A bicycle ride

Across Dorset for a sandwich

Get the bicycle out of the shed first, and check it over – flick the spokes one by one, to make sure they’re in tune, and then check the tyres are pumped up properly and that the brakes work.

Once that’s been done, it’s simply a case of rolling down the driveway, and then turning right and heading along Long Street towards the Abbey.

Long Street, Sherborne

The Abbey is a particularly attractive ecclesiastical building which, happily, survived the reformation and still stands proudly in the centre of the town. Some of the former Abbey buildings were repurposed for use as a school after Henry VIII had done his handiwork, although there has been some sort of school on the site since AD 705, when the first school was founded by St Aldhelm, which means that Sherborne is one of the oldest schools to have operated continuously anywhere on the planet. I suspect that the first pupils didn’t have to worry about being distracted by screens all that much.

Sherborne-cum-Venice

I had a chum whose father (Bill Anstice Brown) was a very talented artist who taught at the school in question. He often re-imagined Sherborne as a port, or as Venice. Sadly I haven’t got his talent, but taking a photo of the place on a particularly rainy day a few years ago reminded me of those paintings, so I had a hunt around for a photo of a gondola which I plonked into the photo in question. It’s not the same, but it’s an echo nonetheless.

If I keep cycling at this speed, we’ll never get anywhere, and so let’s change gear and try to get some speed up before we reach Sherborne Hill, a gradient that starts by the railway line and climbs for the best part of a mile until it reaches the old toll house at the top of the hill.

Then there’s the opportunity to breathe for a few minutes as the road flattens out and heads towards Longburton. Once upon a time, I’d been tasked with driving a priest (Father Barry, sadly no longer with us) from the Catholic church in Sherborne where he’d officiated at a funeral to the convent school outside the town at Leweston for the burial. The idea was that he’d see the funeral cortège off, and then be at the other end to receive it at the convent. The only problem was that we hadn’t really considered the logistics of that, which meant that, on the long straight bit of road in question, we had to overtake the entire cortège, at speed (a quick shoutout to the wonderful Alfa Romeo flat four boxer engine here, which loved things like that). It seemed that somebody upstairs was watching us that day because we managed to do so, safely, and nobody told us off after the event.

Pushing onwards, and pedalling hard, we now cross through the village of Longburton. Years ago, at a point where the road narrows slightly, there always used to be an old man who sat on a wall, watching. Every time I went past, he was there, until one day he wasn’t. I can understand, sitting on a wall, just watching the traffic, and can quite see myself doing something similar in my dotage, although maybe not too close to home, since I don’t think I’d like to sit on a wall and watch the M3 thunder past – that would be far less relaxing than a Dorset country road.

Continuing southwards, you pass Holnest Church. A particularly attractive hamstone building standing alone by the side of the road. I’ve never stopped there, and quite possibly never will, but it’s a pretty little building, and always a delight to see.

About a mile further south, just before Middlemarch, there’s an old long barn. When I rattled past at a lazy cyclist’s pace, I was able to see what looked like a couple of blanched animal skeletons, seemingly nailed to the northern end of the building. The story was that these were the remains of cats that had belonged to a woman suspected of being a witch. By attaching them to the north wall with their mouths facing downwards, her spirit, seemingly, couldn’t escape and so the locals no longer needed to fear her. What a load of mumbo jumbo. Poor lady, poor cats, good story.

A bit further on, there’s a choice of roads, you can either stick to the main road and swing slightly to the right, or you can head straight on, directly towards Dorchester. It doesn’t make much difference either way, since we’re on a bicycle and, whichever way you choose, there’s another hill coming up. Before long, you cycle past a scrapyard at Lyon’s Gate, the one where the car previously used to transport high speed clerics across the county ended its days, following an altercation with a Suzuki Jeep on Chelsea Bridge, and then you have to start pedalling hard again as you realise that, while Dorset is short of mountains, it’s certainly well endowed with gradients.

Once you’ve reached the top of that, you can take another right and head off across Batcombe Hill, happily travelling along the ridge at the top, meaning that you don’t have to pedal too hard at this point and can enjoy the views to both south, and north, looking right across Dorset and into Somerset and, on a really good day, as far as Glastonbury.

When you reach Haydon, you have to take your life into your hands because you need to cross the A37, the main Yeovil to Dorchester road. Drop down to first gear and pedal furiously and, if you’re lucky, you’ll make it across without having to wait ages for a gap in the traffic. Then you reach the attractive little village of Evershot where, once upon a time, I had to repair a puncture and left my tyre levers by the side of the road. Whenever I pass that way, as I still do occasionally, I wonder if they’re still there although, since it was quite a long time ago, it’s quite possible they’ve rusted away to nothing now.

Evershot is an attractive little village, whatever the weather

A little further along, you pass one of the county’s distinctive fingerposts, devoid of useful information such as how far certain destinations actually are. The one shown here has now been restored, happily, but I think that it has lost some of its character at the same time. Perhaps signposts don’t actually need character if they’re doing their job properly.

Which way would you like to go?

Near the sign, there’s another of Dorset’s bridges offering free travel to Australia, but only in one direction and so perhaps not as enticing a prospect as it might at first appear.

Perhaps you’d like a one-way trip instead.

Continuing our journey. The water bottle in the saddlebag is now empty, and the chocolate has been eaten, but no worry, because we’re getting closer. After crossing another busy road at Toller Down Gate, there is the most glorious long downhill ride, all the way into Beaminster. The now tiring cyclist has nothing to do but press the brakes from time to time and try to stay upright.

Then it’s through Melplash and into the final few miles, reaching Bradpole, then Bridport, and then taking the ‘new’ road southwards towards West Bay and the coast. When I say ‘new’, the road follows the path of the railway line to West Bay station, which closed to passengers in 1930, although the track was used for goods traffic until 1962 before being lifted and replaced by a road by the 1970s. I suppose, though, that it’s newer than New Road in Sherborne, which we passed at the start of our journey. That’s been there since 1860 or so – I wonder if they’ll ever rename it to something more accurate.

At last, the now hot and tired cyclist can dismount from his bicycle, one of Halford’s finest, and sitting in the cellar not far from where I’m typing this, although I haven’t actually ridden it for decades and suspect it would turn to dust if I tried. The bell still works though (I just checked). Once the bike has been safely stowed in the garage, alongside the Hillman Imp, it’s time for cheese and Marmite sandwiches (on sliced white bread) in my grandparents’ flat in the Old Shipyard Centre, and a welcome cuppa and a chat, before easing back into the saddle and heading away from the coast again, happy in the knowledge that, on the return journey, there is no need to pedal at all for the final two miles.

The charm of the English seaside, although most people don’t see it like this. Photograph taken by my grandfather in February 1978, apparently.

Happy days.

Thank you for travelling across Dorset with me. I hope you’re impressed that I’ve managed to avoid mentioning Thomas Hardy even once. I certainly am. If, quite understandably, the thought of subscribing is too much to contemplate, but you’ve enjoyed reading this, then you also have the option to simply buy me a jar of Marmite and a lump of cheddar, so that I can recreate the sandwiches of my youth (contributions may in fact be used to buy beer, but I won’t tell if you don’t ask).