Cycling Exmoor National Park in Somerset

Date: April 8, 2000
Distance: 40 miles (?)--!*&$%!~* Avocet 45 went on the blink!
Elevation: 4.800 feet
Difficulty: 7/10
Scenery: 7/10

(Above: In Blackford, between Porlock and Minehead)

Route: Tiverton Parkway—Tiverton—Stoodleigh—Bampton—Exebridge—Dulverton—Winsford Hill—Winsford—Wheddon Cross—Dunkery Hill—Luccombe—Wootton—Courtenay—Tivington—Minehead—(via West Somerset Historic Railway) Bishops Lydeard, Taunton

There was an almost palpable sense of excitement among the passengers in the last carriage of the Great Western bound for Penzance that left Paddington at 7:45 on a sunny Saturday morning. For many of us, this was our first day out marking what we hoped is the seasonal arrival of nicer weather in England. Many of the passengers were bound for Devon and maybe even the beaches at Cornwall; I intended to check out the Exmoor hills in Somerset. I’ve heard about outrageously steep hills that dot the Exmoor area—Portlock, Dunkery, et. al. Although my expectations about my early-season form are modest, I decided not to shy away from these hills should I encounter them during the ride.

(Above: Spring's daffodils in north Devon)

After spending considerable amount of time figuring out how to fit a worthwhile bike ride within a day-trip, I settled on a plan of doing a ride of modest length starting from Tiverton in north Devon then working my way north to Exmoor in Somerset, finishing in Minehead. From Minehead, I intended to take a historic, restored rail line back near Taunton, then catch the 18:00 back to London.

I disembarked at Tiverton Parkway some 2 hours later. Every year I question how much longer my sense of adventure would carry me to take these more-trouble-than-it’s-probably-worth trips, but every year that question is answered as soon as I arrive at my destination and the sense of discovering places hitherto unknown makes me shiver with excitement. With an OS map of the area as my only guide, I oriented myself and pushed off towards Tiverton, seven miles west.

As far as I could tell, there was nothing too special about Tiverton, nor the road to it. The OS map indicated a Tiverton Castle, though when I got to the vicinity after countless roundabouts, it wasn’t obvious where the castle might be. Tiverton appeared to be a quintessential mid-size English market town, quite animated on a Saturday morning. I left the A396 by taking a short uphill road for Lower Farleigh, then got on a delightful narrow lane that paralleled the River Exe. Spring was in full bloom in north Devon, and the air had a fresh, crisp feel to it. Lovely yellow and white Narcissus psedonarcissus (daffodils) were out in full force.

(Above: Just outside Tiverton)

As if by way of introduction to the type of terrain I was to encounter for the duration of the ride, I was ambushed by a "1:6" (16%) hill just before Marsh Farm. This was followed by a series of rolling hills then a sustained climb as I got closer to Stoodleigh. In some places the road was so little used that grass and other vegetation were growing on the center of it. I recall a steep road that had been muddied by recent rains—I had to shift down to help control the bike’s traction.

(Below: Pastoral scene along the River Exe on the way to Stoodleigh)

Stoodleigh stood atop a particularly nasty climb on a narrow connecting road that I had to climb to attain the ridge road that would take me back towards the A396. And just like that, my hill-climbing season was underway. Glad to have you back GS. Funny how the intervening months between last year’s climbs and this present hill were compressed into a blur of nothingness as I tackled the climb.

(Above: Stoodleigh Climb--it's actually steeper than it looks.)

Since I put Erasmus away last August after the trip to Ireland’s County Kerry, I hadn’t done anything more adventurous than my regular visits to the gym and the occasional 40-minute runs in Hampstead Heath. Therein, I think, lies the secret to living a full life. If I were to just spend my days working and going to the gym year-in, year-out, my life would pass into nondescript progression towards old age. I think I need the remembrance of being blown off my bike in the pouring rain going up Healy Pass in southern Ireland, or of being kept in awake in Bourg d’Oisans by the French celebrations that followed their 1998 World Cup win over Brazil—an event I watched with a roomful of Europeans at Hotel Milan after a particularly tough day of riding in the Alps. These—and countless other recollections that may not even be so memorable—are how I would like to look back and remember my days. Let’s see, where were we? Ah, yes, April 2000, dying on a hill in Exmoor…

Last Updated: 31 May 2000