As I said yesterday,  Mike Bamber mikesbikeworkshop.co.uk, came to my rescue by sorting out my front brake but it’s worth repeating as he is the epitome of a local bike mechanic, prepared to drop everything and help where he can.  Once again Mike, thanks. We loaded the bike back into the car and went on to Firebird brewery, founded in 2013 by two professional brewers who met at the University of Birmingham Brewing school.  It is now a meeting spot for hundreds of people, busy when we arrived at about 1800hrs and when we left, after a couple of pints of Heritage XX.

It’s not quite what I’d call a pub, but it’s pleasant enough and clearly popular.  They brew half a dozen different beers and stick them in cans and bottles as well as the draught that we drank.  We returned to a delicious supper cooked by Julia whilst we were out enjoying ourselves. (she also washed my smelly clothes). One of the nicest things about eating with friends, as opposed to in Wetherspoons, Premier Inns etc, is that there are always well cooked vegetables and that, to me, makes all the difference. An excellent meal in good company.

Just a little history: Tony shared a flat in London with my now wife Annie and her childhood friend, also called Annie back in the early 70’s.  I then got to know Tony when I took a job with Guardian Royal Exchange, managing part of their substantial property portfolio.  There were a gang of us, assorted young professionals, who would meet for a liquid lunch most Tuesdays in the Lamb in Leadenhall market.  Needless to say, not much work was done in the afternoon. Tony married Julia who, co-incidentally, was born in Malaya as were my sister and I.  Tony is also godfather to our daughter Kate so the friendship is deep.

This morning Julia went above and beyond and cooked me eggs and bacon before she went off to play tennis and I departed at about 0930 to ride 57 miles to Andover.  Tony waved me off before driving to the tip and then on to play golf..

The weather was, once again overcast with a threat of rain and I was dressed accordingly as I made my way through Cranleigh

I had noticed that there was an off road track that led north west from Cranleigh towards Peasmarsh and Mike and Tony confirmed that this was an old railway line.  The surface looked a bit dodgy from the start with puddles and slippery patches of mud that I gingerly tackled with one foot unclipped.  A mile or so in there was a tree completely blocking the way and I had to lift the bike through and over it.

Worse was to come as I swerved to avoid a particularly large muddy puddle, hit my shoulder on a tree and fell into the middle of the puddle, covering all the nice clean clothes in black mud, losing my phone from its pocket and grazing my knee.  My jacket, particularly, suffered and I took it off and stuck it between the panniers, held on by a bungee.  I cleaned the phone as best as I could, donned my fluorescent yellow waterproof and continued.  There was yet another tree down which had to be negotiated but there were a large number of cyclists in both directions, all on mountain bikes.

After about 7 miles I was on tarmac and made better progress but was soon back on tracks, one taking me part Puttenham golf club (surely nominative determinism at work there) crowded with Saturday morning golfers, the tracks going through quite dense woodland

I took to a road that shadowed, to the south, the A31 Hog’s Back, a notoriously dangerous stretch of road that has caused many deaths, most famously that of Mike Hawthorn, the 1958 F1 driver’s champion when he lost control of his Jaguar whilst racing a gull-wing Mercedes.

No such drama for me as I once again took to the Boondocks, past a couple of friendly horses

The path grew narrower, until it was barely showing

And I was faced by a kissing cycle gate that caused some difficulty, doubled because 100 yards further on there was another.

I was now approaching Farnham, in gridlock by the station but fortunately not on the road that Rita was sending me down. Once again I had to take to a narrow footpath that was, thank goodness, the last bit of off-road for the day.

I safely crossed the dual carriageway Alton road and re-entered Hampshire last passed through around Emsworth on Day 11. I was heading for Upton Grey, the village in which my mother and her two sisters grew up. My grandparents are both buried in the churchyard, along with many other ancestors, and I paid my respects just as it started to spit with rain.  The gravestone is in dire need to cleaning and the grass trimming; but my sister and cousins plan to remedy this next year.

North Hampshire is a country of rolling downs and woods

but the general direction of travel for me, at the half-way point, was now downhill.  I passed under the M3 just before North Waltham, voted Hampshire’s prettiest village according to a plaque on the side of the bus shelter where I stopped to eat the banana and clementines that Julia had pressed upon me

The weather was improving with glimmers of sun and the last ten miles of the journey over rolling roads was quite pleasant.  I crossed the River Test, seeing a few small fish but none of those monster trout for which the river, with its gin clear water is famous.

And finally, I was in Andover, although wrong turns took me around the town by a much more circuitous route than necessary, and I booked into the White Hart Inn, a Marston’s house, at 1640hrs.