A Moorland Trilogy

A Moorland Trilogy

A dull Monday morning at Square Corner and barely a parking space left. It’s about time all the nine to fivers were unfurloughed or deforloughed or just furloughed off back to work and the retired and the shift workers could go back to having pleasant days in the countryside untroubled by the great mass of humanity. The sooner they return to clogging beauty spots only on weekends the better. And just remember, weekend throngs are the price you pay for being able to go to bed every night. 

June is not living up to its usual prefix of flaming, something beginning with F perhaps, it is more like a particularly mediocre April at the moment, cool and showery. Me and La Mujerita left Square Corner behind to start on one of her favourite moorland jaunts, essentially down to Cod Beck Reservoir, using a variety of routes, followed by a long climb up to Scarth Wood Moor, down the other side of the moor on the paved bridleway, back to Sheepwash, then return through the woods to regain High Lane and the road back to Square Corner. Which is pretty much what we did and very pleasant it was too. 

At the top of Scarth Wood Moor all the conifers are being felled because the area is to be reforested with deciduous trees, more in keeping the ancient woodland status of the area. A particular favourite track used to run through the conifers, it is still there but without the trees it looks about as interesting as watching Darlington FC getting beat by some other team of semi-amateur footballers. Instead of riding back through the woods around the reservoir and the hordes of people they contain - the Sheepwash car parks were at capacity, as they have been all lockdown. For those who are unaware, Sheepwash is one of those places where people who can’t bear to be more than 100 metres from their cars go to see what this countryside stuff is all about. Whoops, digressed again, no wonder this rubbish takes me so long to write. 

Instead of the woods, La Mujerita found herself introduced to the delights of pushing her bike up a steep bank of dried mud, loose rock and waist-high stone slabs. Short but brutal - the push, not La Mujerita, it gains height quickly and misses out a steep fire road climb, so, not better not worse, just different. A bit like road cyclists, except for the not worse part. We continued back to Square Corner after a detour to the pond beside the Hawnby road, by which time the weather was amenable enough for us to have our tailgate picnic.

After a couple of days R&R, I found myself at Birk Brow, meeting someone who hasn’t been out with us for quite a while, the legendary cycling machine that is Brian. Or SuperBri as he was known to some, who once turned up to a Christmas dinner ride so hungover he had to have a lie down everytime we stopped but still managed the whole ride. In the pub afterwards, merely looking at the menu made him queasy enough to abandon the whole concept of food and disappear into the distance. All I can say is he remains a powerful rider, most of the twenty mile ride was spent watching him disappear into the distance. Our route took in the usual Birk Brow start trails, Dimmingdale Farm, Robin Hood’s Butts, Sis Cross, Clitherbecks, Danby Beacon, Roxby Moor, Scaling Dam. Returning along Robin Hood’s Butts and the Quaker's Causeway. Reaching the Sean The Sheep bus shelter, the ever-present cloud was down to tarmac level, we rode up into it to gain the start of the causeway, barely visible, only a modicum of local knowledge stopped us from riding past the bridleway sign. The Quaker’s Causeway, as I have no doubt mentioned previously, strikes terror into the hearts of otherwise valiant riders, a buttock-battering bridleway which makes the cobbled classics of the road cycling world look like newly-minted cyclepaths of smoothest red tarmac. Personally I can’t see what everyone is moaning about, just put the suspension on to full bounce and crack on, which is precisely what Brian did, vanishing into the mist with me pedalling along behind as fast as my almost middle-aged legs would go. Which is just about the time the rain began, not a gentle drizzle but neither was it torrential, just persistent precipitation; deeming it too close to the car, I decided to ride it out rather than stop and put a waterproof on. Suffice to say by the time we reached Birk Brow I was doing a fair impression of a seal riding a bike. But, Lord Be Praised, Hallelujah and all that - the burger van is back, with appropriate social distancing of course. Some dry clothes on the outside, a cheeseburger on the inside and I was ready to do it all again.

And it came to pass that three disciples of the MTB XC sect were gathered in Clay Bank car park, squinting in some unaccustomed brightness, for verily there burneth a celestial sphere in the firmament, beaming heat onto the assembled multitude. And the populace did rejoice, for this was a sign that the season of heat and happiness has returned, the people of the country knew it as summer and soon they would be exposing flesh until it turned red for this would be a sign of their faith and proof that summer existed. But soon they would begin to walk with leaden steps, bemoaning the heat and the sweat rashes in the folds of their flabby bodies, longing for cooling potions, imbibed in the hallowed turf of the beer garden, cursing the fallen angel Boris, who closed the beer gardens to prevent a great plague sweeping the country. 

To cut a long story short, it was a decent day, Keith’s last ride before his furlough is rescinded, his insight into the life of a retiree coming to an end as the production lines whirr back into action. Me and The Breadlad decided to introduce him to the delights of Tripsdale, a kind of surrogate for the Spanish trip we all missed, dry dusty, loose and rocky and today we had the heat if not the post-ride San Miguel and ice cream. He was thrilled to hear the ride would begin with a spot of uphill pushing followed by some rimming; after dragging bikes and bodies up the Carr Ridge steps, we rode the edge of Urra Moor, a track we know as The Rim, a peaty, rock-strewn singletrack through the heather, which drops to a stream. After cautiously crossing the stream, which runs over slippy bedrock and climbing up the other side, we continued on the rim until it joins the wide moor track above Medd Crag, ascending to Round Hill, where we pointed out the less than inspiring highest point on the North York Moors. 

Typical moorland tracks, broad and sandy, take us to Cockayne Heads, where we hang a right, then another right, down a loose rocky track, passing the oddly named Badger Stone (must have been some heavy drugs going down the day they named that, looks nothing like a badger). More of the broad and sandys take us to the Tripsdale bridleway, where we stop for refreshments and bladder voiding, another group of bikers passed us, also heading for Tripsdale, luckily after our worry wees, so indecent exposure charges were avoided. 

We let them go ahead as we checked brakes and suspension in preparation for the mile or so of pure pleasure ahead of us. Three blokes on the verge of middle-age set off down the track and instantly reverted to sixteen year olds, whooping downhill, dry and dusty, loose and rocky, humps and curves to calm us down but still clocking up speeds in the thirties as the track steepens into sandy hairpins, one hairpin, two hairpins, third hairpin, bike leaning over, weight on outside pedal, the Spanish coaching paying off, around the fourth hairpin, brakes off, straight-lining over rubble to the bridge, where the other party are milling about, having their lunch, half off them stood on the bridge. WTF. Trail etiquette sadly lacking there. Remaining civil, we continue upwards, climbing out of the valley, pausing for a photo opportunity where we can look back at what we have just descended, looking awesome in the sunlight. A magnificent red kite cruised over to check us out, eyeing us up like the giant roc in The Arabian Nights tales. 

The ride finished with a descent of Medd Crag, which has a variety of sections, from steep singletrack with rocky drops to shale blasts and broad, grassy tracks. Too soon we arrived at Bilsdale Hall, knowing the fun was over and we had a couple of miles of uphill tarmac to return us to the car park for another picnic, this time looking across the moors to a distant Roseberry Topping.