I’ve gazed at the High Weald from the top of Ditchling Beacon many times, wondering when I’d finally make it there.

And, like unlocking a new section of map in Tears of a Kingdom, that day finally came.

The section along the coast from Worthing to Brighton I’ve already written about; so too the rather grim jaunt along the A27 to Lewes, where cyclists are expected to pedal dangerously close to speeding motorists, with crash barriers only protecting you at the most obvious driver-on-phone-doesn’t-notice-bend hotspots.

At Lewes, I turned left at the prison, and passed the footpath taking dog walkers to the South Downs Way.

This took me fast, downhill and straight to Offham, one of those villages unfortunate enough to be on a fast A-road, because you can’t bypass everything. [1]

Outside the pub, enterprising locals have build a speeding traffic scarecrow, aka a vaguely man-shaped mannequin in a high vis jacket.

There are a lot of signs like this in England nowadays, due to near-zero traffic enforcement. Other variations include smiley dot matrix signs that make an angry face when you speed; the fake children-bollards by schools, often accompanied by cutesy “please don’t run us over” drawings by local kids; and the home-made “please switch off your engine” signs that are ignored outside houses by level crossings. [2]

In a country where you can do pretty much anything in a car without consequence, up to and including killing someone [3], these signs take on a plaintive, almost doomed quality.

I turned off the busy road by the church of St Peter Offham, and immediately relaxed. The road was narrow and quiet. To my right, framed by trees, was the Ridge of the Downs, grudgingly making its way towards the sea. An old couple were working on their allotment. The theme tune from Five Go Mad In Dorset started up in my head.

Things were fine.

The route was rather pleasant from here. I was journey planning mainly on vibes, vaguely checking the map on occasion to remember which village to head for, but unafraid of getting lost or finding myself somewhere unexpected.

It’s slower, but I prefer doing this to following my Garmin on a pre-prepared route, if I have the time.

Thusly, I passed Barcombe Cross, Spithurst, and Piltdown [4], where I lay down on the grass by a pond and some golfers came over to ask if I was ok.

From here, I cycled up Down Street [5], a beautiful, flat, and straight road all the way to Nutley. From here I weighed up staying on the A-road all the way to Forest Row, but decided against it and turned off by a nice-looking edge-of-town curry house onto the road for Chelwood Gate and Wych Cross.

Here, I found another sign, this one a howl of nationalist indignation:

And then, more intriguingly…

This turned out to be a cat charity HQ, not a vast conference centre for cats. A great shame and misleading advertising, if you ask me.

Beyond Wych Cross, the road rejoined the A22, with its fast cars anxious to overtake me on the long and glorious downhill stretch to Forest Row.

From here, I took the gravel ex-railway path all the way to East Grinstead, with its Scientologists, boy racers, and strange air of not quite being anywhere in particular.

[1] Time for some Hitchhikers’ Guide:

MISTER PROSSER: I’m afraid you’re going have to accept it! This bypass has got to be built and it is going to be built. Nothing you can say or do – 

ARTHUR DENT: Why has it got to be built?

MISTER PROSSER: Wha – what do you mean, “why has it got to be built?” It is a bypass! You’ve got to build bypasses!

As everyone knows, shortly afterwards the entirety of Earth – including, presumably, Offham – was ironically demolished for a hyperspace bypass through the Milky Way galaxy. Did no one ever consider induced demand in space?

[2] The English aren’t as good as the Germans at obeying signs, at least not historically speaking. Satire from 124 years ago courtesy of Jerome K Jerome:

“In the German parks there are special seats labelled, “Only for grown-ups” (Nur für Erwachsene), and the German small boy, anxious to sit down, and reading that notice, passes by, and hunts for a seat on which children are permitted to rest; and there he seats himself, careful not to touch the woodwork with his muddy boots.

“Imagine a seat in Regent’s or St. James’s Park labelled “Only for grown-ups!” Every child for five miles round would be trying to get on that seat, and hauling other children off who were on.

“As for any “grown-up,” he would never be able to get within half a mile of that seat for the crowd. The German small boy, who has accidentally sat down on such without noticing, rises with a start when his error is pointed out to him, and goes away with down-cast head, blushing to the roots of his hair with shame and regret.”

[3] There are thousands of examples this egregious.

[4] Home of Piltdown man, the infamous paleoanthrological fraud whereby an amateur archaeologist claimed he had found the “missing link” between apes and humans. This Victorian scam artist is remembered by… a pub named after his orangutan / medieval peasant skull hybrid.

[5] presumably as it heads in the direction of the Downs. I suspect this is a very old road, possibly even Roman. I will look into it one day.