Warm And Wet In North Yorkshire. Terra Trailblazers. July 2021 Round Up And Video.

Video here for those who don’t do words.

Warm and occasionally wet just about sums up July, some heat teasing us with the promise of summer for a few days, then temperatures retreat back to the teens and a full day of rain moistens everything again. The trails I mean, from dry and dusty to slippery and greasy in 24 hours, puddles and mudguards. In July? Global warming allegedly. The Breadlad rejoined the flock, now his back has seen some improvement but he’s taking things cautiously with a few easy rides to break him in gently. Despite being rained off a few days, eighteen rides were managed this month by yours truly, others were less enthusiastic, Rod and SuperBri the top two ride buddies for this month, in fact SuperBri has stormed into the lead in this year’s attendance stakes, with 24 outings, putting The Breadlad into second place with 22 rides, a strong third place is Keith, who has managed 14 rides this year so far, undeterred by the drive down from Sunderland.  

 

 

Another Day Successfully Wasted.

The Breadlad is having another cautious outing, we rode from Great Ayton to Guisborough so he could test it on a few gentle trails. Well, as gentle as Gizzy Woods ever gets anyway. The warm and wet weather has given the vegetation a boost, whole sections of trails have vanished beneath a jungle of greenery - bracken, nettles, thistles and brambles. Not the sort of place to be wearing shorts and short sleeved tops - doh. We still managed to squeeze in a few tracks, finishing with the Brant Gate bridleway around the side of Roseberry Topping, a nice, long, downhill to finish the ride. The mighty Roseberry Topping was busy as usual, people trooping to the summit of the Cleveland Hills’ only peak, as it was described in contemporary news reports detailing its collapse in 1912, owing to mine workings beneath its slopes. Prior to that date, it was a conical mound, standing out from the surrounding countryside, as these old pictures show.

The Gentle Pitter Patter Of Little Tiny Raindrops.

To paraphrase Roy Orbison, “Only the lonely...get to have a bike ride.” And that sums it up. I arrived at a surprisingly quiet Square Corner, the forecast for rain in five hours time must have put the fair-weather adventurers off but it was pleasantly warm when I rode into Silton Woods. A straightforward descent of the downhill track was, well, straightforward, no surprises and it wasn’t long before I was pounding the tarmac toward Kepwick. From the crossroads in Kepwick, I could have turned left and whipped up (hah, maybe some exaggeration there) Kepwick Bank, onto the Drove Road but it would have made the ride way too short, nothing to do with 700 hundred feet of ascent in less than a mile and a half. Turning right, I pedaled through Cowesby and continued to Brickshed Cottage, where I left the road to push and carry up the rocky bridleway, which is ridden downhill as part of the Sutton Bike red route. Most of the track is down to bedrock nowadays and probably comes as a shock to anyone who is only used to the groomed pistes of trail centre red routes. Eventually the angle eases and a steady climb heads up into Boltby Forest, never too steep but it was still a relief to reach the top of the forest and the Hambleton Drove Road. Where it was time to take on some calories, lounging in the sun against a conveniently placed marker stone, chatting to the occasional cyclists or joggers passing by. Back on the bike, I had the mandatory play in the bomb hole - a genuine bomb hole too, apparently, my dad lived in the nearby village of Hawnby during WWII and German bombers would often jettison their loads over the moors after they had failed to find the industrial towns further north east. The local kids would come up onto the tops the following day looking for fragments of bombs and other ordnance, intact bomb flights were a particular favourite, they would be thrown into the air because they whistled on the way back to earth. Simple pleasures with instruments of death and destruction and not a Playstation or XBox in sight. Heading north on the Drove Road, I was soon at the top of the Mad Mile, black clouds were hovering ominously while I chatted to a walker who was wondering how much farther he’d be able to manage before he got wet. No such problem for me - only a mile to go and downhill all the way, steady today though, the broken ribs don’t seem to be broken anymore but I’d rather not find out the hard way. Back at the car, I managed to get the picnic stuffed into my face before the first drops of rain spluttered out of the clouds. It never became too heavy but it put an end to the picnic - and probably signals the end of summer. In the proper British tradition, we mustn't grumble, we’ve probably had about fourteen decent days this year, not consecutively of course, that would be too much to expect.

Pursued By Precipitation.

