Ah, the slow train to Reading! The drunks, the stop, start, stop, start, the frisson when they announce that, horror of horrors, the next stop will be 'Winnersh Triangle'. (To be marooned in Berkshire without even the consolation of white sand and casinos!) And then, Reading Railway Station, which, despite the shopping opportunity tumour tacked on to the southern side, was perfectly acceptable before the wiseacres of Network Rail decided on a two year convulsion for no apparent benefit.
We'd met Malcolm on the train, and Sahar, Georgios, Miranda and Titus were waiting for us at the station. Titus, displaying a worrying amount of home town knowledge, lead us to The Fountain, which is not, as I imagined, a pub, but....a fountain, with water and everything, on the Thames path. The pub arrived in the form of a river cruiser that disgorged Reading's jeunesse doree, who, denied the accent worthy of the name, compensated by falling in to hedges and waving their legs in the air. Titus, the trained observer, confirmed that knickers were in place.
Twenty one happy souls left the river and wandered across Reading's town centre and up a genteel well tree'd avenue to a kind of cycling Spaghetti Junction suspended over the M4. Our leader then took us down well-surfaced lanes shimmering under the lightest coating of rain. We passed through chocolate box countryside at a comfortable pace and I started to pack away my worries, the more to enjoy the company of friends, and one friend in particular. She seemed at one with the world, chatting away to anybody in range. I've a feeling that darkness invested Bramley with a charm it might not possess during the day, but there wasn't much that the night, or even a complete blackout could do for Basingstoke, which will, I'm afraid, be forever A Bad Idea Gone Wrong. We stopped at Tesco for a chat and a snack, then set off south again, up more serious inclines to Farleigh Wallop (I kid ye not) where we stopped to admire the heavens which were putting on the most spectacular show. Then down, down, down along the gentlest of gradients made swifter by a following breeze through Preston Candover, Chilton Candover and Brown Candover to the River Itchen, and Martyr Worthy (the ride now clearly winning the all-time loopy names stakes) before taking a subterranean passage under our second motorway junction which spat us out in to the Shell station just outside Winchester.
Shell proved to be a better bet than Tesco, the margin being a Costa coffee machine. I wouldn't swap the Cabin Cafe for it, but coffee does add a glow to the night, and that, along with the dawn glow to the east helped us shrug off Winchester, a town that makes up for having some nice houses by running a crass one way system around them, and settled in to our transit of Southampton's suburbs, which was not all bad, but not exactly good.
Be that as it may, Simon's route through to and around the estuary takes some beating, and going past St. Mary's Stadium was a bit of a bonus. The ferry terminal hasn't changed overmuch since I was a kid, and it's all the better for that. Long, broad floorboards give it a pier feel, and the chequerplate ramp down to the boat has that whiff of hazard about it that reminds you that, should the not entirely convincing mariners get it wrong, you will drown................
We didn't, though. We did, on the other hand, enjoy our trip down the estuary, passing a huge ferry and a gigantic car transporter from Detroit, before landing at Hythe Pier which is so long that there is a tiny electric railway running along it. We walked, taking in the seagulls, the thousand small boats and the well kept public toilets. Members of South Hants CTC joined the group and guided us south and west across the New Forest on the final stretch of what was already a memorable trip. It became more memorable when we saw a dozen or so ponies in full flight across the road ahead of us. The FNRttC has had its badger and deer moments, but this was an upscale wildlife event.
Lymington's a lovely destination. Small, with a proper waterside, and a railway branch line that shuttles across the water on a viaduct that came out of a Hornby box, it's got a bit of theatre about it that the stupid car park on the front can't deny. Breakfast was very decent and the 'Beach Blonde' beer suited my favourite blonde just nicely. The same happy crew that met up at Reading whiled away the time while hardier souls took to the road. Tired but replete, we walked and pedalled to a station that has just the one platform, but trains that run regularly and quickly to the main line, where we waited no more than ten minutes for an express direct to Clapham Junction. Lunch, sleep, tea, more sleep and then up to find a day far less bright than the early hours of Saturday.
So...........our thanks go to Simon Bird for laying on such a great night out and to the kind folk of Reading CTC who made us so welcome. If he arranges the same trip next year I'd do it again and I'd thoroughly recommend it to you all.