lucozade beside the A4 road-bridge at Maidenhead, and as I continued, the opposite bank was now a wooded escarpment, reminding me of scenes of the Rhine cutting through deep gorges. After another rail/pedestrian bridge, the next part of the ride was very pretty with views of the Chiltern Hills, and the path often just a worn line through tranquil meadows.

Marlow's main street was typical of any small English country town, with the exception of a small suspension bridge at one end. The plethora of 'best kept village awards' would indicate that its inhabitants don't think of it as a town though. Tiredness was beginning to encroach and the barman was impressed as I ordered a Guinness and casually slipped in that I had cycled from Central London.

After passing stands for the famous regatta, I relaxed with a pint of Henley Gold ale in the salubrious town of the same name. I ordered a smoked salmon sandwich, and as rain was threatening I decided to check out the room prices. This was when I nearly passed out. Single room: £300, double: £500, deluxe: £600!

And so to Reading.

At the junction with the Kennet and Avon canal, I took a left turn to disect the town, but one look at the room prices sent me scurrying for the railway station. A £21 train fare home or a room for £80 with rain threatening to stop play the next day anyway. You do the maths!


It was over a month later that I returned to the country town of Berkshire to continue my trail. Returning to that same junction of canal and river, an elderly gent who seemed a little worse for wear, asked me if it was possible to walk the entire length of the Kennet and Avon towpath. Feeling proud at the amount of knowledge I was able to impart in spite of living around 80 miles away, he then asked exactly the same series of questions to the lady behind me. I realised that this was merely a means for him to obtain conversation. It is a shame that we live in such an introverted society that venturing any form of conversation with other people is often viewed with suspicion, unless it consists of asking for directions, brief weather-related chat or complaining about public transport. So as a single bloke from deepest Kent, I humorously muse on how so many people manage to bridge the gap from 'Nice day isn't it?' and 'This train has been late three nights running' to wedding bells and everlasting bliss. Is there a sub-clause in British behaviour that allows a more in-depth exchange that I am not aware of?

The slow demise of the British pub is another sad reflection of this trend. With so many going to the wall due to draconian legislation and '5,000 cans of beer for 50p' deals in supermarkets, just where are people supposed to socialise and meet new people? Or indeed, encounter any form of human interaction? Whilst I found this old man a little scary I did empathise with him.

Anyway, I set off along the Thames towards Goring. On the way I came to Whitchurch and crossed the toll bridge (40p to motorists). I called into the tranquil little church surrounded by salubrious looking houses for a brief sit down, and a little further up the road I passed a small art gallery. I was particularly impressed with a dolls' house completely covered with Ordnance Survey maps all perfectly lined up where the walls meet floors, etc. There was also a series of slightly Van Gogh-esque paintings by a local lady.

The path then descended back to the Thames through a wood, and soon I had arrived at Goring, where I enjoyed a 'posh ploughmans' at a hotel, which came on a wooden service board. I then left the Thames to continue its wayward woute to Oxford and beyond in favour of the western half of the Ridgeway. This ancient route runs along the Chiltern Hills from near High Wycombe all the way to near Avebury in Wiltshire. The Ridgeway is even reputed to be the oldest road still in use in the world, with some sections possibly dating back 20,000 years. Today, only the western section is completely open to cyclists, and I had over 40 miles of it ahead of me. You may recall a group of motorcyclists checking out the route in the TV programme Ridge Riders around 15 years ago.

The views were fantastic and, unlike the South Downs Way (which is a little closer to home), once up the initial climb, the undulations were not too severe, at least to begin with.

I set up camp in a small copse several miles after passing below the A34 – the dual carriageway that Swampy and co. had tried to prevent from being constructed by camping out in trees. Determined to keep my own camping at ground level, I tied up my two pieces of tarpaulin and laid out my sleeping bag beneath it. I concluded the evening with a wander up to the Wantage Memorial cross, by which time dusk was falling and I was nearly ready to blow some zeds.


I awoke to the sound of rain and a cacophany of wood pigeons all making the same 5-note pattern in different tones.

Having bought an avocado for breakfast, I realised that I had no utensils with which to eat it. I cut the fruit open with a pair of hairdressing scissors and scooped it out using a debit card. Bliss!

