Raj Ghosts

Original writing read by John Dunn Sometimes it is the smallest stretches of road, in unexpected places, that can make for the most pleasurable motorcycling, and I had to share this. I had to get out of the chaos of Bicester’s ring road system, if for no other reason than to identify where I had been spat out of it geographically. I was on the A41 heading for Oxford, whereas I had intended to be on the A41 towards Aylesbury. I pulled off the main road to follow the old, pre-war route, to Oxford via Wendlebury. There’s a bend in the road before Wendlebury, and a lane leads of from this, blocked by bollards to cars, but open enough for a motorcycle to slip through. Once through, I stopped , pulled the flask from the pannier, and enjoyed a coffee. I had been on this spot before on a couple of occasions, and knew its history. The now defunct lane was blocked off when Graven Hill became an ammunition depot during the Second World War. But there was more history. Through the gate in the field, before which I now stood, there was once a Roman town known as Alchester; completely invisible now to all but the archaeologist and his trowel. Pondering the map, as I am wont to do on such occasions, my eye caught the name of Chesterton and Akeman Street; the former a village (a few hundred yards from being swallowed up by the the voracious field eater which is Bicester these days), and the latter, which is a famous Roman road. All these ‘chesters’ and ‘cesters’ smack of the Roman activity that existed two thousand years ago round here, and I was drawn towards them. I would take my leave of Alchester, ride over to Chesterton (crossing the busy A34 on the way), and follow Akeman Street on the short metalled stretch westwards towards Kirtlington. That was my plan, and once on the Akeman Street I knew it was a plan that was meant to be. We men of the wheel, we travel hundreds of miles with historic places of interest to see, race tracks to enjoy and ‘meets’ of various kinds to compare machinery, forgetting often that the most interesting place is most often under our wheels wherever we travel. Akeman Street, so close to the chaos I had left behind, was empty of traffic. I could choose my speed, neither held up in front or harassed from behind, whilst savouring the history of the ancient route; the Roman soldiers that constructed the route, the legions that marched up and down it, and the many generations that have used the road since the Romans departed these isles. And beyond the road there was the gently rolling Oxfordshire countryside to refresh the spirit as I rode along. Yes, a short stretch, a departure from my intended way, but a happy one, an uplifting one, when the road, history and nature came together to offer sheer motorcycling pleasure. There was a bonus. Just before Kirtlington, I turned off Akerman Street (out of necessity, the metalled section finished at this point) and turned northwards to follow the Cherwell Valley, which I kept to my left. The lane followed a low ridgeway with the Cherwell to my left and the Gallos Brook a mile or so to my right. This is hardly a dramatic landscape, and yet the lowish elevation was sufficient to give views over the Cherwell that gladdened the heart. I rode on to the former RAF airfield at Heyford. Wow hadn’t things changed around here since last I passed by, not all for the better. And yet I was buoyed through all the developments by the joy of the ride up to that point. I knew that beyond was the ‘Larkrise to Candleford’ country, made famous by Flora Thompson's pen, and it was there that I re-settled into the rhythm of country lane pottering that I relish. No grandiose landscapes, no famous landmarks, no bikers’ cafs, just sunshine and a few thousand years’ worth of history under my very wheels at every turn, to make an ordinary ride special. © John Dunn.

I was motorcycling in the northern Cotswolds yesterday, heading westwards to Dover's Hill, near Chipping Campden, and Middle Littleton to see the great tithe barn; Dover's Hill for the expansive views over the Vale of Evesham, and Middle Littleton for the wondrous medieval architecture. I entered the Cotswolds by riding westwards from Bloxham. Previously I have followed the old Banbury to Barcheston Turnpike, founded in 1802, these days the B4035, but for a change this time I chose to follow what on the map looked like an ancient ridgeway route. As previously, the road started from Bloxham, but differed by following the route through Milcombe, past the "Gate Hangs High" pub, and the villages of Whichford, Stourton, Cherington and Burmington, before joining the old Stratford to Long Compton Turnpike of 1730, now the A3400, and so into Shipston on Stour, and on to Chipping Campden. What a wonderful road this was, being entirely suited to my type of motorcycling and the torquey plodding nature of the single cylinder Royal Enfield. This might well have been the oldest route between Banbury, Bloxham and Shipston on Stour, but it would have become unsuitable for the coaching era because of the steep gradients of the  hills, hence the favoured turnpike route turned out to be the one  passing through the Brailes villages, though it has to be said that this  route must still have been challenging for the stage coach horses. When riding on it, I could sense that my "new" road simply had to have some history; and indeed it did. With some quick internet research on my return home, I discovered that it was an old drovers' road along which the Welsh drovers drove their cattle to markets in Banbury and Northampton, and perhaps beyond, to Aylesbury and London.   The "Gate Hangs High" pub held the clue. I quote from localdroversroads.co.uk (Check  http://www.localdroveroads.co.uk/the-gate-hangs-high-to-banbury/ ) “The Gate Hangs High” is an old drovers' inn on a crossroads a mile due north of Hook Norton at SP 355349. The name is misleading as there was never a tollgate there, in fact the road remained un-turnpiked: a lonely road which was still untarmacked, with grass growing down the middle, in the 1930's. The beer house lay at a crossroads on the old west to east drovers’ road sometimes known as ‘The Welsh Road’ or ‘Banbury Way’. What a beautiful and interesting find, and what a great alternative way into the northern Cotswolds. © John Dunn.