“Another lonely day, no one here but me-o...” Message In A Bottle. The Police. 1979. I know the feeling. Some people are at work, some on holiday, the rest are just couch-jockeys. Rolf Harris has spent more time babysitting than The Ginger One has biking this year. The forecast is a bit suspect too, which does nothing to tempt people out of the front room; so it’s Great Ayton yet again and heading for Guisborough Woods, working on the theory trees make good umbrellas. Varied the start a bit today though, from Dikes Lane, I rode up the hill to Gribdale, continued on the road and up the even steeper hill at Nab End to get to Percy Cross Rigg. Crossing Codhill Heights toward Highcliffe Nab, the first shower began, taking me from the rear but blew through before it could do any real mischief. On top of Highcliffe Nab, I planned a spot of selfie filming but the wind was doing it’s best to blow me over the edge of the cliff. Lower down, in the sunny intervals, things were pleasant and the forest was quite busy with other bikers and the odd walker, or should I say, occasional, walker. Far be it from me to infer that walkers are odd, although they don’t have bikes, which is strange in itself, going downhill at pretty much the same pace as you went up is bizarre behaviour by any standard. I kept on, knocking off a good number of trails before hunger drove me back to Great Ayton. Deciding to squeeze in one more trail before I headed off, I plunged into the darkness of Homage To The Loamage, using some of Rod’s logic, that it should hold up okay because it is sheltered. After the <<chevRonzz>> incident it was obvious Rod’s logic is somewhat flawed and today was no different, puddles, wet roots, sliding down the trail barely in control - and it’s not even a steep trail, welcome to the British summer. A last climb to Roseberry Common was accompanied by another attempt at raining which blew over before it started properly, then it was all downhill to Great Ayton. Today’s dilemma, butchers or bakers? Cooplands meal deal is hard to beat. No families thronging the riverside today despite it still being relatively dry, all the benches were empty, I chose one under a tree to enjoy my meal deal, the rain came in again, this time meaning business, dog walkers scurrying for cover as rain lashed down like someone emptying buckets from above. My tree did a good job of keeping me dry. 

Clicking on the route names will take you to the Strava page for the route. Where you can marvel at how slow we are.

The Hot Week.

Breaking Him In Gently

And he’s back, risen from his sick bed like Lazarus, The Breadlad’s first outing since mid-April, being a jet-setting, international socialite, he was still fashionably late. Owing to his delicate condition, known unofficially as Crumpet-Maker’s Malady, he was in charge of picking the route for me and SuperBri. And a fine outing it was too, The Half Round, not a description of my burgeoning beer belly (it’s the lockdown, honest) but half of North Yorkshire classic, The Rosedale Round. From Blakey Bank top car park, we followed the Rosedale rail track to Chimney Bank, flat gravel the whole way; at Chimney Bank we headed down the road, not as boring as it sounds, some 33% hairpin bends liven things up nicely. Entering Rosedale Abbey for a visit to Climbin’ Simon’s favourite toilets, by this point we had ridden five miles and according to my Garmin, done five feet of ascent - if Carlsberg made mountain bike routes etcetera. It all had to end, of course, soon we were slogging uphill, making for Rosedale East side and more relatively flat railtrack ambling, only a few hundred feet of ascent in our way. Once on the railtrack, SuperBri decided to have an extra workout and went off-piste on a parallel track way above our heads, where he could look down on the lime kilns and other post-industrial relics from a different angle. We waited for him at the bridleway which leads down to the all-important cafe at Dale Head Farm, luckily, waiting for him gave us time to read the notice at the top, informing us the cafe is not open on Mondays or Tuesdays. Wait, what day is it? Monday. Oh bugger. Car park emergency rations picnic for us then. Hot, thirsty, hungry and cafeless, the sun took no pity on us as we pressed on around the head of the valley, performing what could be the most scenic U turn in the country, back in the direction of the cars. The Breadlad felt well enough to squeeze in the extra loop behind The Lion Inn, which, today, is pleasantly dry and dusty. Another stretch of flat gravel railtrack brought us back to the road at Blakey Bank, mere feet from our cars. Stools came out, not the type The Breadlad usually leaves all over the moors and we had a meagre picnic in the sunshine.

Wot? No Mud?

