Having de-cobwebbed my trusty steed, I turned it in a rather wobbly fashion out of the depths of the junk-filled garage. I had failed to find my cycle lock key, (what comes of moving house so often), but remembering the words of a local bike-shop manager ‘How old is your bike?’ I reasoned with its tricky ten gears and thin tyres no one would want it anyway, (cue violins!) Comforted by that reassuring thought, I secured my jade helmet, donned my luminous yellow cycle-belt (still glowing from the 80s) and made my way with half brakes on, out of my new, shared driveway.
It being 10.20am on a Thursday, and a few minutes out of town, the pavements were blissfully people-free, I was thus able to avoid the main road running alongside the maisonettes. So round the mini roundabout corner I went, crossing at the backgammon-style crossing near The Garth. Then it was plain sailing along a good leg of Rectory Road, ‘til I came to the next big road perpendicular to it: Coleford Bridge Road. Luckily this rather large, growing-into-a-motorway road near the Blackwater Valley pass, also proved to have clear pavements. These were then easily ascended with the energy of a good bowl of ‘Starting Right’ and two bits of marmite and strawberry jam slathered toast (separate I hasten to add- that mixture only works on buttered crumpets!)
Coleford Bridge Road continued for even greater distances than Rectory Road, but at least after another mini roundabout there were pretty houses to muse over, passing Hamesmoor Road on the left. Eventually there was a fork: Mytchett and Mytchett Place Road. I swerved right and pedalled smoothly down Mytchett Road. As I was on the wrong side for my friend’s house I had to cross over but again it being late morning the normally heavy traffic opened up a lull allowing me to calmly steer over to the odd numbers.
This being the first time I had cycled this journey, I had, however, miscalculated the time it would take me, and so arrived half an hour early at my fellow biker’s residence. Not wanting to wake his shift-working house-mate I rang him on his mobile as I stood proudly at the front door. (I had been a little nervous of this initial part of the journey- not due to the bike or my lack of cycling for several months but more my poor sense of direction: would I remember the way I had been taken down so many times in a car? –Luckily my intuition had taken me the correct way down Mytchett Road and the first house number I had come to had confirmed I was warm not cold!)
At this stage in my tale I would like to slip into Hollywood mode and say how Errol Flynn swung from the chandeliers to reach the front door in record time, swept me into his arms, hydrated me once more with a tall cool glass of freshly squeezed orange juice, then bade me lead the way on our wheeled-horses. The truth was rather different.
Anyway, cups of tea abandoned, and lazy ideas of watching a movie instead hastily thrown out, off we set.
Would I be forgiven for lapsing into Hollywood dreams again? Let me pretend that my partner complimented me on my black leggings and hot pink top, and praised me for my preference for safety over fashion, remarking on the sturdiness of my helmet and the visibility of my belt. He, I am loath to say, had no such trappings, but told himself he must forthwith acquire them. I remember too many news-reports of dead kids and brain-damaged ones not to wear a helmet.
We turned left out of his drive happily keeping to the wide pavements again, then took a sharp left down Mytchett Lake Road. A shrub-lined path presented itself on our right, so down onto the tow-path we bumped.
My companion asked me if I wanted to go left or right. I asked which way our favourite pub ‘The Swan’ was, and so we cycled off to the right. We had gone a good few rotations of the wheel when he exclaimed he thought it might be prettier to the left! A cycle-ride without a good pub somewhat loses its appeal for me though, (as my father will ascertain to), so I promised to buy my compatriot a drink (he was working that afternoon til late), and we continued on the same way.
It was amazing to note the high level of the water to our left, and I thought dreamily how pleasant it would be to be a duck instead, tufting one’s tail along in ripples over those cool depths. There were also slumbering little barges moored to the banks in blues and reds, and immaculate lawns running to the bank’s edge, where my friend admired the garden furniture with his own pad in mind. The terrain was constantly changing from: smooth tarmac, to hard earth, to grassy, then very jagged rock embedded in tripping fashion! Some devoted conservationists (I was one in my hey-day), were much needed to trim the reaching hands of bracken and sling-shot nettles that burst from both sides- maybe my cool sandals had not been such a good idea but don’t laces run the risk of being eaten between chain and chainwheel??) Still, the sun was out, yet there was a refreshing breeze too, and it felt empowering to be wheeling past such a river, even if part of it lay strangely still making me worry back to Science lessons about opportunist mosquitoes! -Better to dwell on the exquisite Red Admirals that airily paraded past my flying face.
