It is always challenging to motivate yourself to go out when it is cold and grey outside, but it's half term, and we had a milepost in our sites. So, with wet weather gear ready, Jo and I left Kingsworthy and headed out on an adventure. We were cycling out to Basingstoke on unchartered territory (well, I guess technically they are well charted - but these roads were relatively new to us)
We set out on a familiar route through Easton and Avington Park, turning left through Itchen Abbas and on towards Northington.
We heard a rustle and spied a deer in the field to our left. She had, of course, already spotted us and had swiftly calculated that she could outrun us up the hill, then nonchalantly cross the road a little way ahead, just to prove that she had beaten us fair and square. She was the first of several deer that we would spot during the day, but by far the most entertaining.
We slowly climbed Kites Hill and stopped to enjoy the view while rewarding ourselves with coffee and chocolate brownies. We moved on only when our peace was shattered by a flat-capped, Barbour-clad man in the field opposite; he spoke into his walkie-talkie and then began beating the field edge, driving any unsuspecting wild birds towards his gun-wielding mates further down the hill. We left before we heard shots.
The sky began showing increasing pockets of blue as we pedalled through the Candovers. Though not warm enough to encourage layer removal, we were temporarily joined by a shadow peloton courtesy of the autumn sun; the damp yellowing leaves glistened in the trees as we cycled past them.
Just as I started to need a loo stop, a pretty little pub appeared. It took minimal persuasion to stop for a coffee. We quickly locked up the bikes and went inside.
We realised immediately that this was one of those pubs where the regulars had their own seat, but they seemed friendly enough - in fact, once engaged in conversation, they joined us at ours, and it was impossible to ignore the constant request for a belly rub.
Prompted by a flurry of new customers, we pulled ourselves away from our new friends and headed towards our quest. The Sun had evidently gone for its own lunch break by this point, but the climb soon warmed us up.
We paused at the top of the next hill, realising that Basingstoke was now very much in view and, as is often the case when cycling, so much closer than I had assumed. The Sun had returned, and we amused ourselves by making shapes with our shadows.
We rolled down the hill into the village of Cliddesden, which was in danger of being swallowed into the suburbs of its neighbouring city.
We followed the instructions of the interestingly shaped road sign but saw no accompanying ducks. Instead, we spied 'Pot a Doodle Do', an excellent name for a seemingly busy shop that sported a queue of prams outside and eager pot painters within.
A twist and a turn later, we found ourselves on a well-marked shared-use path that took us along the edge of a large housing estate and through a couple of very green parks. Before we knew it, we had arrived at our goal.
I happily bagged my 50th milepost.
We considered eating our lunch, sitting next to the boating lake next to the milepost. But the weakening sun and rising wind meant that the temperature was already dropping, and we felt it better to find a cafe to allow our bodies to warm before heading back to Winchester.
We hit it lucky when the next building we came across happened to be a huge Waitrose with sturdy cycle-locking facilities and a spacious cafe. We left our bikes as protected as possible and went to find food.
We couldn't see the bikes from our seats, but I could see people looking in their direction as they passed. I wondered if using that rack was uncommon and then worried why that might be. I put the thought to one side and hoped for the best. We chatted for ages about upcoming plans, then practically inhaled the sandwiches when they finally arrived. I was obviously hungry!
We, once again, dragged ourselves away from the warm. I am never very comfortable leaving my bike out of view, even when I've used all the locks I carry, so I was very relieved to see them both sat just as we had left them. I guess it was the colourful mix of my handlebars and Jo's red polka-dot shower cap seat cover that was calling the attention of the passers-by. They weren't exactly covert! We quickly retraced our steps back to the NCN and were back in the suburbs before we knew it.
Even though we were moving away from the city, the roads were getting busy, and it was with relief that we turned onto the Fuzzy trail, a well-packed gravel track that led us alongside the mainline railway to London. We could hear the ghostly rattling of the tracks long before any train appeared alongside us. Those sounds, the trail's surface, and the overhanging vegetation combined in my imagination, allowing me to fleetingly become a trackless train driver until I was brought instantly back to reality as we greeted a dog walker travelling the other way.
The trail delivered us to Oakley, and we then headed down to North Waltham. Stopping only to admire the eye-catching seasonal decoration around the church door, ready for the upcoming Remembrance Day service.
The dull roar of traffic was becoming progressively louder with every pedal stroke as we headed towards a point where the M3, A3 and A303 were in close proximity to one another. It was good to know that we would be travelling beneath rather than across any of them. However, I was worried when my Garmin pointed me toward the A303's slip road.
Jo knew the area well and didn't even give that road a first glance as we sailed past it, ignoring the Garmin's frantic "Off course' messages and the demand to "Make a U-turn." Jo instead signalled her intention to turn right at the sign for Mitcheldever Station, a village that sprang up around a railway station built there in 1840. It was initially named Andover Road Station, referring partly to its proximity to the A303 but also because it was the closest stop to the town, 12 miles away from the busy line between Southampton and London. Andover had to wait another 17 years before having a station of its own.
But this wasn't why I was keen to visit. I had recently read about a record-breaking event that happened from this station in 1895 when the 52-year-old Hon Evelyn Ellis received delivery of a petrol-driven motor car. This had been shipped from France to Southampton, then transported here by train before taking the first-ever automobile journey in the UK.
Like many car drivers since that time, Ellis was pushing for the road safety rules of the time to be changed so that he could enjoy his new vehicle to the full, so he used this trip to literally gain ground in the fight. The need for a man with a red flag to walk in front of the moving vehicle was repealed shortly after. Sadly, the road hierarchy changed to a preference for the motor car from then on.
We found a seat overlooking the platform and ate the picnic we had carried all day while watching "The next train on platform 2 does not stop here" fly by while others stopped to exchange passengers. It was a surprisingly busy place.
The light was, by now, beginning to fade, and there was a definite chill to the air. We both added extra layers to keep ourselves warm and headed back towards Stoke charity and the picturesque pond that always begs for a photograph. Tonight was no exception. With a large (but photo-shy) moon shining onto the gathering mist, we felt we were in the middle of an oil painting.
We cycled the now familiar 4 miles back to Jo's house in ever-decreasing light. I carefully rolled over the hills, trying to conserve the last of my energy and ignore the gentle yet satisfying ache of tired muscles in my legs. We finished the ride, as always, with huge smiles on our faces as we reminisced over the events of the day.
Thank you, Jo, for another fantastic adventure. When is the next one?
