Still Waiting For Summer

Still Waiting For Summer

Still waiting for summer, although it looks as though it will be a long wait, there is no promise of good weather round the corner from the forecasters and even the good old Daily Express, whose normal front page headlines for this time of year would be doom-laden predictions, prophesying drought and heat-stroke driven decimation, weather so extreme people will be melting into puddles of fat and bones if they step outside, has realised there is no substance to this summer's fantasy headlines and kept quiet. Ginger people turning to carbon like vampires in daylight, water shortages, hosepipe bans, standpipes in the streets - bring it on, all worth it for dry and dusty trails.

Too Windy For July

Not even an attempt at summer today, cold, dull and unseasonably windy. Owing to constraints, it was to be a local quickie today. Out of the house, quick spin into the urban rurality which passes for countryside and back. The only concession to the season is the vegetation is burgeoning, little used bridleways are nettle filled tubes of pain, crops are growing in the fields but the ground is reverting to winter mud in parts. Such a dispiriting day, I couldn’t even be bothered to take a photo.

If The Lakes Had Better Weather And Less Walkers It Would Be Perfect.

A quick trip to the Lakes, to meet up with The Breadlad, who, with the easing of the lockdown, is able to visit his caravan. A bit of a come down from his usual jet-setting international playboy lifestyle but foreign travel is a bit restricted at the moment, especially to the land of the free and home of the brave where the virus is still cutting a swathe through the population - well the ones who can’t afford medical insurance. The Breadlad’s route planning is generally a bit on the ambitious side, someone with an Ordnance Survey subscription generally reins him in a bit when his planned route comes up at 35 miles with 10,000 feet ascent. Today’s plan seemed reasonable, so, in the spirit of adventure which characterises the Terra Trailblazers (especially if the word adventure is a misspelling of stupidity), we went for it without prior planning. And survived. 

We met at Threlkeld, close to where The Breadlad has his Cumbrian estate, in a car park on the border of his land. First objective, ride up Latrigg, little Latrigg as it is affectionately known, for it is true, a mere pimple of a fell, a foothill to the mighty Skiddaw which looks down on Latrigg like a sleeping bison guarding a calf. It might be little but pedalling a bike up the gravel bridleway from the old Brundeholme road could definitely be considered a bit of a lung opener, 500 feet of ascent in a mile. We reached the Cheat’s Car Park, which is used to shorten the ascent of Skiddaw by a few miles, or reduce the ascent of Latrigg to something akin to a stroll to the shops, went through the gate and immediately began to lose our hard-gained height on the awesome descent to Spooney Green Lane. Unfortunately the track hosted rather more walkers than we would have liked, most apparently horrified to see people enjoying themselves in ‘their’ countryside, telepathically beaming waves of passive aggressive hate at us in the typical tut and sniff British fashion. The sooner the shops reopen and they get back to wandering up and down Keswick High Street with their £400 quid jackets and walking poles, exhausted after an expedition to Friar’s Crag, the better. 

We skirted through the outskirts of Keswick, passed through Portinscale and continued to Braithwaite, mentally girding our loins for the climb ahead, the whole way up Whinlatter Pass, followed by the south loop of the Altura Trail, a climb of 1,300 feet in around 4 miles, The Breadlad thinks big. We can gloss over the pain, the suffering, the swearing and the midges; how big can a midge’s stomach be? How can they cause so much pain and aggravation just to take a quantity of blood the size of an atom? Eventually we reached the summit, the top section has been regraded to black owing to trail erosion - didn’t seem any different to be honest but it'll be a few boxes ticked for some paper-shuffling, desk jockey. 

From the summit, we headed straight down again, cruising a black route with the style and aplomb only blokes on the verge of middle-age can muster and then taking some payback from gravity bank by having our revenge on Whinlatter Pass, The Breadlad taking off like Roadrunner being chased by Wile E. Coyote. I’ve reached the age where I can imagine the pain of flesh on tarmac or the sickening crunch of body against vehicle as I bounce off the windscreen. I even remembered to turn on the GoPro for a top to bottom timelapse video, which can be seen here.

We rolled into a surprisingly busy Keswick for socially distanced refreshments and the old “can you feel rain?”, will it, won’t it, dilemma that characterises a typical lakeland day. Although the clouds looked ominous, it stayed away as we began the final leg of our day. The Keswick to Threlkeld rail path is close to reopening, autumn 2020 is the projected date, unfortunately they are using the calendar to define autumn rather than this July’s weather. Which meant a pedal up to Castlerigg Stone Circle, a last climb we could have done without, before our triumphant roll down into Threlkeld. Not as long a ride as we anticipated but the  landmark 3,000 feet of ascent was smashed and we stopped our GPS’s, smugger than the smuggest people in Smugland. 

