The Odyssey
by Geoff Maxted
Cats eyes flicker in the undergrowth; a frisson of fear forces me to increase speed as my tyres spit dirt from the little used track. Was I mistaken? The Beast lurks here....
Once as a child I sat, metaphorically speaking, at the feet of the American traveller Jack Kerouac and grew up with his rhapsodic book 'On The Road' as my bible.
OK, so it turns out that Jack was a bit of an old fraud, but he still helped to shape the views of generations. My odyssey, then, is not so much a ride, more a sort of planned wandering. It's not a route guide; you can easily work the details out for yourself. Nor is it a day ride in the usual sense, where you strive against all odds to reach a destination, but rather an exploration when you meet people, see places and experience many things, all blended together in a magi-mix of bikes, terrain, environment, local history, myths, legends and all the cycle action you can consume on a journey of discovery. If all that sounds too earnest and you are building up a mental picture of sandals, patchouli oil, a beard and the delicate aroma of a certain sort of herb I should also point out that lone riding in the wild blue yonder is one of life's finest adventures. Far out, man.
I like maps, a legacy of my lifelong wanderlust, and it was as I was studying an Explorer covering Bodmin Moor that I came across a bridleway traversing this ancient landscape, starting near the historic village of Bolventor, and it begged the question; who first made this remote trail? Which Celtic ancestor first decided that plunging into a primeval landscape -- where the weather can shut down without warning -- wearing just the pelt of a dead animal and carrying a pointy stick, was a neat idea? But thank goodness he did. Investigation was called for; I was being drawn to the Land of Legend.
Parking near Jamaica Inn, immortalised by Daphne Du Maurier but sharing little of the romance, I gained access to the moor by means of a lane serving some isolated farm houses. It's worth a little side trip to Bolventor church, now closed and kind of spooky, it's mouldering graves hinting at a harder past life on the moor. On bleak and windy days when the tourists have gone even the commercialised Jamaica Inn hints at the darker side that Daphne imagined.
At the end of the lane there is limited parking space, visitors should be aware that others live and work here. The route is signed and nearby is the abandoned hamlet of Codda. The imaginative will ponder on what life must have been like here and the curious will wonder about the row of abandoned, rusting hulks of old cars slowly sinking back into the earth from which their building materials had once been mined. Or perhaps they're growing organically, which is more worrying.
The route kicks off with a tempting bit of downhill doubletrack where my need for speed turned out to be a bit premature and brought to mind words like 'reconnoitre' or 'look before you leap' because as I rounded a corner the track broke up and was strewn with boulders the size of small children. Giving myself up to fate, too late for avoiding action, I paid the price: blood in the dirt.
I staggered across to my striken bike that lay twitching some distance from me. 'There's nothing I can do' I thought sadly, as I pulled my trusty .45 from its holster and aimed at the headset...
Actually, I just made that bit up. The bike was fine. Being alone can do that to a man, bringing out the pioneering hero within.
At a slower pace, reaching the bottom of the vale, I came across an idyllic scene: the River Fowey, near to its source. Cold, crystal water tumbled and burbled over rocks; dragonflies flitted across the water and in quiet pools water-boatmen patiently rowed about their business. The sun beat down and, sheltered from the breeze, I took time to reflect on my environment, completely alone. This is what I mean. Don't be in so much of a hurry. After more sketchy, broken track and a pedal snaring deeply gouged trail the bridleway branches and gives you a choice, but there's only one way to go: into the beating heart of the moor. There's no noise, save occasional birdsong and the laboured sound of your own breathing. Even in England the nearest person can be miles away, help can be miles away. When the next drop seems deeper, the crumbling slopes steeper, as your treads scrabble for grip and your pulse quickens. You realise out there, where the landscape watches you, that nobody will hear you scream.
Just to make sure all surfaces are adequately catered for Mother Nature throws in some nice, thick, cloying black marsh, draining the surrounding land and guaranteeing you will dab into three inches of gloop. But the mud and pain is worth it because the best is yet to come.
This is a primordial place, too remote for all but the most hardened rambler, that calls on your soft city body to return to its womb. Near the source of a stream that springs like Mother Nature's tears from the depths of the earth, the track gradually diminishes until it can no longer be seen on the ground. As the contours tighten you have to work hard to climb to the high ground, the expanse of moor hidden from view. Topping the rise and taking a slight detour off line you can rest, seated on the rocky outcrop of The Beacon as the majestic moorland opens before you. This is a stunning place and you can see for miles, a few distant figures moving like ants across the terrain as the high Tors rise and fall from one peak to another.
In the distance an eminence rises, the highest point in Cornwall, from which springs the source of the River Fowey and where, on a clear day, you can see both coasts. To your right the vanished bridleway continues across the heathland to finish at Carne Down, where the timeworn land becomes cultivated. You can see all the way and it's all down hill, mega-fast and whoopy, abounding with tussocks and wheel traps ready to snare the unwary if you take your eyes from your line. The adrenaline flows, and as you focus your mind on the challenge and the fear, the realisation dawns that mountain biking is not about groupsets or triple clamps but about you and you alone.
