A North Yorkshire Monsoon

Mountain Bike Ride

The Pensioner, The Ginger One, Oz, The Trainee, The Lumberjack.

22nd June route

It might have been tempting fate, or maybe even taunting fate, to go for a bike ride today, the exact date last year I had a stroke following a bike ride. Being most unsuperstitious, I went anyway and as could be expected, remained stroke free another day, unfortunately what we did not remain was dry. The day began quite pleasantly, half a dozen of us exiting a practically empty Clay Bank car park, a few brief pedal strokes before The Trainee was introduced to the delights of the Carr Ridge steps, a push/carry/ride up to Urra Moor, where we could remount and take advantage of the dry conditions to ride The Rim, a pleasant singletrack leading to the top of Medd Crag. From Medd Crag we made our way up to Round Hill, much to The Pensioner’s disgust, who regarded the detour to take in The Rim, and indirect routes in general, as some sort of faux pas and more evidence of life’s great plot against him. Luckily we were too far ahead to hear his geriatric grumbling.

Regrouping at Round Hill, we pointed out the highest point on the North York Moors to The Trainee who was suitably underwhelmed, it being nothing more than a slight rise in a sea of heather, only the trig point distinguishing it for other slight rises in the heather. Easier riding on dry sandy tracks took us over to Tripsdale and the exciting zig zag descent, today somehow looser than usual, rocks clattering and pinging off tyres as we hurtled downhill as fast as our middle aged sensibilities would allow us. Resting at the corner, we emptied bladders and refuelled ready the inevitable antithesis of the Tripsdale descent, the ascent, starting very steep and loose before reverting to merely steep and loose, as we were failing in our attempts at a dab-free ascent, one of the weatherman’s showers decided we were enjoying  ourselves a little too much and decided to dampen our enthusiasm. Thankfully it was brief and blew over by the time we were making our way along the moor edge above Bilsdale, returning to Medd Crag, anticipating the descent, always a favourite.

Today it did not disappoint, varying between all out speed sections and thought provoking technical segments, some parts a little slippery owing to the recent shower but everyone made it to the bottom largely unscathed. Even The Pensioner looked almost pleased, although it could have just been wind. At the road by Bilsdale Hall, we were visited by another shower, we took advantage of some large trees to shelter under, the rain trumped us by falling harder, we moved further under the trees, the rain called in reinforcements and began to dump down like someone emptying buckets. The road became a waterfall, water gushing from the gutters and across the tarmac, and kept on gushing, the trees offering scant protection from the bloated raindrops falling like a fat kids tears when the ice cream van drove off before he could get there. We waited for it to stop, we compromised and waited for it ease off a bit, still it plummeted down, cold and wet by now, a group decision was made to jettison the ride and we returned to the car park, unusually thankful we had an ascent of Clay Bank to keep us warm.

The car park was buried in the clouds when we reached it, although the rain had thankfully reduced to a moist drizzle. Coming up the bank, The Trainee’s legs finally capitulated from the unaccustomed pedalling and he became the lantern rouge, as The Pensioner, forty years his senior, disappeared into the mist, something which greatly pleased The Pensioner but not as much as the mandatory after-ride tea stop, a visit to the garden centre cafe we know as Zombieland, where he is an elderly Adonis in lycra, a striding king-like amongst his shuffling, beige populace, quaffing thrice-watered tea to make sure he gets his money’s worth.

Summer? Here? In England?

Mountain Bike Ride.

The Pensioner, The Ginger One, The Bread Lad, The Fireman.

16th June route.

An actual team out today, a whole five Terra Trailblazers ready to take on anything the wilds of North Yorkshire can throw at them, although with a combined age well in excess of 250 years, let’s hope it doesn’t throw too much.. My first ride on a mountain bike since the buttock battering of The Sandstone Way and it felt okay, as though it has a different saddle to the torture device I sat on for 128 miles. A new starting venue today - Lealholm - a metropolis by the standards of North Yorkshire villages, featuring a pub, two cafes and a cake shop. Like most of these Esk Valley villages it’s built around the river and reached by steep descents from the surrounding moors, inevitably all rides start with some uphill and today was no exception as we made our way gradually to Danby Beacon via Houlsyke which seemed to be the kindest way to achieve the height gain. It must have been because it elicited only a minimum of bitching from The Pensioner. Weatherwise today could only be described as a reet grand day, as they might say in Yorkshire, plenty of sun but a coolish wind to temper things, there were no complaints from us.

