Sidmouth to Poole
The ferry from Poole was an early morning crossing, meaning the most practical approach was a leisurely ride down the day before and an overnight stop somewhere near the port. So in theory I could have left home quite late. Except my ‘training’, if it could really be called that, had been very light with the plan to ride myself fit over the opening days. And one of the toughest legs of the whole ride was the first one, on what promised to be a hot day. So I decided to leave early, get the first of 3 chunky climbs out of the way, and then grab some breakfast. I guess it was around 7:15 as I rolled down the drive and out of our road. I was accompanied by an odd sensation for a couple of reasons. Firstly, despite having lived here for 6 years, I was leaving our village by a route I had never ridden before. Secondly, was how unusual it was for me to begin a big ride by heading away from home (the only other occasion being my jaunt down to Lands End and back).
It didn’t take long before the unusual sequence of roads began to bite. I never ride out this way because it’s lumpy. Harcombe Lane is nothing more than a short ramp. It’s punchy, but flattens as it swings left and rolls thru farmland before passing a small churchyard above the village of Sidbury. Just beyond that, the real work begins – a right fork leading to the main event: Hatway Hill. I knew at some point it would develop into a fierce gradient, but riding it in reverse (I’ve descended it a few times) I was lulled into complacency as I ground up steadily, and with much less effort than expected. I was starting to imagine making it the whole way up, when the little cottage came into view marking the start of the main course. Now in my granny gear, I managed a couple of alternate stretches of standing and seating before common sense kicked in and I dismounted to trudge the last short stretch. It was about this time a local rider on a stripped-bare bike whizzed past with a hello – although there wasn’t a hint of gloating in his voice as he remarked on how heavy my rig looked and that he didn’t blame me from taken the easy way up. Even before his kind words, I wasn’t unhappy. I’d got way further up than expected, and the stretch on foot was sufficiently short as to be neither demoralising nor time consuming. In fact, it was something of a revelation – enjoyable enough that I resolved a return match was needed with me properly equipped on my light carbon bike (although, as yet, this has not happened).
I mounted up and pedalled the last few hundred meters to the crossing with the main road at the very crest of the ridge which the lane climbed up. Farway Head is what this area’s called. For reasons I can’t identify or explain, that name has always resonated with me in some way. Yoli would say it’s a faint echo from a past life. And honestly, I have no better explanation. My bike rolled quietly across the road onto another small lane, one which I knew would soon descend on gradients at least as steep as those coming up. I was still dressed up in leggings and jacket against the chill morning air, but I knew I wouldn’t be descending fast enough to suffer any real cold. Flanked by shady trees on both sides, the lane was still wet and the dim light made spotting the potholes a very last minute affair. This being the UK, and Devon specifically, the roads are in a terrible state – you basically need a gravel bike just to ride on country lanes. It’s embarrassing how bad they are having ridden on such perfect tarmac in Europe. In places you could be forgiven for thinking they were simultaneously quarrying the materials for building the road actually from underneath the road, so deep are some of the holes. It wasn’t unpleasant though – I was rolling down maybe a 14 or 16% gradient, through beautiful scenery, starting out on my bike adventure to Germany. Shitty road surfaces aside, life was pretty darned good.
Colyton was barely awake as I rode through – intentionally passing right by Gary’s bike shop (Ciclo), where the Niner had been for its customary pre-tour check and service. I was now on a route I knew well, but always from the opposite direction. For some reason, I imagined the worst ramp was the one up and out of Colyton, but by the time that had got me into my lowest gear the top was already in view and a short stand and dance on the pedals saw me over the top. For some reason, my mind had blanked out a much more severe gradient a little further along, which hit me after dropping down and following the river and (now disused) branch of railway line. Two vintage looking tractors passed me as I cranked my way up. As the first one came by I had enough breath to wave and say hi to the driver, and wonder what local fair he was on the way too. By the time the second one approached I was mostly head down and swearing quietly down into my front wheel. The ramp pitched up so quickly, I didn’t have time to think about walking – it was too late to dismount without risking an uncleat fail and I had no desire for an early sideways collapse onto the road. So I ground up at a pathetically slow cadence, huffing and puffing to the top. At least it was now nearly breakfast time. A short stretch past the smelly sewage works, a zig zag across the sheep field, ducking under the crazily low bridge beneath the road, and I was on my way into Axminster, and heading towards the station cafe.
