Report for B Group - 29th January

Reports for the first rides out from Banstead, with many thanks to Tim G and Paul for sub-leading and for writing the reports that follow.

John A

Lost without trace; Eaten alive?

The expedition met at the Banstead Community Centre.  There was little indication of the dangers ahead; six experienced explorers eager to take advantage of a break in the hurricane force winds and the icy grip of winter and see for ourselves the havoc wrought on the green and fertile land by global warming.

I was probably overdressed for hill climbing, one layer too many.  This protected me from the worst effects of descending but left me overheating on the flat.  We set out westward from the Banstead Heights and rode safely and pleasantly through the seldom-visited gin-and-tonic belt of Toryland.  It was only after we had passed the end of the old railway at Tadworth and ventured out into the hinterland of Walton that, being in the lead, I began to notice as my temperature rose and my goggles steamed up the creatures scuttling into the sodden bushes.  It started with a wren, then a robin, then a squirrel and then what looked like a large rat.  Were there alligators lurking in these great puddles?  Was that an anaconda I saw slithering into the hedgerow?  By the top of Pebblehill Road we had lost Steph and Diane.  Vanished.  Disappeared.  

The four of us who were left brushed off the loss, as we knew our friends would have wanted, and soldiered on.  We survived the crazily driven truck and the mechanical failure of our primitive equipment and turned eastward, a direction less often taken.  The floods were blocking the crumbling, pot-holed roads of Surrey, but fortunately not our route, expertly planned by John, who was bravely bringing up the rear.  We all know it is the last in line that the predator targets but he put on a brave face, chatting about his lecture on the railway stations around Sutton.

Up Trumpets Hill the foliage was closing in on us; who knows what hungry, slimy creatures were lurking.  Down on the wide, open plain the mill pond to the South of Flanchford Road had become a small inland sea.  Were those the snouts of hippopotami I could see out of the corner of my eye?  There were clearly some dangerous creatures about because more than one van driver was careering down the road in terror, unable to slow down or give way.

The dogs on the Coach Road seemed tame enough but as we turned North and to the safety of the Stepping Stones, John became separated.  We waited for him outside Denbies but from across the Great Divide, still on Pixham Lane, he generously gestured to us to go on without him.  It was the last we saw of him.

The three of us victualed and re-provisioned at the Stepping Stones and then Maggie, noting our decision to go home through Little Switzerland and knowing there were yetis and snow leopards in the Misty Mountains, nobly left our company to brave the unknown alone.  "I may be some time" she said as she stepped out of the warmth.

Thus of the six doughty souls who had set out that sunny morning only Mick and Paul made it to the Old Moat.  As to the four?  Tragic beyond comprehension but their names will be remembered in the annals of the Royal Geographic Society and their pictures will be recorded in cigarette cards and collected for years to come.  Theirs was the better part.

~ Paul


[In contrast] My [Tim’s] group increased in number as Keith joined us at the start in Banstead and Terry later along the morning route. Both stayed for lunch.

The pub was excellent, tables reserved and the service prompt and efficient. The afternoon ride was similarly uncomplicated and five of us completed the ride to the Old Moat for tea.

A good ride out in what proved to be good weather for a day in January.

~ Tim G

Paul and Mick at The Stepping Stones

Tim's team +1 in Brockham