Post: Charlie really enjoys these annual jaunts to Meriden each summer, not least the prospect of a massive ‘blind’ all the way to Bolton on the following day. No sightseeing then ! Apologies for not being able to delete the text surrounding part of the picture of Maxstoke Castle, those sharp of eye will be able to locate the said part of the story the Castle occurred !
Saturday, May 23 The Heart of England – Meriden
Again the months have rolled by, and again the call has gone forth to every real cyclist to steer towards the Mecca – to make the yearly pilgrimage to far-famed Meriden.
“Meriden in Warwickshire, Where the grass is green….”
We had thought of an all-night run, but being, for the nonce, a little ‘cash in hand’ (to tell the truth), and thinking that we could make one or two detours, we at length decided to make a two day jaunt of it. Well, to be correct, a one-day-jaunt and a one-day ‘blind’! Tom, who has sometimes more than a grain of sense (cyclists usually have none at all – the homing bird) wrote for lodgings for the night and was accepted, and we later found the value of this forethought, although as a rule we leave that to chance. Anyway, the arrangements were Kingsway End, 9am, Saturday morning.
I was up at 6.30, finding the rain fairly sousing down. Ma and Pa were booked for a picnic to Fleetwood (of all places!) via train. There was much grousing going on over this ‘spoiled’ outing, and the cry was “What a miserable day we shall have”. I felt very thankful that Tom and I had such a glorious day before us, whilst they, cooped up in a railway carriage, had such a black, wet outlook. I started at 7.30am inside my cape, but when I reached Walkden, it was fine. As soon as I had stowed the cape, down came the dampness again, but I said ‘cob it’, and carried on cape-less. At Barton I rode along with one who had just finished work, and nearing Stretford my rear tyre gave up the ghost. I had no solution, but my friend gave me a little. How insignificant punctures are when one has a quick release! At this juncture my commuting friend left me, and I put my cape on again, only to doff it at Chorlton. I was ten minutes late at the rendezvous where Tom was waiting, and then we got on the road together.
We had barely left Cheadle when another storm come on, and for the third time in 18 miles the cape came into use, and stayed on until Wilmslow was reached, where we put them out of sight with a firm resolution that come what may they would stay there for a few hours at least. At Alderley Edge we had a pow-wow over the route, and decided to carry on, on the main road, and ‘crash through’ the Potteries. The Congleton road via Siddington and Marton is really pretty, looking better now after rain, so that we had quite a pleasant ride for ten miles to the market town – Congleton – by the River Dane. The rain had left us now (sailing Fleetwood-wards), and being replaced by a stiff headwind which considerably retarded our progress. However, that mattered not – we had gained the London road – the road to Meriden.
Astbury with its quaint ancient church dropped behind. On our left the long sweeping hill dominated by Mow Cop was falling away, Moreton Old Hall came into sight, and we stopped a minute to view this gem of timbering which stands in a coppice and facing a field, looking from the road just like a big beautiful toy. After a few minutes we restarted, and after an undulating run came down to Red Bull, and the commencement of the Potteries. Luckily this road only traverses a corner of this industrial area – about four miles, but what we do see of it is quite enough. As Tom Hughes says: ‘he who goes through the Potteries twice in a day un-necessarily is a maniac’. The stricken area starts with a long walk through Talke, ‘Talke o’ the Hill’, until the summit is reached, when on a clear day, parts of nine counties may be seen. It was not bad today, but our views were mostly ugly buildings and chimney stacks. To Newcastle we passed, (I will leave out the rest) and leaving its crowded streets behind, we regained good roads, and, from Trent Vale, the beginning of some really charming scenery.
The Trent is only a small river – or a large stream here, but its surroundings are a direct contrast to those behind, and gave us plenty to admire until we reached Trentham, where we found a fine little lunch place. For my part, I felt like it too, after 52 hard miles.
A feature of the Trent valley are the picturesque villages, which the road passes through, little timbered cottages, flowering gardens and a tranquil peaceful air does much to enhance the journey. Stone is not a pleasant place – just an ordinary, every day kind of town with narrow awkward streets and plenty of traffic, and beyond, the scenery becomes less notable except for little instances where the real beauty of the valley asserts itself. The wind caught us here, and made us some hard pedalling, so that I was glad to drop my gear down to 59.8”, from 63”, obtaining some ease therefrom. Gradually the scenery improved, at Sandon, (a wonderful little place) becoming gorgeous, and again taming down until beyond Weston, we were cautioned (notice board) to drive slowly for two miles through ‘villages’ – beautiful places.