From Danby Beacon, the Roxby Moor singletrack beckoned and it was in awesome condition, dry and fast, snaking through the heather, at times reverting to doubletrack, we reached the NSP (natural stopping point) where the track becomes wide and sandy and slightly uphill, grinning like baboons. The Pensioner inadvertently took a wrong turning which proved to be a bonus shortcut to Hardale Beck and the climb up the other side, known on Strava as The Slagbag. The Bread Lad rode it on his 36 tooth single ring set up, most impressive, the UCI will be keeping a close eye on his hematocrit levels. Continuing over Thorn Hill and down to Green Houses, where, as usual, the spaniels went berserk, straining at their chains, barking madly but tails wagging, so hopefully they are friendly, just worth keeping in mind in case the chains ever snap. We then regained tarmac and did a spot of road riding through Egton and down steeply to Egton Bridge before climbing again toward the hamlet of Delves, luckily the climbing did not reach the signposted 33% section before we turned off into East Arnecliffe Wood.

We were here to try a bridleway through the woods I’d partially explored on foot a few weeks ago, it turned out to be a mixed bag, slippery rock ascents and muddy patches in parts but also some long, roughly paved downhill sections which wouldn’t have been out of place in Hamsterley Forest, finishing with an ascending rooty singletrack, which rose higher and higher above the river requiring thoughtful riding to avoid the steep drop to a wet landing. The Bread Lad almost took the early bath, a handy tree stopping him polluting the Esk. This section ended with a splash through a ford, except for The Ginger One, whose hydrophobia forced him to take the yellow option. Apparently he once fell off riding through a ford and now treats them rather like normal people would view riding through molten lava.

Back on tarmac, it was time for the second biggest climb of the day, Glaisdale High Street, still festooned with yellow bikes and scarecrow riders, left over from The Tour De Yorkshire, we looked like scarecrows by the time we had winched ourselves up to the top of the village, although The Ginger One was tempted to stop and check out the butcher’s pies, he did not break his rhythm. Back on more familiar territory, we descended to cross the river near Rake Farm before making our way to Underpark Farm to pick up the riverside bridleway which pops out at the car park in Lealholm where we had left our cars.

The Beck View Tea Room had the pleasure of our company for the essential refuelling break, where we sat outside in the sunshine, sweaty but, for a change, not muddy, indulging in our usual multi-faceted and far-reaching intellectual discourse; this may have been interpreted as raucous banter by the other patrons. Either way, it was the end of a good day’s riding and the end of my days off, I could only listen enviously as the others planned where to go tomorrow.

The Sandstone Way

Intro

Once again loved ones and assorted offspring are abandoned by feckless cyclists who consider a battle against, gravity, wind and gates more attractive than the pleasures of hearth and home. Our objective, Northumberland’s Sandstone Way, a 120 mile bike ride from Berwick On Tweed to Hexham, uphill and against the prevailing wind, although in a spirit of, what may only be described as, masochism, we decided it would be a good idea to extend the journey along the Tyne valley to Newcastle. Not being total masochists, four days seemed a reasonable time scale for a leisurely pedal; how easy it all seemed, sitting at this laptop, planning the lunch stops and overnight accommodation, the weather and a slightly dodgy tyre conspired to make things somewhat more difficult.

All references to the map and to mileages are from the Sandstone Way Official Cycle Route map.

Day One

Berwick On Tweed to Wooler.

Disembarking one of Virgin East Coast’s finest at a cool but dry Berwick On Tweed, we mounted our steeds and found our way to the Sandstone Way start with some inspired map reading. Turn right out of station and look for a small bridge next to a big bridge, sign one, mile zero. Obligatory selfie (just the like the young people) and we were off, riding through a couple of residential streets before being signposted onto a coastal path, terrain flat,  headwind slight,  view spectacular, looking across the sea to Holy Island. A dozen miles passed in this fashion before we turned inland, pausing for a lunch break at the The Lindisfarne Inn, sitting outside in the sunny beer garden, first Shandy Of Power consumed, the essential hydration fluid of multi-day cycle rides, full of minerals and carbohydrates and, if taken in sufficient quantity, numbs pain and increases confidence on the downhills.

