Isle of Wight

A ride during my '52 Bike Rides' project in 2021

The campsite is full. We were sure there would be space – two cyclists with two one-man tents don’t take up much room, and it’s usually possible to beg your way in somewhere even if the sign says ‘no vacancies.’ But no, the proprietor insists, all the plots are fully occupied. It’s one of the side-effects of Covid restrictions. With foreign travel largely off the table, domestic holidays are the only option, and the world and his wife has come to the Isle of Wight.

OK, thank you, we say and retreat, rolling down through the campsite to the beach exit. She was right – there is absolutely no space. The site is a chaotic array of camper-vans, tents, outdoor barbecues, fold-out tables and deckchairs. There’s even a paddling pool in one of the plots. Tim raises a surprised yet amused eyebrow. ‘I’ve never seen it so busy. Last time I had my pick of the plots.’

Beyond the thick hedge that holds the campsite in is a short harbour wall, an ancient tower, and a row of seaside cafes, one of which serves mussels and chips out of a hatch. To our left is the beach: a long stretch of pebbles and sand, reaching northwards along the east side of the island. We push our bikes onto the shifting stones, the wheels sliding under the weight of the panniers, then half-carry, half-push until we are out of sight and sound of the campsite and the cafe, and can find a spot to pitch.

A few hours later we sit outside our tents on the pebbles, bellies full with chips from the cafe, sipping whisky out of camping mugs, watching the light retreat from the horizon. The campsite’s loss is our gain. The solitude is perfect, and the view is solely ours – apart from the odd dog walker, who sometimes gives a greeting as they pass but mostly lets us alone. It’s always a bit nervy, wild camping – it’s not technically allowed and you’re never sure if someone might challenge or report you. But neither of us has ever had a problem in all of our years of cycle touring. Just respect the land, be discreet, and don’t leave a mess. 

The heat of the day is long gone and we’re both wearing the just-in-case jumpers and hats we packed but were so sure we wouldn’t need. The tankers anchored off the coast turn on their deck lights and sit, glowing, on the water. The buoys marking the channel into Bembridge harbour start to flash: red on one side, green on the other, each playing to a unique rhythm. Every few minutes a ferry motors out of the Solent, heading for Cherbourg or Jersey or Bilbao. Then there’s what must be a cruise ship, too big for a ferry, its gargantuan hulk dwarfing the tankers as it passes, its countless accommodation decks lighting up the night. The passengers will no doubt be relaxing with a glass of champagne and a seafood dinner, perhaps some classy jazz, settling in for their first night aboard. 

‘Cheers.’ We tap mugs and take another swig. The night chill will soon persuade us into our sleeping bags, but we hold out for a few moments longer. It’s only been a handful of hours since we ourselves were on a ferry, covering the short stretch from Portsmouth to the island, but it already feels like hours ago and worlds away. Such is the sense of time passing at the beginning of an adventure: each new experience turns minutes into hours, and the days stretch endlessly ahead, like the tar-black waters disappearing over the horizon.

*****

It’s two years since I first met Tim. The connection had started on Twitter – the round-Britain cyclists always find each other in the end. It soon became clear he also lived on a boat, another quirky similarity, and one day he posted a photograph of the book he happened to be reading out on deck. It wasn’t so much the book that caught my attention, but the river view in the background – almost exactly the same as mine. We must be moored just a handful of boats apart. 

It didn’t take long to find him. ‘Excuse me... are you Tim? I’m Anna Hughes. From Twi…’ 

‘Anna!’ He jumped down from the deck and gathered me up in a hug, as though we had known each other for years – which, in a sense, we had. He looked just like his picture, only more three-dimensional. That’s become the narrative of the pandemic, hasn’t it, the guesswork that goes along with only ever seeing someone on a laptop screen, without any frame of reference. It’s a surprise when you finally meet them in person, to see how tall or short or small or large they are, if their physicality matches their personality. Tim’s definitely did. Six foot something, sturdy, generous laugh, a dimpled grin. A quick wit and a worldly intelligence. I made a new friend straight away. 

