Brewood to Ironbridge (Industrial Revolutions)

GO WEST
Nelmes arrived at Harris Towers in a manner not entirely befitting his élan and athleticism, emerging lyrca-clad, but somewhat arthritically, from a battered old Renault 5. While Gary tucked into a fortifying breakfast of beans-on-toast (the perfectly balanced meal, according to Rowing God Steve Redgrave) I treated my bike to some last-minute tyre pumping and frame de-rusting. Although my bike is perfectly serviceable it looked rather dumpy compared to Gary’s sleek model, which I planned to steal if the going got tough. After an in-depth brainstorming/mapreading session lasting some 10 seconds – “Ironbridge is nice… and its got a pasty shop” – we had both a destination and a lunch menu. Pausing only for a brief round of pre-emptive excuse-making (Gary: judo injuries, me: a nasty cold), we saddled up and headed West.

After a few days of howling winds and torrential downpours, Saturday was one of those crisp, bright days that make you feel better disposed towards Autumn. There was a persistent Westerly breeze but we set off at a good rate, making short work of the hill up to Bishop’s Wood and freewheeling down a long descent to the tiny hamlet of Tong. Ignoring the signs to Weston-Under-Lizard – my second favourite place name, ahead of Six Mile Bottom but behind Wootton Bassett – we continued West along pretty country back-roads to the small market town of Shifnal.

Another half dozen miles gave us a first glimpse of the Severn valley and we sped down the steep, windy road to Coalport. Gary’s descent technique was rather more assured than mine, particularly round the hairpin bends, but I felt that the pace would have unsettled even that noted downhiller ‘The Eagle of Handforth’. Following the bottle green river upstream for a mile brought us into the Ironbridge Gorge and we rode onto the eponymous bridge to survey the scene.

THERE ARE 2 THINGS YOU MUST KNOW ABOUT THE IRON BRIDGE
First, it is… a bridge! Second, it is… made of iron! Erm, yes, anyway, as any fule kno, it was constructed in 1779 by Abraham Darby and was the first metallic bridge. The world’s first iron railway tracks, iron railway wheels and steam railway locomotive were also all built in the gorge, and it deserves its moniker of ‘Birthplace of the Industrial Revolution’. Early tourists, who came to witness the dawning of a new age, were both impressed and horrified by what they saw. One young American visitor was moved to write: “when we arrive at the summit of the hill which overlooks Coalbrookdale, we are presented with all the horrors that Pandemonium could show. We descend the hill passing through the very midst of all these Flames.” The area is now a UNESCO World Heritage Site and rather less Dante-esque. The bridge has been spruced up and given a shiny plaque, the village boasts rather more teashops than foundries, and the gorge is green and lush. The ravening tourist hordes and inappropriate pub names – ‘The Shakespeare’ link is very tenuous and don’t get me started on ‘Ye Olde Robin Hood Inn’ – detract a little but it’s still well worth a visit.

SEVERN UP
After partaking of an excellent Cornish pasty, we decided to take advantage of the good weather and head to Bridgnorth. My cunning plan to follow the Severn all the way, had the advantages of being direct and downhill, but the slight disadvantage that the road only went as far as Coalport before climbing steeply out of the valley. After an inopportune map stop (Gary’s clip-in shoes rendering the hill start tricky), we continued up the West bank. I could tell that that the gradient was severe when Gary, 20 metres ahead, started zigzagging across the full width of the road. Out of the saddle and in our lowest available gears, we pedalled hard for a good mile before the slope finally flattened out near Broseley. From there we had a nice run along an undulating B-road with excellent views out over the Severn valley and Shropshire hills.

I really like Bridgnorth; it’s a handsome old market town and has fond memories for me. It was the venue for my first ever pub crawl and, more recently, for Jon’s stag weekend. After a quick water stop in High Town we freewheeled down to the river and prepared to do battle with the one Bridgnorth feature I do not have a love for. ‘The Hermitage’, named after a series of caves cut into the soft red sandstone that is typical of the area (apparently Shropshire was once covered by a Sahara-like desert), is more of a cliff than a hill. As we began the long climb, it quickly became apparent that one of us (OK, me) was in trouble. While the spirit was still willing, the flesh weakened rapidly. In cycling parlance, I had ‘The Knock’, a signal from the body that unless it got food pronto it would withdraw its co-operation. It felt like I had concrete legs, through which coursed not blood but lactic acid. My rate of progress was glacial. Gary, meanwhile, had pulled away into the distance and there was a depressing lack of passing ambulances. What kept me pedalling was the certain knowledge that the only thing worse than keeping going, would be to stop and then have to do a standing start.

By the time I had completed two more short climbs further along the Bridgnorth Road, I was done in. Gary, bless his cotton socks, had stopped to wait for me and produced two mini Snickers bars, which I devoured greedily. I also took the opportunity to blow my nose, rid myself of some attractive green phlegm and do my celebrated impersonation of a cadaver.

The last few miles back to Brewood seemed to take ages, but there were no big climbs and the choccie bars provided the necessary fuel. The envisaged “little ride” had turned into a not so little roundtrip of 47 miles, so we felt deserving of an enormous meal, a bottle of cheeky red and, in Gary’s case, a liberal application of ‘DeepHeat’.

I LOVE THE SMELL OF DEEPHEAT IN THE EVENING
Actually, this is a lie. The pungent aroma of Deepheat-ed Nelmes, particularly when combined with Thai green curry and garlic baguette, is not for everyone and for the first time I was grateful for my blocked sinuses. To be fair to Gary, though, his manly musk was later to prove a hit with two old biddies in ‘The Swan’, where we continued our carbo replenishment with some nice pints of Theakston’s XB.


Nick Harris (November 2003).