As I sit by a warm dog contemplating the day's riding which it has been my privilege to experience, I wonder about cycling. No two rides, even along an unvaried route, are ever the same, and the utterly magical, mysterious wintry splendour which unfolded before us as we wound our way through the frosted lanes of north Essex today was ours to savour for a very long time to come.
There is no achievement without risk and the fine line between triumph and disaster was nudged today. I contemplated the possible conditions last night, and wondered whether to call it off as too dangerous. Five miles in this morning, having taken a wrong turning and with some of the more slender members of our intrepid party close to tears with the pain of cold, I was seriously worried. I would never have forgiven myself if we had had a case of hypothermia or a broken limb, and we were far too slow to reach Finchingfield and arrive back at Marks Tey before dark, so a rethink was necessary. We cancelled lunch at the Red Lion, whose landlord was very understanding about it, and headed for our elevenses at Halstead. Thanks here are due to Pedro, whose local knowledge was invaluable in navigating tiny lanes, at times so caked with ice that walking was the only option.
Was it a disappointment that the only view we had of the sun was through mist and cloud? Frosty, sunny days are amongst the most beautiful, the cleanest, of all, but today would have lost something without the mist. It imposes a silence on the world which clear days lack, and the trees were laced with hoar frost so thick that it was falling into the road and forming a layer like a dusting of sugar which crunched under our tyres.
Once in the coffee shop, we decided upon Bures as a lunch destination. Eighteen tired, cold, hungry cyclists descending upon a pub unannounced is a tall order for catering staff, and Bures has a choice of pubs so we could have split up if necessary.
On leaving elevenses, the thorn which had been working its way through Her Welshness's front tyre decided that it was time to make its presence felt, so Halstead high street was the scene of some rapid repair. Getting the tyre back on was a tough task indeed, the rim instantly draining warmth from the fingers, and when we set off again it appeared that we had lost two outriders. Sixteen of us found our way through Colne Engaine and were soon reunited after which we enjoyed the descent into Bures.
The landlord at the Swan was an absolute stalwart. The food was very good indeed, the Abbott ale was first rate, the log fire was warm and we stayed there for well over an hour. This was the self-same pub that Annie, Regulator and I visited early one Sunday morning for coffee and cake, to be catered for even though they were supposedly serving a private party preparing for a autumn walk. I have never tried any other pub in Bures but if the others are half as good as the Swan then it is blessed indeed.
With about an hour's daylight left, we set off again, with the hilliest section of the ride ahead of us. Firstly we climbed out of the Stour valley before hurtling towards the Colne at Chappel, the viaduct dominating the skyline, and another climb towards Great Tey. Spendpenny Farm prompted and we finally arrived back at Marks Tey just a few minutes after sunset with a London-bound train due at 4.23.