Monday, 30 July 2018
Greg writes: 'Those whom the gods would destroy they first make mad'. So it appeared, for having confidently sent out an email on Thursday confirming a slightly shorter and less arduous ride for Sunday afternoon – because of the on-going heatwave which I predicted would last given my powers etc. – the weather duly broke! Six of us assembled at Brookside on Sunday afternoon in the light drizzle with lowering, grey skies and most of us feeling a strange and unusual thing – cold.
Still, I spoke confidently of my powers and that the sun would soon materialise. The unconvinced group of Mark, Lalli, Dennis, Mike and David watched on in some disbelief before faithfully succumbing to the compulsory Brookside picture before following me as I departed.
Brookside departure
We went down Fen Causeway and picked up the cycle path across across Lammas Land before gaining the Barton Road path. However, unusually we then turned right into Grange Road. Was Greg lost already, some wondered? No, it was part of my 'Cunning Plan' to switch things around somewhat. We continued along Grange Road until we crossed the cycle path coming out from town and we duly turned left and followed this out past the veterinary department and on into the countryside.
The weather showed no signs of improvement. Indeed now we were out into the open the full force of the Southerly wind became apparent; the gods really were howling at my hubris!
We crossed the M11 and instead of going all the way into Coton we went sharp left and picked up the farm path through the nature reserve. This was a new route to many but it was exactly due south and into the wind. I felt I should lead and do penance into the wind; no one objected
We soon emerged just shy of the M11 road crossing which we duly passed over and then went across the roundabout towards Grantchester. More penance as the humble sinner was once more sent to the front as we slogged further south into the teeth of the gale towards Grantchester (the mild breeze is building with every retelling, you will notice.)
The many tourists who had flocked to this pretty village in the hope of seeing some stars – either from the TV show or Jeffrey Archer himself - were instead treated to the sight of a group of cyclists struggling against the winds. Not quite as newsworthy to report to their friends but I sure we made them feel superior (look at those mad fools fighting the elements!)
We offered Jeffrey a friendly wave as we passed his house – whether he saw us or not we may never know – and then swung right at Byron's Pool. We hauled ourselves across the Trumpington Meadows country park – though it felt somewhat more like the Blasted Heath of literary note. Is this the onset of the madness suggested in the opening sentence of this report? Clearly the group now wondered if Greg was transitioning into King Lear...
Blasted Heath
Once more we crossed the M11 and continued towards Harston, accompanied briefly by four kestrels which were swooping and gliding and enjoying the fresh breeze. I was glad something was!
We pursued 'The finest tarmac in South Cambridgeshire' (I know – a low hurdle!) as we went on the new cycle path through Harston and then turned right at the end of the village at Graham Greene's old house (literary allusions abound – had I gone from King Lear to Our Man in Havana?)
We now had something of a tailwind and swept along to Haslingfield where, doing my bit as a trusty tour guide, I helpfully pointed out the house where the Cambridge spies met their Soviet handler in the 1930s. Such useful information!
We turned left and hauled ourselves up Chapel Hill – where Dennis put on an impressive turn of speed to gain line honours (though he hadn't been plugging away at the front into the wind for the previous 10 miles – natch!)
The drizzle was now setting in and we could see across the valley to the ridgeway which was fast disappearing in the mist and murk – so much for sweltering heat! The point was reinforced by us all getting quite cold as we sped downhill into Barrington – the prospect of a cup of tea was now becoming more of a pressing need to warm ourselves. We duly pushed on towards Orwell and then looped though the village and picked up the Wimpole approach road.
Our trusty tour guide (more self-aggrandisement there) posed a riddle: what do Wimpole Hall and Madingley Hall have in common? There were numerous suggestions, but the big reveal as we approached the stable block was news to all: the previous owners of both houses had had their respective local villages relocated to improve the view. Now that is real hubris!
Tea beckoned and we found ourselves huddling under an outside parasol watching the rain fall. However, I once more assured all present that the sun was 'On its way'...
Warming Tea
What we had not expected was that sitting on the next table was a new CTC member – Mick – who was out for a ride himself and wondered if we might be the Cambridge CTC. We confessed we were and he asked to join us for the homeward leg. Our six were now seven.
We left the tea rooms and once more headed back through Orwell – apparently according to Mick this was where Eric Blair, who had relatives in the area, got his
nom de plume from. George Orwell step forward – and Mick should know since his relatives house sat for him in the 1930's when he (George aka Eric, not Mick – keep up!) went to the Spanish Civil War. The ride was rapidly turning into a literary tour de force.
We then took a sharp right and went down the little used but quite charming Malton Road – once more southbound so more penance out front for me.
We emerged in Meldreth where Mick left us to head towards Guilden Morden and we happily turned North East for some respite from the howling hurricane. At Shepreth we once again turned South and touched the edge of Melbourne before picking up the single track road past the Bird Sanctuary. David spotted more Kestrels: were they the same ones though?
Soon enough we went through Fowlmere and then Thriplow and then emerged on the old coach road that led us through Newton. The sharp right at the foot of Newton Hill led to Shelford and the DNA path and the group started to disband at this point.
All in all the full ride was some 37 miles and a lovely ride in the glories of the English countryside – marred only slightly by my appalling weather forecasting skills. Hubris we are taught is inevitably followed by Nemesis so it was only right and proper that I spent much of the afternoon flogging away at the front for my sins!
Greg Tucker
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GPS track (GPX).