Jon’s circular to the usual suspects prompted a mere 5 to show at London Fields, 2 of whom, Keith (injury) and our secretary Stephen (‘otherwise engaged’) were the send-off committee, leaving only Naomi, Jon and me to ride the course. We set out at 8 sharp and Jon’s familiar escape from East London route got us clear of the enormous crowd of riders, on a warm but overcast evening.

The long drag through Epping Forest saw Suffolk-bound riders lined out as far as the eye could see. For the most part car drivers left us alone, though the we did note a Lamborghini driver nailing it. But that’s Saturday night out in Epping for you.

Our planned picnic stop was at the same place as last year, a broad sward (dry and straw-like this year) overlooking the turn at Great Dunmow. Here we hollered out to alert scores, possibly even hundreds of passing riders to make this key right turn rather than forge on northwards towards Saffron Walden.

It was a pity we did not have such an angel ourselves when we made our turn on to a lane stated by the route sheet to be ‘well-concealed’ – we made the elementary blunder of assuming that other people knew where they were going. The lane turned quickly into a narrow, tree-roofed tunnel and our companions, keen but I thought inexperienced, altogether too enthusiastic about slamming it on the invisible, gravelly surface.

Jon called the group to order and a route conference by his map soon put us back in the right direction for the halfway food stop in Castle Hedingham. This was a new location and already very busy when we got there. Most of the Dulwich Paragon seemed to have turned out (including our sometime member Richard Ireland) and there was also a big group of Horsham Wheelers. We had eaten recently, so passed on food and headed for the Suffolk border at Sudbury.

One of the curiosities of the Dynamo is that all of a sudden you can find yourself in the midst of a large, or very large group, swarmed around by club boys, sportive riders, fixie fashionistas, and old-school Audaxers. Then just as soon, you have the road completely to yourself again; it is as if they were never there. So it was after Stowmarket when we turned on to the eastbound A1120 and found there were just 3 of us, plus a random recumbent guy who obviously didn’t do groups.

It was wasn’t quite so dark now. We rolled along this well-surfaced, rolling road, normally heavily trafficked but now empty, for some 20 km, at a pleasing allure, arriving in Yoxford around 4.30 and within easy striking distance of our destination. There was the usual hectic rush for the line across Dunwich Heath (I speak for myself) and, as the first one in at just past 5, I was obliged to stake out our place in the already-long queue at the café.

Here to our surprise we found Chris, who told us he had infiltrated the Paragons and arrived the best part of an hour before us. As a veteran 400-km Audaxer, Chris was all set to ride back to London; sensibly he decided to do the companionable thing and join us for the 50-km hack back to Ipswich for the Liverpool Street train. Our augmented party was back in town before 11, after another very entertaining night out on the bike.

Eighteen riders were ready at Tunbridge Wells to head out through the High Weald for a morning of climbs and descents though wooded hills.  By lunchtime I had only lost two of the group (we arranged to meet them again at tea) and we took a break at the Blackboys Inn in the village of that name.

Then a cycle through the town of Uckfield and a long but gentle climb on a quieter route to the top of the Ashdown Forest. As ever there, we found spectacular views of heathland and the surrounding countryside, today in bright sunshine, slightly marred by the many drivers who see the 40mph  limit clearly marked as there only for decoration.

We had our own chance to try break the speed limit though on the long downhill stretch, followed by one last small but steep hill before tea.  Being the Ashdown Forest, tea was at Piglet’s Tea Room attached to the House-at-Pooh-Corner in Hartfield.

Having lingered over our scones, we spread out on the return to Tunbridge Wells, to catch different trains.  I think I counted the full number past me back into the town, but was slightly nervous that one or two may still be out there and will emerge from the forest in years to come.

The ride was 67km in East Sussex and (a bit of) Kent.

