Pedalling the delights of the New Forest

SITTING on the verge, back wheel off, covered in oil and with the inner tube for a mountain bike in my hand when I needed one for a road bike, I was seriously questioning just what got me into cycling. In no man's land, almost equidistant from where I had come from to where I was going, I could quite easily have tossed my bike into the ditch and thumbed a lift to the nearest pub.

Cycle for any period of time, though, and you will have instances such as this. And it's what happened next that restored my faith and made me realise why I prefer two wheels over four.

"You all right mate?" I looked up from my self-pity to see a fellow rider and his mate. "Inner tube?" I inquired. "No problem, here you go."

With that my saviour and his pal were off, my gratitude tempered only by the fact I'd broken my tyre levers and could have done with borrowing theirs.

I needn't have worried. A few minutes later, another cyclist passed by. "Having problems?" I explained my predicament. Not only did he produce the requisite tools, but he proceeded to put the new tube in for me.

Again, with just a cheery wave, he was off.

The New Forest, with its picturesque landscape, a mix of open countryside and secluded woodland, is a magnet for those who like a life in Lycra. Unfortunately, like the herds of wildebeest that sweep across the plains of Africa, cyclists do have a habit of congregating en masse – something the locals on their daily commute are apparently not too fond of.

I must admit, however, that I didn't encounter any animosity during my brief stay in this beautiful part of Hampshire – quite the opposite. Hotels, pubs, locals, all were more than willing to help with directions, breakdowns – mechanical, not physical – and, when I got off the bike, just some good old conversation.

It began on leaving Southampton station, a friendly policeman pointing me towards my hotel for the night, even though it was a good 15 miles away and I was only able to remember half of its name. The journey itself was not for the faint-hearted, taking in the main route out of the city for a good distance. I was probably my own worst enemy for not opting for the road rather than the cycle path, but it was so poorly maintained I'd have had a puncture within moments of my tyres touching the tarmac. Thankfully, once you cross the River Test, the surface improves and the route becomes less crowded.

My destination for the evening was the Bartley Lodge Hotel. On the very edge of the forest, you enter via a long driveway with trees lining either side, to be greeted by the historic Grade II-listed building. The receptionists didn't bat an eyelid as a I wandered in dripping with sweat. Instead, they engaged me enthusiastically, were happy to chat about the best places to ride and then showed me to a purpose-built shed where I could securely stow my bike for the evening.

Having relieved myself of most of my paraphernalia, I headed back out and, following their advice, headed along the A337 to Lyndhurst – the unofficial capital of the New Forest. After a quick circuit of the centre, clogged as it was by commuters, I headed back out and retraced part of of my route as far as the Waterloo Arms, a 17th Century pub, just off the main road. Sitting in the beer garden, a pint of local ale in my hand and the sun beating down, I was pretty close to heaven.

Back at the Bartley that evening, my dinner of duck ham, followed by honey and watercress sausage and mash with red onion marmalade tasted all the sweeter for my earlier exertions. The welcoming bed was hard to rise from the following morning, but the sun forcing its way through the curtains meant the day was perfect for cycling.

After filling up the tank with a traditional English breakfast, I headed deeper into the woodland and my second stop, the Bell Inn at Brook. Approaching on the B3079, the trees reaching over the road in a leafy embrace, I was forced to stop for a family of ponies, ambling towards me at a sedate pace, seemingly without a care in the world, least of all for traffic. The Bell was just a few more bends away, the foliage giving way to a green populated by more horses, taking advantage of the dew-laden grass.

Owned by the same family since the late-1700s, it has undergone a tasteful refurbishment which, rather than diminishing its rustic charm, has served only to enhance it. While its car park was thronging with golfers keen to smash a few balls up the fairways of the adjoining course, the Bell welcomes cyclists too. This time my arrival was greeted with a refreshing glass of freshly-squeezed juice, my bike having been secured in a container replete with racks.

As my room, overlooking the garden, wasn't quite ready, I headed out on the road, my circuitous route punctuated by the aforementioned punctures. Having put those mishaps behind me, I treated myself to a pint at the Fighting Cocks at Godshill, more horses in the car park, gates at the pub's entrance thwarting any opportunity for the barman to ask "why the long face?"

I stocked up on inner tubes at the nearby Sandy Balls holiday park – a memory from my childhood – before heading off through Stuckton, Frogham and the Ogdens, past chocolate box houses and thatched cottages.

All too soon, evening was approaching and I headed back to the Bell. My room, with open windows on three sides, was heady with the smell of the food on offer below. The Hampshire Lamb Hash with poached egg set me up nicely for a main of whole roasted grouse with whiskey sauce and game chips. The mini selection of puddings filled the final gap.

I would have preferred another day or so of riding around this largely unspoilt landscape – and a second go at the Bell's menu, if I'm truthful – but, sadly, I had a train to catch. On arrival at home, talk was of a return visit, though I am told I have to leave the bike behind for that one.