The Malverns are the most beautiful hills in Britain. The sight of them from the east, rising green and purplish, ancient and lumpy from the surrounding flatlands, never fails to uplift the heart. So how come I've never ridden them? Maybe they've always seemed a bit too far or perhaps just too hilly. But yesterday was the day for a Cheeky Thursday 200 in glorious sunshine to the Magnificent Malverns.
Up through Hill and Berkeley to Gloucester, stopping off at Attwooll's in Whitminster for elevenses. A bit early really, but it's in a convenient place. Initially I ordered a toasted sandwich then decided it was just too hot (already!) for that, so changed it to a plain ordinary cheese and pickle sandwich, which was very good, followed by a slice of chocolate cake, which wasn't; dry, too sugary and not chocolatey. Made me feel a bit sick in fact.
On into Gloucester and out through Maisemore, past the beekeepers' and up the hill to get the first sight of the Malverns as well as an equally beautiful view of the Cotswolds to the other side.
Before long I had almost reached Upton, but instead of turning right on the main road and then crossing the Severn, I turned left on a tiny, somewhat gravelly lane, heading due west to the Hills. Gosh, they looked steep! Are those really houses on them? How do they not slide down the slopes? Past Malvern showground (nothing on, looks a bit like an army barracks) and into the town of Malvern Wells, where I stopped at the first shop I saw for more water (aaah! cold!) and an it's-all-fuel sandwich. Then up and up and out of town. It turns out as I'd half expected that the road over the Mendips to Colwall is not a demanding climb at all, just a steady gradient. Some of the streets in the town are far steeper and I suspect if I lived there I'd do a lot of pushing and also use a lot of brake blocks! Right at the top of the climb the road does a right-angle turn into a sort of short rocky gorge or cutting – I'm not sure whether it's natural or man-made – at the end of which is the most gorgeous view of Herefordshire and Wales. I stopped on an old (Victorian?) iron bench to admire the view, apply sun screen (too late; today my arms look like a particularly embarrassed lobster after a tomato fight) and think about staying there till it got dark. It was so hot I hardly had energy to roll down the other side!
But of course I did, rattling unnervingly all the way. Stopped at the bottom and found it was bottle cage bolts, the ones on the seat tube, which I don't use much. What makes these come loose? Being a well-prepared audaxer in the self-sufficient spirit (or maybe just by luck), I had the appropriate tool to do them up. Colwall, at the bottom of the hill, is notable for nothing at all except a skew bridge over the railway with traffic lights at each end. Luckily they understood that cyclists always deserve priority and gave me the green light. Then along tiny and steep lanes, one of which bore the name Cut Throat Lane – must be a story there – and into Ledbury, which I'd never been to before. It's a pretty market town with lots of non-chain shops. My eye was caught by a yellow-fronted ice cream parlour and the gooseberry sorbet I had must have been the world's most delicious ice cream. Loads of cyclists out here, maybe they were all on cheeky Thursday 200s?
More lanes followed, all new to me until Dymock and then I was getting back into familiar territory. Sure enough, here was Newent. Under the remains of the old railway bridge and it'll be straight on at the slightly staggered crossroads. No! The track is routing me off to the left, straight along the B4125! Well of course, it's the most direct way back to Highnam and Gloucester. A little bit busy at that time but correspondingly fast.
Through Gloucester, which was in linear car park mode, and out through Stonehouse. Tempted for a second by chips, but no. Frocester, Cam, join the A38, loads more cyclists again, mostly looking as if they were in training for a TT – though one chap looked quite mixed up, he had a Bambino aero helmet and a big, baggy fluoro jacket and was coasting along. Tempted again by the woodfired pizza place just before Berkeley, one day I really must try them. Temperature was dropping and I'd put my long-sleeved jersey on.
On the outskirts of Bristol, just before the ex-runway at Filton, there's a choice; over the flyover or use the lights? The flyover is quicker and more thrilling but takes that little bit more energy, which I wanted to save for Filton Hill. On this occasion the choice was made for me, as the flyover was closed off, as was all the road from it to the bottom of Filton Hill. I was able to get through by riding along the pavement (there were no pedestrians around) then had the whole Hill to myself! And so home.