Resuming at Tile Hill

Every now and then I take to my bike and ride as near as I can along a line drawn on the map. At night I sleep out at whatever discreet spot I can find. My last trip, 5 years ago, ended at Tile Hill near Coventry. Recently I resumed the trip, following the line previously drawn to Caen Hill locks near Devizes in Wiltshire.


My train wasn't until 12.07 from Piccadilly, so I spent the morning with the usual running about making sure everything was in place for me to go, then went home to say goodbye to Em. She's been quite poorly lately so she was in bed communicating electronically with friends around the world. I left most of my keys at home lest I should lose them, but took keys to the boats as there were a couple of things to pick up there on my way. What I forgot was that it was Monday, so the museum wasn't open and, without the gate key, I couldn't get in. I had to ring the bell on the museum door and ask one of the staff to let me through on to the wharf.  http://www.tameside.gov.uk/museumsgalleries/portland  A couple of them came and they said they enjoyed the fresh air.


On my way at last, I pedalled off down the towpath with an hour to my train. I immediately began to wonder if this trip ws a good idea. A gusty North Westerly wind was impeding my progress and I was already finding it hard going despite the recently tarmacked towpath. My museum friends had remarked on the amount of stuff I was carrying and my rucksack was feeling mightily uncomfortable. Things got easier as I descended the locks and gained more shelter from the buildings, but I was still wondering what it would be like to pedal through the Cotswolds with all this weight as I arrived at Piccadilly with 20 minutes to spare.http://www.geograph.org.uk/photo/3235897


My train was the 12.07 Cross Country to Exeter St Davids, a four car Voyager set.  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n1uSnLJnPtk    It was already in the platform so I found the bike rack and hung my bike in it, then got stuck behind 2 old ladies faffing about with their luggage while I sought my reserved seat. The train was uncomfortably crammed, in fact one young passenger nearly got off again as she was suffering from claustrophobia.


The Voyagers are very fast and futuristic looking diesel trains. They can go faster round bends than traditional trains as they lean over like a motorbike. The drawback of this is that to allow for tilting within the restricted British loading gauge demands a very narrow body profile. Coupled with a commercial imperative to insert as many farepayers as you can into as few carriages as possible and you have a recipe for sardines.


Shortly after sitting down, the guard announced that “an item has been found”. I looked for and failed to find my camera. This was worrying as, though the camera isn't worth much, the SD card contains important photographs. I made my way to the end of the train and, after some carefully chosen security questions, the guard handed me my camera.


I had booked my ticket through Raileasy, which has the clever option of finding savings by booking your journey in several chunks rather than as a single trip. My tickets were separately Manchester to Stoke, Stoke to Birmingham and Birmingham to Tile Hill. I didn't have to get off at Stoke on Trent but my reservation from there to Brum was in a different carriage, so I said goodbye to the family I had been sitting with and moved to Coach F. Here another luggage drama took place. It was announced that we should all check our luggage as someone had left the train with the wrong bag. A middle aged punk lady started to panic when she couldn't find her suitcase and went to get the guard, only to have the embarrassment of discovering that she'd stowed it at the other end of the coach.


From a crowded New Street I got the London Midland local train and alighted at Tile Hill.    https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tile_Hill    

Before setting out I adjusted my rucksack straps which made it much more comfortable, but my previous concerns returned as I struggled up the incline over the railway bridge.

My map, though old, was clear. I needed to take the second left, immediately before Burton Green and immediately after the abandoned Berkswell to Kenilworth railway. The second turn left was just before the sign announcing Burton Green, but i could see no sign of the old railway. As it was at the top of a hill I shrugged and turned. Perhaps the railway had tunnelled under. Sweating like a pig, I stopped to remove my coat and roll it up on the handlebars, then enjoyed some nice downhill freewheeling.


After a while I found myself in Warwick University, which is in Coventry (!?).   http://www.thecompleteuniversityguide.co.uk/warwick

The road that I should have taken should have turned right, so I took the next available right tun and, once clear of the university, went through a pleasant undulating country of oak woods and fields. I came to a crossroads that shouldn't have been there. I realised that I was on completely the wrong road, but one direction was signposted to Kenilworth, so I went that way.

