Wetter Than A Week At Waterworld.
Which Countries Are On That Green List?
Opening the car door at Square Corner it was quite easy to believe I had been kidnapped by Marty McFly and transported back to December. Quickly closing the car door again to keep out the cold air and the grey sky, I actually pondered the idea of driving away and not stopping until I reached somewhere warm or summer turned up, whichever might be sooner. But Terra Trailblazers are made of sterner stuff - well, this one anyway, companions being rarer than a drought in North Yorkshire this week. The number of fellow riders is pretty much inversely proportional to the percentage chance of rain forecast. Anyway, a bike ride beckoned and before long I was having a scout about in Silton Woods, careful not to lose too much height - don’t want to wear myself out this early in the week. The trails have also been transported back to December, dry and dusty is now just a fantasy as everything reverts to slop, it’s disheartening, especially when we ought to have been riding in Spain all this week, hot sun and cold beers instead of hot drinks and cold mud. Leaving Silton Woods behind, I headed along past Chequers to High Lane and into the woods above Cod Beck Reservoir, enjoying a slither down some of ‘Rod’s’ trails until I reached the shore of the reservoir, which was bathed in bright sunshine, no actual warmth but we can’t expect too much. The long drag up to the antennas came next, slogging up the hillside until I was high above the reservoir. The old track, which used to run through the woods at the top is still there, although the woods are not and still rideable until the gate back onto Scarth Wood Moor, from here the track gets lost in a desert of scrub and hacked down tree branches for a few hundred metres before reappearing for a plunge down the hillside toward Swainby. That wasn’t in today’s plan anyway and I went through the gate, out onto the moor and followed the paved path to the road. A brief bit of tarmac prior to a splash through the ford at Sheepwash and a climb up the newly resurfaced track back to High Lane, where I retraced my tyre tracks back to Square Corner, black clouds rolling in like tanks advancing on an unsuspecting border, ready to spoil the day. At least I was able to get my tailgate picnic out of the way before things turned nasty.
A trio of Trailblazers today, in defiance of the forecast which has promised showers and an average temperature the wrong side of mediocre, in Great Ayton drenched roads and a fast flowing river showed us we had just missed a shower. Keith had driven from Sunderland for the pleasure of this and Oz managed to tear himself away from whatever he does all day. In predictable fashion, we rode up through Fletcher’s Farm and Aireyholme Farm to Roseberry Common, Oz managing to avoid his nemeses, the pair of wobbly-faced turkeys which took such a dislike to him last time we were here. At Roseberry Common, outer layers were removed as the day turned into something approaching early spring, the summit of our local ‘mountain’ beginning to fill with adventurers as we climbed up the steps opposite, heading for Newton Moor. At the gate, we had a breather, looking out across Teesside in the distance, cooling towers billowing steam into the atmosphere showing which plants are running, paying for two thirds of our party to be lounging about on hilltop instead of being one of the wage-slave drones below. Probably where The Ginger One is at this moment, instead of up here having fun in the sun. Not that he will come to this venue, having developed an irrational hatred of what he calls ‘Jizzborough’ for reasons best known to himself and the psychiatrist who will get a book and a lot of money out of him in years to come. Some pleasant xc riding got us to the back of Highcliffe Nab, ready and eager to test our skills on a few trails, as usual our skills were not equal to the trails, especially in their present conditions but we had fun trying. The little double jumps area near the Unsuitable crossroads has been flattened by the Forestry Commision, we even met the young lady responsible, who explained the reasons, which are primarily fear of litigation and revenge for a bit of amateur lumberjacking. More trails were ridden, in a slippery, slidey sort of way, finishing down the Brant Gate bridleway, a long singletrack descent leading to the bottom of Newton Woods. Cliff Rigg Quarry was lacking the usual airborne teenagers, so it was safe for us to continue our pitiful attempts on the nursery slopes without a backdrop of barely-concealed sniggers from the resident youths. Front wheels were hoisted into the air, occasionally back wheels might have left the ground, never at the same time though; berms were carved with all the style and grace of someone pushing an overloaded shopping trolley around Tesco car park. The black clouds once again rolled in, we took that as our cue to leave and head back to Great Ayton, where Keith’s umbrellas came in handy for our picnic, as a light rain failed to dampen our spirits, although we were back in the cars when the proper deluge arrived, like someone throwing buckets of water over the windscreen. Not much chance of the trails ever drying up at this rate.
Not Back Before The Daily Deluge.
Another lone ride; another showery forecast, I’m beginning to see a pattern here. Parked up outside the Rusty Bike in Swainby and headed up into Arncliffe Wood by the way we normally come down, not the wisest choice it turned out, in my mind it was a slight climb up to Scarth Wood Farm with its awesome crenellated farm house, sadly empty, a bit of a kicker up to the fire road, then a steady ride to Osmotherley, before another climb to the antennas. Reality proved somewhat different, over a thousand feet of ascent in five miles - that’s what you call a start. Despite the forecast, it was almost pleasant, if you don't mind a bit of grey cloud, obviously we’d rather be flying above the grey cloud on our way to anywhere sunny and not England, somewhere we should have been this week! Not that I’m bitter or anything, imagine being six and Christmas being cancelled and you're getting somewhere near my feelings. The lousy weather we’ve endured the past few weeks hasn’t softened the blow. So, instead of pointing my bike down the side of an Andalusian sierra, while idly wondering what Spanish hospital food might taste like, I’m riding down Scarth Wood Moor for the second time this week - not that it’s not fun, it just lacks a certain atmosphere. After riding up from the reservoir, I am stopped by a dog walker who wants to ask; A) is that an electric bike? No. B) Have I tried an electric bike? Yes. C) Should he buy an electric bike? All these questions delivered in a haze of beer fumes and if it hadn’t been for social distancing I’m sure he would have had his arm around me, declaring I was his best mate. He was definitely on the slightly tipsy, going on merry, side of inebriated but still not bad for half eleven on a Thursday morning. Perhaps he was taking a little too literally the news we each have to drink 124 pints to save the brewing industry. Leaving him to stagger toward Osmotherley and the fine selection of hostelries therein, I went into the woods and availed myself of more of Rod’s handiwork on the trails. Grand it was too, I got involved in a bit of selfie filming beside an atmospheric ruined house, after some time it began to rain but sheltered as I was by trees it didn’t seem too bad. Leaving the woods to return to Swainby, it soon became apparent this was no light shower, mini cataracts were pouring down the roadside, the stream at Sheepwash was gurgling past like a torrent in training and I quickly reached the can’t get any wetter stage. It is all downhill to Swainby, so I was spared the misery of slogging uphill in the rain but not the misery of both cafes being closed. Luckily petrol stations sell sandwiches.