A1 crossed safely, we rode some quiet lanes and the odd off-road section to Detchant where we began a loop around Greensheen Hill on gravel tracks, fire roads and grassy singletrack. The route bypasses the hamlet of Holburn on it’s way to St. Cuthbert’s Cave, being unexpectedly stood in Holburn scratching our heads was not in the plan. A bit of backtracking revealed a hard to spot sign on a gate post and we were back in the game, crossing some fields before a pleasant woodland track led us past St. Cuthbert’s Cave - rather larger than we were expecting. Rejoining tarmac at mile 22, we rode past the well known Northumberland climbing crags of Bowden Doors and Back Bowden Doors, venues of many happy hours in my younger days, before turning off road just beyond Old Lyham. Speeding down the road toward the turn off, my steering became worryingly vague on the corners, front tyre a bit squishy but only soft not flat, so I chanced topping the air up and continuing, this worked up to a point, the tyre went down to a certain level of softness and no lower. We continued, down across a stream and up again. This proved to be a recurring theme of The Sandstone Way, hurtle down to some water, cross it by ford or bridge and haul up the other side, not as tedious as the gates though, every type of gate and gate latch known to man feature on this ride and we became familiar with them all, at a rough estimate (we did try counting them one day but lost count after reaching the teens in the first hour), a gate per mile.

A note on the map asks riders to cycle slowly through the farm at Chatton, this is because it is chicken city, hens wandering about like tourists in Trafalgar Square, meandering across the road oblivious to the possibility of being crushed by 29” of rubber weighed down a 4 days worth of clothing and a few Shandies Of Power. Chillingham came next with it’s castle and herd of white cattle which were not visible from the road we were on, returning to off-road we followed a gradually rising track over Newtown Moor, which then turned downhill for a pleasant finish as we popped out in Wooler right beside a cafe, the Wooler Milk Bar. It would have been rude not to take advantage, so we stopped for a coffee before heading for our overnight accommodation, Tildale House.

Checked in, just time to fix the squishy tyre before shower and out for dinner, 90 minutes later I was still battling with the front wheel as the tyre refused to reseat onto the rim, assisted by Rod and Oz, various neighbours and our landlady. My companions, cleansed but unfed were becoming impatient so the wheel was shelved and we went up the street to The Black Bull Inn for dinner followed by a stroll to The Anchor Inn for a pint or two of iron rich Guinness, just in case we had became iron depleted on the ride. You can’t be too careful with your haemoglobin you know. We took part in the most amusing pub quiz ever, the first ever Anchor quiz and a few teething troubles were handled with good humour by the quiz-mistress and contestants. If you are at a loose end on a Thursday night in Wooler, we would definitely recommend  it. And we won -  by a very narrow margin.

Day Two.

Wooler to Otterburn.

Time to put my recalcitrant wheel in the hands of the professionals, our landlady kindly drove me and the wheel to the local bike shop, where we left it for some attention. Returning later, it turned out the bead of the tyre was damaged and would never have reseated. A quick tyre change and we were back on the trail, about three hours later than expected, pretty unfortunate as today was meant to be a 55 mile day and starting after noon was probably madness. Weatherwise it was still sunny but the wind was increasing, tomorrow’s forecast was ominous, predicting 50 mph plus gusts, we comforted ourselves with the thought tomorrow would be a short day - only 25 miles owing to being unable to find any accommodation in Hexham at such short notice. We were not worrying about what might happen tomorrow, we still had today to get through and some serious pedalling if we were to reach Otterburn while still light. Otterburn is slightly off route but because the trip was booked at the last minute, accommodation was not easy to find.