Even hours before kick-off, the roads were practically empty of traffic, making for fast progress along the lanes and B roads of north Essex. In contrast to my usual 200 km rides, I’d opted for the shorter 112 km option today – thinking mainly of the temperatures. It was a welcome change from the loneliness of so many 200 rides to find myself in a tight and sociable bunch formed by the Braintree Velo club – all seven of their club members were determined to get round in time for the start of the football. We reached the 50 km mark with an average rolling speed of 29.7 km on the clock: the only time I’ve ever threatened the maximum speed limit on an audax. Things slowed after that as I lost contact while searching for a poorly placed ‘information control’, but I still completed the ride in four and three quarter hours.

This is a pretty and well-constructed route through picture postcard villages such as Felstead, Finchingfield, Great Bardfield and some of The Rodings. Half time control is at the Victoria CC club hut, familiar from the early season Henham audaxes. I recommend this event for next year.

The previous Sunday saw a visit to Stevenage for the 84 km ‘Stevenage Circular’ audax, now a Bike Week fixture. I am surprised that more London riders don’t join this ride, with fast trains taking just over 20 minutes from Kings Cross or Finsbury Park. Perhaps it is down to the crowded Bike Week calendar. As ever the Stevenage CTC put together an impeccably organised event from the lakeside HQ at the cyclist-friendly Costello’s cafe. There was the usual Mayoral presence at the start, a clear route sheet, and home made cakes served on the lawn outside Hexton village hall.

The Circular audax attracts a wide variety of riders, ranging from speed merchants using it as a lengthy time trial to leisure riders out on city and mountain bikes, and practically everyone should be able to complete within the generous time limits. For myself it was a pleasant ‘recovery’ ride after the rigours of the End to End the week before. Have a look on the Stevenage CTC website to see numerous photos which give a flavour of the event (click on the Gallery section) and put it in the diary for next season.

A few miles later Ash had a puncture. His tyres were hard to get back on and he damaged his spare inner tube with a tyre lever and so had to do a puncture repair by the roadside. Not surprising after this succession of punctures we got to lunch late at the Crown and Sceptre in Bridens Camp.

John left us after lunch and the remaining four of us rode through the National Trust’s attractive wooded Ashridge Estate to the Bridgewater Monument. Three of us climbed to the top for a panoramic view of the Chilterns and two of us succumbed to the lure of the tearoom. Then it was back through Redbourn for a short break at the Holly Bush (picturesque but no teas or coffees) and then on to the Nicky Way, a former railway line,  back to catch the train home from Harpenden.

The morning ride took us through the High Weald. After a first busy section we took in a succession of small hills though villages, past ponds, farms and woods. The group maintained a strong pace and we arrived at the Black Horse at Nuthurst before opening time.

Entering the village at Slaugham

A slight drizzle kept most of us indoors for lunch, but the rain soon stopped and the afternoon stayed clear. The afternoon took us into the Low Weald, with fewer slopes now and a distant view of the Downs to the South. Against my on-road principles, I took the group for a few km off the tarmac on a bridleway near the River Adur, before following back roads to Hassocks and tea, amid the statuary and old machinery at the South Downs Garden and Heritage Centre.

In the woods near Staplefield

Then a final ride through Burgess Hill and Haywards Heath back to the railway. We returned to London just in time to be soaked through by a cloudburst on leaving the station, but this didn’t matter as it was too late to spoil the ride.

We did 69km, all in West Sussex. A map of the ride is here.

I turned up at Marylebone to meet Roger, Kay and Doug. Kay was obviously ill so decided to go back home. The three of us remaining trained to Princes Risborough, got out into spitting rain and cold winds, and Doug thought of going home.

Nope, not a good start.

But we are CTC and perseverance is our middle name. We decided to have a shorter ride and not hammer it, although there were plenty of hills. I took part of the old Hilly Chilterns 100km randonee route: we kicked off on to Bledlow Ridge, down to Radnage, up to City, across the motorway and down to Fingest:, on to super-pretty Hambledon for a tea stop in the café/shop. Then the delight of Pheasants Hill, a couple of more up and downs and a quick lunch stop at a café in Marlow.

