Time and Place - the South-West in winter

I’ve long held the view that the motorcycle can never be wrong and if there isn't harmony, then it must be the type of road that’s at fault. It's a bit like touring in winter: the season is not going to change, so if any pleasure is to be had it'll be a matter of place as well as time. It was mid-December when I pulled on a rucksack and set off with the Enfield on a three-day circuit of the South-West of England, a peninsular overlaid with the sort of roads the bike was made to explore. With often the best UK Winter temperatures, and as a popular destination all year round, I was hoping for some good riding along with a reasonable supply of cafes warm up in.

My Classic 500 has no luggage, hence the rucksack, and I left Lyme Regis on the Dorset coast relieved to feel perfectly comfortable with it sitting on my back. The minimum of personal stuff was needed but with the inclusion of some extra warm layers the pack was full. I intended to travel anticlockwise completing at least 150 miles per day and had two night's accommodation booked, the first near Bideford in North Devon and the second close to Falmouth on Cornwall’s south coast. The A358 was an obvious choice on which to ride north to Watchet in Somerset, where I stopped at the public loos before dropping onto the edge of the pedestrianised harbour area.  Parking on block paving just beyond some black posts seemed to be the thing to do, as there were a few other bikes already standing there. 

Using a rucksack means that kit has to be carried both on and off the bike but the waterproof Kriega R30 sat quite low with a cross belt harness configuration that meant it didn’t pull on my shoulders, so I happily walked off to the nearest café while still wearing it. Watchet has a sculpture of the Ancient Mariner by its harbour and the town is said to have been the inspiration for the late 18^th Century Samuel Coleridge poem that tells this tale of woe. In fact, the area was one regularly visited by the poet and probably his most famous work, Kubla Khan, was written after apparently being awoken from an opium influenced dream by ‘a person from Porlock’. And that was where I headed next, riding Cleeve Hill to Blue Anchor before joining the A39 on its journey westward.

Little progress would be made if I dropped into every little town along the coast and with short days (It was dark by 5 pm) a certain amount of restraint was needed. I ended up scooting along the A39, a nice winding road that climbs and falls along the North Devon coast, while choosing which places to visit. It was wonderfully quiet and all I had to do was keep an eye on the white direction signs displaying the names of nearby towns and villages. I bypassed Minehead but took the lane to Porlock Wier, dipping down to the sea with the intention of continuing close to the cliffs and on to Lynton and Lynmouth. But it wasn’t to be.

A stone built arch and closed picket gate stood across the way just west of the little village, with a sign that told me a toll was needed. There was no one about, so I cut back up to the A39 and climbed Porlock Hill. The Enfield took the steep gradients and switch backs in its stride, but I was happy to be on our own.  The tight turns and ramps had us down to second gear at one point, with the engine thumping away and me sitting upright and relaxed in the knowledge that nothing was coming up behind. Big climbs lead to big views and the top gave a magnificent look back to the bay below Porlock, the hills beyond and an ice blue sea that stretched to the horizon under a cold, clear sky. The A39 drops into Lynmouth on Countisbury Hill, with views down into the village all the way in, and it was here that I left the A-road and made my way through Lynton to the Valley of the Rocks.

Lynton and Lynmouth are typical West Country tourist spots, but they weren’t for me, not today. I had miles to do and there were other places to see. Riding was the thing, especially with such limited time. The Valley of the Rocks runs parallel with the coast and was once described by fellow poet and friend of Coleridge, Robert Southey, as ‘the very bones and skeletons of the earth’. It’s not only a place of giant rock formations, as impressive as they are distracting, but also one of feral goats, which taken together made for a slow run through. Eventually, another small toll gate greeted me, so once again I turned back and returned to the A39.

Next on my mental list of places to visit was Ilfracombe. I turned off onto the A399 and rode down towards Combe Martin, famous for having one of the longest village streets in Britain and the Pack o’ Cards Inn (four floors, one for each suit; 13 doors on each floor, representing each card in a suit; and sitting on a plot measuring 52 by 53 feet, one for every card in a pack plus the joker). Ilfracombe came soon after, with a short leg stretch next to Verity, Damien Hirst's 20 metre tall statue of a pregnant lady holding a sword aloft. Hirst describes his work as, ‘a modern allegory of truth and justice'. Others use different words. It has got to be seen to be fully appreciated and I have to admit that I left trying not to think whether it had any meaning; riding in winter was hard enough.