And then the rain turned to mist and I was on my way, with the industrial chimneys of Didcot visible in the valley below.

I serendipitously passed the highest point in Oxfordshire – White Horse Hill, and beyond this I stopped to view the 5,500 year old Wayland's Smithy burial chamber. A couple were eating lunch on top of this. After a brief exchange about the weather, I got them to take a photo of me by one of the large stones at the entrance. To get this into context, this 'barrow' pre-dates many of the famed sites in ancient Rome and ancient Greece by several millennia.

As the drizzle began again, I dropped down off the hill for lunch into the thatched-cottage village of Ashbury. After two cups of tea and a salmon sandwich, I sampled the local ale (Arkell's of Swindon) and the rain duly stopped.

It was a few miles beyond this that the Ridgeway became a lot more undulous, dropping off the hills to use a wide lane to bridge the mighty M4, before climbing steeply again as a trackway. And the rain was coming down!

In the next valley was another village – Ogbourne St George. I dived into a hotel for a coffee and lamented the fact that there was no village shop there where I could get some provisions to last me out until the restaurant and pub opened. Yet, another good reason to 'support the locals' if you live in a rural community.

It was then a steady climb to Barbury Castle – an Iron Age hill-fort. I had passed a number of these en route but this was easily the most impressive – a circular mound with a ditch around it and a raised bank encircling this. The views were again superb.

Another 5 miles later I had reached my destination of Avebury. I surrendered my 'green' avoidance of excessive meat consumption in favour of a juicy steak, and a friend drove out from Swindon to meet me for an evening drink. Now, Avebury is surrounded by a stone circle which is actually several hundred years older than Stonehenge. The pair of us were treated to some in-depth info about rituals, ley lines and the astrological significance of stone circles from a local Druid. Not the brief exchange about the weather I had expected!

Going back to the 'wonder of being single' I congratulated my friend on the recent addition to his family and we both mused on how life takes its course. In my own case, I tend to bring to mind John Lennon's lyric 'Life is what happens while you're busy making other plans' with increasing regularity as life progresses! The media onslaught of love songs, couples-only events, lack of single characters on TV and films (apart from a few oddballs!), expensive hotel rooms, supplements to go on holiday, more love songs, Valentine's Day marketing, family-orienated Christmas marketing, even more love songs, etc. do seem to give an unconscious message that it is pretty much a 'one size fits all' society to anybody who hasn't met the right person by their 30s. Well, I have added 'singles awareness' to my ever-growing list of 'enlightenment' campaigns!

Er, where was I? Oh yes, it was time to leave the only pub I have ever seen with its own 'pay and display' car park and cycle back to a copse I had spotted earlier to set up camp for the second night, although the wind and darkness made this something of a challenge.


The final day got off to an early start (loud adenoidal wood pigeon), and by the time I had descended back into the valley it was raining hard with lashing wind. I headed for the solace of a bus shelter and waited for this to pass. The next dry spell got me as far as Avebury church before the skies opened again. I was pleased to spot a shop, still surviving due to being run as a local community project, and I purchased a pasty and other comestibles to munch upon as I wandered the stone circle anti-clockwise.

Next up was a look at the highest prehistoric man-made mound in the Europe – another Neolithic creation, known as Silsbury Hill. Observing the haze of rain hanging over the hills to the south, I supped a pint of Devizes brewery's Wadsworth ale in a nearby inn while I evaluated the weather.

The plan of cycling 30+ miles to Salisbury was now abandoned in favour of the lesser feat of riding 12 miles to Swindon for the train home. And so, it was back up the now-familiar A4361 which is actually a section of the lengthy A361 cunningly renumbered to deter long-distance traffic.

The sustained climb was rewarded by a panoramic descent, where I succeeded in breaking the 30mph speed limit on a bike. Whilst my brief journey through Swindon didn't make a lasting impact upon me, it does have an impressive industrial heritage with the Great Western Railway, the Honda car factory and the world's most complicated roundabout. It is also the setting for an interesting novel my friend once leant me about a teenager with Asperger's Syndrome, but I am digressing wildly now!

And so, with a combined tally of almost 200 miles, the two-stage Thames and Ridgeway bike ride came to an end.