Just me and SuperBri today, starting in Chop Gate because he's never had the pleasure of the Cold Moor descent, another of our moorland classics, happily for us, largely ignored by the trail centre contingent. To prevent the ride being too short, we hauled ourselves up the Raisdale Road, as far as the cottages, then ascended to Stoney Wickes at the end of the Scugdale valley, the climbing buttresses of Barker's Crags and Scott Crags, where I enjoyed a misspent adulthood, (I never got into the whole B&Q boy thing, wandering round with a codpiece size tape measure clipped to my belt, muttering about RSJs and paint coverage. I am a great disappointment as a husband) looked splendid in the sunshine. One day I might go back and see if my emaciated arms can lift my bloated belly off the floor, all the while informing anyone within earshot that I used to solo this route - in trainers. Enough of this digression, there's a bike ride to do. We continued to the summit of Carlton Bank, pausing at Brian's Pond en route, so SuperBri could check on his namesake.  From the summit, a circuitous descent of dubious legality took us to Lordstones and a ride around the back of Cringle Moor, taking in the odd bit of enduro track. Before too long, we reached Cold Moor, circumnavigating its broad face on a pleasant singletrack through bracken covered shale tips, which lead us to Garfit Gap, the valley between Cold Moor and Hasty Bank, looking across to The Wainstones, another venue for my misspent adulthood (and youth, if I'm honest, thanks to my dad). Turning our backs on the crags, we shouldered the bikes and hiked up the bridleway to the top of Cold Moor, SuperBri leapt back on his bike as soon as things flattened out a bit and floundered his way up rocks and ruts, whereas Mr. With Age Comes Wisdom, carried until the definitely rideable bit. The top of Cold Moor is a wide ridge with the usual North York Moors broad, sandy track running along it, as the moor loses altitude, the track begins to point downhill, turning into a dried riverbed filled with rocks and drop offs, the odd chicken run on the outside for when it gets too much. Lower it becomes moorland singletrack, with enough lumps and bumps to keep things interesting before some shallow gullies, filled with man-eating vegetation at this time of year, lead to tree-covered bower which ends behind the church in Chop Gate. And we’re done, a stone’s throw from the car park and our picnics.

Brian At His Pond

Mad Dogs And Englishmen

Jesus, it must be hot, even the puddle in Kildale Station car park has dried up, the puddle which seems to have less to do with cloud borne precipitation and more to do with the adjacent toilet block. All dry today, looking like being a scorcher. We set off up Three Sting Hill, thankfully shaded by trees, from Little Kildale to Warren Farm, a nice two hundred foot climb to begin the ride. After dropping down past the Leven Vale Chimney, it was time for SuperBri to have his first acquaintance with The Field Of Heavy Gravity, so called because this seemingly flat expanse of grass has you in your lowest gear from the start, arriving at the gate onto the moor panting before shouldering the bikes for a carry up steep and unrideable (there’s a challenge) singletrack bridleway. From the top we made our way to the road and immediately descended another bridleway, down into Baysdale Abbey, a little used but excellent descent, through heather and grass, just steep enough to be fun. Of course, the problem with Baysdale Abbey is the ascent required to leave the place, today was no different and we climbed up to Ingleby Moor via Middle Head, which is usually a descent for us. It was not hard to see why we normally travel in the opposite direction, particularly when we combined it with an ascent of the Old Coal Road, to finish at Burton Howe. Burton Howe is a scheduled monument, once containing Bronze Age remains, removed during excavation in 1956, so two sweaty mountain bikers lounging on top, weren’t committing any sort of desecration, except, maybe to fashion. Suitably rested and refreshed, we had a quick spin to Bloworth Crossing and back via the Incline Top before picking up the Cleveland Way and following it to the Baysdale road, nothing technical, just wide, gravel tracks cutting across heather moors, under a big, blue sky. We could have ended the ride with a quick blast down the tarmac directly back to Kildale but we have suffered ascending Coleson Banks so many times in the past few months, it was payback time. Magnificent it was too, the old, rutted nightmare of a track is long gone, it has been relaid with steep gravel which becomes a stony doubletrack across a sheep field, still downhill, all the way into Battersby. Sheep laid across the track moved reluctantly as we approached, no wonder they couldn’t be arsed, they must have been sweltering in their thick fleeces, it took a bit of bell ringing and Pensioner style swearing to hurry them up a bit. And that was that, a bit of tarmac between Battersby and Kildale and we were back in the sheltered suntrap of the station car park, picnics out.

