I arose to sunshine in the Malvern Hills and everything looked a picture. There was also a distinct chill in the air, however, and the persistent breeze from yesterday was still there. It was a gilet and sleeves morning. After a very enjoyable breakfast I was ready to leave. While I ate, I overheard a conversation between the only other late diners and the waitress, because it was impossible not to. The two ladies – well into retirement I would judge – lived at opposite ends of the country (well, in Chester and Newbury, so not close) and were carrying out their annual ritual of meeting half way in between. This struck me as a splendid idea, and made me think that there must be opportunities for us to do the same thing with far flung friends and relatives. Perhaps even right here in this lovely spot, so centrally located.
A few miles downhill lies the small town of Ledbury, which I had a vague notion was something worth seeing. It really was. If you imagine a handsome market town that looks just like you think a country town should, with plenty of old, half-timbered buildings – some on stilts – and a broad high street, then you have a good sense of what I encountered. I nosed around for ten minutes and took pictures; but I want to do it justice. I think you could spend a long time just sampling all its eateries. This only strengthened my resolve to return to this lovely area.
I was hoping for a somewhat less complicated day of route finding, and I would say I got it. I was following my straight line quite closely through the quiet, leafy lanes of rural Herefordshire, and the traffic was light. The whole thing was very enjoyable. I found myself passing large Apple orchards, with crops of bright red fruit waiting to be harvested from long parallel rows of trees. This is cider country and I saw much evidence of its production and sale, along with other local produce. The whole area had a gentle feel and was easy on the eye. It was hilly, and there were many lanes linking together attractive villages that I was seeing for the first time. On the higher land I could see far across into Wales and recognised the ridge of the Black Mountains in the distance.
Eventually I reached the small town of Mitcheldean, which marked the start of the Forest Of Dean. This heavily wooded area occupies a large part of the north side of the Severn Estuary, upstream of the Welsh border and the Severn bridges. I was impressed how much of it there was and how many of the trees were old, deciduous Forest with a lush blanket of bracken growing underneath. I managed mostly to stick to quieter back roads and enjoyed this part of the day. I have heard less than complimentary things said about the Forest of Dean before; but my impression was favourable. I’d come back for a better look.
I got some tantalising glimpses of the Severn Estuary from high above on the road leading down to Chepstow, but nothing prepared me for the sudden “wow!” moment that arrived when I reached the old bridge over the River Wye that takes you into Wales. The Wye rises on the same welsh mountainside as the Severn, and they make their own way to this point before the Wye spills out into the now much larger Severn Estuary. But the Wye is not a small river either, and it’s last curve takes it between high cliffs upon which stand the substantial remains of Chepstow castle. It is a fine sight indeed. I was getting a bit worried about the colour of the sky and just made it into Chepstow in time to take shelter inside its very impressive Priory Church of St Mary, a large and ancient cruciform church with a rich Norman nave and some impressive tombs. Who knew?
The narrow one way streets deposited me in the main square and I felt that I just had time to make a coffee and cake stop in a coffee shop already containing a number of local cyclists. I wasn’t aware of more rain falling, but I next had to cross the Severn Bridge, and I wanted to do it in good weather. I was fearing more rain, but in fact conditions were beautiful, with a bright sun and a breeze blowing me towards Bristol. The skies were dramatic and ever changing, but I escaped further precipitation for the rest of the day. The deck of the bridge, however, was very wet, as it if a lot of rain had just fallen on it. Good timing.
Crossing any large suspension bridge over a broad expanse of water is always exciting. The tide was in as I crossed, making it feel more dramatic. The Bristol Channel has the world’s second biggest tidal reach, so I guess it changes pretty fast. Right now, the views downstream towards the graceful newer bridge, with the sun shining on the silvery water, were superb.
It takes a while, but the crossing was as easy as it gets on the dedicated cycle lane. The motorway to my left was busy and the bridge shook as large lorries thundered past. You enter England on an odd coastal plain and the bike path to Bristol takes you along past salt marshes and then inland through villages in a flat area. Then there is a sudden steep ascent and you emerge without warning on the edge of the big city. It took several more miles of cycling in through suburbs to reach Bristol city centre, where I had a train to catch to my friends in Bath, where I would be staying the night. So I couldn’t be late. The signing was good, but I made a couple of small errors and it all took time. I also wanted to pass through elegant Clifton, with its lovely Georgian villas arranged around a large common on the north bank of the Avon gorge. Here, I knew, I could see the famous Clifton Suspension Bridge that spans the gorge high above the river below.
Isambard Kingdom Brunel’s ambitious design was opened to traffic in 1864, 33 years after he conceived it, and marked a turning point in modern bridge design. It has become one of Bristol’s most recognisable sights and still carries traffic today. It was rush hour and there was a queue to get over its narrow carriageway, so I satisfied myself with a photo and made a dash for Temple Meads station, dropping steeply down off the plains down to the waterfront. I like Bristol, but would have to wait until the morning to have a proper look at it. My train, and it’s precious bike space, wouldn’t wait.
I arrived at the iconic station complex with its beautiful clock tower showing I had ten minutes. But I had to get through barriers and change platforms and it was crowded. I arrived on the platform as the busy train pulled in and stopped with the bike spaces right in front of me. Otherwise I might not have remained quite so calm.
So everything was seamless as could be, and I was collected not long afterwards at Bath Spa station and treated like royalty for the rest of the evening. And you can’t ask for more than that. It had been a day of several distinct parts, all memorable in their own way, and a cycling thrill.