Choosing to eat at a cafe on a station might seem an odd choice if you have experience of rail catering in recent teams, but from my scrutiny of the route the Railway Kitchen appeared to have a stellar reputation. So I was keen to sample it. And I have to say, every part lived up to the hype. I wheeled around the pretty arrangement of tables in amongst baskets and beds of flowers at one end of the platform, propping my bike in a spare spot and ducking inside to order. The staff could not have been more friendly, and in no time at all coffee, toast and marmalade, and bacon arrived at my table. It’s not really my usual order, but for some reason it had been in my mind riding here. The big slabs of bread slathered with butter and marmalade fully justified my choice. I think a part of my decision not to go with a full cooked breakfast was that the second of the day’s big ramps started the moment I rode out from the station. Sausages, beans and the other accoutrements would have sat heavy in my stomach with such exertion ahead. With no need to hurry, it was a very pleasant stop – some quality people watching to accompany the food, as people scurried to and from the couple of trains which passed through. One lady exhibited an impressive display of last-minute-ness. Her train was already approaching, but undeterred she went in to order coffee. Moments later, she emerged and set off towards the footbridge at the very far end of the platform, her suitcase wheels squealing in protest as she scurried along. She took the steps up three at a time (somehow not spilling any coffee), and made it down the other side just as the guard was blowing the whistle for everyone to get on. Amazingly, she made the train. I would have been sat on that platform at least 15 minutes earlier.
My foresight in ordering a modest breakfast was fully vindicated. Immediately after leaving the station, I dodged around a bus and a couple of cars, and immediately the hill out of the Axminster started. Initially a sharp ramp up to and across a main road, followed by a succession of short ramps around and through various housing estates – at some point I’d inadvertently routed along a footpath through a local park, but no one complained or seemed to mind. Before long the last few houses gave way to open countryside, and the road swung into woodland and began to head upwards properly out of the valley. But it was never steep – mostly just a steady succession of short sections of maybe 7 or 8%, with occasional flatter sections between. I passed a tea room which early versions of my route had marked as a possible stop – but in this version it was too early to be open. Somewhere on one of the steeper parts, a tractor was cutting the hedgerow – pulling over to let myself and a procession of cars by. As we passed, it did occur to me why they’d be cutting with birds potentially still nesting, but it wasn’t the last I’d see so maybe we were beyond that period.
This part of the UK is very scenic, and almost constantly up and down. If you choose your route badly (or well, depending on your viewpoint), you can find yourself on a full blown rollercoaster of endless hills. I had spent some time planning a route which as far as possible avoided this. Somewhere up ahead was the last of the three big gradients of the day, Spyway Hill. On the way there, the meadows around me pitched steeply upwards to wooded crests on both sides. For the most part though, I rolled along ridges and through valleys. There were occasional steep pitches to get over, but all of them were short – mostly just a few hundred meters out of the saddle. In one of a few very picturesque villages I stopped to shed layers, as the day was becoming properly warm. In fact the bench I sat on whilst doing this was one of the pubs I’d contemplated for lunch. But again, it was too early for it to be open. My revised plan was to make for Dorchester, which would leave only 50km or so of remaining riding across mostly flat terrain. Delving into my back pocket, I grabbed a banana and a snack bar to fuel up on as I changed. There was still some riding to do before then.
