The final chapter in our quadrilogy “State Of The Nation” tour began with Pete’s maiden voyage in his handcrafted recycled/recyclable gilet which put a misleadingly upbeat gloss on the proceedings, with its positive messages of re-use and re-purpose. To me it was even more impressive in that it could be dual-use as well – if Pete had a prang it would act as a very satisfactory airbag. He was well-prepared for our outing, and indeed our nation, to run full-tilt into any physical or metaphorical brick wall. Its efficacy was only slightly impaired by an argument with a door-handle at Pete’s house. It was slightly deflated, rather like our mood.
Sadly Part 4 was only to reinforce the disappointment and cruelly crushed dreams that are all too often the reality after much-vaunted political promises (aka “lies”) or indeed any type of promise, as we inexorably descended into the dark dystopian nightmare of our own making. And there was absolutely no morris-dancing all day
. Sorry, the political analogies are wearing a bit thin now aren’t they
.
Ironically our departure was delayed by 24 hours due to a slightly unpleasant night after my jab - our ability to continue the project, which had been enabled by Covid restrictions in the first place, being restricted by the enabler of freedom from Covid restrictions… er…
Anyway, after our customary meet-and-greet, off we went northbound to find SP 92407 36446 "prepped.declines.stressed".
As mentioned previously, a direct chord from the northern GR to the eastern one would have taken in lots of bucolic countryside, but unfortunately the arc was to be the aforementioned dystopic nightmare of Mad Max situations and sloughs of despond (not Slough’s despond – we would have been well lost there). In fact it was discord not chord, matching some people’s feelings about the state of the nation. Still, at least bikepackers setting off two by two was amusingly appropriate for an
arc…
Almost immediately we were confronted by a new housing estate, an all too familiar case of state-of-the-nation corporate deceit. The Hollywood-style sign proclaimed how for a mere 5% deposit one could live the dream, presumably offering clichéd roses round the door, pipesmoking chap with his wife in the doorway, smell of newly baked bread wafting, cheery postman waving, vicar cycling past, pigtailed milkmaid with her pails overflowing with fresh milk from contentedly cudding cows, new-born lambs gambolling in the fields behind, kids gaily playing hopscotch in the lane etc etc. A smaller sign announced that the development was a "Heritage Collection", which was rather belied by the plethora of imposter BMW Minis, New Beetles, and 2WD Jeeps perched on every spotless driveway: disappointing facsimiles of former proud icons, much like our grey and unpleasant land.
Unfortunately the Hollywood lettering is likely to mask a rather different 1984, with its post-sale construction defects, Bribe To Buy debt slavery, no way to walk to the shops, 4WD vehicle litter, driveway jetwashers, patio heaters, and pink-halved drainpipes. We didn’t linger.
Our own inevitable disappointment was not long coming as our direct line north soon dumped us onto a glass-strewn path next to the A5 trunk road, and we were buffeted by passing lorries. Plainly we were not the only sadly-misled couple because coming the other way were two walkers. They had presumably promised themselves a nice country stroll through a sylvan glade of tweeting birds and gambolling bunny rabbits (not gambling bunny rabbits - that would be
too dystopian). Unfortunately their reality turned out to be a hike alongside a mile of nose-to-tail trunk road traffic. Curiously they still seem pleased.
A little further on another parked-up couple had presumably promised
themselves a romantic tryst of the more bubblingly vigourously athletic variety in a secluded glade of their own somewhere, but in turn
their reality had become a backseat liaison in a tinted-windowed vehicle parked in a dead-end section of the old A5. Annoyingly I only discovered this when Pete pointed it out to me 200 yards further down the road. As luck would have it, I suddenly noticed that I’d, er, dropped something just beforehand back down the path so had to go and fetch it, riding very slowly to look out for them, I mean “it”. Tinted windows. Pete must have infrared eyeballs.
Crossing over the A5 we turned off onto the track through Woburn golf course, with all its holes named after the Duke of Bedford. He actually owns a fair chunk of the county but allows a few old men to knock their balls around as a sop to keep the plebs thinking they have freedom to roam. Executive walk-spoilers promised themselves an afternoon of leisurely sport and their reality turned out to be doffing their caps to his lordship.