And On The Fifth Day...

Fifth day of cycling in a row for me, there was an unblogged local ride on car service day and fourth day with SuperBri - he’s in the forefront of the attendance stakes this year, mainly owing to The Breadlad’s bad back and indolence on the part of most of the others. We were at Chop Gate again, so SuperBri can tick off another North Yorkshire classic - Trennet Bank, which actually finishes in this car park. But first we needed a circuitous route to get us up there, to at least scrape the mileage into double figures. For the second time this week, we were pedalling up the Raisdale Road, this time turning off at the farm road which eventually reaches a termination at Beak Hills. As we rode through the farmyard, the early warning Jack Russell didn’t hare out, barking itself to laryngitis, to escort us off the property. Odd. Leaving tarmac behind, we climbed steadily until we reached The Fronts, SuperBri’s yellow top attracting every insect in a five mile radius. We enjoyed the roller coaster Fronts all the way to Lordstones, with only a brief pause while I inspected the rib breaker rocks from six weeks ago, pointless really, they didn’t apologise or anything. From Lordstones, we began climbing again, up Carlton Bank and across the moor to, yes, you guessed, Brian’s Pond, gleaming in the heather like the Koh-i-Noor diamond. Bypassing it today, we carried on and up Barker’s Ridge, from the summit a left turn would have took us easily to Trennet Bank but it was a nice day, nobody felt overtired, so another loop was tagged on, a speedy descent of Arnesgill Ridge to Head House, wide, sandy moorland riding at its best. The climb from Head House up onto Bilsdale West Moor was not quite as speedy, in the shadow of the Bilsdale Transmitter Mast we toiled as it beamed out invisible inanity to the nation’s passive, slack-jawed, couch-jockeys. From the top, more of North Yorkshire’s finest sand took us to Cock Howe, a Bronze Age barrow, an ancient relic marked with a standing stone, which our own sadly departed ancient relic, The Pensioner, once managed to topple by trying to sit on it. Luckily we were able to re-erect the stone before the archaeology police caught us. Trennet Bank is about a mile and a half of pure pleasure, beginning with grassy singletrack, turning to rocks and ruts, which lead to a steep drop down shale, discretion is often the better part of valour at this point. After the shale, the route enters a network of sunken gullies, plunging to the car park, gorse, brambles and bracken all grasping for the blood of unsuspecting cyclists flying past. Seconds later, we are back in the car park, another picnic in the sunshine, another stinking, sweat-soaked top heading for the washing machine. Five days and not a drop of rain, it can’t last, the thunderstorms are already rolling in.

Clicking on the route names will take you to the Strava page for the route. Where you can marvel at how slow we are.

 

In England's Green And Pleasant But Occasionally Moist Land.

 

Reverse Rimming: Perverse Pleasures.

Stump Cross

A bit odd, starting a week on a Tuesday but we let the weather forecast yesterday put us off - and just as well, the rain turned out heavy and persistent, but we escaped flooding unlike some areas. No sign of summer today although the rain has kind of stopped, it was going to be a mudguard kind of day though, a plethora of puddles awaited us. Mudguards in July? We climbed up from Clay Bank car park, heading into low cloud and moisture, aiming for The Breadlad’s favourite track, The Stump Cross Descent. Rod is on another week off from work, so, it looks as though my (healing nicely, thanks for asking) ribs will be getting a decent workout. Heading for Stump Cross across Urra Moor, the broad sandy tracks were claggy with moisture, beyond the Badger Stone our route headed up into the clouds, which skimmed the higher parts of the moor. By the time we reached the aptly named stump of a cross, they lifted and allowed us a bit of hope. The descent is singletrack all the way to the remote valley of Bransdale, suffering from a bit of seasonal overgrowth, at times disappearing completely under dense bracken but cycling gods that we are, we battled down to emerge victoriouos and unscathed.. We had a quick review of our options when we reached the road at Bransdale, electing to return via Tripsdale, more climbing than the other return routes but also much more fun. So Tripsdale came and went, down, down, down, hairpin, hairpin, hairpin, loose and nadgery, followed by up, up, up and up some more, until we were above Medd Crag, Bilsdale below us. At this point we decided to shake things up bit and ride The Rim (another TTB favourite) the opposite way round; predominantly uphill but never too arduous, it was fine except for the odd boggy bit which threatened to suck us under and leave us for future generations to find, perfectly preserved, like Lindow Man with bikes. A final blast downhill took us to the car park, sunny and warm, a different world from a few hours earlier.

