Day 2. The Journey

Destination; the Hinds Head at Aldermarston. The route: Marlborough, Great Bledwyn and Foxfield on the 403. Then NCR no. 4 to Hungerford (as illustrated on the Great West Way map) to Newbury, Thatcham, Woolhampton and Aldermaston. It was going to be a great day. It was not raining. I relished the thought of pushing deeper into the countryside and visiting many of those towns that were on the Great Bath Road. I had a wonderful continental style breakfast at Silberry House that was more generous than you ever get on the continent. Steve, one of the owners of the B&B, seemed to have a plethora of assorted jobs including working for Cisco, running a shop and managing the B&B, explained some of the stones layout and meaning. We could see the stones just a few yards away from his garden. The two minor circles were called the Sun and the Moon circles. Many of the stones that had been buried or lost were reinstated following the illustrations that Aubrey had made. With my battery fully charged overnight I set off down the Great Bath Road past the crop circles and swaying corn. There is such a feeling of completeness and freedom on a bike. Everything I needed was neatly packed away and I was free to travel (and park) wherever I wanted.I Could use cycle ways, footpaths, byways, tow paths or even roads and stop wherever I wanted. So much flexibility was almost intoxicating. As big white fluffy clouds scurried across a blue sky, and the wind brushed against my hair and face the Monty Python lumberjack song came to mind. I mounted up a chalky path with wheat and barley blowing and swaying like a green sea on either side. There was no one around for miles and as I looked down appropriately enough from the Marlborough Down that I had just climbed I was thankful and appreciative of the beauty of nature, the fecundity and prosperity of the crops, the magnificence of the English countryside and its unspoilt undulating hills. It was a moment. One that, in itself, justified this whole mad idea.

There were no sounds except the call of the birds and the gentle breeze to interrupt my gratitude. One of the reasons I’ve always been attracted to the 18th century is that I have a notion there would have been many moments like these. Gentle quiet moments that are rare in our often ‘hectic’, modern world with its emphasis on speed and efficiency. The clamour and cacophony of our world has drowned out, swamped, overwhelmed so many simple, slower-paced pleasures. I enjoyed it while I could. The ride downhill to Marlborough was an absolute delight. Travelling at speed by bike is a boyish pleasure that cannot often be beaten.

Arriving into Marlborough really felt like travelling. One minute I was alone with my thoughts overlooking a rather pastoral, Arcadian scene, the next I was entering the world of the town. It would have been recognizable to my 18th century friends. Very little had been changed or altered since Pepys, Defoe or Nash passed through before me. Maybe they had a coffee like I did in the Castle and Ball or maybe they stayed at The Bear round the corner. If like me they were on their way back from Bath to London they might have followed the A4 road direct to Foxfield. To avoid this busy road I went the scenic route through Savernake Forest. It often rains in forests and this was one of those times.

In fact it poured, and as I sheltered under a tree I realised that my rather lovely canvas panniers were getting soaked. I frantically tried to cover them both with a cheap pacamac. By the time its arms had embraced the back wheel and dangled forlornly down to the ground the rain stopped. The sun came out and spread its tentacled fingers through the trees leaving a trail of shining diamonds upon the branches. Steam began to rise creating a soft and shimmering backdrop to the dark tracery of the trees. I had been lucky and although slightly wet I wasn’t drenched, cold or any worse off. I could now continue along the puddled and glistening floor of the forest. Following the NCR 403 to Little Bedwyn was a treat although the 254 would have followed the River Kennet from Marlborough and would have ended in the same place. In fact it would have gone directly to Froxfield just north of Little Bedwyn and this was a place I wanted a peak at, as like Sandy Lane and Shepherds Shore, Froxfield was a spot often mentioned by 18th century travellers. I came, I saw, I was frankly underwhelmed. My curiosity was satisfied and sometimes getting rid of an itch is worth the effort. On an electric bike this takes minimal effort. I was now on the NCR4 and would stick on this route all the ay to London. At Hungerford the route followed the River Kennet. The NCR4 could have followed the Kennet & Avon canal all the way from Bath to Hungerford but this choice wouldn’t so nearly match the GBR.