I don’t remember much in the way of specifics from here – a few more pubs I had waymarked came and went, and slowly the kilometres racked up towards the 50km mark which was where I knew the next hill began. Not that I needed the GPS to tell me it was coming, The massive ridge ahead had slowly been growing in stature as I barrelled along towards it. Almost bang on the expected distance, my easy progress ended and I was dropping through the gears taking on the hill. Now moving too slowly for any breeze, the growing heat of the day hit me too. When mentally preparing for this leg I had allowed for the likelihood I may need to walk some of this hill, but early on my hopes grew that I might make it without. I’d mis-remembered the road though. For some reason, I thought the Spyway Inn was towards the end of the hill and got over excited when I saw it. Just beyond though, the real gradient kicked in and dashed my hopes. I slogged on for a bit, but it was just a matter of time before my cadence was just too slow to sustain. It was early in the tour, I wasn’t fully fit yet, and my rig was heavy. There was no shame, but still there was a slight twinge of disappointment. In a couple of days’ time I was sure I’d have the legs to take it on properly. No matter though, the day and the views across the high, grass covered chalky landscape of Dorset were stunning. Off to the left, people were walking to what looked like the remains on an iron age fort (Eggardon Hill Fort I later discovered). I made a mental note to come back with Yoli and explore it properly some time.
The reward for the climb was a long, free flowing descent across and through that landscape. Ahead, the countryside opened out to flatter plains leading off towards the sea somewhere beyond. I was looking forward to lunch, but it was far enough away that my water supplies were a bit of a concern in the now hot afternoon. I knew the village of Maiden Newton somewhere at the bottom of the descent, had a petrol station with a Spa and decided to detour through it to top up my supplies. I began to worry I had misread the map when ahead all I could see was another climb, and a gravel one at that. But as I emerged from the long avenue of trees that led up to the farm, the road swung sharply left and followed the valley down to the village. As it turned out, the Spa shop wasn’t a detour at all – having anticipated this probable need, I had already plotted a small U shaped diversion right past it. Nowhere else looked open for more substantial food, so I pulled across the road, parked the bike beyond the racks of charcoal and windscreen wash, and went inside. I forget the exact supplies – maybe a coke, half of which I downed, bottle of water, and a Snickers bar or similar. The heat was pretty oppressive so I didn’t stand around long outside. Just enough time to top up bidons, scoff the bar, and swig some of the drink, before rolling out again.
Thankfully, the final stretch was (mostly) delightful. Soon after leaving the village it became a track for cycles and farm access only, albeit with a couple of very punchy gravel inclines – the kind that even in your lowest gear you can hardly pedal up. But short enough that you just force over them anyway. With no traffic, and in the cool shade of trees, it was a lovely final stretch towards Dorchester. There was just one minor flaw. In the hamlet of Bradford Peverell My GPS said go right where the cyclepath route 26 marker said left. I stuck with the GPS and, I’m fairly sure, missed out on a flat river valley run to lunch. Instead I racked up two more unpleasantly steep hills before finally rolling out into the outskirts of the town. Annoying as it was, I couldn’t be more pleased with my progress.
The little coffee stand I had noticed in one of the parks didn’t look like it would offer substantial food, so I rolled towards the main shopping area. My powers of observation failed me at the first cafe I pulled into – it was Carvery only today, and my stomach just could not handle a full roast dinner in this heat. The shopping centre main square (actually a circle with fountains the kids were splashing in) was a much better fit. I pulled into the a Côte cafe and grabbed the only spare table with shade. For some reason, my eye landed on a supposedly fiery hot chic pea and tomato Mediterranean concoction. I would not normally order vegetarian, but this sounded tasty and not overly heavy on the stomach. All of which proved true, except the fiery part – I mean it had some spice, but honestly it could have done with being a degree or two up on the Scoville Scale. The fruity, non-alcoholic cocktail on the other hand was spot on. To round things off nicely, the very posh sounding family on the table behind me kept an eye on my rig as I use the loos. I vaguely remember a brief conversation with them about where I was going, with the usual raised eyebrows when the full extent of the tour sank in. Honestly, that look of incredulity is one I will never tire of, as someone tries to decide if they misheard me, or I’m some kind of lunatic.
