I leave Tadley to the north west and pick up a small lane by Blacknest Farm. Blue sky and a low winter sun. Long shadows and mist pervading the woods and lowlands. Out in the open, distant views sucked dry of colour, just leaving a range of blues and greys, each ridge a paler version of the one before. Around me the sun casts a yellow-orange hue over my surroundings, its feeble warmth just enough to pull steam from fence panels and tarmac. The lane, which marks the border between Hampshire and Berkshire, drops quickly and I pick up a bridleway – which doubles as a stream – to cross the River Enborne.

A short low climb through Hyde End brings me out just west of Brimpton where I pick up my next off-road track, a mucky affair that drops from the ridge to rejoin the road by Brimpton Mill on the River Kennet. A brief spell on tarmac and I turn off to pick up the towpath heading along the canal toward Woolhampton. There, I turn north, crossing the Reading-Newbury line and the A4 in turn before taking the lane up to Douai Abbey.

Watched by a solitary horse, steam rising from his back as he tries to soak every vestage of warmth from the brightness he bathes in, I climb the ridge and pass Elstree school heading for the Abbey. From behind austere walls and hedges, the energetic sounds of budding young football and rugby stars pearce the stillness. Views back across the canal and Enborne Valley are obscured by the dazzle from the low sun rippling through the trees.
At the Abbey I turn north west and head for the cold woods of Bucklebury Common.

Everything now robbed of colour – except the odd golden sword of sunlight laying across the track. Away from the sun a damp grey cold seeps deep to my core. To keep warm, I up the tempo while rythmically skirting the standing water. Left, right, left. The same strange dance of racing cars on their warm up lap. Here and there a deep puddle stretches its ice-cold content the full width of the track and I plough through, hoping it's not too deep, gritting my teeth a little more as the wet seeps through to shock my skin. Then briefly back into the sunlight. I stop and turn to face the distant furnace, closing my eyes and drinking what little warmth it offers.
On again, deeper into the woods. And now down the far side of the ridge. Gravity assists my progress along muddy, water filled ruts.

A gate forces me to stop. The creak of it's hinges and my laboured breathing are the only sounds here in this land of perpetual shadow.

Running water escorts me to the lower slopes and I burst back into the light at the bottom of the valley at Bucklebury.

Now a ford to cross the River Pang. But the water is low and stagnant. A week ago it was flowing and we've had rain since then. I head north and ponder the reasons as I pass soggy fields full of pregnant sows. They all stand side on to the low sun, like some disorganised army, awaiting the order to move. They seem happy enough, rummaging the mud, almost all chewing some morsel or other. I pass Hawkridge Farm and the following short, sharp climb forces me out the saddle, but my back wheel starts to slip on the wet leaves carpeting the old lane. I drop gears and drop back into the saddle. A cold blast down the far side, into the open and past The Pot Kiln pub. The smells of cooking and beer mixed with the cold and damp smells of winter remind me of Christmases past.

The rumble of traffic on the M4. I look down appreciating my freeedom to roam, while below they sit captive in their boxes, unable to stop and take in the view, even if they wanted to.
On to Yattendon. Here I stop to soak up more sunlight and take on some carbs. I turn east for Burnt Hill and Ashampstead Common where I turn again, to the south.

Back into the woods, more mud beneath my tyres. Clearing Greathouse wood I turn for home and face the late afternoon sun. My tyres hum rythmically on the tarmac as I head toward Stanford Dingly. I slow to pass a horse rider. A quick chat and off again. Crossing the Pang again (flowing here) I head west and up for Chapel Row.

Up and down, I stay on lanes for my muscles have had their fill of mud. Beyond Woolhampton I accelerate across the flat of the valley floor, relishing the lack of resistance to progress. An unseen flock of geese announce their arrival as I pass water-filled gravel pits. Their din filling the air. Brief glimses through the hedge then the sound a rushing water as so many webbed feet skim and sink into the grey slab. One last climb. The sinking sun pulls back its warming comfort and the cold blanket of dusk decsends. My breath clouds hang behind me as I labour upwards.

Home. I prop the bike and turn the hose to it. Then my legs and feet to get the worse of the mud off my leggings and overshoes. Minutes later and I'm languishing in a deep, hot bath. Cup of coffee on the side and Michael Crichton to keep me awake. Nice ride