This weekend just gone we (some of my Scouts, me and a willing parent or two) rode to Broadstone Warren and back. Distance per day 20 miles, which to some of the young people was a big old challenge, riding, as they were, BSOs. Here's a bit I wrote about it:
Ping, went my inbox on Friday. Another email reminding me I need to finish off (or even start) writing my annual report for the AGM. Except I was a bit busy having a great time with the Scouts riding from Waterlea to Broadstone Warren, which was the site of my very first Scout Camp back in nineteen seventy mumble.
We took a route through Tilgate Forest, over the M23 then up a steep muddy bridleway through the woods to the Balcombe Road. Pausing to catch our breath we went past Worth Abbey then down towards Ardingly Reservoir, a descent punctuated by a short lecture combining the inventor of the self propelled torpedo, Padockhurst Estate and the Sound of Music. Having struggled up from the reservoir, we stopped for ice cream, then whizzed down by the Bluebell Railway with top marks to those scouts who shouted “Daddy, my daddy” as a steam train hove into view.
Lunch was taken on the green at Horsted Keynes, where some of the Scouts were fortunate enough to spot one of their teachers. She was ever so impressed. After a relaxing break we were off again, with another lecture or two, about Harold MacMillan (we went past his house) and JFK (we went past his clump of trees), and then we were at Broadstone in time for (a) the tents to arrive and (b) the heavens to open. Ingenious inside out tent pitching devised by a clever Scout parent ensured the tents stayed dry, even if we didn’t, and then the rain stopped. We had a lovely dinner of chilli with chorizo followed by melon, followed by sleep.
Rising at seven we feasted on sausage sandwiches and cereal, then got the tents down and more importantly gathered sticks ready for more cultural experiences as our ride took us towards Hartfield and Pooh Sticks Bridge. Some of our number were astounded to learn that Winnie the Pooh is English and not American. Finally we left the hills behind and were on the Forest Way, a disused railway running all the way to East Grinstead. Lunch at Forest Row, interspersed with whizzing round the skate park on bikes (hadn’t they had enough cycling?), followed by ice creams, then up to East Grinstead and the Worth Way. A final ice cream in the rain in Crawley Down and then we were back. Put away the stoves, reunite the very muddy Scouts with their parents, then home.