The Kenilworth that I first entered was unlike the place that I have been to before.   http://www.kenilworthweb.co.uk/          

It was ancient and quaint but horribly overwhelmed with upmarket tweeness. Over the brow of the hill I came to Kenilworth Castle. I recall being unimpressed by this monument on a childhood visit and had no wish to repeat the experience. It was indeed one of the ruins that Cromwell knocked about a bit.


Another dip and rise brought me to a different Kenilworth, a high street of normal shops and cafes selling stuff at normal prices. I stopped to buy vegetables. I needed coffee but I didn't want a jar that was heavy and might break. A refill pack would be better, but vulnerable to damp. When I was a kid coffee was unknown in our house. One day, probably prompted by my older siblings, mum brought home some coffee. It was Camp Coffee in a bottle. Sainsbury's still have it, still with the same colonial label but in a lightweight plastic bottle. I decided to buy some as I am camping. I don't know how much of a caffiene hit I'll get from it as it is mostly chicory.


Leaving Kenilworth, I soon found the little turning towards the village of Beausale, then kept an eye out for the track leading to the delightfully named Goodrest Farm. This turned out to be a good concrete road. From the farm a footpath is marked towards Hatton. I was pleased to find that this is a good well used and waymarked path through woods and wheatfields. Lovely Warwickshire as I remember it from my childhood. As I rode along a hawk hovered ahead of me, then suddenly dropped on some hapless mouse or vole, which it carried away in its claws as it flew off to enjoy its meal.




I grew up not 20 miles from here. All I knew about Hatton then was that it was the local "loonybin". Any strange behaviour would prompt a remark like 'you'll end up in Hatton if you're not careful'. One of the little jobs carried out by number one boaters was to deliver coal to Hatton for the asylum boilers. The footpath headed straight for the asylum but was marked as turning right to Turkey Farm. I could see some of the old buildings and wondered if it was still in use as a hospital. When I got there I found that the footpath led straight into a new estate of upmarket housing. At least one of the old buildings is still standing, though this turns out to be the Chest Hospital and appears to be being converted.


The old mental asylums had their drawbacks. There were some very bad practices in them which led to a movement to get them closed down, spurred on by films like “One Flew over the Cuckoo's Nest”. Margaret Thatcher's government seemed to be doing something progressive when they brought in “Care in the Community”. In many ways it seemed a better idea, but the resources deployed are totally inadequate. The problem with the old asylums was not that the idea of asylum is inherently bad. In fact a lot of people need asylum, if only on a temporary basis. The problem was partly the moralistic attitudes of the time, but mainly the lack of resources and the perception that it was a cinderella service. Thatcher and her pals seized on the care in the community option as a way of saving money and as a result many mentally unwell people find themselves living in cardboard boxes or prisons.

http://openbuildings.com/buildings/central-hospital-hatton-profile-21766


Partway up the Hatton 21 lock flight my route crosses the Warwick and Birmingham canal.  http://www.warwickshireias.org/wordpress/wp-content/uploads/2014/11/THE-WARWICK-AND-BIMINGHAM-CANAL.pdf


I stopped here and found a camping site in the bushes beside a lock. There's plenty of dry brittle wood here so I lit a fire, cooked my tea, boiled a kettle to make a flask for the morning, then sat, leaning against a bollard to type this.


I've had a few funny looks from dogwalkers and a brief shower prompted me to put up my pop up tent, then it went sunny again. Shortly I'll be riding down the locks for a pint at the Cape of Good Hope in Warwick.


Book your tickets this way     https://wcbs.t rainsplit.com/main.aspx












The Last Day 25th Feb 2011



The Last Day

Consciousness came to me slowly in the morning. I lay watching the daylight slowly gain mastery over the darkness with a feeling of being strapped down to my knobbly earth bed. I was aware that my legs were aching after days of constantly pushing pedals, and parts of my body were sore from lying on lumps in the ground. My mind was quite keen on the idea of moving, but my body kept giving it erroneous information about the difficulty of breaking free from the invisible bonds that held it down.