All this reality-intrusion was beginning to get us down a bit so it was nice to subsequently plunge into the lycra-clad maelstrom of mountain-bikers happily hooning around the Woburn trails. This seemed a much better sort of reality, but it didn’t last long as we hammered down a smooth-flowing swoopy doubletrack (copyright STW) to debouch onto another road, bringing us within sight of our northern GR. I noticed that the Station Hotel café was open and needed no second bidding. After requesting a drink and some crisps I saw a box full of goodies with the code-word “Free” marked on it. The very nice lady confirmed that these items were indeed gratis so I selected a J2O and some peanuts. A pleasant conversation ensued until her 5-year old trainee-waitress daughter brought my brew and biscuit.
This entertaining interlude distracted me so much I ended up stopping outside the wrong house and nearly missing the GR but luckily Pete was on hand to sort me out. Here he is pointing at a gridreferenced bush. A couple of yards further east and we’d have been sitting having more tea and biscuits in someone’s front room.
Setting off on our arc, we soon had an emergency photographic stop as Pete explained that it was compulsory to have a "Muriel" involved somewhere. What's Mrs Perrin's French penfriend got to do with bikepacking I wondered?
Slightly further on we passed the little house that I believe to be world’s most sinister building. Don’t know why but it is. While I was pointing it out to Pete, for some reason it also reminded me of that episode of Captain Scarlet when they all turn up to have a meeting with the world president or somebody. They get shown into a similar-looking bungalow the whole of which then proceeds to lower itself into the ground to conceal the meeting. Once the meeting starts, the Mysterons somehow get wind of what’s going on and mysteronise the place so that the ceiling starts coming down onto the meeting below! The spoiler alert of course is that Captain Scarlet turns up in the nick of time, just after the table and chairs have been crushed to matchwood and everyone’s lying flat on the floor with the ceiling touching their ears. As we departed, we drifted into a discussion about what type of dog personality we might be after talking about an acquaintance who displayed all the traits of a live-in-the-microsecond spaniel, never finishing anything and ending up doing the opposite of what they started. This is probably why the ride took 7 hours this time instead of the usual six. Pete offered Labrador but settled with Golden Retriever, the happiest dog in the world (misplaced on this tour
), and I took over his Lab option. A very old waddly Lab with rheumy eyes and a limp or two…..
Er, where were we? Oh yes, on our way to investigate the top secret Woburn Experimental Farm. This sounded well dodgy, just the type of place an incisive and probing state of the nation tour should be investigating and exposing. Strangely there were no signs at all outside. Pete explained that this was because it was, er, top secret. I responded that top secret nuclear bunkers
always have a sign outside saying Top Secret Nuclear Bunker. Pete claimed they were decoy bunkers and the real ones had no signs. Hmm. We didn’t see any three-headed llamas or any other experiments going on so we’re none the wiser I’m afraid, although I did try an animal-rights-style scaling of the wall which didn’t do my back any good at all.
A few road sections gave us very little insight into anything other than the fact that it seemed almost impossible to get a road cyclist to either say hello or acknowledge our own greeting. The only one that did had flat bars so he’s as good as being a mountainbiker in my book. Soon it was time for a spot of lunch and we stopped at a wood at Briar’s Stocking. We didn’t notice any sheer leg coverings so satiated our grosser appetites with food instead, including my free J2O after I’d knocked the lid off on a gatepost.
We followed the Greensand Ridge Way to reach one of my favourite spots where the track merges with a stream for a few hundred yards. Great fun can be had seeing how far along the stream one can ride without getting wet. Pete managed about two feet before succumbing to some new sand deposits so I took note and started ten yards further on and emerged triumphant. Luckily Pete was wearing his bubblewrap lifejacket (gilet and airbag and now lifejacket!) so his life was saved.
I think the next photo was a fair indication of our recurring state of mind as we wended our way along a maze of twisty little lanes all alike……..