The first major ascent of the ride loomed ahead of us - Wether Hill, basically an up and down lump between Ingram and Scrainwood which proved not as difficult as it looked although we did stop a time or two as it was the turn of Oz to suffer the curse of the deflating inner tube. And the obligatory gates. Reaching Scrainwood, time versus distance concerns meant we opted to take the southbound shortcut to Trewitt Moor, then utilise the other shortcuts on the map to reach Chartners in Harwood Forest, missing out Rothbury completely, it felt like a cop out but time was pressing on, the terrain was slow and the gates many. Everything was going well with this plan until we thought we could shave a bit more off by following a bridleway from Low Burradon to Sharperton Edge, the bridleway petered out in a field of some unidentified, knee-high, green crop which had a vague track leading through it, following this led us to a fence and no obvious way to proceed. The irony of being without a gate was not lost on us. A lot of pointing at landmarks and peering at maps ensued, being men meant we were not lost, only temporarily misplaced; with the help of some 21st century satellite technology we blundered onto a road and followed it to Sharperton. By now we had been riding for over 4 hours and covered less than twenty miles, energy bars and Haribo had been our only sustenance and no likely food stops were on the horizon. An executive decision was reached to miss out the whole Simonside/Rothbury section and follow Route 68 on road from Holystone to Elsdon and have some food at The Bird And Bush before continuing, tails between legs, to Otterburn. The head wind was increasing and, to add, to our joy it began drizzling in an “is it raining or not?” manner which led to “coats on or off?” indecisiveness. Having ridden around Elsdon before, it seems my mind may have blanked out Billsmoor Hill, a heinous cliff of tarmac separating us from our tea. Battling into a wet head wind, the red flags of the Otterburn ranges slowly came into view and it was all over, downhill all the way into Elsdon, a bit of caution on the wet roads, soon the pub came into sight, the suspiciously dark pub. Perhaps they don’t open until 6pm, only twenty minutes to wait, we can wait twenty minutes, optimistic thoughts running through our minds. Our hopes were dashed by a an A4 notice in the window - Closed Until Further Notice. Sheltering in the bus shelter we ate our remaining bits of flapjack as the dark clouds scudded overhead. 

Pressing on to Otterburn, we found the pub has also closed down - I couldn’t help feeling what this country needs is more alcoholics - we checked into the Butterchurn Guest House. Our pleasant landlady was fully conversant with the whole hungry cyclist: closed pub dilemma and quite happily drove us to the nearest hostelry where finally, we were fed, approximately 11 hours since  breakfast and not one Shandy Of Power - or little else - had passed our lips all day. No wonder we were depleted.

Day Three

Otterburn to Simonburn

The weather forecasters were still predicting 50 mph plus wind today; the weather forecast was wrong - it was much stronger. At least we set off at a sensible time and had a lunch stop planned at Bellingham, just the task of a dozen or so miles into the wind and we would be there. From Otterburn we regained The Sandstone Way at mile 86, Monkridge, being buffeted all the way by a side wind before turning into the wind to follow a minor road through a pleasant valley, a road so minor it even featured a gate or two just in case our latch opening skills were getting a bit rusty. Still keeping (thankfully) at a fairly low altitude, we passed by Townhead taking a picturesque riverside track, before climbing up to rejoin a road. At this point the route on the map carries a warning box, Challenging southbound route - avoid in bad weather. Sheltering behind a wall to avoid the map being whipped away to become litter somewhere in Southern Scotland, it seemed pretty clear this might qualify as bad weather, especially as we would be heading across high ground directly into the wind. With age comes wisdom and all that, we opted to follow tarmac through West Woodburn, to rejoin the route at mile 94. At times our Garmin’s were reading less than 5 mph - on tarmac, even using roadie style drafting tricks.

Returning to the more usual farm track, gate, downhill, river, uphill, gate, routine for a couple of miles brought us to the outskirts of Bellingham, spirits rising with the promise of lunch so close we could almost smell the coffee. Looking up the main street, a giant wooden teapot hinted at a cafe, which we gratefully piled into, The Fountain Cottage And Tearoom was a real find and even had a special cyclists menu. That’s a menu especially for cyclists, not a menu for special cyclists. Being on several long distance cycle routes, the cafe was full of cyclists, the majority of them heading toward Newcastle with a fortuitous tail wind, only three special cyclists were heading back into the wind, which, if anything was becoming decidedly more severe. 

