Last Wednesday night was a perfect evening to be out on the bike. Light winds (that died out completely when the sun set) and a clear sky that had stayed around all day, making you wonder why you ever opted for working for a living.
After weaving through the commuters heading out of the city and puffing up Portsdown Hill, I picked up my mate Robbie from his house at Cowplain. We had no particular route in mind but decided to make the evening a
London Pride quality and price survey as we meandered eastwards over to Chalton . The roads were still busy with drivers scuttling back to their country seats through the narrow lanes on the fringes of Hampshire. Just past Horndean, we were being overtaken by a white Micra as a fawn darted out from the hedge, right into the path of the overtaking vehicle. Luckily for us, the driver had the sense to hold their line but a sickening crack suggested that the young fawn was not to be so lucky. Remarkably, the animal, perhaps out of blind fear, picked itself up and charged into the field opposite, seemingly unscathed. It shook us up though and two pints were in order at the
Red Lion (London Pride - £2.70 a pint) to restore our nerve.
Chalton is a quintessential downs village, almost picture post card. Tilting cottages, thatched roofs, low slung doors, meticulously kept drives and gardens that ooze wealth. We watched young families and groups of workers quaff glasses of iced, fizzy cider and down bowls of chips as they debriefed each other about their day. We caught up with each other’s lives and as we have done for years, checked off the things that we’d both parked until we were able to talk over a beer.
Despite the low sun beating down on our backs, the beer garden was getting chilly and we needed to warm up again. From Chalton, it was up and over the ramp of the South Downs to the picturesque hamlet of Buriton. This can be a busy lane but tonight, we had it to ourselves and as we climbed towards the col between Head Down and War Down. Either side of us, the last few rays of sunlight broke through the canopy of elms and lit the woodland floor, giving it an air of enchantment. At the bottom of the steep descent that follows, I noted that the
Master Robert, a grim pub in the past, had been refurbished and seemed to be doing a sterling trade (one to remember for next time). The sun was starting to set as we passed through the village on towards Petersfield. Around us, the sound of birds in the hedge and the Church bells behind us reminded me of Pink Floyd's 'Fat Old Sun' from the album, Atom Heart Mother:
When the fat old sun in the sky is falling
Summer evenin' birds are calling
Summer's thunder time of year
The sound of music in my ears
Distant bells, new mown grass
Smells so sweet In Petersfield, our progress (to nowhere in particular) was halted by the sight of
Midhurst Morris dancers outside of the
Good Intent. Time for another beer stop (London Pride - £2.90 a pint
) and to be entertained by men and women of a certain age wearing flower arrangements on their heads. Actually, it was great to sit back to watch them, pint in hand and not even wonder 'why?'. It struck me that they were really enjoying themselves and were completely oblivious to what anyone else thought (and cared even less). A group of young girls passed on the pavement opposite and in trying to mock the dancers, just made themselves look stupid in the process.
I suggested to my chum that our next pub should be
The Pub with No Name (AKA The White Horse at Priors Dean, 'Hampshire's Highest Pub') and we started the long climb up Bell Hill past Steep. I reminded myself that in 3 day's time, I would be tackling this hill on the Midhurst 600 but at something of a less sedate pace. Our progress was halted at the
Trooper Inn where another beer oriented exploration was in order. Although not a Fullers pub, this is a great place for food with a good atmosphere and despite the carefully crafted decor they serve well kept, reasonably priced beer (Copper Ale - £2.60). Dressed rather differently to rest of the clientele, we settled in the bay window by the door under photographs, some signed, of various stars of film and stage. It transpires that the pictures were donated by a local who used to be a Hollywood makeup artist and the small portrait gallery read like a 1960's cinematic Who's Who.
By time we resumed our climb to Priors Dean, it was almost dark. The western sky spread like a massive bruise in front of us and to our left, a huge waxy orange moon bobbed up above a raft of low clouds hovering over Portsdown Hill. There was the smell that is only present when the heat of the day leaves the ground; it's a smell of damp grass, hot tarmac and countless hedgerow flowers, closing themselves to the cold night air. I strained my eyes to pick out the pub’s signless sign post so as we wouldn’t charge past the right turn to last orders.
Compared to the other hostelries we visited, the White Horse (London Pride - £2.85) was deserted. Immortalised by
Edward Thomas in his poem “Up In The Wind”, this pub has suffered mixed fortunes over the years and you get the impression that right now, it could be hanging in there by a thread. When I first came to Pompey, it was a Free House and run by a rather colourful character who, with the nicotine stained walls and sagging furniture, gave the pub a unique, if sadly unsustainable atmosphere. Then came Gales and the place was (understandably) maximised for food production but as a result, given a scrubbing with Dettol that for me, washed away some of its charm. Despite this, the beer is kept well and the food pricey but generally good. They have a beer festival there every June and I hope that a steady custom remains for this Hampshire landmark.
At one point, it seemed likely that we would be enjoying a lock in but sadly, it was not to be. I asked the barmaid if she had a map as I was a bit hazy about the direct route back to Portsmouth through the Badger infested lanes. Thinking I was in a car (she couldn’t see what I was wearing from the waist down) she gave me directions firstly going via West Meon and then via the A3. Her face when we told her we on push bikes was a picture. It’s about 25 miles back to Pompey and not a journey one would normally undertake after last orders.
Despite the large moon, the overgrown lanes down to East Meon were pitch black tunnels with potholes, gravel, lumps of flint and debris from the overhanging trees all proving something of a challenge to our somewhat impaired bike to road coordination. It all proved too much for Robbie and at Langrish, he ended up sprawled across the gravel. It didn’t help that I was not 100% sure of the route and had to trust that if we kept heading towards the orange glow of the horizon, would be going the right way. It’s also very strange how eerie things look in LED lights. A roadside farm building, that you would hardly notice during the daytime, seemed to have two large thruster rocket engines coming out of its side wall. Rob and I both thought that this made it looked like a discarded prop from Aliens, perhaps a rear section of the
Nostromo that had somehow found an agricultural application in the Hampshire heartlands.
Before long, we were back in the orange street lighting of the urban sprawl with the evening finished off with a 1am cheese, bacon and runny egg toasted sandwich in Rob’s dining room. Over a cup of tea, I thought about how much I had enjoyed the evening and how different this was to the cycling I normally do - not that I don't enjoy that you understand. When you come down to it, I guess the common denominator is simply being out on your bike.
The quest to map out various beers and pubs of intertest throughout Hampshire and West Sussex will continue throughout the summer. PM me if you fancy coming along.
H
