It feels good to be on the bike again. The first time in two weeks. The air is chilly, but not desperately so, and after a few kilometres my legs are warmed, delighted to be spinning again after too long spent confined to sofas. Out along the edge of the city with sunlight blinding on the soaked road. I screw my eyes and speed on, thankful for the Boxing Day quiet.
Away from Countess Wear, over the swing bridge that crosses the canal, under the M5 and past hillsides strewn with felled trees. A man walks at the roadside, enormous headphones glued to his ears. A glance as I pass. He has the small beard I expected to see.
Over the hill and slipping beneath the ancient, rusting little iron footbridge that crosses the short, narrow canyon. I often wonder where it goes, what it connects. Perhaps the path leads to the old farm, whose outbuildings I remember being just that: barns and stores filled with decaying carts and ploughs. These days they glisten with double glazing and no doubt expensive kitchens: holiday homes for folks from The City. Their winter emptiness is chilling.
Past fields filled with horses in their winter jackets, caught in the sunlight outside Chiverton farm, for all the world
like Franz Marc’s paintings. At the foot of the rise up to Kenton, a solitary mauve children’s rubber boot. At the top of the rise, its twin emerges from beneath the Land Rover that has just passed me. On the opposite side of the road a whippet like lad in a Rapha jersey freezes my hand raised in greeting. Why are so many riders so snooty and far too cool for their own good these days? Maybe it’s just another sign I’m getting old.
Through Starcross, and past the Atmospheric Inn; the sole reminder of Brunel’s failed railway experiment. The old engine house on the left now belongs to the Starcross Fishing and Cruising Club and no doubt gazes forlornly at the Cross Country trains skimming past on the run down to Torquay.
Riding into Dawlish Warren a gaudy sign asks ‘Are we there yet?’ As if on cue the heavens open and the cold rain streams across my lenses. Another sign advertises ‘The Sunburned Arms’. I smirk in the rain and climb up past the Mount Pleasant. The last time I rode up here in the rain it was summer and I sprinted up with some Exeter Wheelers lads. This time I soft pedal and take my time, spinning in the saddle.
Then it’s down into Dawlish and the obligatory stop by the prom. I hide beneath the railway and wait for the worst of the rain to finish. The squall slips off east into the bay, skimming across towards Exmouth and then onto Sidmouth, no doubt. A fisherman has left his rod standing on the wall and has taken refuge in the doorway of an ice-cream vendor’s hut. ‘Enjoy The Summer’ says the sign. I remember the summer. I remember so many summers. Here, there, anywhere.
The rain still drizzles as I ride back up the hill. A small car in front goes so slowly I have to freewheel around the hairpin. The ageing driver is wearing a santa hat and gesticulating at his white haired passenger, shrunken in the seat beside him.
Back through Starcross, and along the road that parallels the railway and the edge of the Powderham estate where the deer graze idly just yards from the fence. An old couple point their cameras and a huge Japanese vehicle slows to watch. Then past Powderham church where, I seem to recall hearing, the grand wedding finale of
To The Manor Born was filmed. Perhaps, though, this is another of those odd South West country myths. Certainly it is very pretty, and the large homes that line the road that rises gently from the church up to the back entrance to the estate are surely some of the most desirable in Devon.
I have long thought too that Rose Cottage would be a lovely place to live. I remember when I first rode this road, some sixteen or more years ago, it was deserted and semi-derelict. For the past ten years or so it has always seemed to be in some permanent state of repair, so to see it suddenly apparently complete, with it’s splendid red door replete with Christmas wreath, is a strangely emotional delight that warms my heart.
Back into Exeter then, and back into the rain, pouring heavily as I grimace along past the Council offices and down the dip past Saint Leonards church where we once attended a wedding; some people from the street where we lived then, the street where our lovely neighbour was murdered.
Finally past Saint Davids’ station with the rain easing and then, as if choreographed, I pass the kilometre mark that means I have reached my year’s target and the clouds tentatively part and a glint of sunlight kisses the Railtrack sign. The wind breathes from the west and I get a gentle tailwind home. I freewheel into the driveway, slip through the slight gap between our blue Beetle and Sheila’s little red Nissan, soaked but serene. Two hours of bliss, a drug I never want to give up.