The old saying that the journey is everything applies just as much to the top speed as it does to the destination, perhaps more so. The Royal Enfield's lazy revving single cylinder engine has the torque to grunt its way forward from standstill in any gear. The higher the gear you pull away in, the more patience you need, but thats all. It has not lost the motorcycle’s original relationship to the bicycle. It is still a bicycle with a 500cc single cylinder engine, complemented by huge mud guards, spoked wheels, skinny tyres, single exhaust pipe,  single seat and the trademark headlamp unit with a nacelle, or cover  housing, around it. The nacelle around the headlamp is unchanged from this bike’s antecedents of 60 years ago and more. When I last saw an old Royal Enfield in a  museum I was amazed to see just how the original nacelle design has been left unchanged, with the two pilot-lights (known as tiger’s eyes in  India) either side of the main headlamp, the speedometer, warning lights and ignition key all in the same position. Side-on you behold the idiosyncratic shape of the Royal Enfield engine with the large, bulbous air-cooled cylinder head, and the three different visual levels of the seat, the tank and the headlight, each higher than the other as if sculptured to please the eye. In today’s parlance, the machine is  extremely naked, with no design abstraction between you and the machine; there's no attempt to hide the truth of its simplicity. This first sight of unashamed nakedness is but a foretaste of the no filter  motorcycling experience to come. No filter that is apart from, say, one, which is the starter motor, which starts the engine easily with a few turns. Kick it into life if you will, the kick-starter is there, and the result is the same, as the  plant pot-sized piston lazily reciprocates up and down, shaking the  mirrors, numberplate, indicators and the rest of it as it emits the  trademark phump, phump, phump from the huge exhaust silencer. Hit a pothole don't worry; the Indian army choose this bike for a reason. This is a machine for the dirt roads of Rajasthan, Himalayan passes, floods and fords of Kerala and patrolling Kashmiri mountain terrorist  lairs. This is truly built like a gun. You will have to search hard to find plastic. The fact that this heavy and solid motorcycle was originally designed for the pre-motorway roads and country lanes of  England is testament to the Royal Enfield’s rugged versatility. This  is not a run-of-the-mill modern motorcycle. If you want acceleration and eye-watering top speed, forget it. The old saying that the journey  is everything applies just as much to the top speed, that is the latter  is not everything. My point is made by the impact of its appearance when parked up with other ‘normal’ motorcycles that have lost their original relationship to the  bicycle. The key aspect of the Royal Enfield stands out in all its  visible, audible and tangible solidity…  its soul. © John Dunn.

Also available as a YouTube video.  I’m on my Royal Enfield Classic 500 heading for Newnham village near Daventry, where there is a blue commemorative plaque outside what was once The New Inn. It celebrates an important day in motorcycling history, when in 1908 there was a timed motorcycle hillclimb. I’ll let the Reverend Basil H Davies a motorcycle journalist who wrote under the pen name of Ixion, describe the day. “…a wild sensation was caused at the Newnham hill-climb of the Coventry club. Here every summer the Big Chiefs on the industry feverishly contested a little family combat, where strangers were tolerated but always humiliated when the prize awards came out. In 1908 an unassuming nonentity from Yorkshire, in the person of AA Scott, walked off with all three events on formula, and his new two-stroke boasted an admirable kick-starter, an open frame and a lovely exhaust. He did not convert the industry to open frames or to two-stroke engines, but he forced kick-starters and variable gears on a lethargic world.” This was a big deal in the history of motorcycling, so I thought I’d ride along to Newnham to take a look around. *** Try my YouTube videos too. Click here to take a look.

Listeners to the previous episode of my podcast "Motorcycling Days" will know how the Royal Enfield motorcycle came to my attention in India, more specifically in Shimla, the old British hill station in the foothills of  the Himalayas. In India, the Royal Enfield is much more than a brand or a bike. Its distinctive look and, perhaps more importantly, sound and feel, create an aura around the machine, and a devotion from its riders, to which other brands can only aspire. This near-spiritual response to the Enfield by Indian riders, evoked by an iconic machine with looks that recall its British heritage, completely won me over, especially so amongst the ghosts of the British Raj which can still be sensed in Shimla. When back in England I would seek one out. In this episode of "Motorcycling Days", I talk about the first meeting with the motorcycle I now own.

Making relentless and stately progress, the name in the recognisably flowing script on the side of the tank was - Royal Enfield. Original writing read by John Dunn.