“Stump………stump………stump……..stump” shouted Claire as she wove a skilful path between and over the remnants of beech trees that littered our chosen trail. She knew this trail well and was pushing the pace. Our tyres scrabbled for purchase on the desiccated chalk surface. Slowly degrading leaf litter did nothing to help grip and neatly disguised some of the stumps, so I was reliant on Claire’s warnings to help literally smooth my progress through the forest. The fact that she was riding a mountain bike, albeit a short travel XC model rather than something burlier, perhaps gave her an edge, but I suspect she would have been smooth and fast no matter what bike she was on. I was testing the very limits of tyre traction and pilot skill on my monstercross bike as we flew through Friston Forest.

When I first mentioned to Claire and partner Jo that I’d like to come and visit, it was Jo’s suggestion that we head away from the famous trails of the South Downs in search of gravelly fun elsewhere. Our start point was the tiny, picturesque village of Glynde, home to an annual opera festival. I’ve ridden with Jo for too many years to count and I knew to expect a couple of things from a route that he plans – a) It will be fantastically good fun but b) there would be a lot of climbing and c) I would need copious amount of cake and/or ice cream and probably a lie down afterwards too. Their route ticked all of those boxes and more.

Glynde is located in the bottom of a wide river-cut valley between two chalk escarpments. As we unloaded our bikes from the van at the start of the ride, I gazed around and did a quick bit of detective work to figure out which of the hills we would be headed up first. I mentally geared myself up for the challenge ahead.

Sure enough, after a few minutes of gentle paved riding, our route grunted and gurned its way up the side of Itford Hill until we reached the broad grassy ridge line. “There’s nothing like a nice gentle warm-up and that was nothing like a nice gentle warm-up” was probably what was going through my brain. 

"Fluffy cotton-wool clouds drifted overhead and it felt like we were on top of the world"

Fortunately, once we’d reached the ridge line, the gradient eased off and the views were incredible. A sea-breeze wafted in from our right, which kept the temperature down. This felt like archetypal South Downs riding – wide grassy ridges, interspersed with what Jo calls “secretly hard” climbs. The English Channel glinted in the sunshine, fluffy cotton-wool clouds drifted overhead and it felt like we were on top of the world. Albeit a softer, lower altitude, southern one, rather than my normal rocky, rugged, occasionally bleak northern version.

This top of the world feeling was brought closer into focus when we spotted an “everesting” sign adjacent to our trail. At this point we were only around 200m above sea level, which would potentially mean climbing from the nearby coastal town of Newhaven forty-four times to achieve the requisite 8848m of elevation gain. No thanks, was our consensus of opinion.

After a super speedy down-and-up from our high point on Fearle Beacon to Bostal Hill, Jo steered us southwards and downwards, initially towards the coast. I hadn’t ridden chalk trails for a few years and it took me a while to get my “eye in” again. He and Claire flew off in front, their local knowledge and skill at riding these trails all too visible. Chalk trails, for anyone who has never tried them, are a very odd surface. When dry, they can be screamingly fast, with clouds of fine dust and tiny rock fragments pinging off your tyres as you hurtle over the surface. But they have a wicked underbelly too.

Chalk is normally found with its delinquent younger brother flint, an opaque dull grey/whiteish polycrystalline quartz, and while chalk can be soft and yielding at times, flint on the other hand is literally rock hard and can be razor sharp. Flint loves nothing more than munching on bike tyres and the newer and the more expensive the tyre the better. So, while we descended with ever gathering speed, our sixth sense for nodules of flint was turned up to 11 and we skipped and flicked our way across the trail in search of smoother, flint-free lines.

With the ever-encroaching threat of climate change already impacting this region and the geology a near-perfect match for the wine making regions of northern France, it was with little surprise that towards the bottom of the descent we turned a corner to be met with rows and vows of grape vines ripening in the warm sunshine. 

"We halved the average age of the village’s inhabitants at a stroke when we arrived"

Our first destination was the ancient village of Alfriston, where Jo steered us neatly towards the village stores – home of a well-stocked pie counter and purveyors of coffee (albeit only from an automated machine). We halved the average age of the village’s inhabitants at a stroke when we arrived and then sat on a sun-dappled bench next to war memorial, giggling at the ineptitude of the drivers attempting to park giant 4x4s in the tiny village square. Energy and caffeine levels topped up, we headed out of Afriston on an undulating backroad - one of those roads which was just fast enough, twisty enough and up-and-down enough to be fun. 

With a quick blink-and-you’ll-miss-it flick of her left hand, Claire signalled that our sojourn on tarmac had come to an end and we dived off through a tiny gap in the roadside hedge and up into Friston Forest. The trail was bone-dry and instantly captivating. With a liberal dosing of roots, stumps, nodules of flint easing through the surface and occasional piles of leaves, the trail demanded concentration just to stay on Claire’s wheel. After an initial short, sharp climb the gradient eased and after crossing a forest fire-road we joined the start of a trail I later realised was known locally as “Stumpy”. It was genius route (or should that be root?) planning on Claire and Jo’s behalf that we rode up the trail we would later descend, albeit at a significantly faster speed, as it gave me a good warning of what to expect later.

