A real bitch of a commute

[MMC]

I have it really tough. I commute ten whole miles between my cottage in Bampton and the office through the Cotswolds. It’s a real bitch of a ride, so I thought I’d share it with you lot.

It all starts here, at the door of the office.

It’s a converted barn on the Southrop Manor Estate, just over the border from Oxfordshire in Gloucestershire. It’s all a bit down market and urban, but we manage.

That’s the bike I’m on today - fixed wheel, single speed. It may be the Cotswolds, but it’s only just. Very flat, this bit so no need for gears. But, even on the pedal bike, I seem to carry a lot of crap about so need the old Carradice bag.

So, saddle up and head out past St Peter’s, the village Church.

As you can see, it’s a bit old and tatty but it has been there before 1086. Nice C12 font as well.

Then, it’s out onto the mean streets of Southrop. Better check both ways before pulling out into the streams of traffic:

All good - and the other way:

And head out past our landlady’s gaff:

It’s not wearing too badly for an old house, is it?

And over the River Leach:

I did check for shopping trolleys, but the council must have cleared them recently.

And set a bearing for Filkins:

The crowded roads around here are a bit of an issue, so you need to make sure you ride assertively and get a bit of a move on:

Faster than I usually manage on the GS.

But it’s not like nothing ever happens out here. This field was full of barley this morning. Now some buggers come in an nicked the lot.

They only left a bit behind - but I bet they’ll be back tomorrow to take the rest:

Country people around here are fundamentally lazy. I mean, they can’t even be arsed to put mortar in their walls and just shove ‘em up and hope they’ll stay there:

It’s probably because all the place names are so bloody long:

So, it’s a few more miles of these busy, urbanised roads, just crossing over the A361 during beagle rush-hour (someone stopped and rounded them up a couple of minutes later, just as I was wondering how to get two of the VWH’s finest on the back of a pedal bike):

Then you hit the seething metropolis of Langford:

It's a dangerous spot, Langford. Full of deperadoes (they must be desperate - checked shirts and salmon cords? I ask you....)

Will I survive? Will I make it out of Langford alive?

More later....

 

[Timolgra]

Brilliant

 

[Tarka]

Nice one.


Nice photos too.

 

[Ogmios]

Brilliant - Yep!
far more edge-of-the-seat, gripping stuff type adventure than say - them Mongollywogian reports.

 

[MMC]

So, Langford.

If you’ve not been there before (and if you had you’d probably have blinked and missed it) you might not have noticed its seedier, darker, harsher underbelly. That’ll be the council estate.

List most sink estates in Europe it has its problems.

One of the worst seems to be that of abandoned vehicles:

And its proximity too to local industry, with its noise and air pollution. I’ll bet this is the bugger who nicked all that barley. How brazen can you get? Unloading his haul in full daylight. Still, in Langford, they’re hardened criminals. no-one blinks an eye at crimes like this.

If Langford has a population of three hundred people I’d be surprised. Yet, in the first and second world wars it sent its share of troops to the fronts. These are the names of the ones who didn’t make it home. Amongst the names there are little groups of two and three with the same surname. A whole generation wiped out. Twice.

Befitting Langford’s status as the traffic and barley-theft capital of the ‘Wolds, it’s good to see that the AA give a damn.

And it’s good too that there’s a place to stop for a drink:

At least, it would have been if some scrote hadn’t made off with the tap. Bet he thought that hanging basket concealed the theft too. Pah.

I do wonder about the place sometimes though:

Don’t know anyone who’s met the Grand Wizard in Langford but I’ll bet he’s there somewhere. Plotting. Probably more cereal theft.

But it’s not all crime and pollution here. There’s plenty for the active of body - look, the village tennis club:

Mind you, they’re a bit rough and ready. I’m sure I heard one of the players say “blast” at a missed volley of service.

Although one always fears for one’s life in places like this, it’s not long before one escapes and returns to the tranquility of the countryside lanes again:

Let’s get the hell out of here.

Next - more industrialisation, a bit of trespass and some alcoholism.

 

[MMC]

You might think that the countryside is a quiet, safe place.

You’d be wrong.

I mean - look - there are dangerous wild animals left to run wild. Mind you, your reporter is a brave soul and, just for the sake of a story, I stood my ground as it approached, stamping its hooves.

Not only did the beast come right up to me, it stole one of my bloody polos too!

Of course, industrial pollution is an issue even out here. Look at this:

It’s a railway bridge, hidden down an “unsuitable for motors” lane.

Not only that, it’s near the old Kelmscott and Langford Halt railway station. The railway is a modern, newfangled thing out here and this one was opened as late as 4th November 1907. It used to be part of the East Gloucestershire Railway.

They’re a bit posh in Kelmscott (William Morris and all that) and so the station had one platform, and a corrugated iron station building. Now, it has this:

You can just about see where the old GWR Witney and East Glos railway threaded its way through the fields.


But, even here you’re not safe. More of those wild animals trespassing on the old railway track bed:

Again, fearing naught, I went to investigate the old railway. I’ll be sending the bill for shredded cycling shorts, nettle stings and mental trauma to BHT. He can afford a relatively small, five-figure compensation claim.

