Summer camping

How hard can it be to camp in summer?  We'll, the problem seems to be finding the time!  A far cry from the lazy, crazy, hazy days of lockdown.  Once again I found myself with just two days of the month left to fit in a camping trip, and very little time to plan it.

I was hoping to head west with Peter B., so that's what we did.  A late start due to me having to pack after just unpacking from our Dieppe trip; 11s at Chertsey, and lunch in Maidenhead.  Peter headed back and I made for Henley, rather slowly with tired legs.

 

It's Henley Regatta this week. Queues of cars, lots of very fit young things wearing posh frocks, silly blazers, and/or lycra.  I fitted right in, under the lycra category, in case you were wondering. 

Camp site?

I had planned a fairly short ride in view of my earlier difficulties with heavy panniers.  Despite our late start, this meant I arrived at my possible camping site, near Nettlebed, around 5pm.  I can see why it deserves the name.  However I found a likely spot, and set off to find a pub to while away a few hours.  The nearest was closed until tomorrow,  but this led me to find another, the Black Horse, only two miles away in Checkendon.  

The Maharaja's Well

On the way, I filled up my water bottles at the Maharaja 's Well in Stoke Row.  The mechanism was rather stiff.

The pub is the sort of pub you don't find very often nowadays.  Up a tiny lane with no signposts.  Four real ales drawn from the barrel, lovely building (in the family for 118 years, and still seems to have some original paintwork).  No food in the evenings, but never mind.

The Black Horse

I fell asleep to the sound of distant church bells and nearby birdsong.   It was forecast to rain a bit, so I had a tarp shelter over the bivi bag, and my lightweight (thin) sleeping bag.  In my merino cocoon, I was warm enough until the small hours, but never cold enough to put more layers on. 

In the middle of the night, once again I was woken by something strange.  There was a sort of quiet rushing noise, and I was convinced that the earth was shaking, as if a train was passing nearby - which it wasn't.  Could it have been a small earthquake?  I certainly wasn't  expecting the earth to move for me.

Awake at 5, away by 6 for more exploration of the intricate lacework of quiet lanes north of Reading.  Rolling into Reading at 7.30, I wasn't  hopeful but was saved by Greggs, with a coffee and porridge. I left Reading to the south on the canal towpath, dodging the nettles.  Past the Majedski Stadium, and then more lanes on the Berkshire Cycleway circuit, before picking my way through Wokingham and Bracknell.  So many cycle paths, so few signs.  An early 11s at Ascot powered me on my way home on familiar roads.