A Magical Mistley Tour to Essex. 2011

The forecast for Sunday the 4th September had been pretty grim all week, relenting slightly by Friday when the torrential rains were downgraded to showers from 1300hrs. Even the Met Office can't help copying America.

Pearson and I met the rest of the nearly thirty-strong peleton at Thurston, collecting Gerry Barton (and Mrs Gerry Barton who sampled group riding until Thorpe Moriuex) at Beyton (not Barton). No Richard "TomTom" Seggar to lead us through the deepest Essex byways of our route, since he was in Yorkshire scampering up and down the Dales. And Dale's brother Lee and sister Dawn were there to keep him company. The route was a well-worn clubrun variant down to Boxford and through Assington (Glenn Morris found a new Café here, where he would like to take the Mercredistes sometime soon) but after Bures, few of us knew where we were.

I had taken the precaution of checking the route supplied by Paul Callow against the Ordnance Survey website, and had made a note of a few discrepancies which could have put us off course if we hadn't the advantage of Mike Bowen amongst our number. Mike's knowledge of Essex is deep, I very much doubt there is even a track with grass down the middle that he doesn't know as thoroughly the tops of his handlebars. By the time he drifted off the front with a breakaway group, we were on course and could trust signposts plus a compilation of the different bits of the route that we variously remembered. Jonathan Howe went down to check if the road actually did go under the A12 as per instructions rather than over as on the map. Over was the answer, but the road markings were very misleading. There are some startlingly steep, short climbs once you are south east of Bures, and I realised that 72.5" fixed was a tactical error which put me quite a way back in the field, but still in contact. Stopping to 'change gear' would have lost me much more time.

Manningtree, Mistley and Mistley Quay make a fascinating string of habitation along the shores of the estuary, looking out across the mud flats of low tide as we arrive. The brutality of the two metre high fencing erected at Mistley Quay itself is a shock. There is, if you follow the link a sad tale of blundering bureaucracy, commercial greed and unintended consequences.

Naturally, the Health and Safety Executive had a hand in all this (they're busy these days trying to expose some of the dafter misinterpretations their advice, distancing themselves from the 'Health and Safety gone mad' image), and you will notice one short sentence, referring to the alleged cause. Trent Wharfage were asked to 'reinstate safety equipment - OR declare the Quay closed, and fence it off'. No where are we told what the 'safety equipment' was, but I bet it got in the way of TW's business. And how about Tendring Council's decisive action to prevent anyone doing anything to the fence without permission - which seems to mean that if TW had a change of heart, and took the fence down - they'd be prosecuted! And I just have to mention the mangled English (Manglish?) in the last couple of lines, from a TW spokesman, who thinks that people who attend meetings are attendants, and that a busy road is 'heavily trafficked'.

Now, where was I? Oh yes, climbing off the bike outside Mistly Quay Café. No doorway. Sounds of catering from an architecturally interesting first floor window. Walk round to the 'back' which is the front and one floor higher. Long low interior with old wood floor. Across this room full of pictures, another doorway with a warm glow, and the hum of busy efficient catering in full swing. The breakaway are just receiving their food. This, at other Cafés, would have indicated that they'd been hear for ages. Not here. The rapidity, accuracy and and friendliness of the service was barely believable. A delight. A talking point. I was asked what I had pre-ordered even before I had sat down, and my tea arrived just as my backside hit the chair. There is a feeling, at the start of a meal in a well run restaurant, bistro or café, of great relaxation and ease which only comes as the result of a complete confidence that everything is under control. A further attribute of the perfectly balanced and organised restaurant is that 'hum' that I mentioned. Contented conversations between satisfied eaters, punctuated by the clink of cutlery and (in this instance) the sounds of a well-run kitchen. In a good dining room, at whatever level, you get the impression that there are far more staff than is actually the case. Like football teams; the rubbish disorganised sides (think England, all too often) only seem to have about nine men and their opponents, fifteen.

I had a few stabs at counting how many we were, but it varied around the 28 to 30 mark. One hour after the first wave arrived, everyone had finished their breakfast, and were sipping second teas and being tempted with croissant by the attentive staff. Would I come again? Like a shot.

We would, for the return journey, stay together until we'd negotiated the A12. There are a few crossings by bridge or underpass but, incomprehensibly, they still have junctions with small roads where you take your life in your hands, twice per crossing as you dash to the middle then fly to the far side. The A12 is a motorway that thinks that it's still a two-way ordinary'A' road - complete with corners - and services those parts of Essex that have a lawless undercurrent. When driving I've identified a particular danger. Powerful black saloons driven with an aggression that is pretty terrifying - this isn't flamboyant, boy-racer stuff; it's a quiet but total ruthlessness.

We escape and head north. The plan had been that we would split up into small groups, and maybe not follow the route supplied. Ron Fisher and I escorted Peter SW and Lara, later meeting up with Gerry & Sean, for a small group that did follow the route. With Gerry's Garmin this was simple, until I had a bright idea at Battisford when Gerry & Sean were out of earshot. "Let's turn down here!" I cried. "It'll take us down to Combs"
Two miles later we where back we started. The turn I should've taken was the next one. I said my goodbyes and followed this one on my own - it did what I had thought that the other was going to do. Back home shortly after one, 83 miles. Some said (Peter Heath) that they'd recorded just 33 miles for the return - this puts Mistley within normal Clubrun range, though it's generally better to have the tea stop at more of a 35/25 split.

The rain didn't arrive until quite a bit later.

SJH