It’s pretty standard for a touring cyclist to do a big trip every few years and it just so happened that our trips that summer were to a similar part of the world: mine, the length of France from Dieppe to Nice via Provence and Mont Ventoux; his, from San Sebastian to Cherbourg via the Pyrenees and Avignon. As usual my trip was minutely planned: I’d been training for this, the idea being to cycle up each of Ventoux’s three ascents in a single day before continuing on to Nice for a recovery swim in the Mediterranean. Tim, as relaxed as they come, seeing how the wind blows, with a vague idea of riding up Mont Ventoux but reaching Avignon and feeling the Pyrenees in his legs so deciding not to. 

The thing is, you can see Ventoux from Avignon, towering over the Provencial plains. Set apart from any mountain range, it stands, unmistakable, alone in the landscape. I had seen it on the horizon for at least 80km of my own approach, monstrous and tantalising. And now Tim had a similar view, and though he’d made his peace with not taking on the Geant de Provence, in the end he couldn’t resist. ‘There it was giving me the come on,’ he said. ‘I couldn’t not do it. I smiled the whole way up – best day of the trip.’ 

Both round-Britain riders, both boat dwellers, now both Mont Ventoux summiters. And eventually, co-riders. After Covid came and snatched away each of our European cycle touring plans, we had set our sights on something closer to home: a trip on the Caledonian Sleeper for a week riding around the Cairngorms. Red wine, a cabin picnic and giggles on the overnight train. Waking to see the pines of Pitlochry in the morning mist. Passes in the beating sun, dew-drenched camping, river swims at midnight. Both certified lone-cyclists, to ride together was a novelty and a delight. Those passes were full of smiles.

*****

The morning brings a crisp sea breeze and an easy ride inland to the Garlic Farm for breakfast, following a small section of the Red Squirrel trail, the disused railway line that cuts through the island’s heart. But it doesn’t take long for us to gravitate back towards the waves. Cycling around an island only 26 miles across, the tang of the sea is everywhere. Our chosen spot is Ventnor, on the southern coast. The Victorian resort town sits piled high into the cliff, in contrast to some of the other settlements on the island that crowd more gently around the water. It’s a vertiginous descent to the beach, the roads carved in great zig zags (including one called Zig Zag Road), so that you can never fully let go of the brakes. Well, I can’t. Tim is away, a much more daring descender than I. 

With our bikes leaning against the seafront railings we head across the sand and into the water, kicking out into the depths, taking our time, knowing the cooling effect will be short-lived once we are back in the sun. It’s another desperately hot day, the type where you’re grateful for even a lamppost as its shadow flashes across the road, offering a microsecond out of the sun. The water holds us in its hand as we float there, looking back at the hotels that line the seafront and stretch upwards like eyes in the cliff. No doubt our ancestors were as taken with the sea as I am, flocking to Ventnor to ‘take the sea air’, bringing their fashion, their music and their donkey rides, with their bathing machines and full-body swimming gowns, lest an inch of skin be revealed to the opposite sex. A coming together of nature and Victorian propriety.

The trouble with descending so suddenly is having to climb back out again, but thankfully we find the old coastal road partway up the cliff, no longer open to motor vehicles, and under the protection of trees. It’s perfect. We ride, strobing in and out of the shadows, looking down on the lazy sea.

*****

The tiny inlet of Freshwater Bay sits nestled on the southern part of the western tip of the island. It houses one of the island’s two independent lifeboat stations, and there will be a fundraising festival there tonight. There’s a campsite nearby so we make our plan: one or two beers in aid of the lifeboat, then back to the campsite and hope they’ll have space this time. If not we can wait til the party’s over and find a patch of grass somewhere. 

It’s a hot, slow ride to Freshwater along the long, straight Military Road that tops the giant sea cliffs on the south coast of the island. Shrieks from the rollercoasters at Blackgang Chine rise up to the road; paragliders leap from the hills inland, swirling downwards, so close we feel almost able to touch them. There’s another route, the official cycle route, that heads inland here, winding in and out of villages nestled within the hills. It’s not so dogged by traffic, but there are contour lines to cross, and in any case, for us, nothing but the coastal road will do. To be perched on the cliff, soaring with the seagulls, with the luscious, inviting, glorious sea below. The steady drag pulls us ever so gradually downwards, before the quick shock of a climb is followed by a furious descent to the bay. 

