Cyclokairos

We’ve all got one in us, and I’ve been busy writing mine. Fond of hours in the saddle, on the path less pedalled, it’s not unusual for me to get caught short: ‘A Defecator’s Guide to the Leaves of Britain’. A mixture of oak and bracken was the solution during the latest instalment of the ridiculous idea I had a while ago of cycling to the highest point in each English county. You can guess how well that escapade is going. I did manage to conquer Warwickshire’s Ebrington Hill last year, and the other day it was the turn of Shropshire’s; namely, Abdon Burf. If you live in a lumpy country, 540 m probably doesn’t sound much, and of course the height at which you start matters. I drove to the radio masts on Abdon Burf and then cycled to the toposcope; that must have been all of 3 m gained. No, not true, I did make a bit more of an effort. My starting point was what Google Maps calls ‘Brown Clee Roadside Parking’ (320 m or so), which thankfully isn’t some paved-over-stain-on-the-landscape, but rather a gravelly lay-by on a country lane.

From there a short descent on the lane before a right turn onto a bridleway through Burwarton Park; the byway is well behaved gravel, the going a gentle start to the ride. A short burst on the B4364 before the undulations of Thorn Lane. It’s not too long before I pick up The Jack Mytton Way and I’m faced with a typical narrow bridleway for August: nettles and brambles galore. Then factor in the mud (from what’s been a wet summer) and a steep incline, and I’m soon taking the bike for a walk.

I once wild camped around here (keep it to yourself, it’s not permitted) when doing some bikepacking on a loop of The Jack Mytton Way. It had been a hot day, I hadn’t drunk enough, and the ensuing dehydration led to a loss of appetite – I was in a sorry state when it came time to sleep. Despite my exhaustion, I struggled to fall asleep; not helped by it being harvest time and a farmer was working well into the night, long past sunset. At some point the wind picked up and blew down one end of my tent – the end where my head was. Too knackered to do anything about it, what little sleep I got was achieved while smothered in nylon.

I have my last views of Titterstone Clee Hill and its radar station, for a while; a view across Corve Dale towards Wenlock Edge the new companion.

I’m on Clee Liberty Common, but soon leave via a quick descent on a gravel track (a service road for a navigational relay station further up Brown Clee Hill). It’s a track I’ve ridden before, and hands hover over the brake levers in anticipation of a gate just beyond a blind bend. Through Cockshutsford (one of those places I imagine isn’t pronounced anything like it is spelt) and back into Clee Liberty Common for the big climb up to Burwarton Pole. I need every tooth of my lowest gear of 26 x 42.

It’s my first proper ride with the new Golden Pilers-Sim Works Ramble bars. Plenty of real estate for a bag and the width and sweep make for a comfortable and controlled ride. Still hankering for something like a Billie or Tosco bar on an Appaloosa, though.

Crossing Sandy Nap, where many a bee feasts on heather, leads to Abdon Burf. Titterstone Clee is back in sight, and further afield Long Mynd, The Malverns, and The Brecon Beacons (or Bannau Brycheiniog, to give them their new name). Much to stand and stare at.