Rolling Around Rosedale

A more genteel ride than the previous outing was required and this favourite winter route, accompanied by La Mujerita, fitted the bill perfectly, a cruise around Rosedale, starting from Blakey Bank Top. A surprisingly full but not surprisingly cold and windy Blakey Bank Top. We dropped down onto the old rail line and continued descending on a steep and loose track to Moorlands Farm in the bottom of the valley. That is the best bit of the ride, although La Mujerita may have a different opinion even though she managed to stay, as the motorcyclists say, rubber side down. The route continues through fields along the valley, on a bridleway called The Daleside Road, which turns to tarmac at Thorgill, much pleasanter down here,in sunshine and sheltered from the wind with fine views up to the ruins of the kilns on the old railway.

We emerged into Rosedale Abbey and began the climb past Bell End, La Mujerita didn’t titter like The Pensioner used to. We stayed on tarmac all the way to Dale Head Farm at the end of the road, the tea room was open in a sit outdoors sort of fashion, no self-service in the lean-to for the foreseeable future but it was pleasant sitting in the sunshine being waited on. The climb/push/carry up the bridleway from the farm to the rail track wasn’t quite as pleasant but mercifully short.

The rail line runs around the head of the valley, curving back to Blakey Bank Top, once busy with ore laden trains, now only busy with walkers and cyclists. Seeing as La Mujerita had managed to go a whole ride without falling off, we squeezed in the extra loop, dropping down to the other side of the rail track behind The Lion Inn and returning via the top few feet of Blakey Bank.

Big Sky Day.

Another Billy No Mates day, it seems only The Bread Lad has the motivation nowadays. I have heard that some of the dilatantes have sunk lower than alcoholic rent boys giving blowjobs to tramps for a swig of Special Brew, indulging in a practice so repulsive it makes incest look respectable, more debased than sewer-dwelling paedophiles preying on underage rats, yes, I can barely bring myself to write it, they have began playing golf. Golf? Mark Twain had the right idea, a good walk spoilt and a good bike ride ruined. Each to their own and all that but come on, golf? Have a bit of ambition lads, at least do something which gets some adrenalin flowing through your veins.

In contrast to last Friday, which was a squirming through the trees sort of day, today was wide tracks under big skies, big black skies most of the time. Why is it skies? Surely there is only one sky? Anyway, I parked at Kildale railway station and did some tarmac bashing to Bank Foot Farm and ascended, what we know as Turkey Nab but is really called Ingleby Bank. This track is still a B.O.A.T. although the One Life: Live It - as long as you can afford diesel wobbly head brigade are not often spotted nowadays. The track has been resurfaced, all the way up to where it joins the Cleveland Way at Tidy Brown Hill on Ingleby Moor, so, potentially it is rideable all the way, now the rock slabs and loose gullies have been filled in. Potentially being the operative word. Echoing school reports from the dim and distant, not the past, the teachers, my potential remained unfulfilled as the steepest bits were pushed. From the top, I took the Cleveland Way to Bloworth Crossing, where I had a breather, one facet of lone riding is the lack of idle chit chat at every NSP (natural stopping point), suddenly you realise miles have been covered without a break - not really in the Terra Trailblazer’s ethos.

When the Rosedale ironstone mines were active, Bloworth Crossing was where the rail line crossed the moorland motorway of Rudland Rigg and had a gatekeeper who lived in an adjacent house. His job was to go out twice a day and open the gates for the train to pass, even by the extremely low standards of a former process operator, not exactly overworked. The wooden planks of the crossing are still there, beneath a thin covering of sand and gravel. It was considered the worst posting in the company, nicknamed Siberia because of the bleak conditions, there would often be snow in May. With black clouds scudding in and a bitter wind, it was living up its nickname today, snow in July wouldn’t have come as a shock. A quick energy bar and a few pictures and I was on my way, heading north along the old railway to the incline top, from where a shortcut across the moor got me back onto the Cleveland Way. At Burton Howe, still sticking with the wide track theme, a descent of the Old Coal Road took me pleasantly to just above Armouth Wath, where I headed north again, heading back to the Cleveland Way. On the downhill section of the bridleway, a fully grown sheep decided to liven it’s day by having a game of chicken with a lone cyclist, running out in front of the bike before running back onto the moor, ovine ears ringing with the sound of squealing brakes and a narrative appraisal of her intelligence and parentage which could have passed as part of Roy Chubby Brown’s stage show.

The remote Baysdale road took me back to Kildale, if Carlsberg did roads it would be like this one, downhill the whole way, twisting through green hummocks and heather moor, grey rocks and the tuk tuk tuk of wary grouse watching the passing bike like meerkats, the characteristic moorland smell of peat and ling, mixed with the odour of burning brakes as you try to scrub off enough speed to make the corner at the bottom. Then a more sedate roll through Kildale, rain just beginning to splatter as the car comes into view - that’s timing.