The place is heaving. Music, food, drinks, people. Somehow we find a spot on the crowded sea wall and drink our beers as the light plays on the languid sea. The community is out in force to support the boats that might one day save their lives – or perhaps they just like a good party. One beer turns into two. There’s no need to rush. Island life runs more slowly, and we embrace it. 

Later, we will head to the campsite where we will find soft grass, hot showers, and most importantly, space for us. The falling dusk wakes the lights on the buoys that line the bay. We stay long after the dark has turned the sea to ink.

*****

A downpour greets our final morning on the island. The road leading to the beach-side cafe has turned into a river and the wind drives the raindrops sideways. We had planned to complete the tour with a quick out-and-back to the Needles, the western-most point of the island, where I’ve been but Tim hasn’t. But we’d be heading straight into the wind as well as the rain, and it’s mostly uphill, so although it’s only three miles, it’s three miles of misery just for the sake of it. We set out anyway. Tim’s uncharacteristically quiet, and I feel terrible, because I reassured him it would be worth it. I hope it’s worth it. 

The rain peters out somewhere along the way, though the headwind and the hills persist. The last climb feels the hardest, on an exposed ridge, fighting the gusts, until at the very end of the road we reach the Needles Battery. I flash my National Trust Life Membership card – a gift from my grandpa when I was a child, which I was confused about at the time – what would I need something like that for? Now I know: Tim and I can both come in for free. It’s enough to bring back that infectious grin. We are here: dry, out of the wind, and we don’t have to ride up that bloody hill any more.

The area is quiet, the old fort in various states of ruination. We lean our bikes against the wall, near to where two cannons point in the direction of mainland England. Crumbling boulders topped with moss form a line against the English Channel. In the middle of the courtyard is a smallish hole down which a steep metal ladder leads. We disappear down the hole, into the tunnel, the curved ceiling and claustrophobic walls barely fitting around Tim’s shoulders. At the end, the searchlight, and far below, there they are, the Needles, razor-sharp chalk stacks so iconic and recognisable. The waves crash silently, sending spray and foam over the base of the rocks and the lighthouse, and the sea extends forever. Of course, it is worth it.

From Bembridge in the east to the Needles in the west, via St Catherine’s point in the south, we have seen the extremes of the island, the eastern harbour welcoming ships, the lighthouse here warning them to stay away. The final tip of the diamond is Cowes, in the very north, where the river Medina cleaves the island in two, and for which we now turn, descending, no rain, tailwind, all smiles. 

*****

There’s a chain ferry across the river at Cowes that shuttles between east and west. Forget Queen Victoria’s house, forget fancy yachting marinas, this is the main attraction: the floating platform that pulls itself back and forth, back and forth along a chain on the riverbed, itself going nowhere, but no one goes anywhere without it. On Tim’s last visit it was out of service, and we’ve just passed a sign at the top of the hill saying ‘Chain ferry closed’, although the sign looks so rusty we’re inclined not to believe it. Even so, it’s an anxious descent from the high point on the hill above Cowes – not only will this add an extra 10 miles if it’s not running today, Tim will be gutted to miss out again. But, relief: when we reach the head of the road that leads to the ferry slipway, there it is, deck extended, ready to load. 

A mutual love of coastlines, a mutual love of big bridges, a mutual love of ferries. Just stepping aboard brings with it an air of adventure – even this one, even though all it does is link one river bank to another. 

There’s not much further now to the harbour at Fishbourne from where we will catch the ferry back to the mainland. The harbour could have come straight from Swallows and Amazons: an inlet in the woods, a few houses hidden on the banks, fishing boats moored. It feels as though we should be leaving in a rowing boat rather than on the big white ferry that hovers, incongruous, alongside the trees. 

We pause for one last pint at the Fishbourne Inn at the top of the hill, ready to roll down when we see the ferry coming in, once more unhurried, our last hour of island mode. The heat proliferates through the beer garden where lazy bumblebees hum. On the water, the gentle breath of the breeze and the flashing sails of yachts, in the sky, the slow circle of gulls, and here, on the island, time stands still.