Arne spoke of that special kind of wilderness that Britain provides. Isolated enough to feel that you are alone on an island only inhabited by ancient woodland creatures and aviary types but within a cycle ride of a major conurbation. Swanage, Poole and Bournemouth are all a 60 second bird flight away, with the luxury residences of Sandbanks on the opposite shore where a Redknapp or two roosts. I thought this was the perfect base for a bimble of incredible opportunity; East, South, West or North there were adventures to be had on two wheels. To the South the Purbeck Hills provide a cloud barrier which allows Poole Harbour to repeatedly feature in the 'hours of most sunshine' spot on the evening news. This was always a juicy bone to a Brummie dog looking for an escape route to the Sun.
As a bimbler I like to think I'm Paul Simon getting all the news I need from the weather report. Repeated warnings of bad weather had driven many campers home by this point of the summer and the dark clouds over the Purbeck's hinted at misery beyond. I found a campsite within walking distance of Wareham but not too close to be rowdy and upon arrival of the Red Baron most campers left toot suite, chuntering about apocalyptic storms arriving. I was happy to stay in the lee of the hills and explore the rich treasures of bird heaven on the lowland heaths around Arne, one of the RSPB's flagship sites and home of good weather.
With some glee I pulled my trusty steed, Claud Butler Dalesman, out of Rosie's bosom and headed off into the wilds. Flat was good and speed felt right as I ate up the few miles on deserted roads through the heath to the point where Arne sits overlooking marshes and Poole Harbour. The heather was out and the familiar ambrosial scent hang heavy in the warm summer dusk. I was alone, exploring, happy as a young Baden Powell stranded on his beloved Brownsea Island, which was visible from the vantage point as the road petered out. Dinghies from Poole raced in the bay and hidden beaches and islands called out for Scouts to explore and set up hidden camps of pirates.
I was here for the birds though ! I had been told of a lazy Osprey that hung out at one of the hides and a mythical white deer that roamed the salt flats. Looking for luck I combed the carefully tended paths through birch woods trying to sneak up on the roe deer grazing on the marshes with my telephoto lens searching for that magic shot.
I soon found my field glasses were probably relics of the war and frosted up in one eye. I came across a twitcher and soon had techno envy. His powerful binoculars were a revelation picking out distant specks which his trained eye identified as rare summer avian visitors. He showed me his snaps of inquisitive bucks in high definition close up. He got bored of me using his gear and I moved on determined to use the power of surprise.
They were a bit too far out for my lens and frisky, they probably caught my scent after a week in Rosie too. What a great way to spend your summer evenings bumbling about watching wildlife. I envied the patience and the calm peace of the twitcher, happy as a trainspotter. Someone who was a master of one hobby and confident in his authority, informed and enthused by this lone activity.
As was the big buck, way out on the mudflats with his harem following behind. Standing proud like Hearn the Hunter, with Poole looking rather incongruous behind. I left him to master his domain and whipped back to the comfort of Rosie in the fading light or a warm evening. As soon as I hit the tarmac three smaller deer jumped out in front of me! These were smaller Sika deer which have become native to this area, protected and thriving. I was to see many more boinging out of the undergrowth as I wound my way through the heath and forests of The Isle of Purbeck. I imagine this is why people go on Safari, to feel privileged to be so close to such special animals in their natural habitat. But we don't need to go far! With their twitching ears and inquisitive faces one could only stop and stare as they size you up and sniff your scent. I spent many a moment seeing who would twitch first and became a bit of a stalker over the next few days. I always won as the sight of them bounding away, leaping over the furze in the relative silence of the heath was a joy to behold.
One of the reasons this is such a well protected nature reserve despite its proximity to a large population is that there is oil in them thar hills. Cunningly hidden away in pine woods lies 'Wytch Farm' which claims to be Europe's largest onshore oil field pulling out 50,000 barrels a day from reserves up to 500 feet below the ground. If you go looking you will find it but the only signs are a low hum of industry and some eerie lights at night. Modern pirates smuggling their booty from the earth's core. The less intrusion into their activity the better I imagine so they must support the raft of environmental initiatives that come with such a site of special scientific interest and the heritage sites of the Jurassic coast. A symbiotic relationship that cuts a delicate balance in the modern eco-system. I doubt the frackers would have as much leeway.
This was perfect cycling terrain. Quiet roads criss crossed the heath and for the more adventurous there were trails through the woods and along disused quarrying routes. Best of all it was quite flat until I hit the Purbeck hills. I was so enamoured that I fell into a false sense of security and ventured out the next day without essential supplies, aiming for Studland Bay. I knew immediately that I had punctured and should have taken stock and retraced my steps. You can usually sense that you have pushed it too far and that further risk will lead to disaster. Call it a day, take it on the chin and accept defeat. But no, the MAMIL's mind doesn't work like that.
I cursed my luck as I realised I was at least ten miles from the comfort of Rosie. I had been out all day and the light was fading. My first thought was to find a bus stop lock the bike up and return with Rosie so in my madness I pushed on to the ferry to Sandbanks. The only buses went to Swanage. Now I was further from home, nearer Bournemouth than bed. Instead I manically cycled to Studland Bay and then unwittingly up the side of the increasingly massive peaks of the Purbeck Hills. I had started to pump the tyres up every 500 yards, but this became a pointless waste of energy. As my fear grew I pushed on, rim to the road, hoping that the next summit would be the last and that cars would take pity on a struggling cyclist and sling my burden in the back of a 4x4. A possible lycra clad hero rode by shouting see if I had spares. To my horror that was it! He didn't stop. I was now in a state of survival. It was exhilarating, the endorphins spiked and the adrenaline raced as I rode between emotions of panic and exhaustion. At one spot I was running up hills and then wobbling down the other side. In the end I took a punt and dove back into the wilderness of the heath.
I ate my last carb as some Sika deer consoled my wilting figure as it disappeared in the dusk. I became increasingly lost in the woods. The lights of the oil refinery saved me as I eventually popped out near Arne in pitch black night. I wondered how I would get on in the proper wilds of woolly and was beginning to doubt my Bear Grylls credentials. The only way now was to ride on a ruined tyre and hope I didn't leave the tarmac. Keep straight, upright and push on. The relief as I rode back into camp and devoured a packet of fig rolls was like a cascade. That was the sweetest shower I ever had!
As my shaking subsided I felt like a real adventurer, a Hemingwayesque hero tackling the wilds. A man can be defeated but he can never be destroyed.