Eventually, with the sun now high in the sky and dogwalkers once more uncomfortably active, I persuaded my upper limbs and torso into enough movement to supply my mouth with the usual first cup of coffee and bowl of muesli. The combined effect of caffeinne and nutrition was enough to persuade the rest of my physical being of the possibility of movement. Unusually, I raided my flask for a second cup of coffee and, taking great care because my body was still groggy, climbed down to sit directly above the tunnel mouth.

http://www.care2.com/c2c/photos/view/186/483743566/My_cycling_holiday_July_2010/Bikeride%20Westbound%20train%20Arley%20Cutting%207%2010.jpg.html

After the first train had passed, glinting in the morning sun, the black & white cat trotted confidently across the tracks and disapeared into the woodland on the far side. It occurred to me that the cat was probably feral. Another train, bound for distant Norwich, burst out of the tunnel http://www.care2.com/c2c/photos/view/186/483743566/My_cycling_holiday_July_2010/Bikeride%20Eastbound%20train%20Arley%20cutting%207%2010.jpg.html

Revived by the coffee, I climbed back up and went to unlock my bike and wheel it over to the stile ready for loading. As I did so I noticed a man walking towards me down the slope of the field. A short but solidly built man in his late sixties, he was wearing a cloth cap and light brown smock. He reminded me of Mr Seden, a farmer from the village where I grew up

Ladbroke could refer to:

,_Warwickshire who had an uncanny ability for knowing when me and my friends had entered the bounds of his land.

"I was just coming to move that bike" said the farmer "one of my cows could have broken its leg on it and that would have cost me a lot of money". It occurred to me that this fantasy was slightly more unlikely than one of the said beasts being struck by lightning. In any cow/bike interaction I suspect that the bike would come off worst. He didn't seem angry but appeared to be one of those people who enjoys lengthy but resigned grumbling. I did my best to re-assure him that I meant his cattle no harm, was about to depart and would leave no litter. He continued in an unstoppable monotone, complaining about the trouble that was caused by people who didn't understand the countryside, then wished me a good day and departed back up the grassy slope.

Soon I was following him, wheeling my laden bike past the herd of precious cattle up to the stile and on to the road. I pedalled slowly uphill to the roundabout, then turned left to continue my Southbound route.

The next village was Astley, where, behind the church, I spotted the ruins of a castle. I decided to investigate, and found the fascinating remains of Astley Castle. This moated sandstone fortress used to belong to the father of Lady Jane Grey. Her brief tenure on the English throne led inexorably to her own and her father's demise. In more recent times the place was an hotel, but it burned down in 1978. The way in was now barred as it was being restored by the Landmark trust.

Astley Castle is a ruinous moated fortified 16th century manor house in North Warwickshire. It has been listed as a Grade II* listed building since 1952[1] and as a Scheduled Ancient Monument since 1994. It was derelict and neglected since it was severely damaged by fire in 1978 whilst in use as a hotel and was officially a Building at Risk. The building reopened as a holiday let in 2012 after extensive and novel renovations that combine modern elements with the medieval remains.

I dislike being excluded from anywhere so I stalked around the dry moat, seeking a weak point in the defences. I found a place where the wall had crumbled to a climbable slope, which I breached, without damage to myself or the venerable structure. I then spent a good 15 minutes exploring the fascinating ruin and taking pictures. I discovered an easier route out which brought me into the churchyard. Remounting my bike, I pedalled onwards.

http://www.care2.com/c2c/photos/view/186/483743566/My_cycling_holiday_July_2010/Bikeride%20Astley%20Castle%20fireplace.jpg.html

http://www.care2.com/c2c/photos/view/186/483743566/My_cycling_holiday_July_2010/Bikeride%20Astley%20Castle%20form%20outside.jpg.html

http://www.care2.com/c2c/photos/view/186/483743566/My_cycling_holiday_July_2010/Bikeride%20Astley%20Castle%20front%207%2010.jpg.html

http://www.care2.com/c2c/photos/view/186/483743566/My_cycling_holiday_July_2010/Bikeride%20Astley%20Castle%20inside.jpg.html

http://www.care2.com/c2c/photos/view/186/483743566/My_cycling_holiday_July_2010/BikerideAstley%20Castle%20interior%20.jpg.html

