Epping Forest Gravel Ride
Gravel path entering Epping forest under autumn trees
Mud, Magic and Autumn Gravel
It doesn’t take long before the bike - encouraged by the forest - to remind me who’s in control of this ride. One slippery corner, a patch of shiny mud - and splat. A shoulder plant straight into the mud. A spoke snaps. The rear wear limps, hurt. A reminder if ever one were needed, that gravel riding in England is rarely about staying clean nor upright. Balance is temporary, mud washes off.
Grab opportunities as they come. With storm Claudia coming fast across the Atlantic, the day demands I drop everything and attend the final performance of autumn’s great variety show. A day of bitter-sweet joy. Of full-scale immersion into the experience of decay. Of farewell to the colour, the scents, the foods.
Riding out of Walthamstow, past London’s oldest house, gravel tyres humming their curious tune on the tarmac. Within minutes the gentle hum is exchanged for intermittent leaf squelching as the forest welcomes me.
Time slows. As does the pace. The summer tyres lack grip after last night’s rain. There is much slithering and sliding. Gentle grip, strong core, spin, slip, unclip, rescue, brake. Clip in. Proceed with caution. Spin, slip. And finally fall.
The air is damp. A nose of a good Burgundy hangs in the woods. Earthy. Forest floor. Mushrooms. The sweet noble rot of falling leaves.
Epping forest holds centuries of stories. Once a royal hunting ground, stretching from Wanstead to Epping, it became a hideout for highwayman and others who lived beyond the law. In 1878, with enclosures threatening to remove centuries of common access, an Act of Parliament handed the remaining 3,000 acres of forest to the City of London Corporation, so ensuring the right to roam in perpetuity. That act of protection still feels radical - a wilderness kept free for everyone, right on London’s doorstep.
Gravel paths, wide and firm even after rain. A smothering of brown beech leaves. Wheels trace the same routes taken by Tudor kings, commoners, horses and wanderers. Ponds and old Iron Age forts. Twisted trunks of oaks. Muscular grey trunks of hornbeam resembling elephant legs, (the forest is the largest hornbeam woodland in the UK), elegant beech. A paintbox of colour.
Butler’s Retreat. It’s worth stopping here just for the name. One imagines Carson (of Downton Abbey) nipping over to this white-painted weatherboarded cottage for a quick lunch, dressed in his white tie finery, although whether his tastes would extend to chimiuchurri, sirloin, potato rösti and mushrooms is doubtful. Like Carson perhaps, I opt for simpler fare - soup, a roll and local beer - for there’s more riding to do.
Muddy gloves on the table.
A cycle computer beeping alarm, ‘let’s get back to riding’.
Temptation to feast of food prepared with love
Drop off Pole Hill into the Lea Valley. The transition is magical. Trees give way to sky, mud to water. The path is firm and the bike zings along, albeit with a limping rear wheel. Willow branches wander in the breeze. Everywhere leaves sashay to the ground. Canal boats line the banks puffing faint streams of coal smoke into the November air. A heron lifts heavily from the reeds. From forest to river, from quiet woodland to urban edge. The route is a reminder of why we ride - not for distance nor for data, but for the feeling of movement through changing worlds.
Through Tottenham Marshes. The path widens a little, still smooth and quick. Walthamstow Wetlands - the largest urban wetlands in Europe. A mirror of reservoir and sky, the distant shimmering city. Past the Coppermill Tower, a remnant of an 1806 watermill. Grade II listed. Architecture in perfect harmony with its surrounds. A few more revolutions of the wheels before the brakes are pulled for the final time at Walthamstow Central. A train departs in six minutes. Perfect timing.