I wasn’t rushing as I gathered myself up and wound out of the shopping precinct and through the mix of recently built apartments and new construction works. I had plenty of time for this last leg and the heat was way too oppressive to hurry. Thankfully, it was mostly cycle paths to the edge of town, and out along the busy arterial roads just beyond. Better still though, was the terrain – pan flat, and with a light tail wind too. Without any real effort, I was flying along. Not only making great progress, but fast enough to generate a slight cool breeze on my face. I don’t recall any specific of the patchwork of fields and short sections of woodland, but I remember clearly what delightfully flowing and scenic riding it was. The day could hardly have got better. Except it did, as I crossed the busy B3390. A fellow rider joined me – I forget if he dropped into my slip, or I pulled up and drafted his. I kind of recall he’d just parted company with some friends at the crossroads, but maybe I’ve misremembered that part. Either way, the combination of good company and fabulous riding meant the next hour flew by, and with it half the remaining distance to my destination. By the time we reached the A351 and the point our routes split we’d talked at length about my tour, and his upcoming one to complete the Tour du Manche (something he’d done part of in a previous year). One of the constant joys of long riding adventures is these brief, surprising moments you share with complete strangers along the way.
The first version of my route went through Wareham and Sandford, but the more I looked at it the more it just seemed like a dull stretch of main road without much in the way of decent cycle path. A much more interesting approach occurred to me – something I came to think of as the “back route” into Poole. As we rolled into Stoborough, my riding companion pointed out the NCN (national cycle network) 2 sign on the right. With a last farewall, I spun across the road and started the last part of the day. It wasn’t long before the already quiet, narrow lane turned into the part I had really been looking forward too. A proper offroad section across the gravel and pebbles of Purbeck Heath. And boy, did it deliver. Whilst in theory this was a national cycle path, in truth it was a diverse mix – sometimes open and flowing gravel tracks across the heathland, in other places diving down along narrow wooded trails and then rising steeply away from streams.
Not long after I turned off the lane and headed across country I met up with a family out riding – Dad, Mum, and two young kids. We swapped places a few times – holding gates open for each other depending who reached them first. As the first offroad section dropped us out onto a narrow lane, I bade them farewell and commented I might see them on the ferry up ahead. The second offroad section was a real surprise – the line of an old abandoned tramway. But we were in the middle of nowhere. I could imagine how or why someone would have built a tramway here. It made for a fabulous trail now though, carrying most of the remaining way. Just a short stretch of very sandy, somewhat sketchy track past campsites before joining up with my stealth route into the back of Poole: Ferry Road.
Mixed in with my joy was a little sheepishness as I freewheeled past a line of what must have been over a mile of cars, buses, and coaches all queuing for the Sandbanks Ferry. Even more so as I just rolled through the toll gates with a casual wave to people manning the booths. Right up to the edge of the water, with maybe 3 or 4 other cyclists in front of me. It really did feel a bit like cheating – especially as I paid the lowly £1 fare to the one of the boat staff as we clattered up the steel ramps and along the pedestrian gangway to the very front of the ferry. It was just a few minutes crossing, although long enough to have a chat with the other riders – none of whom were rigged quite as heavily as myself, and all seemed curious about where I was headed. And sure enough, as we rolled off onto the harbour the other side, the family I’d ridden with also unloaded and yelled a quick “we made it!” when they passed me as I stood snapping a photo.
The section from Sandbanks was longer than I remembered, with a hill that somehow I also hadn’t noticed. Dark clouds were rolling around too, so I was not keen to hang around. Quickly traversing the harbour side park, I wound the last few hundred meters, ducked under the rail bridge and out almost directly into the rear entrance to the Holiday Inn car park. And all before a drop of rain fell. Better still I managed to blag my way into getting the bike in my room (with the bonus that the lift was big enough to avoid lugging upstairs). The last order of business was laundry routine and food. I had a relatively early start tomorrow to begin the first stage of the tour proper.