You may determine to ride, as I did, the Slow and Dirty. This is the track of Old Railway to be found spanning Somerset and Dorset from north to south from Bath to Bournemouth. It was closed by Doctor Beeching but the memory of the Slow and Dirty lives on in tales like that of the two courting couples: the lads saw their dates onto a train and to save money set off by bike, arriving at the other end before the train.
I am sure you will have more success than I did but it is in my nature to digress. To save time I took the train from Salisbury to Bath, in itself a pleasant ride, detrained and sought a map shop in the City, had to be content with Bartholomew's No. 7 though I prefer Ordnance Survey. Here in Bath I noted extensive repair and renovation work in progress, the emphasis here is very much on restoration and conservation. I lunched adequately at the Snack Shack and set off up the Beechen Cliff, southwards for South Stoke. It was an exhilarating climb among what must be some of the most interesting urban housing in the South of England. And to watch experienced lady drivers hurling their minis (cars not skirts!) , down the steep lanes into the City, quite took one's breath away.
Almost at once the success and failure of my quest was brought into focus. Part of a railway line was evident down a rough track leading to the City tip. Dodging the dustcarts, I ventured on to the site near which was both a canal and a river, but there was just no way to get through the undergrowth safely. At the gate of the tip was a naked lady with no feet, but although I addressed my enquiry to her, I received no more response than a wooden stare! The dustmen, who obviously owned her were friendly enough, but directed me firmly back to the lane although if one is bold enough to traverse the tip itself, one might well find the railway the other side.
A light 'plane circled overhead and I waved so he came back and circled again. Further down, I climbed painfully onto a barbed wire defended gatepost to photograph a field filled with birds but I can't show you because by the time I stood tottering on the top, camera in hand, the birds had flown.
A stile and footpath off the lane to Midford led me to private fishing waters and the remains of the canal, now dry and largely overgrown with elder trees. The path dived close into a wooded bank and I was entranced to find myself only a fence away from an exquisite garden of flowering shrubs and neat paths all beautifully tended in sharp contrast to the unkempt straggle of bramble and nettle through which I was pushing my way. It was a rewarding site but I was relieved to return to the road and brush off the surplus vegetation that had clung to me, while my bare legs and arms burned with stings and scratches.
The whole area of Midford was a showcase of present and past water and railway management and would have repaid a closer, more leisurely examination but time was pressing on and I felt impelled to do the same.
Next stop Hinton Charterhouse and in the forecourt of the pub I sat to eat my cherries, so much more satisfying than sweets. In warm sunshine, I rode the bumpy drive into what I thought was Farleigh Castle but it proved to be Farleigh House, a residential school for dyslexics. Some of the youngsters out training for sports day came crowding round to see who the strange visitor was. They offered to show me round the House but I had no reason to accept so let it go and pressed on the
Tellisford and Rode where there is a splendid packhorse bridge well
worth the detour.
Woolverton and Laverton were passed and on the crossroads of the A366 was a small memorial stone to the memory of a sergeant pilot who crashed and died here after shooting down a Heinkel in the second world war. First call for bed and breakfast at Sunnyside Farm and the Wellow Road was full-up. Tried right through Wellow without success, then to Barn End and then to White Oxmead, Mrs. Pike again full up so I finally found the Prince of Wales on the hill north from Peasedown St. John.
Gladys and Bill Jefferies took over this fine pub only ten days since, (June 82) and have still to realise its full potential. It has well appointed open plan bars with a part screened eating area, a huge restaurant and seven lettable rooms. Odd that the people who built these rooms only two years ago had failed to provide them with either mirrors or wash basins. Still I enjoyed my stay and have no doubt that the new owners will soon rectify these small faults.
They gave me a good breakfast and I climbed the hill back into Peasedown, a much larger village than I had expected and I looked back into the Cam Brook Valley where the Titfield Thunderbolt was made before the railway was removed. Southwards lay the road to Writhlington and the former Shepton Mallet line which I was able to use to get into Radstock. Harrier jets screamed overhead and were gone, bringing home dramatically the terrible nature of such air attack. As I walked I became aware of the bulk of a waste heap called a Batch, behind the track. Not lead, but coal was mined here until a few years ago and on the hillside above me were two long straight rows of three-storey miners cottages. I talked to a cottage owner and she said they were amongst the oldest such dwellings in Britain and certainly the largest. Most had new bathrooms installed but some still insisted on using the same bath in the kitchen. Their gardens plunged steeply down the hill to the very edge of the railway where the fence once had been. Some were left rough, but most were prolific in neat rows of vegetables. There had been a third line of cottages but as they were only two-storey they had insufficient space for bathrooms and they had been demolished.
