Day 5: Amble to London by bike

Bourne to Waterbeach on 12 July 2023

After a delicious breakfast with John and his family, I’m ready to go again. It’s a warm sunny morning and I’m keen to visit Helpston, about 10 miles down the road. The poet John Clare was born there in 1793 and died in a Northampton asylum in 1864. He’s an interesting character, whose poems I’ve admired over the years. His evocation of nineteenth century rural life and nature are rich and celebratory of a time now long gone and which, due to enclosure, was disappearing in front of his eyes as he wrote. 

I take a quiet road to Helpston, wending my way across the gentle landscape of Northants, through Braceborough, Greatford, Fallington and Bainford where I turn left to Helpston. The sun fills the sky as I follow the lanes Clare must have trodden in his time. It’s exciting to retrace the trail of a writer whose life was so rooted in the countryside through which I’m riding. 

I sit on a bench beside St Botolph's Church where he's  buried. His gravestone looks like ‘an upturned boat’ (Charles Causley) although he was an earthbound poet. In his journals, he wrote: ‘I wish to have a rough unhewn stone in the form of a mile stone so that the playing boys may not break it in their heedless pastimes’. There's a memorial at the crossroads, constructed from the distinctive honey-coloured stone local to the area. It includes lines from Clare's poem to Milton: ‘The bard his glory ne'er receives.’

I chat with a woman who's waiting for the bus to Peterborough. She points out Clare's cottage and I ride down there to take a look. It's closed and I'm reading the information board when a bloke offers to take my photo.

I came looking for John Clare and found his grave, memorial and cottage but not him. I think he was out striding across open meadows, frantically gathering poems, with madness beating its wings inside his head.

Bikes have personalities. My old Dawes Galaxy was a freewheeling, optimistic star-gazer - easy to get along with on long journeys and willing to agree to almost anything. My current bike, which I bought a couple of years ago in Yorkshire, has a distinctively northern character all of its own: tough-minded, stoical and obdurate. Like an authoritarian mill owner he (definitely a ‘he’ whereas the Galaxy was pleasingly androgynous, with gender choice depending on terrain, landscape and circumstances) is mostly in charge and I am, as Iggy Pop says, a passenger. Disorganised, feckless and fey, I’m inclined to dreaminess, at least according to the bike (always ‘the bike’ - there’s nothing indefinite about this article). 

Leaving Helpston, I start musing about taking the train from Peterborough to Cambridge. The bike picks up on my thoughts, which leads to one of those difficult conversations you can have with your bike when you’ve been riding on your own too long:

Me: I’m wondering about taking the train to Cambridge

The Bike: What on earth for? What's the matter with you? You're a big soft lump!

Me: Well, you know, I’m running late already and it’ll be nice to arrive at Pip & Tony’s in plenty of time to enjoy the evening with them. And Eil’s coming down to join us so I’m really looking forward to seeing her as well.

The Bike: Well you do know why you're late, don’t you? Messing about in the village back there, mooning round after that poet! Typical of you that is, faffing on when you should be riding and pedalling.

Me: My bum hurts, my legs ache and I’ve got to go through Peterborough anyway.

The Bike: Listen to you whining on! You're meant to be on a bike ride, not gallivanting round the country like some half-baked ha’porth!

Me: I’m definitely tempted; it’s only about 35 miles out of almost 400 and it would give me lots more energy for the last day’s ride tomorrow. 

The Bike: Aye well…it’s up to you but you know what I’d do.

We ride on in silence to Peterborough, where I follow bike track signs to the station and find myself waiting for the next train to Cambridge. Once on the train, I feel happy and guilty then guilty and happy but console myself with the thought that at least I'm never going to be writing about this in public.

Just outside Cambridge Station, I spot a luxury Greggs with armchairs, coffee tables, a jacuzzi (not true) and other wondrous delights. I'm inexorably drawn to it for a cup of tea and a think, leaving the bike outside to sulk and basically get over itself.

The city is heaven for cyclists, who are so fortunate to have bike routes criss-crossing the city. As a cyclist in Cambridge, you can't help but think if only all towns and cities were like this. It's a simple equation: lots of cyclists = safe infrastructure and safe infrastructure = lots of cyclists. I follow the clearly signed routes and riverside path to Pip & Tony's house.

Later that evening, I consume too much delicious food and red wine, revelling in the company of good friends and my wonderful wife. Tomorrow is another day: the final one of this increasingly extraordinary journey.

Today’s soundtrack is The Passenger by Iggy Pop

‘So let’s ride and ride and ride and ride’