the downs

'Oxfordshire? It's real Midsommer Murder country is Oxfordshire.'  Ellen's words repeat in our heads as we wend through some very pretty and, clearly, very wealthy villages.  Lots of thatched cottages, well-kept gardens, and nasty vicious murderers lurking behind every privet hedge, no doubt.  We really enjoy riding through this part of England - we are both discovering an England we don't know. The trouble is we can't hang about - we said we'd be in Shoreham-By-Sea by Friday and there's plenty to do before then.

We circuit Brize Norton airbase after stopping in the town for supplies.  The town is odd - like something out of the Truman Show.  It's phony.  It's new.  It's been built to service the airbase.  But the locals we ask for directions and help buying petrol are all extremely helpful.  We want to see some horses today - the chalk horses that can be found around Uffington and the North Downs.  The villages we pass through seem picture-postcard-perfect.  There's money in them thar villages, that's for sure.  It's also getting warmer and we've noticed that the trees are all in leaf and gardens are flowering.  We pass cottages coated in water-coloured wisteria. 

The Uffington Horse is on a hill.  Our AA road map has some chalk horses marked, but we don't realise the topography until we arrive there.  Lung-bursting climbs, breakneck descents, swooping bends, and repeat.  You can ride up onto the Downs and join the walkers on the bridlepath for a close up view - but you don't get a real proper view without taking to the sky, as some parapenters have.  The alternative is to head back across the vale to some of the villages further north but we only find this out afterwards.  The horse dates back to the Bronze Age and is a wonderful piece of art.  It begs the question who made the horses and for whom?

a close-up of the white horse

Our navigator finds a great little farm road to follow the Downs.  It looks like a road to nowhere, especially when it becomes a dirt track, but we doggedly follow it between hedgerows and fields and some nice wild-camping spots before it starts to gradually ascend the northern flanks of the hills.  We finally emerge on the ridge and continue along it heading west, south west with great views north and south.  The fields are a yellow and green patchwork rolling off into the distance. 

The track is smooth, hardened chalk and rutted and rough in places.  It gradually bends southwards and we realise we are not far from Avebury - the poor man's Stonehenge.  Some folk have told us not to bother with Stonehenge - you can't walk amongst the stones anymore and the nearby busy A-road kills the atmosphere.  We stop at a perfectly located bench for a cup of tea and a biscuit (can there be a better combination?), and another cyclist coming up the hill from the opposite direction pauses for breath.  He tells us where we can detour to Avebury.  He looks over our bikes - he's off touring in the summer to somewhere I can't remember where - and is on a training mission.  But it's getting on and the sun is going down, so we keep heading southwards towards Salisbury Plain.  In a village we are looking around for a source of water when some unlucky fella asks us if we need any help.  We show him our empty bottles and he gamely fills them all up for us.  Now all we need to do is find somewhere to camp.