It wasn’t much further before we were confronted by the monstrosity that is Junction 12 of the M1. In my not-very-humble opinion this carbuncle is the most grossly overengineered road feature on the planet, and that’s in a field of many contenders. Upon our approach along an adjacent field we were totally overwhelmed by being faced with no less than TEN red lights and that was only on ONE direction of ONE of the four sub-junctions.
Struggling up onto the flyover we saw incredulously how a two-lane minor A-road joining a couple of villages suddenly fanned out into four lanes in one direction and three in the other. Huge further tracts of land were wasted by building the slip roads as sort of long spirals rather than the usual short ramps, with the whole ensemble taking up the space normally reserved for a small town.
What became of their occupant I ask myself, given their location being almost impossible to reach across a roaring highway….
I decided to confront my worst demons and actually ride this evil rollercoaster of a road system. My aim was to battle the four-lane madness, taking the hardest-to-reach rightmost lane turning off into a tiny road. Why did this tiny road deserve a lane to itself, complete with lights? What was down there that was so important? It took a lot longer to find out than I expected, as I waited through three cycles of the other lanes’ lights. I just wasn’t getting a go and finally nodded off.
Turns out that there was ONE house in a dead-end road! What a waste of money. And bizarrely as soon as I managed to turn off (after Pete joined me to jolt the transponder to finally take note of our presence) I was confronted by a No Entry sign as well!! Eh? To me this just summed up the utterly disjointed and perverse state of the nation. Having tried to confront my nemesis I just felt dirty and cruelly abused. The whole situation wasn't helped by a crowd of white vans at the dead-end with their doors open, presumably stolen and relieved of their loads...
It was time to get out of there, and a bit further on to take a moment to gaze at the pleasuredome that is M1 Toddington Services looming on the horizon. The mirror at the goods entrance sported a little sticker proclaiming “R=2200”. In the current circumstances we felt that R-number was not good to be hanging around in close proximity……
Things were looking up though. It seemed that we were approaching an SSSI – usually a serene oasis of nature and peacefulness. Unfortunately we’d misinterpreted the acronym. It actually stood for Substation Sewageworks Singletrack Interlude. This delectable thoroughfare picked its way for a mile or so sandwiched between a massive electricity substation on one side and Luton’s sewage works on the other. We pedalled slowly along through this utopia of urban utilities, awestruck at the size of the giant vats of slowly bubbling effluent and ominously buzzing switchgear. The most incongruous feature of all was actually the smallest – a little wooden seat presumably provided for utilities connoisseurs (such as ourselves, undeniably!) to sit and marvel at the wonders laid before them.
With only a mile or so to go before our eagerly-awaited second visit to our eastern GR, we plodded across windswept fields, half-built housing estates and unfinished roads, and past the M1 junction. We noticed an old couple meandering aimlessly into the sunset of their lives, destined to spend it in the shadow of disappointment cast by M1 Junction 11A, prefabricated industrial units and fabricated heritage homes.
After witnessing my “fun” at Junction 12, Pete decided to try the “traffic light challenge” himself – here he is utterly baffled as to what to do with the EIGHT signals confronting him. Answer: get off and walk.
And so, our triumphant return to TL 03672 25181 “rots.bags.alert”. In our honour someone had mowed the whole field! For some reason they had omitted to install the expected red carpet.
The lockdown lock was still in position, looking enigmatically reminiscent of the black monolith in “2001: A Space Odyssey”. To which alternative reality state of the nation was it a portal? Fittingly my camera battery packed up moments after taking my final picture.
With the sun setting on our noble ambitions we headed west back to Leighton Buzzard.
We’d kept it local as defined by Boris and as requested by Leighton-Linslade Town Council.
“And so we’d come full circle, to repeat the errors of our tragic past…..”…. Our noble enterprise had been originally prompted by the pronouncements from the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom no less, so it is only right and proper that we turn to him once again for the final word on the matter: “My friends, as I have discovered myself, there are no disasters, only opportunities. And, indeed, opportunities for fresh disasters”.
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. Who'd have thought civil engineers would have such uncivil thoughts? 
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