Before Work Quicky

We, that’s me and Rod, had the pleasure of Charlie and Keith today, who drove down from Sunderland for a before work quickie - well for Keith anyway, who is single handedly keeping the wheels of the automotive industry turning while the rest of us squander our days away riding bikes in beautiful places. Two and a half hours to squeeze in a sample of some of the best Guisborough Woods can offer. Leaving Great Ayton behind, we headed directly for the Hanging Stone, a fine and sunny day, still a few puddles lingering from Monday’s cloudburst. Old Ralph’s latest track, Old Man’s View was ridden with approval, even though it was, today, a little greasy in parts. Moving on, Rod suggested Chevrons or to give it its proper Strava name <<chevRonzz>>, “It should hold up well to the weather.” The trail is nice and flowing with a few steep sections, in common with the vast majority of Guisborough trails, it is unofficial and has no kind of trail armouring, gravel, hard core or anything similar, just mud, which is great when it is dry, not so clever when it is wet. But, as Rod said, it should hold up well, it held up about as well as a tissue paper condom, we didn’t so much flow through the trees, as slither between them, the experience enlivened by regularly plunging into disproportionately deep, muddy puddles. Rod’s words will live to haunt him for a few years to come. Fun over, we hauled ourselves up The Unsuitables, my new mantra coming into play - “I’ve got a 52 tooth and I’m going to use it.”  The Sunderland contingent, unused to real hills, stormed ahead, reaching the gate at the top in varying stages of incipient cardiac arrest, my forty odd years as a process operator giving me a deeper understanding of energy conservation, I know how to pace myself. A quick scoot up Percy Cross Rigg and around the Lonsdale Bowl brought us back to Newton Moor and the finale of today’s route, the classic descent of Little Roseberry, continuing down the side of Roseberry Topping to the Bluebell Woods, down through the woods to Cliff Rigg Quarry. Unfortunately time was against us, so we weren't able to pop into the quarry and impress the local youth with our airborne skills but there is always next time. We arrived back at the cars bang on time for Keith to grab a sandwich before he headed back up north and prepared for his shift while we lazed in the sunshine.  

Riding Fat Betty.

Fat Betty or White Cross

Another day: another ride, it’s not so bad this retirement lark. We were joined by SuperBri today, who, being a teacher, is mere hours away from the wildly anticipated six week holidays; that feeling when you are a kid, waking up on the first Monday of the six week break, that’s what every day of retirement is like. Just saying. Blakey Bank top, despite the weather forecast, was breezy and cold, windproof tops were dug out for the first time in a while. Our ride was a few loops, taking in some of Rosedale’s highlights, starting with the unnamed singletrack which cuts across the corner near Ralph’s Cross, leading to Fat Betty, or White Cross, to give it the official Ordnance Survey name, where we inspected the food offerings which are regularly placed on the cross (no idea why, something to do with travellers and sustenance I guess) before riding the pleasant singletrack to the road. This was followed by a loop on tarmac until we reached the George Gap track, an ancient route across the moor, partially paved and still a bit squelchy in the unpaved sections, we emerged onto the Trough House track, riding past the house and returning to tarmac, heading for the Daleside Road descent, a superb piece of natural singletrack which leads down to the old Rosedale railway track. A lot drier than we expected today, a pretty much perfect descent, a wheel width trail through heather and grass, views down Rosedale valley, fifty shades of green. We took the continuation bridleway down to Dale Head Farm, the old self-service cafe has been revamped and renovated during lockdown and very nice it is too. For such a remote place, the cafe was surprisingly full, mainly people enjoying the weather, sitting at the outside tables. As were we. It has been said many times, when a group of men are talking, the conversation will inevitably degenerate to shit or sex and today was no different. We were engaged in a pretty far-ranging scatological discourse, stretching from the odiousness of long drop toilets in Africa to the less than discreet public evacuations of my young nephew when Disgusted Of North Yorkshire, sitting at the next table, took a break from ignoring his wife and demanded we change the subject. Being mountain bikers and therefore gentlemen, not like those uncouth and arrogant road cyclists, we apologised and raised our conversation from sewer level, while Mr. Disgusted went back to sitting in bitter silence with his wife. Lunch over we dragged ourselves and our bikes back up to the railtrack, the bridleway from the farm has been resurfaced  - more lockdown gravel - but our attempts to climb it were still in vain. The relative flatness of the rail track returned us to The Lion Inn, from where we polished off a loop round the back of the pub, returning to the cars up the last few metres of Blakey Bank, pretending for the benefit of spectators, we had just powered our way up all the way from Farndale.  

