It’s one of those descents that I just want to wrap up and take home with me to meet my parents. Honestly I’d distill it, bottle it and flog on the black market if I could; it’s that kind of a downhill. All around me the gorse bushes send out explosions of sulphur-coloured flowers blanketing the hillside in yellow. In front Porlock Bay lies spread out in the sunshine; the town nestled on the flat valley bottom facing the sea.
Behind it Exmoor rears up out of the Bristol Channel; on one side white capped waves beat against its black cliffs and on the other the outline of the hills is softened by oak woods nestling in the valleys. It’s such a fantastic backdrop that the nice people at the local tourist board even plaster the image all over a whole variety of clutter – plates, mugs, boxes of over-priced fudge, you know the sort of thing – and then sell it to grommits in Minehead. Shame they never get to see the real thing, what with having to eat all those high calorie snack products and play all those epilepsy-inducing video games during their stay in Butlins. Still, it means that this descent stays pure and true to me; even the walkers I thought I was going to clatter past have turned off to find another way down the hill. Which is all well and good and if my eyeballs weren’t being shaken out of their sockets then I’m sure I’d be able to appreciate the picture postcard ambiance of it. But as it is, my front wheel is persistently seeking out rocks, the track is steepening and I’m fighting to stay in some semblance of control. The trail starts out completely normal: just another piece of doubletrack heading down the hill, but not so far along a bridleway signpost points your way onto some indistinct singletrack.
Even this is relatively benign, nothing more than a thin trail trickling over tussocky ground. Then as you begin to pick up speed, flying off the occasional drop, the whole hillside begins to narrow. I think promontory is probably the right word, I tried peninsula but apparently that means something entirely different even though I think it describes it to a tee. Whatever, the gist of it is that all of a sudden you feel as though you’re descending a very steep ridge that’s a world away from the innocent little track that looked all coyly at you seconds ago.
It’s even better in the wet given the amount of traction that damp grass offers, as braking only seems to make you go faster. Then just to complicate things still further there are innumerable, not to say sizeable, patches of rock poking their heads out of the turf. If you’re feeling brave then you can virtually fly from one section to the next, hoping to loose some speed somewhere, somehow. With a gale force wind whipping off the sea life becomes even more interesting as you lurch maniacally sideways every time your wheels leave the ground. Ending up a foot to the left of your intended line can either put a smile on your face or make you wide-eyed with terror depending on the circumstances. At the very least you’ll end up with streamers of bracken flowing oh-so-gaily behind your bike should you stray from the path of righteousness here.
As it is I’m on my own today so decide to chatter safely through the rock sections. Of course there’s always the thought scratching away at the back of my brain that one of these otherwise normal looking rocks is almost certainly going to prove stubborn enough to cartwheel me down the track like a rag doll. It’s not much of a fight; they’ve had millennia to perfect their act whereas my gnat’s lifespan of cycling experience has mainly consisted of losing large patches of skin in a variety of scenic locations. I am no match for their wit and cunning, mere flesh and blood cannot hope to outsmart the stealth and patience they employ in hunting me down and sending me tumbling. With all this weighing on my mind I attempt to ride the tricky midsection of the trail; a sharp right turn which then drops you steeply over some roots, under a helmet-crackingly low branch slip-sliding down the hill towards the world’s most off-putting bench. Whoever thought it would be a great idea to put right next to the track obviously needs shooting, you can see it right in the corner of your eye pulling you in like some kind of slatted wooden magnet. Pure evil in the form of trailside comfort.
If the track finished here I’d die happy (and probably have a bench erected in memory of me somewhere really awkward), but as it is I’m about halfway down the hill on the edge of the woods. The trail contours around for a few hundred yards and then plummets back down the hill. This time it’s a wide path generously endowed with rocks the size of babies’ heads that do their percussive best to worry me silly about the state of my rims and tyres. Every hundred yards there’s the distressing ‘clank’ noise of rock on rim that suggests loose spokes, dented Mavics and expensive bike shop bills. Still, it’s not to be this time, no double-blowout monstrosity to vex me and I cruise to the gate at the end of the trail with a stupid grin plastered across my face.
Dom Perry
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