From Idea to Reality!

The Kennet is a beautiful river and I would have got to know it well if the route hadn’t ‘misdirected’ me in Newbury. Looking for the NCR signs in a busy town is like playing Where’s Wally where you have to spot Wally or his tiny red hat in a crowded confusing scene. Anyway whatever the excuse, the fact was that at some point I found myself not beside the tranquil flowing river Kennet but on the crazy, dirty, fast flowing A4 or on the narrow bumpy pavement alongside it. These ‘shared’ pedestrianised tracks are a nightmare, not because they’re shared but because they’re not fit for purpose and are really quite dangerous. The hedges that grow alongside are not looked after so at any minute the cyclist has a choice of being mangled by a bramble or chewed up by a car. Stopping, dying or carrying on. I was too impatient to stop, too young to die and so laceration it was.

After a taste of the soft meandering atmosphere found in Three Men in a Boat and the delights of gentle pastural scenes in Wiltshire or the romanticism of the downs, the A4 or M4 represented the loud, brash, dirty, modern life. Why was everyone travelling so fast I asked. Surely they are missing all the delights of real travel. Yes well the rhetorical question doesn’t deserve an answer. Does make you think a bit though. Not that we have time for that. Anyway onwards and eastwards. Actually one of the ‘reasons’ for sticking on the A4 was that my journey so far had been too pleasant and I needed to be ‘punished’ harshly to experience the real world of efficiency and commerce before I got too soft or enjoyed myself too much! Actually the contrast between the old 18th century experience which I was recreating and the modern equivalent was illuminating.

The Hinds Head is a 17th century classic coaching inn. It was a material projection or manifestation of what I had imagined so many months before. It had many of its 17th and 18th features including the little wine cellar now used for private dining. The interior had been sympathetically restored and displayed where possible its coaching heritage. It was quiet. Covid still lurking around every corner and the staff and customers looked like delegates at a cowboy convention. Once I’d showered, powdered my nose and donned clothing suitable for a bank robbery I went down to the bar in search of a ‘merry supper’.

Sam (Pepys) was already waiting for me in my mind as were his good friends Dan (Defoe) & Dick (Richard Beau Nash). We had some good ale and a dish that my 3 travelling companions said ‘they knew not whereof it was made’. Calamari admittedly is a bit 20th century so they missed the pleasure by a few hundred years. They all chose the next course of wild boar so everyone was ‘exceedingly merry’. This happy state was helped by ordering yet more ale. After supper I chatted to the real staff, especially Henry and Al and some customers about this and that. What not to like? The experience really can not have been that different to when Beau Nash set out from London to make his fortune or what the characters in Pickwick Papers like Sam Wheller met with on their journey to Bath. I didn’t experience (and didn’t want to) any of the shenanigans that Joseph Andrews contended with in his picaresque novel. I had neither his looks, youth or inclination so was left alone by predators or randy widows. However it was a wonderful evening. The atmosphere was convivial, the people friendly and it absolutely epitomised the whole experience of slow travel.

I had had a good dose of both oxygen and beer and been outside peddling most of the day so felt I would sleep well. As I lay down on a comfy bed I mused about the day. I had got a little bit lost which didn’t matter a jot (not now I’d had some wild boar!) Time itself became more fluid as the 18th and 21st centuries seemed to merge or collide. Strange montages appeared with my friend Samuel Pepys calling me to hurry up. I saw his smiling face as he told a funny tale I’ve heard many times before. The laughter of his friends merged with the noises from the bar downstairs. I was looking forward to some more merry times tomorrow. “Gt Bledwyn, Froxfield, Shepperds Shore” someone read out from a map. I tried to enlarge the image by pinching my fingers but the paper didn’t respond. I looked up to see Pepys and Nash looking at me as though I was mad. Then I must have drifted off and can remember no more.

Next up: Chapter 9. Day 3