Back to climbing with the private road one in three out of the valley, and off for a few (more gentle) climbs and descents to West Wycombe and the garden centre-café. I’d planned for an extra 40km to Amersham, but it was going to be a shorter day than originally planned. Doug went straight to High Wycombe, Roger and I sampled some more cake and climbed on to Bledlow Ridge and then dropped into Princes Risborough to get the 14.30 train back.

We met Charlie Keep on the train as he returned from the off-road Audax and explained that while less challenging than intended (only 65km, albeit hilly), it had still been a very worthwhile day.

Perseverance pays.

Puncture repairs near Pleshey

I’ve put a few photos from yesterday’s  two-star ride in Essex into the photo gallery.

There’s also a map of the route here.

Our group of 11, ranging in age from 11 to 70, started out with memorable coq au vin in the medieval town centre of Orleans, an auspicious start for a believer in the motto “Ride to eat; eat to ride.”

Chateau de Chambord

Our first full day of cycling took us to the magnificent Chateau of Chambord, the largest castle in the Loire, which we approached, as bicycles are wont to do, from a quiet back entrance like conquering heroes. There at a café in the sun I had my first tarte tatin of the trip, apples caramelised just perfectly. (Tarte tatin, was born in the Loire region after a lady inn-keeper left apples, butter and sugar cooking in a pan too long, then rescued the dish by covering it with a layer of pastry dough and sticking it in the oven.)

I spent the week testing tarte tatin at every possible stop and made several converts. Brian may have  grumped that all chateaux were simply an unpleasant reminder of  the ruling classes’ oppression of the masses. But he admitted to the assembled company that tarte tatin was the most delicious thing he’d ever tasted—the first of several positive comments that won me points off this hardened Irish radical in a complicated tally totted up by Selwyn, counterbalance by deductions for chatter- cycling. (The technical term for wandering into the center of the road while chatting to your cycling companion.) What led to this violation? My seminar in  texting lexicon by sophisticated teenager George, tales of rioters from ex-policeman Roy, a history of mental asylums’ de-institutionalization from Michael and discussions of viola playing with Sue.

At one point our route navigated by the intrepid Richard Philpott took us for about 25km along a bike path which soon trickled (to our surprise) into a narrow dirt trail that made us feel as we had the Loire all to ourselves but required a certain amount of cyclo-cross to traverse before reaching Blois. In our traverse from path to village boulangerie, we somehow managed to lose one of our company, Derek, who enterprisingly found his way on his own to our next hotel.

Dinner in the gite farmhouse

Hard cycling against headwinds the next day (including a gorgeous view of Vendome from across the river) ended with my favourite overnight stay — on a farm (Les Pignons) near the village of St. Martin des Bois, where the farmer had turned an 1850 farm building into a charming gite with exposed beams and skylights. The highlight was a family-style dinner cooked by the farmer’s hospitable wife that we ate together with the farmer in their home — tabbouleh, lentils, homemade wine, local cheeses and plum clafoutis.

I showed our hosts photos of the bizarre giant-sized plaster Easter eggs and chickens that had invaded the front gardens of a near-by village on a scale that dwarfed the homes they adorned. The farmer’s wife knew the family that had initiated this folly and told me they installed similar life-sized decorations for what sounded like an unfamiliar French holiday “alla winne” (Halloween).

Bidding goodbye the next morning to the cattle enjoying their last meal before being turned into steak, we continued on to Tours, where we happily lodged around the corner from an excellent Lebanese restaurant. Our one cold morning was devoted to touring on foot the magnificent Tours cathedral with its 13th century stained glass, strolling past the half-timbered house where Joan of Arc’s armour was made in 1429 and wandering  the gardens of the former archbishops’ palace, where hedges are still trimmed with a plumb line for sheer exactitude.

The walled city of Loches

Reaching the perfect walled city of Loches, some of us opted for motorised transport to sightsee while the Rambos continued cycling up the hill to it.

