After last week's 100km (nominal) ride, this weekend I thought I'd try an step it up a bit, so I planned on riding 150km. I did think about riding the "Cotswold Goat" Audax, starting from Warwick, but I rode that a couple of years ago, so where's the fun in that? In fact, every time I go out for a ride, I try to ride somewhere I haven't yet been. This is fairly easy to do, because I use Strava, the activity tracking app to track my rides.
Roads I have ridden on are orange, whereas roads that I haven't ridden on are mostly blue - someone else has ridden them, but not me. When I go out to ride roads that I haven't ridden, I call this "colouring in", which has become quite addictive. I have found some pretty little villages, even nearby, by colouring in, riding down roads that I wouldn't ride down, just because they're not on the way to somewhere else. It's the epitome of "the road less traveled".
This weekend I picked Ludlow, as a rough destination, but as Robert Louis Stevenson said "I travel not to go anywhere, but to go. I travel for travel's sake. The great affair is to move". As such, the trip to Ludlow would be an adventure in itself. After all, I've been to Ludlow on several occasions.
Saturday dawned bright and cold. I woke at 5.30 am to take Stella and Lucy for a walk, as I do every morning and my weather app told be it was 3°C, (feels like -1), but the dogs didn't seem to mind. I was back after 45 minutes, fed the dogs and fed myself. I dressed up warm and went to grab my bike. I chose my Thorn Sherpa - the bike I rode back from Morocco in 2024, because it has big chunky tyres, and some of the lanes I was going to ride were undoubtedly going to be a little bit worse for wear after the winter. I'd checked it over on Friday night, pumped up the tyres, lubed the chain, etc, so it was ready to go.
It's become impossible for me to leave Worcester on a road that I haven't already ridden, with the exception of the M5, so the first 20km at least are always going to be on familiar roads. I headed off through the park , across the A38 and towards the river Severn, but It wasn't long before I noticed a rubbing noise. I obviously hadn't checked the bike that well. Fortunately, it was only the tyre rubbing the mudguard. I tried unsuccessfully to bend it a little, but gave up. It would just have to rub. I crossed the river and headed north through St. John's, stopping at the red traffic light, as do all good cyclists. I waited for the green light... And waited... Unfortunately these lights were "smart", but not smart enough to sense a cyclist. I gave up and pressed the pedestrian crossing button. Off I sprinted, turning north again and riding for another couple of hundred metres before being stopped yet again, by the level crossing. Was this going to be one of those days?
Once the train had passed I was off again, joining the A443 road shortly afterwards. I don't like riding A roads, I just don't like the traffic, but I assumed that it would be reasonably quiet, because it was still only 8 am or so. There was quite a lot of traffic, but it was mostly heading in to Worcester on the other side of the road. It wasn't too long before I joined the B4196 at Holt Heath anyway, so much more pleasant. Again, this is a road I've ridden loads, so it wouldn't present any surprises. I spun along, enjoying the early morning sunshine, despite the cold and taking in the sights and sounds. "Full English Breakfast, two for £20", boasted the Lenchford Inn. Another day, maybe. "Shrawley Village Hall - space to hire". "Under New Ownership - The New Inn".
My Garmin beeped at me "Climb 1 of 10". I stood up on the pedals and made short shrift of climb 1 of 10 up to Astley - home of Astley Vineyard and some surprisingly good wine. A couple of hundred metres further and my Garmin beeped at me to turn left, in to the first of many back roads and lanes. Just before the turn my eyesight was caught by the bright graffiti in the bus shelter. "Punk's not dead", it proclaimed, along with some other deeply meaningful messages.
Quite why someone would travel to what is, while not quite the middle of nowhere, somewhere not far from it, to impart such a message, I don't know. Top marks for the apostrophe though.
Before long I was back on the A451, but only for a short while before turning on to "Shavers End". According to my Garmin this wasn't actually a hill, but I'd have to disagree. At least at the slower pace I could enjoy the extremely green field to my left and the imposing, jagged face of the disused quarry in the near distance, where limestone was once extracted. Despite fencing it off, the quarry and the "blue lagoon" has been the site of several fatal accidents for wild-swimmers. No swimmers today, perhaps, but a couple of dog walkers at the top of the hill, before I dropped down the far side. I paused to take in the view to the north from the top of Abberley Ridge. A little further on I paused again. "Must take more photos", I thought to myself, so here's a picture of some of the locals:
These would be the first of many sheep. In fact, today turned out to be very sheepy. It's obviously been a good year for them. I rode on through Abberley Village, past the turning for a road named simply "The Hill", which I rode last year. I can confirm that it lives very much up to its name. I did manage to ride it without walking, although at times it was difficult to keep traction on the back wheel, while keeping the front wheel on the ground at the same time. A little further on I passed St Mary's Church, which I thought was quite picturesque, so I took yet another picture.