There was also a very obvious little town above us at one stage, with an Indian Takeaway and a co-op and garages. I asked if that was Frimley -oops totally opposite direction! It was in fact Ash. Good. My friend had had his hair cut in Frimley and I rather liked the luscious black waves he had let grow now.
Rather too soon in our ride, we came to the short flight of concrete steps that led up and round to the pub. Given the choice, I decided we should continue our route for a leg further and stop on our return instead. We did, reaching the exhilarating incline of a wide concrete bridge where my tyres whooped for joy and I stood up in my saddle to exhale the new found movement, after the juddery boulder-spewed paths of before. My companion did several teenagery swivels and jumps and I imagined if I had been twenty years younger I would have been greatly impressed! We also came to view a motorway, where he decided to ‘affectionately’ bump tyres with me (a little too much for my liking- does he not know my bike is a lady?!) There were a couple of tunnels to duck under, one with a ginormous muddy puddle baring all, yet careful navigation of the exterior successfully avoided any splashes; I also kept a safe distance behind my boy-rider, (although surprisingly he did not take any reckless chances with this reservoir either).
It is interesting to note that dogs gave us right of way, one appropriately called Ash, whereas we gave pedestrians the right of way, albeit some politely declined and bade us move past first. I do love the sweet smiles of elderly strangers when the youth of today say thank you to them. There was even a fisherman out, large and bespectacled, sitting astride the bank in a fog of silence, whom we reverently went around.
At about 20 to 12 we finally came out onto a road that looked across at a greener part of the tow-path and some very inviting picnic tables; if only we had brought a picnic. ‘Next time’, we seemed to sigh. Time was getting on though and the swarthy one had to be at work for 1.30, the Swan pub still beckoning us from its hilltop, so we turned about and bumped our way back down the track.
At this point I would again like to revert to Hollywood, and say how manfully he carried my bicycle up the steep steps to the roadside, then once at the public house, how charmingly he gestured me to a table, arranged our bikes accordingly and leapt smoothly off to bring me a fruity beverage and of course to surprise me with ‘Lunch, darling? What will you have? Let me get it’. The waitresses were most attentive though and I managed to politely inform them of his pre-requisite that we needed to have the food within half an hour.
I did manage to make him stay at the table of my choosing though- nearest the pretty flowerbed and set in the green, despite the ‘less comfortable benches’. My deliciously icy lime and lemonade was a little reluctant at being reunited with me: its rightful owner, after its temporary move to a table with garden benches, but I was adamant I preferred not to confuse the table order and I liked the flowers, therefore he swiftly lassooed my glass and having neatly caught it, placed it lovingly in front of me.
Two scrumptious mature cheddar cheese and Bramley apple chutney sandwiches later, with a cute green salad and edged crisps, I was back pre-Houdini-ing my small rucksack onto the back of my bike with those twangy ropes and their unclipping clippers. I would like to jump once more into Hollywood and say that Mr Flynn bade me step aside a sweet second as he quickly and kindly fixed the baggage for me, then waited for me to don my helmet and belt, praising me once more for my thoughts of safety first!
This time we did not venture down to the water, needing a smoother quicker return, so steered away down the road instead, soon finding a pavement it is true.
‘What a wonderful beginning to the day,’ my happily moving body was thinking, my eyes also pleased to be seeing such interesting dwellings and businesses sprouting up through the green around us.
And to give you the Hollywood ending: upon reaching his grand mansion, my comrade naturally helped me off my bike, leant it safely against the wall and invited me in, gentlemanly fashion, for strawberries and cream on the terrace, before sadly gathering me delicately into his arms and tenderly saying he must go to work but how he would miss me.
Do go and explore the Basingstoke Canal Path by bike, though; you will not be disappointed.
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