Here’s what I found:

Careless. Those bloody townies come out here with their railway ideas, get closed down by Dr Beeching and then just leave their old rubbish behind. A WHOLE BRIDGE, mind - not just a bit of newspaper.

Mind you, must have been a pretty gorgeous view from the station:

But, even though I’ve left the office a few miles behind there’s still work to be done, so I head for Clanfield. Now that’s a place that makes even Langford seem tame...

 

[MMC]

Clanfield. The one horse town where the horse bites.

No two ways about it. Clanfield is a town of debauchery and ill-repute. It’s a bit past-it now as well:

There’s still plenty going on to attract the young people in from miles around though:

If you’ve not been to a Clanfield Produce Show, you’ll not know the meaning of ‘skulduggery’ or, for that matter, ‘Celia Jones’ courgette chutney’. The latter is bloody lethal and will take your head off.


But the real problem with Clanfield is the 24 hour drinking culture. Since the government allowed pubs to fix their own opening hours, the streets of Clanfield have been littered with their victims. Every evening, the villagers troop, en mass, to the pubs and abuse alcohol.

You see, the issue is that there are TWO pubs. Yes, TWO. Here they are:

and the other:

I realised, suddenly, that you - dear readers - would want to see what it was like in one of them. I realised too what that meant. Walking into a pub in Clanfield when the regulars would know that I was from Bampton, the next (and superior) village.

That may mean nothing to you, but here, in the dirty alleys and gravelled drives of West Oxfordshire, that meant almost certain death. Not only would I be mercilessly teased about the Bampton Shirt Race being won by a team from Clanfield this year, but someone would be bound to bring up the results of last year’s ploughing match. The shame.

But, knowing how eager you would all be, I ventured into the Tavern and, before too much abuse could be ladelled, out again with my pint.

In case anyone stole my bicycle, I propped it against the table. If any of you speak Foreign, you’ll realise how appropriately named it is for a Tosser:

Another war memorial. More names. More lives. They couldn’t, so I raised a glass for them and to them.

Even though I’d left the office far behind, there was still work to do. So I settled down with my pint. The Tavern’s a conducive spot to get a bit of work done.

After another - just to protect one of the local victims of drink from themselves - I packed up and headed off, towards Bampton.

I tried hard to ignore the sign for this year’s ploughing match, hoping that honour might be restored:

And before long, I spotted the spire of St Mary’s, Bampton - nearly home:

Animal abuse is, of course, rife out here in the country. Apparently, the donkeys for this are shipped in specially from Weston Super Mare:

Ah - of course! Unless you're from Bampton you won't have heard of the inestimable SPAJERS. This is primarily a drinking society - the Society for the Preservation of Ancient Junketting - and damn fine it is too. The SPAJERS organise events to raise money for the village's older residents (the ones not out TWOCing or getting lashed in one of Bampton's four pubs).

The Donkey Derby is one of the highlights of the year for the village and the SPAJERS. Health & Safety? Wassat then?

Child-protection issues don’t seem to count for much either - no risk assessments or CRB checks. I mean, children just wander around at the Fête, everyone knows who they are and they know most people too. If they fall over, they get picked up, dusted down and their parents found. I mean - isn’t that just dreadful? Anything could happen. Funny thing is, it never does.

But Bampton’s no haven either. Look - Tommy, the newsagent is foolish enough to leave papers out for people to buy with an honesty box:

In a place like this, how foolish is that?!


The village shopkeepers are about to board up their windows for the night as some sort of protection from the hordes of violent youths that rampage in their high-performance, modifed cars every evening:

It’ll be worse tonight. The Fair’s in town:

So, finally, past the Church (that’s the spire from earlier). Another old pile that they really ought to pull down for a multi-storey or a box-estate:

and back home again:

Looks like I’m not the only one to have had a rough day:

I hope these pictures of rural violence, substance abuse and deprivation haven’t distressed too many of you. I simply thought it was important that people see how desperately rough it is in rural West Oxfordshire and Gloucestershire. Mean streets indeed - I have to do this commute every day. It wears you down, it really does.

I look on it as payback for all the years I commuted on the bike to London every single bloody day

 

[rodsharp]

A pretty accurate summary of the hardships in our daily lives. I dont know how we put up with it. I hate it here as well !!!

 

[Fanum]

Cracking work.....we ought to have more of it

 

[Pumpy]

Lovely - thanks for that, Mark.

 

[MikeP]

Excellent report.

I think it needs a wider audience, AdvRider perhaps?

 

[MMC]

Excellent report.

I think it needs a wider audience, AdvRider perhaps?

D'ya think?

I think they might not quite get the irony, somehow

 

[tinatrim]

MMC.... I think your so brave going out on your own like that in such a dangerous place, thank you for your efforts

 

[Onwalkabout]

Lovely area. I lived in Faringdon for about 5 years. Very nice part of the world and part of me still misses the place.

 

[Stevie73]

Superb!!

POMPINO is slang for 'blowjob' in Italian!!