My little lane came to an end at the Village hall and I turned on to a bigger, slightly busier road. I noticed "School Meadow" opposite; "Abberley Meadows, an exclusive development offering a selection of beautiful 2, 3 & 4 bedroom houses. I've always thought it odd that developers bulldoze a meadow, but retain the twee name. Another favourite of mine is Wildlife Way, Droitwich, which while it may once have been a haven for some wildlife, is now a sterile collection of executive homes and block-paved driveways.
I continued northwards and upwards to Clows Top, where I briefly thought about coffee, but it was far too early. I forked off of the B road on to another little lane, effectively cutting off the corner that the B road took between Clows Top and Cleobury Mortimer (pronounced Clibbree Mortimer). There's usually a reason why main roads don't cut corners and this was one of those obvious ones, where the main road maintained elevation, and my route plunged down in to a valley and back up the other side. I enjoyed the plunging down, not quite the crawl up the other side. At least while plunging I had a nice view.
If you squint you can see the radar station at the top of Clee Hill, which was originally built in 1941, but now hosts a radar dome that is part of the National Air Traffic Service. The dome makes it stand out, but at 533 metres (1,749 ft) above sea level, it's not the highest hill in Shropshire, but it's only 7 metres lower than Brown Clee, slightly further north. I continued plunging until I could plunge no further in to the village of Bayton, before climbing out of the other side of the valley. More plunging then ensure as I dropped in to the River Rea Valley. Here, the road become much less of a road and more of a pothole-ridden quagmire, which I traversed carefully on my trusty steed. More climbing, then all at once I'd arrived in Cleobury. A few metres further up the road and I spotted a cafe. It must be time now, surely?
After a coffee, a piece of cake an a leisurely chat with another customer and the proprietor about life in general and the price of the honey in the window (£8.75), I set off through the rest of the town and swung off to the right towards Catherton and the appropriately-named Hill Houses. I rattled across the cattle grid at the top of the hill on to Catherton Common and stopped for a breather and a brief drink. Further on there was sheepy-traffic to avoid, just before I crossed the cattle grid at the other side of the common. A thought: If a cattle grid is clearly containing sheep, shouldn't it be called a sheep grid?
At Hill Houses the road was "closed". Nevertheless, "closed" doesn't always mean "closed to cyclists", or indeed "closed to pedestrians". I ignored the sign and carried on. There was some evidence that the road had been closed, but luckily it was not, as it would have involved a lengthy detour. I was now very much on Clee Hill itself, having climbed from about 250 feet at the aforementioned River Rea, almost continuously to where i was now, at nearly 1,100 feet. Not only that,I was heading in to a brisk North-Easterly wind. I passed a flag earlier that was quite clearly fully extended and snapping, indicating a force 5 "strong breeze", or 25 to 31 mph.
It was pretty bleak up here today - I can only imagine what it must be like in midwinter.
Shortly later I passed through Cleeton St Mary, which clings to the north-facing side of Clee Hill and must spend a large amount of time in the shadow of the same. It seemed very windswept and deserted, although not entirely devoid of life. According to the "A Church Near You" website, the primary occupations were farming, although mining and quarrying were also undertaken.Coal had been mined in short shaft Bell pits, the remains of which can be seen all around. I did not see any bell pits, but there again I wasn't looking for them.
I did see the Clee Hill Radar dome though, behind the church. After Cleeton St Mary, the rode rose yet again, before the highest point on the route, just to the south of Brown Clee, at 1,174 feet.
The next Ten miles should have been an absolute blast, given that it was almost entirely downhill, but the poor road surface and an impromptu hail storm made it somewhat less enjoyable. Wind I can deal with, and rain too, but hail is one of those things that, once it becomes a little heavier, is difficult to deal with. It started lightly, but after a few minutes it became heavier and it was just too painful to carry on. Under normal circumstances I'd find a convenient tree to hide under, or perhaps a bus shelter, but this was no bus route and the trees are still bare. All I could do was stop next to a tree that had a reasonable growth of ivy on it, which at least offered some protection.
The storm didn't last long and soon I was barreling downhill towards Ludlow and after a couple more hail-stops I arrived at the "Home of the Hedgecutter" (McConnel hedge cutters are manufactured here) about 45 minutes later.
