Fire Roads ‘R’ Us.
Another trawl around the fire roads of Guisborough Woods with La Mujerita, whose aversion to singletrack is well documented in this blog. We set off in drizzle and dullness but things did get brighter, the wind, however, was a different story and the soundtrack to our ride was a constant creaking of trees as they swayed and bent. We (of course, when I say we, that means me) lashed out the exorbitant four quid to park at Pinchinthorpe, just so we could finish closer to the cafe. Despite, or maybe because of, the covid restrictions, the cafe is as popular as ever, even though al fresco is the order of the day, North Yorkshire in November is a little lacking in the main essentials for outdoor dining compared to the Costa Del Sol in November, mainly sunshine and warmth. But first we had a bike ride to get done and off we went pedaling along the fire roads, threading our way through the dog walkers. Spaniels seem to be the dog of choice nowadays, the latest fashion accessory for the must-have people, along with German cars, Hunter wellies and an ebike for the occasional pootle round the forest. The crowds thin out a mile or less from the visitor centre and we only see occasional people for the rest of the ride, which consists of fire roads with a couple of trails thrown in to liven things up. Both trails a little muddy but very enjoyable - for one of us anyway, the other elected to take a more pedestrian approach. We rode up the track to Bousdale Farm, something I’ve not done for years, the one which comes from the A173, it’s still as steep. At the top is a relic from the days when Guisborough Woods was (almost) a trail centre, an old Black Route sign.
There were two maintained and signposted routes, a Black and a Blue, the Black went through a few variations, although it must have been graded Black by someone in an office who had never rode a bike trail in his life, or possibly for the gruesome ascents. Guisborough aficionados of the era were dumbfounded when The Secret Path suddenly became an uphill. When the funding was pulled, most of the routes reverted to nature, with only a few bits remaining popular like Les’s 1,2, and 3; the route signs were removed leaving visitors to the forest blundering about looking for the good stuff and the previously bike only trails became fair game for the little bag of dog shit dangling from the index finger brigade.
Stump Cross And The Incline.
Clay Bank was windy today, Round Hill was a lump windier, crossing Urra Moor an exercise in leaning into the side wind, trying to keep the front wheel vaguely straight, while vicious gusts attempted to have us off the edge of the track. Covid survivor Olly came out today, fresh from quarantine at university, Covid is merely this year’s version of Fresher’s Flu for the young ones, if it wasn’t for the student union bar being closed, they probably wouldn’t know there was a pandemic. Stump Cross was our objective today, or what The Breadlad used to call The John Deere Descent, his way of describing The Pensioner - “who goes on and on like a smoky old tractor”. The wind didn't lessen any as we pedalled across the moors on broad, sandy tracks, wide open to the elements, which are particularly elemental today. Using the wisdom of my years, I tucked in behind the younger and fitter party, prompting him to ask if I was slipstreaming him. Why else did he think he was here? Until we can round up young people to forcibly extract and synthesise the ichor of youth and vitality from their veins, ready to be injected into us of slightly more mature years, like the famous monkey gland treatment of the 1920’s, slipstreaming will have to do it. Eventually we reached Stump Cross, which is actually a stump of a cross, dating from medieval times and the start of a singletrack bridleway which cuts down the moorside to Bransdale, slightly squelchy peat threading through the heather, culminating with a drop down shale to the road. Seconds later, we were being pushed into Blowjob Woods by a welcome tailwind. Obviously Blowjob Woods doesn’t appear on any publications by the Ordnance Survey, or anyone else for that matter, its proper name is Bloworth Woods but The Pensioner, having a mind which rarely rose above the gutter, immediately christened it Blowjob Woods. The Pensioner was a frequent visitor to Blowjob Woods, more to do with the fact The Breadlad once found a £20 note blowing about, rather than the name being some sort of mandate. Perhaps he imagined there was a stash of notes hidden in a decaying sack secreted in a hollow tree, awaiting discovery by some geriatric prospector. The track through the woods was predictably grim, water-filled ruts, muddy trenches which would not be out of place in The Somme leading to a stiff climb up to Rudland Rigg, from where were able to gain the old Rosedale rail track and more importantly the Ingleby Incline. Despite it only being early afternoon it was like dusk and a steady drizzle pricked our faces as we descended at speeds which might be considered unwise for someone approaching middle age, Olly, of course, was significantly faster, disappearing into the gloaming with all the invincibility of youth. Only the standard plod through the woods to go and we were soon indulging in a slightly drizzly car park picnic, which turned into monsoon cloudburst while we rushed to get bikes away.