The  A360 carried me west from Ilfracombe before the B3341 took me down to Woolacombe, from where I simply followed signs for Croyde and then Braunton.  Looking down onto Saunton Sands, I passed close to the coast before heading inland in order to get around the vast Tor and Torridge estuaries. It started to get dark and busy with traffic being funnelled over one river and then the other. I pushed on, the Enfield hammering along the A39 at 60 mph. I think we were both pleased to reach The Hoops Inn at Bucks Mills, just short of Hartland and the Cornish border. It was a comfortable place, where I had armchairs in my room and a big TV on the wall. An excellent dinner was later served in the bar.

I enjoyed an equally excellent full English in the morning, before heading out to the carpark at the rear of the pub only to find the bike white with frost. The temperature had gone below zero overnight. I made the decision to stay on the A39 for most of the morning, to allow the backroads to de-ice and for me to make some progress. I wanted to ride the coast between Hayle and Lands End, so sacrifices had to be made. Many places were bypassed – Bude, Boscastle, Port Isaac, Newquay. Even Morwenstow, where the reverend Hawker (1803 – 1875) would bury the bodies of shipwrecked sailors washed up on the shore, and smoke opium while writing poetry in Hawker’s Hut, his lookout on the clifftops and now the smallest property owned by the National Trust.

The A39 was perfect. Perfectly quiet; perfectly winding. If a car came up behind, I simply moved over, but one rarely did. The Enfield loves 50 mph; it smooths out and finds a sweet spot between thump and hammer. So, that’s what we stuck to, all the while gliding along alone, looking at the sea, rolling hills and wind turbines. But nothing lasts and by late morning we found ourselves on the A30 running through Redruth and onto Hayle. I stopped at Asda in Hayle for a warm up and coffee in their café. With the bike doing about 80 mpg and with a 3 gallon tank (13.5 litres), fuel stops weren’t an issue and I filled up in the knowledge that a full tank would carry me well into the following day. Hayle has a great industrial heritage and in the 19^th Century the largest steam pumping engine ever built was made at a local foundry before being shipped to Holland. There was plenty to stop and see – on any normal day.

With too few hours of daylight left, I continued onto St Ives, doing a round of its narrow streets before heading off on the B3306 towards Zennor. The road climbed and dropped; there were tight bits, straight bits and sharp bends. The land around became moor-like but the sea was always with me. Passing between farm buildings, I noticed slurry on the road and from there on took it easy through corners, where hedgerows shielded any view of the road ahead and where it was obvious farm traffic had passed. Old ventilation shafts from the tin mines this area was once famous for came along - and at Pendeen, a museum of mining. And then a very nice café that provided another warm-up along with coffee, a toastie and cake.

I reached Lands End and simply rode around the near empty car park before making my way in the direction of Falmouth for the night. The B3315 took me to Newlyn and Penzance, the A394 to Helston and then some minor roads to Gweek and a nearby B&B. It was dark by the time I arrived and the lanes that finally delivered me to my bed  were wet and slippery. I was ready to chill with the room picnic I had bought in Asda earlier.

The following day passed in a similar manner – the morning spent making some miles while the temperatures increased and the afternoon enjoying the coast. It suited me fine because I really wanted to ride the A379 through South Devon and knew there wouldn’t be enough time to hug the whole coast back to Dorset. The A390 and A38 took me to Plymouth and the Tamar toll bridge (free for motorcycles, just stop at the barrier and wait to be waved through). From there I made my way down the eastern edge of the city on the A374 before picking up signs to Brixton and the road that would take me all the way to Exeter.

The A379 is simply a road to be enjoyed in itself, but it’s also one that you can dive off from and into any one of the many small villages that line the coast. I made my way to Slapton Sands and then Dartmouth, where I stopped for a late coffee, before taking the lower ferry (contactless accepted) to Kingswear. Paignton and Torquay came and went, as did Teignmouth, but not without a stop at the station café (bike friendly and with toilets on the platform). Soon, I was heading East on the A3052 back to Lyme Regis, where a trip distance of 491 miles was completed and another chain adjustment became  due. It seemed that the side stand cut-out switch was the only thing not in tune with the alternative to Summer Sunday afternoon riding. It now resides in the bin; the lanes won’t miss it.