Tuesday Tree Swerving.

It does appear I have settled into a routine of long weekends off the bike, my week starts on a Tuesday now - or it does until someone wants to go riding on a Monday anyway. An unseasonably chilly June morning and we’re at Great Ayton (when I say we, I mean me and the bike). Great Ayton is the default “Can’t think of anywhere else to go” place for me. And it came to pass, as they say in God’s big book of mistranslated mythology, I was soon slogging up to Roseberry Common, ready to sample the delights of Guisborough Woods for the umpteenth time this year. Some old trails, a bit of trail exploration, led to a new trail, the usual uphill and down dale sort of scrounge about. I made my way to the summit of Highcliffe Nab and down the other side, heading for a descent of Codhill Heights, people-free today so the brakes got a bit of time off. Around the Lonsdale Bowl, Fingerbender Bank and Andy’s track finished the ride quite nicely, cold but sunny still, it would have been a perfect February day, shame it’s the first week of June.

Afternoon Exploration

Venturing to the wild West of England for a few days in a caravan with The Breadlad. We had a bit of a late start, so decided to check out an exceedingly local route I had hastily cobbled together the previous evening. Adjacent to the caravan site, in the valley of St. John’s In The Vale are conjoined hills, named with stunning originality, High Rigg and Low Rigg. In the interests of energy conservation, we went around the high one and across the low one. Almost all new territory to us both, apart from one section of nauseating steepness which I had rode previously on a Lakeland Monster Miles event. Our first bridleway, running parallel with the road to Thirlmere is a typical Lakeland mix of rocks and grass, well-defined but seemingly little used, mainly downhill with fine views along the valley to Castle Rock Of Triermain which stands like a sentinel at the southern end of the valley. Rather unfairly, the bridleway turns to footpath and we are funnelled onto the road via an ancient packhorse bridge. A bit of tarmac riding followed, taking us across the dam across the end of Thirlmere before we headed to Shoulthwaite on a wide forest road. Recrossing the A591 at Rough How Bridge, a bridleway led us around the western side of High Rigg, undulating until we reached the aforementioned climb, mercifully short but steep and loose. Some panting may have occurred. At the youth centre which lies between the two fells, we took a track over Low Rigg to Tewet Tarn, a steepish climb followed by a nice, moorland descent to the network of minor roads which all lead to Threlkeld. The Breadlad suddenly found an extra shot of energy and pointed his bike up the Old Coach Road, in search of a track a local lad had told him about. This involved ascending the scree slope track we usually descend, looking for “a flat bit near a quarry”. Quarries were easy to find, flat bits less so, so when the first flat bit presented itself, we followed it to a trail. It turns out we ought to have climbed higher to do the full trail but the portion we rode has potential - if it ever dries up. Our relatively clean bikes and bodies soon became unclean, splattered with mud and stinking ordure as we slithered down the hillside heading for the caravan site. And that was our first ride over, a nice little local ride for The Breadlad to have a spin round when he is visiting.

Hodge Close Revisited

We woke to another morning of excessive wind, grey clouds, incipient rain and the chill of a dank day in November. It’s a shame we’re approaching the middle of flaming June. British summer seems to be on hold for a while. Our plan today is to head south for a ride around the area between Ambleside and Coniston, so with bikes on the roof rack, we headed down the A591, aiming to begin the ride somewhere near Rydal. First we had to find a parking space, there were plenty in the car parks but we, like most other people by the look of it, refused to pay the price of a decent pub lunch just to stop on some gravel for a few hours. A spacious layby was the answer, even if it did mean risking life and limb riding a mile and a half along the busy road. After crossing the river Rothay at the southern end of Rydal Water, a much quieter road took us to our first climb of the day, passing Brow Head Farm before levelling out to become a pleasantly rocky bridleway across the southern flank of Loughrigg Fell. We dropped down to a road and made our way to Skelwith Bridge, from where a long, steady tarmac climb brought us to the Iron Keld bridleway. The climb up to Iron Keld is also long but definitely not steady and we were forced to sink to the depths of pedestrianism for a few sections. It was worth it for the descent though, proper Lakes riding, rocky and loose. Exhilarated, we crossed the road and began climbing to reach the plateau around Hodge Close Quarry, venue for many climbing adventures over the years for one of us and still an impressive sight, two hundred foot high cliffs dropping into an enclosed lake, the result of flooding the quarry after work had finished. Slate singing under our wheels, we descended a track through the spoil heaps and picked up the bridleway to Little Langdale, pausing to look in another of my old climbing haunts, Cathedral Quarry, taking our bikes along rock passages to airy caverns. Back on route, we were pleasantly surprised to find the bridleway between Little Langdale and Elterwater is predominantly downhill, our favourite sort of gravity. We had our favourite sort of snack stop in Elterwater, three letters, begins with P, ends with B; necessary calories for the next hill. The youth hostel is a welcome sight, not because we are youths but it means the climbing is over, from here it really is downhill all the way, beginning on tarmac and finishing on Loughrigg Terrace. Cutting across Loughrigg Fell, between the lakes of Grasmere and Rydal Water, the terrace is a white line of pure pleasure heading downward, quiet today, barely a walker in sight, which meant we weren’t treated like Jimmy Savile and Gary Glitter turning up at a five year old’s birthday party. A drop down to the river revealed a footbridge and a track which, by pure luck, emerged opposite the car. A grand ride, the sun even managed to put in an appearance, pushing the threatening clouds away for a while.

High Cup In A Hoolie.

Something a bit different today, a repeat of the High Cup Nick ride me and The Breadlad did back in March, when the weather was, quite frankly, much better. Last night was practically a storm, the caravan buffeted by wind and lashed with the sort of rain that disturbs slumbers. This morning is drier but the wind, as the saying goes, is blowing a hoolie. We met Rod and Andy T. at Dufton and took a back road to the village of Murton where the hard work begins, hundreds of feet of ascent on a wide, gravel track, luckily with some wind assistance leads to some more ascending on a grassy track across a moor. Back in March, the grass was dry and springy; today it was like riding over a wet sponge. Eventually we were riding high above the impressive gorge of High Cup Nick, slightly technical singletrack leading us down to the scrappy cliffs at the head of the valley. The wind was being funnelled directly at us but hitting the cliffs and going straight upwards, giving a few minutes of relative calm while we snacked and took pictures. The unseasonable cold precluded lounging about and we pedalled, not without some difficulty, along the opposite side of the gorge, into a gusty headwind which pushed bodies and bikes about like flotsam. A few rocky undulations and we arrived at the highlight of the ride - the downhill back to Dufton. But first Rod had to deal with the puncture he had picked up hurtling like a teenager down the previous rocky section. The remainder of the downhill passed in a blur of eye-watering wind, rocks and drops, loose gravel and a practical exploration of the relationship between fear and pleasure. All to do with the central amygdala apparently, a region of the brain named after its walnut shape; seeing as our brains are probably only the size of walnuts, we just went as fast as our cajones would let us. What seemed like seconds later, we were back on the main street in Dufton, the culmination of three days’ awesome riding.