The female contingent, all two of us, was by now lobbying for more chateau time.  We were rewarded with our visit to Chenonceau, which straddles the river Cher. Once inside, we were so charmed by the fresh flower arrangements incorporating everything from ostrich eggs to peacock feathers, that we took more photos of these than of the famous tapestries. Unfortunately by this time, two of our company had fallen ill, and had to spend the last day travelling by train. Our night at a chateau-turned-gite turned out to be less aristocratic and more youth hostelly than we had anticipated, with the men graciously doubling up so the ladies could have their own rooms.

The chateau at Chenonceau

Our last night we arrived in our final destination, the small town of Lamotte-Beauvron, to discover that the hotel where we’d made our reservations was closed. Thanks to the persuasive charm of Selwyn, the calm direction of Paul and the help of the local tourist office, our group found accommodation but was divided between those staying at motel out on the main road, and a hotel in the town centre. Name of the hotel? Tatin. You guessed it — the very one where that divine dessert was invented, before being discovered there by the owner of Maxim’s , brought back to Paris and introduced to the world. The tarte tatin was pretty good, too.

We also have a photo album of the tour, and a map of the route we took.

Paul and John rode out meeting at Jordans YH on Monday night. Paul’s new SPD shoes squeaked making any surprise attack from behind impossible. We crossed the Chilterns to Oxford with its dreaming spires and Inspector Morse’s pubs, then over the Cotswolds to Stratford on Avon. The weather was cold with head winds and occasional hail showers, so that we had to thaw out at Chipping Norton before ordering lunch. Then into the Midlands, passing through the centre of England at Meriden. We stopped at the cyclists war memorial there.

As we moved north we went back in the seasons, with only lambs, Daffodils and Primroses as evidence of Spring, but two meal deals were down to £7. It was raining as we arrived at National Forest YH. David and Angela, Nina, Lawrence, and Frank joined us in the Cricketers that evening and the start of the tour next day.  David was given a handicap by carring both panniers: one for him and one for her.

Good Friday and we made progress following NCN54 to Ashbourne. Then it rained hiding some of the spectacular scenery of the southern White Peak, although the old railway trail along the Manifold valley was still impressive, and the tunnel dryer than outside for once. By Hartington the weather cleared with limestone cliffs and flooded roads on the climb over to Youlgreave. There were still snow patches in the fields left over from earlier that week.

The temporary warden at the youth hostel told us that there was no bike shed and to store ours in the boot room.  Seven bikes filled the room and caused consternation amongst  walkers who had an early bus to catch next morning, so we had to be up early ourselves.  David’s front mudguard was mysteriously damaged whilst his bike was parked in the corridor. Angela had evicted the moths from her road jersey, but holes were evidence of their taste for fine Merino wool.

Saturday was a day for low gears and good brakes:  first over the hills to Bakewell to sample a traditional pudding divided into five.  During lunch at Monsal Head Paul’s map and case were pinched, but it was only a cheap map case.  Down past the viaduct into Millers Dale and a steep climb back up to Tideswell, Cathedral of the Peak, then through Peak Forest to the top of Winnats. David, Angela and Lawrence descended the 1 in 5 gorge to Castleton, whilst the rest climbed higher over Mam Tor and down into the Edale valley. Paul was first down the steep descent and even overtook a car and the more cautious cyclist slowing it down;  Frank and Nina took it a bit slower.

Hathersage YH bike shed was filled with hostel junk leaving four bikes outside, but the size of portions in the Little John Inn that night were more than cyclist friendly. The Cumberland sausage even defeated Paul, but not John.

Easter Sunday and an early climb into the Dark Peak and up to Stanage Edge caught the view of Hope valley below in sun, before rain squalls passed over. It was wild weather with rainbows and dramatic scenery as far as the Kinder plateau still fringed with snow. Coffee was at Yorkshire Bridge before following the track alongside Ladybower reservoir past the site of the drowned village of Derwent.

Water overflowed the massive stone Derwent Dam which had been used by the Dambusters for practice in 1943. A snack lunch there, then back down the road to Hope for tea, and up the steep climb behind Castleton with great views of the valley,  Mam Tor and Win Hill. David was then despatched to retrieve Angela’s hat left at Youlgreave, whilst Angela carried the His and Hers panniers three miles to Eyam. David meanwhile did a fine 2 hour time trial enjoying late evening sun to get back for a very acceptable hostel meal. What a pity the bike shed was again filled with junk.

