London to York 2025 day 1 - Of pies and men

A connoisseur I am not. Of many things in this life. But there is one thing that I can judge pretty damn well. 

Today’s ride has taken me from London Kings Cross to a small place in the Essexorian hills. I’ve skittered my way out of London on the ‘black ice route’ as I’ll call it - on my winter tour bike ride from London back home to York. About 250 miles what with all the slip sliding around the back lanes trying to avoid the gritted but busy A roads. 

Its been a grand day. Cold but dry with a silvery winter sun trying its damnedest to lay some warmth on my back. Nah. Thats not working today. My fridgeometer says its just right today to keep the turkey fresh. Yes, it did. I’m layered in 4 lots of garb with a tail wind yet I still feel the icyness cutting into my chest. 🥶

Surprisingly, once away from Kings Cross the crap nav soon has me pirouetting and twirling through the backstreets of london, ooh what a sight, across its northern parkland and the like.  In fact following a relatively traffic free route in a north easterly direction.  

Apart from the occasional local I’m the only idiot out cycling today. Gravelly bits resemble that blue slush drink in shops that nobody ever wants, except my version is a blackish grey. And all my wheels do is turn the slush into finer slush just like that twirly machine does.  Had a couple of ‘woah-hah’ moments too!  Let me tell you that taking a sharp down hill bend on an icy path today resulted in Hairy Melon giving Brooks her biggest ever love bite!  Such a powerful sucker!  At the next stop I desperately searched my panniers for a crowbar with which to disconnect my arse from the bike!

I stopped at the Lee Valley country park cafe just north of the M25 and dismounted with a POP!.  It’s open I think. It’s deserted.  Eventually this petite young thing stepped in from the garden freezer. Best she could offer was a warm smile, a coffee and a carton of chips with as much tomato sauce as I could drink. I’m carrying provisions but I decide to have the chips and a chat with her. She cannot believe that I’m slip sliding in a York kinda direction on a bike.  Impressed I thought she was with this fat 60 something bloke but was in fact only feigning her interest cos she was probably planning to place a sure fire bet straight after work that I won’t make it.

Today I’m using my new friend Komoot to navigate being that Google maps navigates like a cross eyed blind man following a blind one legged guide dog and my Garmin crap nav is dead.  As in the Forest Gump quip about life being like a box of chocolates n all that, well the Google map selection box in my phone, if you let it do the navigation, is gonna steer you into the chocolate coated squirrel sh1t for sure.

I’m surprised that I’ve ended up on Sustrans route 1 somewhere out of Landaan and you know what, its a pretty good route with lots of off road cycling friendly paths. A nice accidental find.  I stop again this time at the Cornish cafe in Harlow which is run by the local Turks.  I come out 10 minutes later full of eggs on toast and hot tea - and a fresh new haircut.

As the afternoon draws in I’m lost in the black hilly lanes to the east of Stanstead airport which is covered in substantially more red bright pimply things than I have on my arse. Theres only 6 miles or so to go.  Thank God cos these dark twisty hills and impatient car drivers are becoming a danger.  I’m surprisingly all good ‘cept for the blocks of ice that used to be my feet.  They’re that bad that right now I cannot feel the pedals.  Nearly there Wayne, just press on…. I spy a church on a hilltop with a 60 or so meter high spire lit up in bright white lights like a beacon drawing me and my frozen pet wallet moth, Mr Bigglesworth, to our destination.

I arrive in the quaint town of Thaxted in the dark and search out the Greene King pub / hotel.  Its situated right next to the bright church.  Its the only place to eat for miles around. 

The bar is banging busy.  A wake I hear - for me I suspect - cos as soon as I arrive they all stare at my ice encrusted body, realise they've lost their bets and so frog off back into the hills.  I spy the pub cat.  It’s called Goygle they say.  I’m not surprised.  It’s got one eye and walks backwards bumping into things as it searches for the kitty litter.  Time to eat.  

Now this pub has the lot.  Beer, accommodation AND pie!  I sit at a table and peruse the menu in that greedy ‘I've been bloody cold all day’ way that means at least 3 courses are fair game.  Initially the order was going to be a lamb shank preceded by chicken strips and if I play my cards right will be finished off with something covered in lashings of custard  🥴

Then I spy the pie. Meat pie.  An award winning meat pie so says the menu.  

Now I’ve eaten many a pie.  Just to reiterate a connoisseur I am not of many things in this life except where meat pie is involved.  You’d never have guessed would ya.  

The waitress comes over and I enquire if the pie is a ‘proper pie’ and not one of those faux pas-tie things served in a dish with a pastry lid.  Ah, bless you young lady.  Pie it is 😋 I declare.  I say to her, I’ll probably have a pudding too!  Away to the kitchen young maiden and make great haste with the pie!

I’m sat with knife and fork in hand and a wide eyed mad look on my face.  The chicken strips arrive covered in a cat puke sauce by the looks of it.  Watery and sour.  Less mmm and more errr….  Kinda explains why the cat walks backwards.   Neva mind.  The award winning pie is next!  

A grey lump of pastry is plonked on the table.  With grey greasy mash and a few hard peas fresh out of the deep freeze.  I try the mash.  It’s like lava.  White hot straight out of an industrial microwave and without a taste.  Next the pie.  Likewise it’s a burning hot lump of doggy do dos with a greasy crust, filled with a meatless flavourless grey gravy. As though all of the nice stuff was sucked out of it somewhere on the pie producing conveyor belt in Norwich.  Damn it!

Have you ever wondered where supermarkets get their packets of savoury beef stock from?  Apparently it’s a by product taken from Greene King’s pie making factory going by this flavourless plastic puck of a thing that’s been pushed under my nose. However, I need the calories cos tomorrow is a cold 65 miler to Peterborough.  So I scoff the lot.  Would you like a sweet she says?  I retort with a jovial deary me no thank you ma’am I’m all full up.  Which was of course a big fib cos I’m not gonna suffer the cardboard and toilet water trifle irrespective what the menu says..  

The lack of competition in these hills for sure ain't helping the quality of the food.  Anyway, I’ve got plenty of Rice Krispie n’ toffee encrusted things in my bag upstairs and for sure if I just wait until the cat backs into me - then with a firm hand and a strong twist I’ll have all the custard I want..

Well, just to finish today’s rant.  After I made the pub booking yesterday I got an email with a note hidden in the small print  that told me that the church opposite rings a clock bell on the hour every hour.  When I arrived the receptionist, who as a result of an inbreeding accident both sported an impressive set of gnashers and probably had a second job as keeper of the bells at the church, told me with a bad french accent that my room was at the back of the pub. Hooray!

I’m laying in my warm comfortable room after dinner with a thankful I made it smile on my face. At least something has gone right for me.  In the darkened room I notice a growing set of lights shining through my bedroom window getting brighter and brighter.  Which was then followed by a sound - like this…

ooooOOOOWOOOWWWARRRGGGHHhhhhsshhhh…

I look outside my window  FECK IT!  The aircraft in Stansted's landing pattern are using Thaxted’s church as a  beacon  EVERY.  FECKING.  MINUTE.  GAHHH!

It’s late and the young couple next door have just arrived in their room going by the banging coming through the paper thin wall.  Then I hear the KAPONG!  Feck it.  Its 11pm.

Feck the aircraft, feck the pub, feck the bells. All I can say is thank God for earplugs!  

G’nite..

Ciao for now