Across the line was a large cattle food factory with lorries busy in and out and many other small works forming the light industrial environs of Radstock. The Elders of this thriving little town were using the services of some young unemployed to tidy up and lay out part of the old railway track as a town garden alongside the river and a few yards from the shopping centre. "There'll be a seat there and a seat there", one of the lads told me as his mate, a young girl in jeans and sweater wheeled away yet another barrow load of concrete for the rockery building. The logic of these Youth Opportunities schemes is a bit vague but it does seem that one result is that Radstock gets its garden built out of national resources.
This place is quite a substantial urban area taken in with Midsomer Norton where I stopped and bought some copper trinkets for Nellie and Daisy and a little candle stick for Irene. The craftsman, one R. Bolton, also promised to make and send me a guitar brooch, C.O.D., for my daughter Janet .
I struck left up the Shepton Mallet road, a steep hill from which I switched right on to an old railway station, now used by a local school, perhaps for field studies. The track beyond was very stoney, almost impossible to ride and cows had used it indiscriminately but it was worth walking along for the total freedom from traffic and the views afforded into the Chilcompton Valley beneath. A great sports park is being constructed here.
Before reaching the last named village the track petered out and I was diverted over a convenient stile to a footpath on the edge of a field. Later the field suddenly became filled with bulls and I changed course rapidly and diagonally for the nearest fence opening. I had only just time to throw the bike over the barbed wire and scramble after it, happily unscathed, before about 40 of these wild animals skidded to a halt a few feet away, snuffling gently as if I were some sort of strange flower that Ferdinand had not seen before. From the safety of the next field I was convinced they were friendly. Of course I hadn't then looked into the next field but it proved to be empty of savage beasts. So empty in fact that I don't think anything had trodden its grassy floor since the middle ages. What a struggle I had to reach the gate into the lane on the far side.
Standing in the lane I realised how the track had petered out - it plunged into a tunnel, filled at one end but open and used at the other by some private industry, unwilling to share its good fortune with passing travellers. So I followed the lane into the village, a pretty place, and out again to the Old Down Inn for a very good lunch after a previous brief stop over at the "Sword" a "man's pub" where I listened to the exciting news of the Falklands surrender.
On to Emborough and left past the reservoir where young fishermen were pitching tents ready for the opening of the coarse fishing at midnight. Why so early? To get a good place, this water will be full by tomorrow morning! Down then past Gurney Slade which I missed by blinking and into Wells, where I stopped long enough to recall once more the breath stopping beauty of the Cathedral's West Front, still under scaffolding though and to buy second hand, in hard back, Bryants 'Pepys' and aptly enough, Wells 'Mr. Polly'.
As the afternoon was wearing on I headed out through the suburban streets of the city to Wookey only three miles away. By now it had started to rain and at 5 p.m. it was too late to think of going very far and too early to go to Priddy. So I telephoned the New Inn at Priddy, (David and Audrey Purnell) and booked in on recommendation from the Jefferies at Peasedown. Then, with an hour or so to spare, I bought a ticket for the caves, locked the bike to a pillar and strode up the long path to the entrance in the gathering gloom and the pouring rain.
I was really only killing time and didn't expect much but the reality was most rewarding. The sheer size and complexity of this underground course of the River Axe was both exhilarating and alarming. I could just visualise some sliding movement in those lofty chambers and what chance have you got. Besides, the guide locks the door behind you. (There isn't much fire risk!) Divers have discovered about 24 chambers but only 6 are available to the public. Even so, I spent an hour in there and the rain had eased when I ventured out again. It started up as I walked up the hill to Priddy, but not much and this was the only rain of the tour.
Still it was pleasing to clean up in a comfortable room with washbasin and mirror and I came down changed and refreshed to a good meal and a pleasant evening of talking and drinking. Slept well again and rose about 8.15 a.m. just in time for the 8.30 a.m. breakfast I had ordered which was excellent. A fine day promised, but it was cold to begin with so I wore a sweater for short while. The postmaster showed me the grooves in the road where the snowplough had itself got stuck and had to be dug out by hand in the winter. We don't go down the hills in the snow, he said.
