周辺のスポット/アトラクション・トップ20

Christchurch Bridge is one of those post-2010 structures that still looks vaguely futuristic if you squint through the drizzle, all brushed metal and angled cables, stretched over the Thames like someone thought Reading needed a statement piece on a budget. Built in 2015 to connect the town centre with the north bank, it was meant to be a step toward sustainable transport. These days, it’s more of a tactical crossing point. At 138 metres long, it offers a decent line across the water, provided you can navigate the walkers, the slow, unpredictable pedestrians who drift across both lanes like confused drones. They’ll stop dead, veer diagonally, or pull a 180 with no warning. Bells are useless. Polite coughs do nothing. Try “on your right” and you’ll get a sideways glance that says, “You chose threat.” The bridge itself is solid, no major structural issues, not yet, and the view isn’t bad if you’re into Reading riverside aesthetics or watching trains roll by in the middle distance. There’s usually a breeze, and sometimes the air carries a strange scent, incense and diesel or something like that, perhaps old factories nearby were smouldering. Two wheels have to treat the crossing like an obstruction. You ride steady, but ready, always prepared to dodge a wayward commuter or canine unit on a retractable leash stretched to trip-wire length. There’s no room to be indecisive, and definitely no time for mid bridge photo shoots unless you’re ready to become a cautionary anecdote. The incline is gentle, but if you’re hauling supplies or riding on a loaded frame, you’ll feel it by the halfway mark. Still, it’s a crucial part of the west-east route along the Thames Path. If you’re avoiding roads and staying off-grid, this bridge is your best shot across the river without backtracking for miles. At dawn or dusk, you might get lucky and cross it clean, no walkers, no noise, just the creak of your drivetrain and the water below, quiet and grey. At peak times, though, it’s a gauntlet. Urban survival, one careful pedal stroke at a time.

I arrived at the old station, having to ride out a few kilometers west to the Vastern Road area near the river in Tilehurst. The signage appeared to pretend this was a gateway to somewhere worth going. Stainless steel fixtures dulled by time, built in that sleek late-capitalist optimism style. Fake clean. Surveillance cameras blinked overhead — working or not, who knows. I pushed past the bins that no longer had lids, down the cracked concrete that once passed for a plaza, heading toward the river path. The concrete there was smooth once. Still is, in patches. But it’s slick with algae now, and streaked with goose scat. Probably goose. Definitely not rain. The roundabouts were relentlessly busy — or at least that’s how it felt. Zs in battered cars circled endlessly, tires scraping the cracked concrete like it was a ritual. But sometimes, between the noise and the haze, I caught glimpses of something else — distant echoes of old festival revellers, laughter and music bouncing off the concrete barriers, a fading pulse beneath the relentless circling. The lines between past and present blurred, the city’s decay tangled with memories of better days. The traffic spun on, a ceaseless loop of movement and stillness sharing the same broken rhythm. The goose scat got thicker past the bridge. Sometimes it’s dry and crunchy under tires. Sometimes it’s wet, and that’s worse. The path dips unexpectedly. Puddles collect. There’s no drainage. There’s no budget for real upkeep or sustainable transport improvements. No plan to make this path anything more than a patchwork for cyclists and pedestrians to navigate as best they can. But even along the Thames, there are occasional stretches that hint at something better — patches where the breeze is fresher, the water glimmers, and for a moment, the city’s weight feels a little less crushing. Ahead, the suspension bridge hung like a relic of better speeches. A millennium structure. Another optimistic gesture. It still worked. Locals crossed it daily — crackles, Zs, traders moving quietly, heads down, eyes flicking up just long enough to check you weren’t a threat. It’s a corridor now, not a landmark. A place to move through, not think about. I wasn’t there to scavenge. Not that day. This was about securing reliable wheels for the group. The vehicle was a pre-EV Golf — Mk7.5, diesel, with a recently renewed DSG transmission. Someone had actually taken care of it. That counted for something. The Golf was cached in a cul-de-sac just past the edge of the river path, in an old industrial area that had slipped into decay even before things broke down. Rusted loading bays and cracked tarmac replaced what might once have been a hive of activity. The map said number 12 — red brick, side garage. It was all still there. Tires a bit soft, one headlight lens fogged, but otherwise intact. Luck, or good planning. Hard to tell anymore. The tow ball rear Thule rack was still intact, making it easy to strap the pushbike recon unit on for the ride back. I checked the interior. No needles, no surprises. Just a stale whiff of diesel mixed with an old Halfords air freshener trying to remember what “Black Ice” was supposed to smell like. The keys were where they’d said — taped behind the fascia of the old electric meter box. I started the engine. It turned over like it had something left to prove. For the first time in a while, I wasn’t pushing a bike through river shit or dodging scooter gangs in shopping centre undercrofts. I was behind the wheel, with four functioning tires and a full tank of unknown provenance. That’s mobility. That’s currency. The Golf pulled away slow but steady. DSG shifted like a rumour — not smooth, but competent. I took the long route back through side streets and forgotten service roads, staying off-grid. Past boarded shops, sagging bus shelters, and those weird chalk sigils some of the smaller sects have started leaving on the kerbs. No one stopped me. No one even looked up. This wasn’t a supply run. This was infrastructure repair. Quiet, vital work. And for now, at least, we had wheels.

Best way across the Thames in Reading and it links the station and city centre to the beautiful Christchurch meadows and the Thames path. Nice colour lights in the dark too

The Kennet and Avon Canal is 87 miles (140 km) long from Bristol to Reading. It is part canal and part river. Here there is a cracking section that runs from Mill Road to Southcote Mill. Be careful of walkers, as this is an accessible section from Reading and very popular.

The Kennet is a tributary of the River Thames, and features a lovely towpath section between Burghfield and Reading that forms part of NCN 4. It's a little narrow in places as it passes under bridges, but it's well-surfaced and makes for a scenic cycle. Look out for Fobney Pumping Station, Southcote Lock Bridge and the popular Cunning Man pub at Burghfield.

A very nice small garden right on the banks of the River Thames at Reading.

Opened in 2015, Christchurch Bridge was the first crossing over the River Thames to have been built in nearly 100 years. It is reserved for pedestrians and cycles only.

Established in Victorian times, Forbury Gardens is a sweet haven from the hustle and bustle of Reading. As it is a walled garden, the noise of the town is kept well at bay. The statue of the lion is formally called the Maiwand Lion and was built to commemorate the local lives lost during the 2nd Anglo-Afghan War between 1878 and 1880. There is a local rumour that the sculptor, George Blackall Simonds, took his own life after realising that the lion's stance was impossible, as should the lion walk, it would fall over. However, this is not true as the sculpture is based on his observations of lions at London Zoo and he lived until he was 86.