Mud, Mud, Water. Gravel, Tarmac.
Me and The Breadlad thought we’d start from Scaling Dam for a change today, whoever is in charge of the car park obviously had other ideas, or maybe the bloke who is supposed to unlock the gate didn't turn out this morning. Anyway, no car park, no burger van. We used the small ‘fisherman's’ car park. A quick scoot through the mud at the side of the reservoir took us out onto the equally muddy moor for a few miles of slipping and sliding until we regained the tarmac of the moor road, climbing up to the Danby turn off. Robin Hood’s Butts is regaining canal status, puddles the size of small tarns nestling amongst the gravel, we splashed along to the Sis Cross bridleway, also a bit on the squelchy side, the descent was still enjoyable, as fine a bit of moorland singletrack as you will find anywhere. Refraining from dropping down into Danby, as tempting as the Stonehouse Bakery is, we splodged up the Lord’s Turnpike to Clitherbeck. The track from the farm to the road above Oakley Walls has benefited from some of the free lockdown gravel which has been scattered liberally round North Yorkshire this year; it might be nice for 4x4 drivers but it makes cycling hard work. The two water splashes on this track were getting to the sort of depth which would make a normal person think twice about riding through. The normal half of this duo walked around, finding a picturesque waterfall in the process; the idiot half of the duo ended up with wet feet. God’s gentle hand pushed us up the road to Danby Beacon, an NSP (natural stopping point) if ever there was one, we admired the view for a while but the bitter wind soon had us on the move. The track across Brown Rigg on Roxby Moor was our next objective, a bit moist in parts but still worth doing, we continued along Hardale Slack on a double track that was predominantly subaquatic, just when you think your feet can’t get any wetter. Eventually we reached High Tranmire Farm and the luxury of tarmac - imagine being a roadie and riding tarmac all the time, it wouldn’t be a luxury then. Life is nothing without contrast. Although, there are, allegedly, mountain bikers who switch to road riding in winter because they don’t want to get dirty and wet. Like I say, allegedly, I can’t imagine anyone being so tragic. Soon we were back at our cars, packing bikes and getting into dry clothes before zipping along to Birk Brow for a carefully balanced athletic snack, the three main food groups, carbs, protein and fat in almost the correct proportions with added soluble fibre, vitamins B and C plus potassium and calcium - more commonly known as a cheeseburger with onions.
Smiles Not Miles.
In contrast to yesterday's sunshine, today is grey and gloomy (again) but we are not. Me and The Breadlad met at Hutton Village, ready for another few hours of trail hunting around Guisborough Woods. Found some, rode some, left some alone until the drier weather. It seems to be a day when the majority of the folk wandering or riding about the woods are either deaf or don’t understand English, as barely anyone responded to our cheery greetings. Shouldn’t being outside in the fresh air, even on a dull day like today cheer people up? Not leave them walking around looking as though they’ve lost a winning lottery ticket. We rode uphill and down dale as the saying goes, exploring likely looking tracks which generally ended in a tangle of vegetation or an impassable mud ascent. One foray into the undergrowth yielded a pair of Tarzies (rope swings to those of the middle class persuasion) which had to be tried.
An area which we used to call Teletubbyland because a figure of a Tellytubby lived in a tree there, has been turned into a fairy dell, many of the trees are adorned with fairy doors, little gardens with fake mushrooms, statues and dolls are constructed around the doors, some even have little ladders leading up to them - I thought fairies could fly? Seems like a ladder is just overkill, unless it’s for those fairies who are banned from flying for spending all the tooth money on supermarket cider and were caught flying under the influence. Or maybe not, it’s too big a stretch of the imagination to envision fairy policemen with fairy breathalysers and fairy truncheons, although I believe furry handcuffs are quite popular amongst certain sections of society. It’s an enchanting little area and long may it continue. We had our fill of the elfin world and made our way to the sitting outside in the rain eating bacon sandwiches and drinking coffee, world, via a few more trails. The rain began in earnest, so we decided to quit while we were ahead and call it a day, despite only just scraping into double figures. It’s about the smiles not the miles.
No comments:
Post a Comment