I was now cycling through the lands of my ancestors. A while ago I went to a gathering of descendants of the Griffiths boating family at the nearby village of Keresley.

http://www.narrowboatmagazine.com/issues/issue23/

My parents grew up in Coventry, just a few miles away, and went walking in the countryside round here in the 1930s. For a while, as I rode along narrow lanes, it seemed like nothing much had changed since my parents walked this way 80 years ago, then a neatly radiused curve brought me to a concrete bridge over the roaring traffic of the M6. To my left lay the sprawl of Corley services.

Soon the madness was behind me and I was back on to country lanes again. I came upon a road junction great trees towering over it. Behind the first row of trees was a great sandstone outcrop. My map showed an ancient hill fort at the top of it, and what an excellent place for a fort, looking out over the valley with a precipitous slope for any invaders to have to fight their way up. The hill is called Burrow Hill. At Daventry, where I went to secondary school, there is a hill fort at the top of Borough Hill. http://www.megalithic.co.uk/article.php?sid=5057

climbed some of the lower rocks and sat down for a munch of food and a drink of apple juice. With my nutritional needs satisfied I climbed to the top to see what was there. The hill top was a flat ploughed field, nothing remarkable, though I imagine Time Team would enjoy digging trenches through it. I descended again to my bike and started slowly pedalling up the hill through a rocky defile towards the village of Corley http://www.geograph.org.uk/photo/71506

Over the top of the hill I reached Corley village, where I joined a bigger road. It was now downhill, so I didn't mind so much. I left the main route to go down the delightful Hollyfast Lane. This tiny road was at first a winding tunnel of holly trees, then opening out a little with frequent oaks http://www.geograph.org.uk/search.php?i=19468834 still travelling steadily downhill. A sharp left turn at the end brought me into the beginnings of posh suburbia, with big houses in their own grounds set back from the road, leading me into the junction with another main road at Brownshill Green.

I became a little confused along the main road. What was shown on my ancient map did not accord with what I found on the ground. There should have been a winding lane going off to the right, instead there was a roundabout and a new straight road. I followed this as it was going in the right direction, then noticed that the original lane still existed, but was chopped into truncated sections. I diverged on to the old lane where I met frisky horses carrying their teenage owners.

The hill against me steepened and I dragged my way slowly into the suburban fringes of Allesley. I made my way through the old village and then found a concrete footbridge over a dual carriageway into proper suburbia of semi detatched houses. At the other side of this estate was the main A45 dual carriageway. I followed this roaring road through grim grey urban dreariness for about a mile. Anticipating a substantial train fare I was pleased to see a bank. I stopped to extract folding money from its hole in the wall facility, then carried on to turn away from my Southbound trajectory to head for Tile Hill station.

I had always imagined that Tile Hill was rather upmarket. The reason for this stemmed from my childhood. My big sister, 11 years my senior, had an Adam Faith lookalike boyfriend who came from Tile Hill. The romance came to an abrupt end when his parents intervened to prevent him from getting too involved with a mere typist. The upshot of this was days of big sister lying in her boudoir crying her eyes out. Every now and then I would burst in singing "Big girls Don't cry" in a high voice and she would shout "Mum, get him out of here".

As a result of this outbreak of mid 20th century snobbery I had imagined that Tile Hill would be a sort of minor Hollywood, with the mansions of the wealthy set in rolling acres behind high walls with electric gates. Instead I pedalled along a mile or so of dreary industrial units. I was glad to reach the station, but surprised that the booking clerk, though clearly in his office, had a closed sign up. I went on to the platform and enjoyed watching trains rush by http://www.care2.com/c2c/photos/view/186/483743566/My_cycling_holiday_July_2010/Bikeride%20Tile%20Hill%20Voyager%207%2010.jpg.html

The ticket office reopened before my train arrived so, with my wallet lightened, I climbed aboard a crowded local train to Birmingham. With a change at New St station I was able to complete the return journey in just a couple of hours. My holiday was at an end. Another time I will continue my southward trek.