It had been a rather remarkable time since either Stef or myself had ventured out to take our chances sleeping where our last pedal stroke of the day carried us. Winter had rather interloped and put pave to some of our plans, sending either block downpours of weekends or invitations to warm, dry and cosy abodes of friends.
As with all great skills though, there’s a knack to wild camping, and having been four months from our last night under canvas, the return of blossom to the trees marked that the world had spun far enough to press play on a new season, and set in action another host of adventures.
Asking around our friends, and colleagues for their recommendations of top and lesser visited spots around the South coast, one place got mentioned twice, and on the strength of their speaking, we decided that we’d head to the Ashdown Forest.
Probably best known as the inspiration for A.A Milne’s Five Hundred Acre Woods, Ashdown Forest lies three quarters of the distance between central London and Brighton, just off the more popular routes on roads much less frequented by bicycles. A heathy spot of earth on the Sussex and Kent borders, we packed our bear spray and stocked up on Anti Tiger Venom, and just prayed an Eeyore didn’t turf us out of our tent.
So, we set off, rather sheepishly with 11am’s news bulletin sounding on the radios as we flicked the switch. Weaving initially the same hallowed path that every ride out of London always gravitates, we traced the quickest route in pursuit of green. Soon enough, we had juggernaughted through Leatherhead and were stood at the base of Box Hill, watching the relay of riders blast up to the top on carbon in order to get a flat white at the top. Reasoning that an ascent with full pannier weight put us on quieter roads, Stef stopped protesting and we started weaving among the best of them.
Sneaking past a couple of riders on our chase to the cafe crested summit, will toyed with a good number of cyclists, waiting for them to hitch onto his back wheel before putting a blast through the pedals. This did not best-please many of the more serious on the hill, but certainly provided a little entertainment for Will. Silliness exhausted, we took in the customary view over Dorking before putting our heads down once more in search of Reigate.
After blitzing past the assorted blossom festooned caravan parks of Box Hill, we endured a short stretch on the main road into Reigate, made bearable by the satisfying smooth sweep of the road. Hitting the rich seam of the high street, we decided it was time to find ourselves a supermarket lunch.
Finding some smoked cheese and a spot of bread, we rode around the corner and set ourselves down on a fallen tree with a view over the local park. Treated to a fixture of Reigate F.C. Under 14s versus a team who were forced to wear their jerseys inside out. Despite much frantic touchline parenting, the game’s climax was rather a fluky rebound from halfway that bounced past a goalkeeper eagerly taking instruction from his dad by the goalpost. In short, it was a charming if frantic spectacle.
But we weren’t there to spectate on footballing triumphs – we had ground to make. Sneaking out the back of Salford, into Smallfields, we were finally in the country proper, and took pleasure in the faint whiff of manure on the wind, and birdsong returning to the trees.
The road from Smallfields led pleasantly onwards without much immediacy but with a fantastic flow, ebbing along the shallow contours as we bumbled into Newchapel and slinked into Lingfield. With it’s race track, and ancient lock and keep, the pleasant enough village saw us take a little sit down, quaff a banana and take in the bass notes of the social gathering in the co-op car park. Taking advantage of the shop, we stocked up on some essentials for our dinner and set off again.
Ploughing ahead, we slipped under the flight path of Gatwick, wondering at the destinations from tailfins. Soon enough though, the gradients began to pitch up, first in small ramps, but later in proper hills. Hollow Lane in Dormanslade saw us stumble up the first cote before Shovelstrode lane took on a sharp gradient before Ashurst Wood. Zipping up this climb, we were greeted by the putt-putt-putt of a fantastically old motorbike, piloted by it’s enthusiastic owner. After a brief serenade on the early section of the climb into the village, he passed us once more as we rounded the pub and gave us a wave to be on our way with.
From Ashurst Wood, it’s a quick descent into Forest Row, where we realised that our leisurely pace left us with around three hours of sunlight. We went straight through Forest Row, and tackled the final climb, up the gentle but protracted slope towards the ridge at Wych Cross – our overnight stop.