Monday and after breakfast David and Angela left for their train home, whilst we rode through Chatsworth Park for coffee in the garden centre, then through Matlock past the Heights of Abraham before lunch at Wirksworth, where Lawrence and Frank left us. It was a surprisingly attractive ride until we hit the outskirts of Derby where Nina caught the train. Leaving Derby NCN54 passed through Pride Park just as Derby County crowds were leaving the match,  so we took the A road instead to our B&B.

The next day on passing through Melton Mowbray we sampled their pie before stopping at Thurlby. This youth hostel had been rescued from the YHA by the local council and volunteers, and for once had an excellent bike shed. A tail wind across the fens meant excellent progress to Cambridge, and the next day we made Tewin for lunch, leaving |John to ride home to London.

Trip total 800 km

Six met in the vastness of St Pancras Station for the unusually far-flung trip to Romney Marsh. The train accelerates across a newly-created landscape of concrete flyover, contoured turf, and smoked-glass office complex, like a naïf preview of the future. Soon you are flying along the Essex bank with the Thames Estuary to your right; then the tunnel swallows you up and you emerge moments later on the Kent bank, soon to vault over the Medway.

Ashford International, equally grandiose, feels out of place in the banality of the surrounding town. We head south for the coast, into brightening skies and a freshening breeze, quickly leaving behind the gravitational pull of the future. We traverse a small country of fields, woods and villages: these rural eastward reaches of Kent entirely lack the manicured plushness of the more-familiar western end of the county. Soon after Ruckinge, we ride down off this upland on to the broad expanse of Romney Marsh, pan-flat to the Strait of Dover beyond.

We are nearly to the coast when we pull up for our coffee stop, at the terminus cafe of the narrow-gauge Romney, Hythe & Dymchurch Railway, evocative of a monochrome Children’s Hour in the days before Sky TV. A train has just chugged in, releasing Bank Holiday outing tots to a breakfast of chips with ketchup. Snuggs, wandering off for a crafty gasper, is sorrowfully apprised by a porter that Dymchurch, like all stations everywhere, does not permit smoking.

Within a few moments of our restart we reach the sea and make a right turn along the seafront into the south-westerly breeze. It is fresh, or rather fresher than fresh. New Romney affords some relief, but the pull beyond Lydd towards Camber, cutting off the nose of Dungeness, is hard. The wind drums relentlessly in the ears, tears at flapping clothing, and threatens to snatch the wheel out of the rider’s control.

It is with some relief that we haul in under the shelter of the Camber seawall, beyond which hundreds of kites exuberantly leap and twirl in the now-cloudless sky. Nick guides us skilfully to Camber’s only known outlier of the capuccino zone (© Naomi Wolf). Regardless, top menu choice has to be the all-day breakfast. With a bottle of Pride, thank you.

We take to a well-used but gnarly cycle path direct to Rye, standing on its bluff overlooking the levels. This is the turn. We make a right on to the road that parallels the Royal Military Canal heading north-east. It is long, flat and straight. With the wind at our back, the hubbub falls away directly. Pedals spin without effort. The pace goes up and up. Nick, leading on the fixed, is whirling away like a banshee. “Pedal, Nick mate,” comes a cry from the rear, “we’re all freewheeling back here!” (Well not all, Paul also being on fixed.)

This runaway train flew through the landscape on the wings of the wind, canal glittering to our right, sky brilliant blue overhead, for mile after mile.

Picturesque Appledore village marks the end of this cavalcade. We work our way back on to the uplands through ridged country, then a flat run through the Ornestone Wood, tangled, overgrown and flooded, feeling as remote as the forest of Brocéliande. Yet a short hack along a main road brings us back to Ashford and the trans-Europe expresses. Welcome back to the future.

Riders: Paul, Inez, John, Camille, Nick, and Martin