I knew exactly where I wanted to go and what I wanted to eat, as I'd been here only a few weeks ago, so I headed straight for Bill's Kitchen in Castle Square, chained my bike to the railings outside and went in an ordered a "meal in a bowl", somewhere between a thick chunky soup and a stew. Combined with a granary roll and a can of cola it was just what the doctor ordered. Not only that, but because it's sitting there in a pot, it was ready to go. In fact, it was served and eaten in less than 20 minutes, allowing myself to be back on the road as soon as possible.
I left Bill's, unlocked my bike and rode off past the castle.
The castle is only a ruin now, but it has a long history dating from the 11th century. About the only part that I can remember is that Arthur Tudor, Prince of Wales and eldest son of King Henry VII, died at Ludlow Castle in 1502, at age 15. This means that his brother, Henry became King Henry the VIII, and we all know how that went. Badly, at least for most of his wives.
I didn't loiter, although one day I should go back and visit properly, but dropped down the hill to cross the river Teme. Again, I paused to take in the view and grab a photo.
The day was becoming a little less pleasant now. It was still cold and windy, but there were fewer "sunny intervals" now, the forecast predicting further showers all afternoon. I rode further North-West, in to the teeth of the wind, parallel with the river. I had worried that I wouldn't be able to ride through to Bromfield as the map showed a "Private Gate - no vehicle access" label, but bicycles seemed to be OK. The route went through Oakly Park, the grounds of an 18th century country house, although I didn't see the house, but there were plenty of walkers enjoying the grounds.
Before long I was back on the A4113, but not for long, as I began to turn southwards towards Downton. Here, I began to see signs for "Downton-this" and "Downton-that", as I passed through the "Downton Estate" (5,000 acres of magnificent English Countryside and divided by the River Teme, apparently). I didn't see any signs for "Downton Abbey", although there was one for "Downton Church". More sinister is the naming of "Killhorse Lane", although allegedly this typically refers to a location for disposing of dead horses, rather than criminal offenses...
Shortly later I turned eastwards, heading for home. This involved riding through "The Goggin", which sounds like an interesting place, but basically involved a big hill, although not the highest of the day, most certainly the steepest, at 17% (1 in 6). The ride through the wooded valley and the nature reserve at the top was very pretty though, and obviously a popular destination for hikers, some of whom congratulated me on my strenuous efforts riding up the hill. "Not far now", one of them offered in encouragement.
On the descent on the other side there was a spectacular view, although it would have been more spectacular on a sunnier day.
Nevertheless, you can see the many masts of Wooferton radio station looming in the distance. Again, established in WWII, the site remains and is still used to transmit the BBC World Service. I wonder if the
Antarctic Midwinter Broadcasts that I listened to at Faraday in 1993, 1994 and 1995 were broadcast from here?
Dropping down from The Goggin to Orleton was at least very pleasant, not least because the wind was now at my back, as it was to remain for the vast majority of the trip home. The weather was otherwise deteriorating and the showers becoming more frequent and the trip home was much more direct, aside from some wiggles for more "colouring-in". I was also starting to feel the pressure of a pre-arranged dinner with a friend in the evening, so was obliged to press on somewhat. Aside from a brief flirt with the A49 I stuck to the back-roads though, weaving through the patchwork quilt of fields that is the British countryside. On any other day I would have dropped down in to Bromyard for a cup of tea and some cake at the Cosy Cafe, but today I stayed up on the Bromyard Downs. I was rewarded by the sight of a Red Kite circling low overhead. I had seen a few today, but this one was particularly low, so I took a photograph of it.
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Unfortunately it zoomed out of the frame just as I pressed the shutter. Oh well...
After crossing the Bromyard-Tenbury road I dropped down through the grounds of Whitbourne Hall, another fine country house with beautiful grounds that I wasn't entirely sure I should have been cycling through. Nobody stopped me though, so that's a result! I would have hated to have been stopped and forced to ride back up the hill again.
This brought me back out on the A44, but a short blast along to Knightwick and I was back in the lanes again and picked up along roads I'm only too familiar with. Through Alfrick, Leigh, Bransford and Powick, along the dual-carriageway A4440 (thankfully on a cycle path) and shortly to home.
All in all an enjoyable, but hard day, with 95 miles covered and 7,835 feet climbed (153 km/2,388m). The weather (apart from the hail) wasn't too bad, although it was getting a bit nippy towards the end and I was glad of a hot shower. And yes, I made it in time for dinner.
Next long ride? I don't know. I'd like a ride a 200 km Audax, perhaps as part of a qualifying series (200, 300, 400, 600) for the Paris-Brest-Paris next year? After last years fiasco at the London-Edinburgh-London I still feel a bit deflated. What do you think? Feel free to let me know in the comments.
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