"As we speederbiked our way through the forest, it reminded me just how much I missed this type of riding"

Friston Woods are enveloped in a spider’s web of trail options with everything from vehicle-width fireroads, to smooth chalk singletrack, to well-loved bombholes, to tight-and-nadgery tracks woven between stands of coppiced beech trees. The single unifying factor was how fun they were to ride. I suspected I had a huge gravelgrin^TM plastered across my face. It was weirdly a slightly bitter-sweet grin though. Although I love living in the north of England, sat on Jo and Claire’s wheels as we speederbiked our way through the forest reminded me just how much I missed this type of riding and equally how much I really missed riding with such outrageously skilled friends. 

I don’t know about Jo and Claire, but I seemed to ride at race pace for 99% of the time we were in the woods. Our stops were infrequent and normally only brief enough to get heart rates down to only 80% of maximum, take a quick swig of water and then head off again. This type of über-fast and technical riding isn’t for everyone and was probably closer to mountain biking than we liked to admit, but part of the thrill of gravel riding for me at least is pushing the limits of what’s possible on a rigid drop bar bike. Friston Forest was certainly helping us do that.

The buzz from trying to keep up with a speedy rider on a far more suitable full-suspension MTB is a complete addiction and one which was starting to get us into trouble with energy levels dipping and concentration wavering. We took the decision to head to one of the cafés embedded in the woods. Despite the café being quite upmarket, the staff didn’t bat an eyelid at some dusty, endorphin oozing, lycra-clad cyclists turning up and demanding cake, so all was well with the world again.

"We arrive safely at the end of trail and stand there gibbering like a pair of lunatics"

“Just one more trail?” asked Jo rhetorically. He knew that even with our tired legs there was no way we would turn down the chance to shoehorn in an extra slice of gravelbikeheaven pie. We climbed up to almost the highest point of the forest, narrowly avoiding a tiny section of well camouflaged lethally slippery green chalk that had somehow escaped the attention of the summer sun. After a short deliberation about exactly where Stumpy started, we head off.

Claire switches to race mode and kicks up plumes of dust as she disappears into the trees. I throw caution to the wind and attempt to follow her, relying on a combination of blind luck, a smattering of time-served ex-MTB guide skills and Claire’s audio “heads-up” about the obstacles in the trail. We arrive safely at the end of trail and stand there gibbering like a pair of lunatics, endorphins practically coming out of our eyes and goose bumps visible on our arms to demonstrate how fun the trail was and how close to the limit we were riding.

Luckily our route took on a more tranquil outlook next and we headed back on the road into Alfriston, before heading north-west towards what Jo and Claire promised was the local equivalent of Tuscany.

Seeing as all three of us have ridden extensively in Tuscany, I trusted their description, but I was still slightly dubious – were we likely to find perfect strada bianche in the south-east of England? Jo’s face said “oh ye, of little faith” even if he didn’t actually say it out loud. Less than 1km after we rolled out of Alfriston we reached a T-junction with a vehicle width chalky-gravel trail heading straight on in front of us. With local knowledge and prior experience of photo shoots, they recommended I scoot on ahead and find a good spot for a shot. They weren’t wrong. Within a seconds of setting off the trail dipped and twisted left and there in front of me was a picture postcard strada bianche, only it had been translocated to the rolling hills of southern England. 

“Never, under any circumstances ride this trail in winter” says Jo. 

“Never, under any circumstances ride this trail in winter” says Jo. “It turns to clag so awful your wheels won’t rotate and you’ll have to carry your bike as you won’t be able to push it”. I make a mental note, immediately crossing it off my list.

At this point I glanced down at my bike computer and practically have to restrain myself from tapping with a finger nail on the screen, in a similar manner to a 1930s racing driver desperately hoping their fuel gauge is inaccurate and that they have more fuel left in the tank than the gauge is displaying. “You realise we’ve only just done 50kms of riding” I say incredulously, aware that my legs are absolutely cooked.

“It’s a good job there’s only one more climb before the end then” comes Jo’s reply. For anyone who has ever been a participant on a guided ride or gone on a cycling holiday the words “just one more climb” should fill you with dread as a) it’s always a big fat lie and b) that climb will be significantly nastier than you were imaging. Miraculously however Jo’s description is accurate and after a short climb, albeit one that we stupidly race up, we come over the crest to see this fantastic view laid out in front of us. Golden late afternoon sunshine illuminates everything with a kind of glow you normally only see digitally added to Hollywood movies. 

"As cheesy as this will sound, we seem to share a common sense of peace and happiness"

As we clip into our pedals and head back to the van, as cheesy as this will sound, we seem to share a common sense of peace and happiness. I start working out how to persuade my wife we need to move back down south.

The combination of perfect ride companions, ideal weather, stunning light and the feel of bodies pushed to the maximum, but not quite over it, is a delicious one and thinking back on our ride now, it still gives me goose bumps.

Thanks Jo and Claire - that perfect day out on not-the-South-Downs is one that I’ll remember for a long time.

If you would like to try our route for yourselves, you can find a copy of it here. Just watch out for those tree stumps.