Cycling Exmoor National Park in Somerset
(continued)

(Below: Dryhill Road)

Out of breath, I crested the hill and coasted into Stoodleigh. Following a sweeping descent into Dryhill, I was confronted by another menacing looking road—the narrow type that had the visible section looking very steep and then ominously disappearing into a bend. I was caught in the wrong gear, so I had to circle the road to shift down. But this uphill road turned out to be relatively mild and, following a short level stretch, plunged down the valley back to the River Exe in Cove. I followed the A396 as it pleasantly meandered from Cove and Westbrook Wood, then got on the woodsy B3227 before finally emerging in Bampton (Old English bæth+haeme+tun, meaning "where the hicks live"—no, seriously, it means "farmstead of the dwellers by the pool").

The sun was out and it was noon—time to chow. I bought chicken and chips from a chip shop in the town center and planted myself on the sidewalk to soak in my first dose of sunshine in a looong time. Looking around, I noticed that North Devon is world’s away from London—they actually put bumperstickers in their cars here, but of the um, redneck type. I saw quite a few "Hunting Today, What Next Tomorrow?" stickers—in reference to the current controversy currently ravaging in the UK regarding fox hunting—conjuring up recollections of the spotted-owls-vs-lumberjack debate in America’s Pacific Northwest. Fox hunting is cruel. So is bullfighting. And downing old-growth trees that are habitat for the spotted owl is wrong. So there.

I took a moderately strenuous minor road that connected Bampton to Exebridge. I continued on the B3222 into Dulverton. I then took an absolutely gorgeous long uphill (B3223) ridge road to South Hill. I thought my eyes were playing tricks on me as I noticed small patches of ice by the side of the road. A couple of hundred feet later, what were unmistakably snow banks started appearing on both sides of the road. I trained my eyes west to the Anstey Common—the verdant hills were lined with delicate ribbons of white that were shimmering in the afternoon sunshine. I was approximately 1,000 feet high—apparently high enough for the foul weather that passed through here earlier in the week to dump appreciable amounts of snow in these parts. I must admit I was thrilled by the sight of snow patches in England in early April—quite an unexpected novelty. Snow, like salad dressing—is rare here in southern England.

(Above: In South Hill, O my God, they killed Kenny! The bastards!)

The B3223 itself is quite enjoyable—as close as one would get to a long, sustained climb without leaving the country. I stopped at Draydon Knap to take in the expansive views (but mostly because there was a crowd looking east and west, pointing hither, dither and yon). I had intended to turn off at Spire Cross to get to Winsford, but I saw that the B3223 continued on, getting even higher than at Draydon Knap. So I continued on, up Winsford Hill, above 1,200 feet (400 meters) in elevation. There was even more snow here. Part of me wanted to get off my bike and start a snowball fight with somebody, but I looked around and there were only 2 other people nearby: one had hunting fatigues on (and perhaps a don’t-ban-hunting bumper sticker and a shotgun in his pick-up truck), the other was an elderly woman. Sigh…

(Above: Draydon Knap, looking towards Winsford Hill--what's a "knap" anyway?)

(Beehhhlowww: On the way to Winsford)

I then turned around and resumed my planned route to Winsford. The road to Winsford was quite narrow and very, very steep. But I was headed in the downhill direction. After a couple of miles of very nervous descending, I bottomed out at Winsford, an attractive, quiet town. I reached for my map that I had stuffed in my jersey’s back pocket. It wasn’t there. I was mortified as it appeared that I would have to turn around and climb up the same hill I had just descended. An elderly couple in a Range Rover who had been tailing me pulled up alongside and helpfully pointed out that I had dropped the map only a couple of hundred meters back. I heaved a big sigh of relief.

(Above: Winsford)

It was getting late in the afternoon and I hadn’t even reached the planned high point of the day’s ride. I wanted to ride Dunkery Hill and try the legendary Porlock hills, but it had become apparent that I hadn’t the endurance yet to ride that far and still catch the 18:00 Paddington train from Taunton. So I adjusted my plans and decided to head in an easterly direction after Dunkery.

To approach Dunkery Hill, I returned to the quiet and gently undulating A396 to Wheddon Cross.

(Below: I just adore English humor...)

Dunkery Hill, in the heart of Exmoor National Park, appeared bleak and cheerless. The eastern road—the one that connected Blagdon to Luccombe—was bare of any trees. The climb itself was not very difficult and afforded panoramic views of the nearby moors. The northside descent was quite precipitous and appeared to be significantly more strenuous than the southern climb.

(Below: Barren and lifeless Dunkery Hill)

(Below: Lovely and lively Dunkery Hill)

I had just enough time to check out the roads between Minehead and Luccombe before catching the historic West Somerset train at 16:00 from Minehead to Bishop’s Lydeard.

(Above: Blackford, in the adorable country between Porlock and Minehead in Somerset)

Men never really outgrow their love of trains and other mechanical toys. Erasmus and I spent a relaxing hour traveling the 20 miles between Minehead and Bishops Lydeard in the comforting carriage of a throwback train. Such a wonderful day to cap off a day's out riding in the country.

(Above: The West Somerset Railway, Britain's longest "preserved railway")

Follow this link for more Somerset/Exmoor Pictures.

End.

Last Updated: 31 May 2000