周辺のスポット/アトラクション・トップ20

This junction is a great place to meet up or find your way around the trails and Swinley Forest

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.

Approaching Coombes Lane from the east, the light begins to change. The shadows stretch too long, too early. The gravel beneath your wheels seems to hum—low, nearly imperceptible, like a pressure change behind your ears. Some say it’s just the trees. Others claim it’s a localized temporal anomaly, like brushing the edge of a vortex or slipping sideways through time. Either way, once you cross the threshold, things feel different. This junction once marked part of the old Bearwood estate. Before the event, “Bearwood” might’ve referred to ancient bear hunts across the land. Now it seems to describe the path itself—bare, worn, and faintly haunted by old instincts. Stripped-back gravel flows down the sandy track, smooth enough for fast two-wheel traversal—if you don’t stop moving. The lane runs tight along the perimeter of a forgotten golf course, its greens now gone to seed. Golf Men still roam there—solitary figures locked in endless loops, trailing white objects with ritualistic obsession. No one knows if they ever finish a round, but the low groans they emit suggest occasional joy, frequent regret, and a heavy air of bunked sadness. Keep your distance. Don’t try to help. And above all, don’t retrieve the ball. Reports of large wild cats once circulated here. Some say they’re still around—shadows with tails, low to the ground, seen only between blinks. Add that to the interference in your comms, occasional compass spin, and persistent sense of déjà vu, and Coombes Lane earns its reputation. A hidden bunker is rumored somewhere near the lane, though most agree it’s more likely the ghost of an ancient Roman outpost. Caesar’s Camp isn’t far off, and the landscape still holds the scars of older empires. Byways peel off into Barkham Woods, a tangled sprawl of secondary paths, watchpoints, and blind corners. Good for exploration. Also good for ambushes. Z movement has been mapped here. Canine patrols, too—some with collars, some without. Assume neither is friendly. This trail was once favored by the Finchmen—a band of gravel-bike scavengers known for their speed, discipline, and strict adherence to the old countryside code. You’d do well to ride in their spirit: leave no trace, close all gates, pack out your trash, and never—ever—feed the Golf Men. If you’re looking for quiet exploration with a side of strangeness and the feeling that time might not run quite right here… Coombes Lane delivers.

Sick place to ride, loads of trails and the burns are great👌.

Red 15, seat down ready for jumps

There current diversions on Red 1 & Red 9 May 2022.

very well maintained and dedicated bike park.

When there’s been lots of rain… be prepared for large puddles for long periods of times. Embrace and enjoy.