In England's Green And Pleasant Land.

The first day of what is predicted to be the hottest weekend of the year so far and it looked as though everyone has gone to Square Corner to make the most of it. I managed to slot into the last parking space, coincidently beside Rod. The Mad Mile start was as brutal as ever, the first time I’ve tried it with my 52 tooth back cog and the welcome sight of the summit cairn came with energy to spare, a change from the usual lung-burning, jelly-legged wreckage of a man sucking air in, waiting for his heart rate to return to double figures. We zipped along the Drove Road for a while before turning off to descend into the little-visited  valley of Thorodale, behind Arden Hall. Bracken is encroaching onto the steep track, improving the odds of a speedier but significantly steeper descent to the valley floor if your front wheel wanders over the edge of the track. We continued through Thorodale Wood and took a nice fire road descent almost to Arden Hall, turning off onto another track close to the oddly named Nun’s Well. Somewhat ominously, Rod calls this “The track off the track.” knowing Rod’s idea of what constitutes a track, this could only mean a character-building adventure lay ahead. Up hill and down dale, through stinging, scratching fields and ordure splattered singletrack we pressed on into the unknown (for me anyone, Rod seemed to have a rough idea where we were headed). At one point out path was blocked by a random pair of cows, both with calves, one of the cows had the sort of horns which wouldn’t have looked out of place chasing macho hombres through the streets of Pamplona, the sort of horns which would look nice above the fireplace in a wooden lodge but not quite so nice sticking out of my spleen. We moved towards the animals, hoping they would let us past but no; one cow, along with the calves walked ahead of us while the other walked behind bellowing morosely. Rule number one of farm safety, never get between a cow and her calf. Whoops. We followed at a respectful distance like some sort of bizarre funeral cortege until the way was blocked by a gate, Mama cow turned around to eye us up, the calves beside her, mama cow #2 was still bellowing behind us. We climbed up onto the side of the track, ready to throw ourselves over a barbed wire fence if need be, mama cow flaunted her horns at us, still blocking the gate, the calves wandered off back down the track, Mexican standoff. The cow tensed and then began the longest piss I’ve ever known, a genuine twelve pints of lager, bladder-burster and still it went on and on, it must have been three or four minutes worth, stood there gushing out like a broken ball cock. Satisfied she had made a big enough puddle by the gate catch, she wandered off to rejoin her companions. We continued as before, on a variety of tracks, from gravelled farm roads to bracken and thistles, descending at one point to cross a river before pushing up the opposite bank as the fly population of North Yorkshire swarmed around our heads like something from The Hammer House Of Horror - yes I am that old, compulsory viewing back in the seventies. Eventually we reached a spot I recognized, the start of the Dale Head singletrack and we had a bit of a lie down in the sunshine before we tackled it, all around us, assorted hues of green, rain and sunshine in league to produce the verdant panorama of British summer. The Dale Head singletrack came and went, thankfully dry but not the classic it used to be, erosion seems to have swallowed up all the fun features. Continuing past the burnt out shell of the Dale Head farmhouse, surely beyond any more renovation attempts, we pedalled to the road and our picnics at Square Corner, now much less crowded than when we set off. We had only rode just over ten miles, with a moderate amount of ascent but it felt like the one of the hardest routes this year, probably because it was my fourth day in a row and the sun was blazing. Rod’s suggestion of a few trails in Silton Woods to finish the day was greeted with the three D’s - disdain, disbelief and despair.

Clicking on the route names will take you to the Strava page for the route. Where you can marvel at how slow we are.