The sun shone as I worked westward a little to find the road off Mendip to Draycott. I saw gliders of the R.A.F. Cadets landing high above Westbury and marvelled how the machine lands on an even keel, though when it stops it tips over on one wing.
From Draycott my route for Taunton lay across the moors, (marshes?) to Cocklake, Wedmore the peat bogs, to Shapwick, Zoyland and reluctantly Bridgwater. The Manor House at Chedzoy proved a good stop off for refreshment and an excellent filled roll was enough to help me on my way straight down the A38. This was not as bad as it sounds, most of the traffic now flowing down the M5. Soon I turned off the road to the right for Obridge to view the new Eastern Relief Road being built by Reed & Mallik, over the river, canal and railway. A privileged cup of tea with Helen in the site hut and a stroll across the top of the half finished bridge was another milestone in this meandering, half-planned tour.
A further objective was to see Devon and this I set out to do at 5 p.m. after a brief shopping sojourn in Taunton's pedestrian precinct. The Trull road took me to Lowton, aptly named I suppose as roads climbed steeply from it north and south but especially south to the junction with an east-west road atop the Blackdown Hills about 300 metres up. At this crossroads, Devon points a finger at Somerset and three Devon horses tried to eat my hat, which was poking out of a saddlebag pocket as the bike leaned against the fence. So I didn't actually enter Devon but I saw it and photographed it. Funny, it didn't look very different from Somerset!
Eastward then, homebound on the tops of the hills flanking the Neroche Forest, where for miles and miles all roads lead to Taunton. A few enquiries at Broadway soon revealed Bed and Breakfast available at the home of Mrs. Cox, Rose Cottage. You can have the room downstairs with private bathroom or the one upstairs sharing with us. At my raised eyebrows she added , sharing the bathroom. So at £6 I had the downstairs which was luxurious and I stripped off and bathed away the dust of the road in great comfort, convenience and privacy. The bedroom led onto the front garden through a french door with lock and key. So I stepped out to the Lamb Inn at Horton Cross on the A358 and ate reasonably well on half a roast duck though at the price I could have eaten the other one and a half of a brace.
I wasn't late back, about half ten, but even so I didn't have to disturb my hosts of course but just opened the bedroom door and turned in straight away to sleep soundly till about 8 a.m.
After a good breakfast I left the A303 at Ilminster and followed the back roads almost due east through Kingstone and West Chinnock, the aim being to reach Yetminster for lunch. This represented the half way mark to Iwerne under Cannock Chase where I reckoned I could stay Thursday night and cross the Chase to be home Friday. But the day was fine I made good time and was supping a pint in the White Hart, Yetminster at 12 o'clock. We can't give you lunch before 12.30 they said. Well I could be further along by then so I set off again after buying some rather lovely local postcards at the village shop.
The eastward road from here led on mile after mile and a state of acute depression settled on me only to be lifted at last about eight miles on at Kingstag where at the Green Man I had venison sausages and good conversation. From here I headed north towards the substantial village of Marnhull where I stopped to consult Barts for further directions. The postman called to empty the box in the Vicarage wall and I stood and watched in amazement, a woman drove up, stopped her car in the middle of the crossroads and got out to talk to the postman. How she got away with it at this busy junction I can hardly credit.
A twisty, windy road of dog-leg junctions led me eastward from Marnhull through the quaintly named Margaret Marsh (who, I wonder was the said soggy Maggie?) to Fontmell Magna which I rode round three times in as many minutes, undecided what to do next. For here I was only 20 miles from home , right up under the Chase, whose wooded slopes stood high above this tiny Dorset village and it was hardly four o'clock.
The decision was soon made, press on for Ashmore, Cranborne and Whitsbury, to eat an evening meal at the Cartwheel and meander home quietly afterwards. So that is how it ended, with only one deviation down a farm track at Gussage St. Andrew and a long long pull to the north of Rockbourne up and over the Down back to the stud and down into Whitsbury for a meal and a few pints.
The fifteen minute ride home to Downton from Whitsbury took twenty five minutes (slow and dirty).
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