Just past Colwich, we came to the edge of the hilly and scenic Cannock Chase, then running beside a privet hedge of immense thickness, we reached Rugeley. The thing that struck me most about this town, was the smell – you know what a tannery smells like! The sun had been out since Talke, but now he went back, and thunder was rolling nearer. We stopped on the fringe of the town to decide which way to go, the hilly road to Lichfield or the flat one, as a signpost obligingly informed us! We had taken the hilly one in the dark last year, so we decided to see what it was like by day. Capes became a necessity before we left the shelter of a railway bridge in Rugeley, and soon a thunderstorm came into being.
The rain had its own way too – well, it didn’t rain, it just hissed down. Oh, it was grand, the thunder roaring deafeningly, lightening playing before us, and the road like a running river below us. The hilly road was hilly, but we did not want to dismount because we were drier riding – we could hardly have been any wetter though – so we forced our way up each hill, and rode down with the river. The storm slackened after about 15 minutes, and seeing a notice over a house ‘home-made lemonade’ we decided to stop for a refresher. The lemonade tasted suspiciously like that 1d an ounce (or was it 2 ounces?) stuff we used to get when we went to school, mixed with cold water. Thus, with water both inside and out, we carried on. Between Brereton and Longdon we got another sample of South Staffordshire rains; a worthy example it proved too. The scenery however, was splendid, and the rain worthwhile if only for the freshening up of the woods and hedgerows. The rain continued this time for about five miles, until we joined the other road and dropped down into Lichfield, turning aside to view the massive frontage of the ancient cathedral, which rears itself high above all the other buildings. It is a beautiful picture. Then passing through the busy, narrow streets, we passed the humble birthplace of ‘Ben Johnson’, and regained the open country beyond.
The scenery was getting better again, changing into rolling, tree-clad hills, never high, but very verdant and how green! The road surface too, was beyond criticism, whilst every cyclist we met (and there were many) called out ‘Cheerio’ as he passed – a difference we found very welcome from those around Manchester. Jogging along, now inside capes, now without them, we climbed to Basset’s Pole and found that we were in leafy Warwickshire. We also found a tea place, which provided us with fruit and cakes (one could bounce the cakes without making much of an impression) and bread and butter and tea, and, withal, a shelter from a particularly sharp storm. After tea we slid down by tree-clad ways to Wishaw, and accompanied a Nottingham party to Coleshill. We were only a matter of 8 miles from Meriden now, and as the evening had turned out to be one of those peaceful, calm nights, we had a mind to prolong the ride, so getting out the map, we soon found a route that would get us to Meriden via the bylanes.
A swoop down to Cole End, then a footpath (we were off again on one of our ‘stunts’) which wandered about of its own sweet will, making three sides of a square, and taking us through a park to an indescribably beautiful scene – Maxstoke Castle. This mediaeval, imposing picture of a moated fortress came rather as a surprise, for though we knew about it, we never expected anything quite like that. The brown walls, mellowed with age, the gateway with its two fine towers, the quiet moat full of water-lilies, the woods around, all tinted with the rays of the dying sun, gave that air of beautiful tranquillity that only the English countryside on a summer eve can offer.
We lingered long here, Tom took some photographs, then we pottered down the broad avenue to the bylanes. These are in a bad condition, but that is a matter of no account when the scenery is of a standard like this. The road was a little hilly, winding, but the buildings and hamlets, ‘black and white’ properties adding an additional touch that was fine in the effect. At Maxstoke, we tried to get to the ruins of the old priory, but had to be content with a fine archway on the roadside, and a walk round the old church. Thus we pottered through woodland scenery, and by pastoral land, where the tilled soil was of rich, reddish variety, via Great Packington to Meriden – our destination. A wash, then a walk down the road in the gathering darkness with a London cyclist who was excellent company.
The optimism of some people is startling. Cyclists were rolling in at 10pm to 10.30pm, still looking for ‘digs’. Of all places, Meriden, of all nights, when already the full capacity has been booked up and the village was four times its normal size, some had come with the hope of getting in! Some went off to Coventry, six miles away, others blithely talked of getting a barn or even an old shed.
Tom Hughes, the Wigan veteran was in our place. When we met him he was asking some where they were from. “London, originally Oldham”, was their reply. “So yore fro’ Owdham” said Tom. “An theh’t from Wiggin” I said; at this he turned round and answered “An theh’t from Bowton!”. We made a jolly supper party, London and Oldham, Wigan and Bolton, Manchester and Worcester, and the dialect which we gave caused some amusement. Lancashire had the monopoly of our bedroom, and the conversation lasted until well after midnight. 112 miles