Climbing up into the forest, we were sure that we were headed towards a view. To some extent we were proven right when a pub marked the zenith of the road, and with a decent tranche of sky to cover, we settled on a swift drink before finding our camp spot.
Sat in the pub watching waiters usher plates of fried fish to family gatherings, our minds turned to our own dinner….
Tuna – delicious.
Pasta – always a winner.
Sweetcorn – adds a little interest.
Mayo – Bollocks.
Indeedy. We were staring down the barrel of a very dry dinner indeed. Miles from the nearest shops and not really wanting to extend the ride with a second fully loaded hill-climb, our eyes darted the room, and to the shelf of condiments…
Sat there were a wealth of sachets. We each grabbed a handful and sorted the Mayo from the Salad Cream with extreme prejudice. And while we were at it, Stef secured some salt and pepper by grinding it into an old receipt – ah – romance of the open road.
We left the pub feeling rather smug with ourselves, and also rather sorry for any guests wanting to slather their chips in all the colours of condiment rainbow. Looking at the road names, we figured ridge road might offer up some views, and so pointed our front wheels down the gentle slope until suddenly the trees broke way to gorse and the dried grass of last summer.
With the light fading, we began in earnest to prepare our dinner, boiling our water with our little stove and heating up Tuna using the tried and tested sunflower oil and toilet paper trick. As the sun ebbed in oranges and set purples whirring into deep navy blues above, we tucked into our dinner and watched on as the last dog walkers of the day took their daily dose of exercise.
Sitting on our spot, we took in the night sky and stars as the blinkered on above us, and began the game of pointing out the lights of afar, we even dared to ponder over one red antennae light as a vague glimour of what we took to be Crystal palace. As to the truth of that, we’re less inclined to be so sure.
Finally, when the barking abated and the sounds from the road became less frequent, we started to assemble the tent. Nestled in a grove of trees with a view out and over the downs. The cold had begun to bite though, and sure enough, with the sun removed from the scene, we were huddled rather quickly around each other and under all of the blankets we had brought with us.
“We’ll be fine though – it’s not that cold. Are you cold?”
“I’m fine – We’ll be fine.”
And so to sleep, or what was to be of it.
We woke with the light and the keenest of dog walkers at six. Emerging from the tent into a milky mist filled air, it was unclear quite why we were concerned about being spotted. Soon enough, we packed up the tent and were warming our hands on the coffee our little stove provided us.
Sitting in the fog bank, we could see the sun was trying its best to tear a through. Steadily, as the minutes elapsed the clarity returned in pockets, and our view over the rolling foothills of the High Weald returned, albeit punctuated with some rather impressive banks of fog, and some equally majestic deer.
The cold the mist carried though was lingering, so we decided to set off. Rather than a straight up return, we set our compass west, and headed towards first East Grinstead, down some winding descents before hitting the perplexing sight of Crawley at 8am on a Sunday. Fairly civilized and calm, but with vague traces of a wild night having proceeded it, we just about made it out the other side without hitting a dead end or having to make a U-Turn.
This progress set us on good terms for the day. We persevered our way back into Surrey and onwards until we made it parallel with Gatwick once more, stopping only to pick up the bird spotting book left by an errant twitcher. Flitting through Rusper, we soon meandered into Ockley, and back onto familiar roads. Conquering ground so quickly with the low levels of traffic, we skirted the base of Leith Hill and were soon once again raiding a supermarket, this time sat just off of Cranleigh High Street.
It’s fascinating just how different a touring mindset can catch you when in a place you know fairly intimately. Sat on our little bench just aside from the war memorial, we felt like travellers once more, with the wind burn writ on our faces and a full nights sleep or attempted sleep clear in every curl of unkempt hair.
Alas, this little weekend overnighter came to a close quickly from Cranleigh. Deciding to stop by relatives in Wonersh, we found ourselves in a conversation, and with the light turning, we were offered kindly, and opted cheekily for a lift the final 30km home. With a good 130km back in the legs though, it was good to sample spring at its very freshest.