Visible on the other side of the valley from Bellingham is a large hill with a transmitter mast on the top, Ealingham Rigg, reached by a road climb and guess which trio were slogging their way up after lunch? At one point we rounded a bend as a particularly vicious gust rampaged across the moor top and all performed involuntary track stands for a few seconds. Then relief, after turning left onto a private road to the transmitter for the first time in three days, the wind was at our rear, pushing us along Ealingham Rigg at unheard of velocity until we dropped down below Shitlington Crags, which despite the unfortunate name are actually quite pleasant. We rode onward, heading for another warning box on the map Steep hill Southbound, the map told no lies, this was a Field Of Heavy Gravity unmatched by anything our home moors can impinge on us. Some determined attempts at riding ensued but all were thwarted by the grassy slope and driving wind; at the summit, the wind redoubled its efforts to bring us to a halt, almost blowing us over. This was wind with a capital W, making it personal, Man Versus Wind, teeth gritted, eyes streaming, we forced ourselves forward, bending into the wind to offer a smaller target, expecting to see cows and articulated lorries spinning round above our heads in the style of a Hollywood blockbuster. We were intrepid travellers battling toward our goal, defying the elemental forces standing between us and the Shandy Of Power. Shortly afterward we met two other cyclist, doing the route South to North, with the wind predominantly behind them, wise, we had a quick chat mainly revolving around wind and gates before we moved on, looking forward to the downhill section into Simonburn and being able to ditch the bikes for a few hours of R&R. 

There is a warning box on the map - Muddy in/after wet weather, the weather had not been particularly wet and it was definitely what my mother would call “a good drying day”, the track was dry, without a doubt, it was also a rutted nightmare where vehicles had evidently been ploughing through in soft conditions. The Flow - that magical state which makes a mountain bike ride  - was not happening as we bounced across the field from one dried rut to another. Eventually a better track appeared and kindly deposited us outside our accommodation - The Simonburn Tea Shop.

A conversation not unlike last night’s ensued, no pub in the village, nearest pub, 4 miles away. This time the landlady offered to cook us a meal accompanied by beer from her stock of locally brewed ale, which she sold in the tea room - we didn’t need asking twice. We spent a most relaxing saturday night in Simonburn, which is quieter than a Trappist monastery during a laryngitis epidemic.

Day Four.

Simonburn to Newcastle.

Strictly speaking yesterday’s ride ought to have finished in Hexham but this trip, as previously mentioned, had been booked at short notice and accommodation was not forthcoming in Hexham, hence our night in Simonburn. The height profile tells us leaving Simonburn is a climb, it’s not wrong and it’s not what you need immediately after breakfast, by the time the summit arrived our breakfasts were considering a reappearance. The wind had dropped to a sensible level and the sun was shining brightly, a perfect day to finish our ride. At the other side of the hill we met up with Hadrian’s Wall and took the opportunity for a bit of history and culture - well, took a picture anyway. 

A few miles later what promised to be our ultimate hill appeared, Warden Hill, a short steep drag on a farm track turned to grass, then after a gate, some superb singletrack along the edge of a forest dropped us down to the outskirts of Newbrough, the route follows a track beside a railway line into Hexham. Somehow we managed to miss the official finish of The Sandstone Way, so no end picture.

From Hexham we followed the very popular track which is funnels several different cycle routes into Newcastle - this being a Sunday the track was extremely busy with weekend strollers, other cyclists and teams finishing the C2C and other routes. But the wind was behind us now, our average speed crept into double figures. We took a breather at a riverside cafe near Ovingham, catching a few rays while we had a spot of lunch. A few miles later the bridges of Newcastle came into view and we knew it was almost over, the quayside was rammed, probably a hundred times more people than we had seen over the past  four days. The Tyne Bridge seemed a reasonable finishing spot, we passed under it then made our way to the Central Station for the train home, feeling that curious mixture of elation and regret after the completion of a long bike ride, happy the pedalling has finished but unwilling to return to the mundanity of everyday life.

Outro

Northumberland is big and mostly empty, village shops and pubs are thin on the ground. Carry snacks. I daresay it’s not usually as windy as it was this weekend in June but considering doing the route the opposite way round for an easier life.

The people are outrageously hospitable and special thanks must be given to our three landladies and to Mike at Haugh Head who sorted out my wheel and tyre.

The off road sections are mostly gravel and farm tracks, with only the (very) occasional bits of singletrack. Regular mountain bikers may find this a bit disappointing but the scenery more than makes up for it. Broad moorland tracks stretching for miles across the moors, as we have in North Yorkshire, were not seen by us.

Gates: many, many gates.