Three Is The Magic Number

Not one but two companions today as I was joined by a pair of planet-raping jetsetters, both eager to swap jet propulsion for pedal power, to breath in the pure atmosphere of the North Yorkshire countryside not recirculated flatulence on a jumbo jet. Miles and The Breadlad came out of retirement or hibernation or whatever it is they have been doing and we met in a bright and breezy Clay Bank car park. The Breadlad was suspiciously punctual, which means he’s either put the clocks back three weeks early or is living in his car, snuggled under a blanket whispering sweet nothings to his Santa Cruz. Following a bit of Whatsappery the previous evening, we decided to introduce Miles to the Stump Cross Descent, a trail hitherto neglected in his explorations of the moors; it turned out the whole area was new to him, which means he has a lot to look forward to, the Cold Moor descent, Tripsdale, Trennet Bank, Ingleby Incline, Medd Crag, East Bank Plantation. But first we had to drag ourselves up onto Urra Moor, around 500 feet of ascent in less than a mile, most of it on stone steps with bikes on backs. From the gate at the top, another hundred and odd feet of climbing and we are passing the unremarkable trig point on Round Hill, officially the highest point on the North York Moors. The wide, sandy tracks which criss-cross Urra Moor are smooth and firm today, which is nice but exposed to the wind, which isn’t. We rode to Stump Cross, which is literally the stump of a cross, in a socket carved into a large stone which is the base of the cross. Opposite is the unmarked bridleway we are going to ride down to Bransdale, beginning as a barely noticeable depression in the grass and heather, Miles was learning the benefits of local knowledge, it quickly becomes more defined, a fine piece of moorland singletrack, rocks and ruts, heather and bracken, with awesome views to the remote valley of Bransdale. The best is saved until last, emerging from bracken, the track opens up onto an exposed ridge leading to a drop on shale to a road. A brief section of tarmac takes us to the remnants of Bloworth Woods, renamed many years ago by The Pensioner to Blowjob Woods, he once found a twenty pound note there too, so The Breadlad likes to visit as often as he can in the hope some of this magical money might come his way. The majority of the trees have gone now and the remainder are being harvested around us. We pushed up a steep hill to avoid the logging and associated mud, from the top, another sandy track took us back to Cockayne Head on Urra Moor. From here we could have a bit of revenge on our start, riding down from Round Hill before turning off to acquaint Miles with the slightly technical bridleway down Jackson’s Bank, greasy rocks today, I don’t think anyone managed it dab free. Which only left a claggy fire road through the woods and a downhill finish known as Dusters, which was anything but dusty today.

Like A Hurricane.

Three, two, one, back in the room, in contrast to yesterday, I have reverted to my more usual lonely wanderings, setting off from Great Ayton hoping Guisborough Woods might shelter me from the brutal wind. The forecast reckons 20 mph but it feels at least double that. Many of the trails are regressing to autumn and winter slop and a few others have been destroyed by ongoing felling, the machinery has not done the fire roads any favours either, so it is a question of picking your trails wisely. I wandered lonely as a cloud, eastward, almost to the edge of the forest before turning around heading back into the wind, which certainly slowed things down a bit. Looks as though it will be a headwind all the way back to Great Ayton, so I decide lower down might be an option. The usually speedy descent of Codhill Heights was almost pedestrian today, the climb back up onto Percy Cross Rigg seemed much harder with gusts attempting to push me back down to Sleddale. I could have manned it up and battled against the wind for a few more miles, or alternatively, I could descend the Yellow Brick Road to Kildale and get pushed back to Great Ayton by the wind. I manned it down and lived to fight another day but only because the Yellow Brick Road generally has a good selection of fungi to photograph, nothing to do with the inherent slothfulness of the process operator. Even though I’ve been retired for five years now, energy conservation is a hard habit to break.

Slip Sliding Away

Another venture out with La Mujerita, we gave Swainby the benefit of our company this week. It is still windier than we’d like but it has calmed down somewhat from the previous few days. Tarmac took us to Whorlton, passing the keep of Swainby Castle, the keep is standing, the castle long gone, unfortunately the gates of the keep are padlocked nowadays, which is a shame, as it was interesting to have a scrounge about. For those that believe in that sort of thing, it is purported to be one of the most haunted places in England, see here: Our earthly bodies pedalled along to the end of the road at Whorlton House, where we turned left and followed a track through fields to Faceby, continuing on Bank Lane to join the bridleway which climbs up to Faceby Plantation. This bridleway climbs a grassy field to the plantation, one of the local “Fields Of Heavy Gravity”, which look fairly innocuous until you realise you have no gears left and you’re panting like a footballer in a spelling test. It was harder today, soggy ground, wet grass and a headwind, the shelter of the trees was welcome. From the woods a pleasant gravel track leads to the hamlet of Heathwaite, a small terrace of cottages on the Scugdale road. We crossed straight over the road and dropped down to splash through Scugdale Beck, after which our second “Field Of Heavy Gravity” loomed ahead of us, not as arduous as the first owing to a better surface and some cute and fluffy Highland cattle calves to take our minds off the ascent. The Cleveland Way through Clain Woods took us to the road at Scarth Nick, a steep bank between Swainby and Osmotherley, luckily it took us to the top of the bank, unluckily we did have to climb the Clain Wood steps to get there. Allegedly there are legendary mountain bikers who can ride up the Clain Wood steps and I have witnessed a few spirited attempts, not by me, I hasten to add. I know my limits. Turning left we rode to the dog walkers’ paradise of Sheepwash and Cod Beck reservoir, where some people prefer to enjoy the countryside without being out of sight of their cars. We girded our loins for the ultimate climb of the ride, up through the woods to High Lane, which we immediately descended back to the ford at Sheepwash. Such is the nature of mountain biking. Tarmac was followed back to Scarth Nick, where we turned off onto the parallel bridleway, which is usually a bit overgrown and slippery. I may have omitted to mention this to La Mujerita. A detour has been put in place around a massive fallen tree, it ramps up and along before dropping steeply to rejoin the original trail, quite popular judging by the amount of tyre tracks, a brilliant piece of trail building, virtually unrideable today, being just a deep groove through mud. The drop down was even more challenging, even to walk. La Mujerita didn’t appear to share my enjoyment at this new addition to the local trail network, especially as the fact we were wallowing about in mud mere metres from a tarmac road was not lost on her. Soon it was all over, a pleasant minor road brought us to the Rusty Bike cafe where a delectable selection of goodies replenished our calorie deficit in a most agreeable manner.