At the end of the trail you will be, as I was, energised and thirsty for more, especially since only about four miles have been covered. But that's four miles packed with interest, sheep and some real riding. Your journey of self discovery will take you across the manmade eyesore that is the A30, bringing unwanted civilisation, before you again travel back in time to a mystic place of standing stones, ley lines and the lair of the Beast....
******
Some say the Beast does not exist. A media trick, a chance shot of a moggie in the undergrowth. But ask the woman who met it at dusk on a lonely path as her brave pooch leapt to defend her. Ask the expert who identified the tracks. Ask the farmer whose sheep are savagely disembowelled. This is not the work of foxes.
As the light fades on the moor the lone biker must contend with imagination; a trick of the light, as immoveable shadows move about you. Gnarled trees groan. You wipe a sudden sheen of sweat from your face. You're a meal on wheels. Welcome to Craddock Moor.
From Carne Down the lanes meander via Trewint, across the A30, and into a different landscape. Gone are the broad sweeps of open moorland as the panorama changes to a rocky, hewn, prospect. Although there are dwellings and small, huddled villages there is still a sense of wilderness, somehow an essence of another time, as your wheels crunch over rocky terrain.
Exploration is the name of the game here. Seek out cairns, hut circles and the remains of medieval settlements on East Moor as you pass by. Delve down the bridleway through Castick Woods and ride out on to Hawkstor Downs where Withey Brook drains into the River Lynher. From there, pick up the horse track out into open country to Trewortha and Smallacombe Downs. This is fresh experience. Quicken; you're in harmony with Mother Earth and all the time your route is taking you back in time.
When the wind moans across Twelve Men's Moor it is said to be the sound of spirits walking. Your ride has taken you into quarry country and you begin to wonder if there is any purpose to the middle and outer chainrings on your bike. Imagine the past. Men slaved in these quarries, hacking a meagre existence from the ground, something to consider in our fat, lazy lives. Faint trails and remnants of dismantled railways criss-cross the area, from pit to pit and away to the surrounding villages. Every twist and turn of this journey brings new discoveries.
Rest awhile. Sit. Take a drink and lean your aching back against a boulder. Close your eyes and listen to the silence.
A man approaches. He is wearing rough heavy boots with laced leather gaiters. His coarse woollen clothes are caked with rock dust, a pickaxe hangs loosely at his side. He kicks your foot. He wants money, belongings.
No he doesn't. He wants you off his land. You wake with a start and see his Landrover nearby. Your map is no help. There are no signs. You only have his word for it and that word is unrepeatable. Bloody mountain bikers! You know you care: he doesn't. The sound that you hear is his son on a quad-bike ripping it up. But it's alright because it's his land. Or so he says.
At Minions, by Craddock Moor, your consciousness latches on to the fact that this is a special place. Away in the distance on Stowe's Hill stands the geological marvel of the Cheesewring, a great stack of stones, each weighing many tons, held up by magic.
The goal now is to ride up there. The area is littered with boulders, dangerous bottomless pits that once were mines, and tracks of loose, skidding, shale and slate. The contours tighten as you drive the derailleur up the sprockets. You're a mountain biker, you don't walk, you search out the last vestiges of rideable terrain up the unpredictable incline. The prize is there rising above you, laughing at your puny efforts as, finally, you are beaten. The saddle slips from under and down you go defeated. Rocks and gorse demand a cruel toll - skin and blood is the price you pay.
As day turns to evening your efforts prove worthwhile. In the West the sky changes colour and you can savour the tranquil view. Below you lie the mystical Hurlers, circles of standing stones seeming as old as time itself. This pagan landscape is blessed with ley lines. One such passes straight through the circles and you seek to feel it's power. But first, the descent. The light is failing as you pick your line.
Ok, I can make that, if I just go to the right of that rock... funny... it looks like a panther, coiled... down past that disused mineshaft and swing left... yeah, I can do that....
It's all in the mind, really it is. Your nut wringing fear fights a psychological battle with your brain as you tip over the edge and powerful Vs start to flex their muscles.
Steady. Hold your line. Just feather the front brake. Don't look down ha ha ha! Too much back brake! The wheel's sliding away! Don't panic! That rock wasn't there a second ago. Jesus.
But you make it anyway.
At twilight, you stand among the standing stones and feel the power of pagan ritual. Legends abound in these parts. It's said that when the fog comes down, the unwary traveller can experience a rip in time. As the fog lifts they are cast back two centuries, never to return. When our forefathers find the body the name is known only from strange garments. This explains the arcane cult of Calvin Klein.
As night falls the twinkling light of Minion's friendly hostelry beckons. As you sit content with pie and pint your mind gazes over the journey accomplished. You see again those wild places and you understand what is really important. The life enhancing, energising great outdoors has been yours for a day. You see beyond our trite lifestyles, greed and avarice into a deeper, self discovering context. Or, pasty in hand, you may just think: 'Cool!'. And that's OK too.
This, then, has been my Odyssey. Yours too, if you want it.
Outside, in the darksome night, something black moves through the undergrowth, cold golden eyes flashing in the moonlight. Out on the moor something screams. Inside, the lone rider shivers and bolts his bedroom door.
© Geoff Maxted
Maximum
Mountain Bike