Another Teasing Glimpse Of Summer.

Another Teasing Glimpse Of Summer.

It’s Saturday afternoon and I’m sat at home writing this in the middle of a thunderstorm, tomorrow doesn’t look much better from the forecast, all you Monday to Friday, nine to fivers, treat it as a message from God - get a shift job, get a life, the weather has been grand all week. Or retire, which is even better than working shifts. 

The first ride of the week saw me in Lordstones’ car park awaiting the imminent arrival of The Breadlad, who is on NMT, (New Marske Time) fifteen minutes behind GMT and then he was held up too which meant we slipped into the Strava lunch ride category. We set off and headed around Cringle Moor to ride a couple of lesser known tracks before crossing the road to Carlton Bank and making our way on some awesome but also little used singletrack to Faceby Woods. The track through the woods still has enough mud to hamper the flow, one minute weaving between the trees on a ribbon of leaf-covered loam; the next minute stopped dead by a quagmire of mud,rocks and roots. Towards the end of the trail, we ‘sessioned’ some small jumps with all the elan two blokes on the verge of middle-age could manage. It’s safe to say Red Bull won’t be calling us any time soon, although The Breadlad could probably manage a rampage - in a cake shop. 

We emerged at Heathwaite and began the long drag up Scugdale, continuing up Barker’s Ridge and on to Cock Howe, which could only mean one thing - Trennet Bank. A descent to rival any, losing all our sweat-dripping, leg aching, chest burning, height in a flurry of heather, rock, shale and grass, in excellent condition today, dry and grippy. We met a couple of blokes riding up, riding up Trennet Bank? A crime against nature surely? Time for us to reimburse our withdrawals from the gravity bank, which meant a steady plod up to Beak Hills for us. We finished the ride along The Fronts, always a pleasure this time of year, a roller-coaster track leading straight back to the cafe, which, of course, is still closed, so it is another car park picnic for us. 

The following day, Clay Bank with The Ginger One, who is from Darlington, not so much a different time zone as a different century. This is the first ride with The Ginger One since the day Boris closed the pubs, when we managed to squeeze in, what we didn’t realise at the time was our last pint for the foreseeable future. At least it was a pint of Jennings in a Lake District beer garden, what a way to sign off. 

We had not ridden the top track through Greenhow Plantation for a while, it goes along Jackson’s Bank, passing under Botton Head before dropping down to join the track to Bank Foot Farm. The track is a bit of a nightmare in winter but given enough dry weather is a nice change from hiking up the steps or droning along fire roads and one of us at least, was curious to see if recent felling activity has spoiled the track. Suffice to say the trail is now a doubletrack, two deep ruts, as wide as a pavement, filled with branches and muddy, slurry; optimistically, we pressed on, shouting ‘timber’ everytime another pine tree was culled. Carrying our bikes through shin-deep mud, we rounded a bend and realised the trees were crashing straight across our path. Time to beat a hasty retreat. Working on the adapt, improvise, overcome strategy, as opposed to the more usual, cry, sulk and swear strategy, we hike-a-biked up the Jackson’s Bank bridleway and gained Round Hill. Continuing on the broad, sandy tracks which criss-cross the moors, rode to Burton Howe, turning off the Cleveland Way and heading down the Old Coal Road across Middle Head Top, turning left at the bottom to head North West across Ingleby Moor, a fair few miles of descending to keep the old glee cells topped up. 

Rejoining the Cleveland Way, we took in the view and calories before continuing down a freshly sanitised Turkey Nab, not a soul about, at least the countryside has emptied out a bit since the shops reopened. One of the nice trails in the woods at the bottom of Turkey Nab has also fell victim to conifer cropping, today’s battling though fallen trees quota having been fulfilled earlier in the ride, we give it a swerve and rode down two of the remaining trails, which are still intact and in fine condition, springy loam, dry roots and grippy rock, the ideal way to finish a ride. Or it would have been if we’d parked at Bank Foot instead of Clay Bank and didn’t have about four miles of uphill fire road to do.

The third day of riding was a local loop with La Mujerita, just to Greatham Creek and Seaton Carew, where we hoped to see the Brent Alpha oil rig being brought into the dismantling yard in the creek mouth. It was low tide at the creek when we arrived, even the seals had decided to be elsewhere, so we continued to North Gare, from where we could see the rig out at sea, waiting for the tide. 

A full scale search was in operation around the gare and the beaches either side, a police helicopter, coastguards, police on foot and an RNLI rib were all looking for a missing lady. The weather is still having a go at being summer, Seaton Carew was rammed, especially the only open bar, doing a roaring trade, serving beer in plastic glasses to those happy to sit in the sun and drink - and who wouldn’t be on a day like this? We joined a queue for chips, which, along with ice cream and beer, appear to be the thriving industries of Seaton Carew. The rig was still out at sea when we left Seaton for home, using the nautical knowledge imprinted in my seagoing genes (well, my grandad once worked on trawlers out of Grimsby) and an online tide table, I estimated the rig would reach the creek in about three hours, we would be able to watch it being towed in and offloaded from the barges. Duly, we returned in three hours to find the job was done and dusted, the rig was in the yard ready for dismantling and we had missed the whole show.

After a very hot day of rest, thermometers creeping towards the big three oh, Friday’s forecast was for thunderstorms, just in case the British public should become too comfortable with Mediterranean weather, we’re probably not allowed foreign weather since Brexit. We met up at a warm but windy Blakey Bank Top car park, me, Rod and The Youth, who has finally ventured leg over crossbar again following his embarrassing crash in front of the prepubescent dirt jumpers in a local quarry. 

Our route for the day essentially four downhills and one climb, which sounds tempting but the climb is a big one, ascending out of Rosedale Abbey, passing the snigger-trigger of Bell End Farm and continuing upward almost back to Ralph Cross. In today’s heat, a sweaty affair, although the wind was behind us, like being blown uphill by a giant hair dryer. The route demanded we lose a fair bit of the hard-gained height dropping down a bridleway to the old Rosedale rail track, a superb singletrack descent, trickling through heather and coarse grass for almost a mile, the odd boggy patch dried up for the summer. 

From the rail track it is a barely perceptible climb back to the parking spot. The Youth has not been on the rail track since it was ‘improved’ with a bulldozer and several tonnes of gravel, the old rocky uphill test pieces have gone, as have the puddles of brown ironstone water which could treat the unwary to a good soaking and a broken rib or two - or was that just me? Although it was somewhat hazy, the predicted thunder didn’t arrive and our car park picnic turned into a long, leisurely, laze in the sunshine, taking advantage of the end of a brief few days of summer.

A Moorland Trilogy

A Moorland Trilogy

A dull Monday morning at Square Corner and barely a parking space left. It’s about time all the nine to fivers were unfurloughed or deforloughed or just furloughed off back to work and the retired and the shift workers could go back to having pleasant days in the countryside untroubled by the great mass of humanity. The sooner they return to clogging beauty spots only on weekends the better. And just remember, weekend throngs are the price you pay for being able to go to bed every night. 

June is not living up to its usual prefix of flaming, something beginning with F perhaps, it is more like a particularly mediocre April at the moment, cool and showery. Me and La Mujerita left Square Corner behind to start on one of her favourite moorland jaunts, essentially down to Cod Beck Reservoir, using a variety of routes, followed by a long climb up to Scarth Wood Moor, down the other side of the moor on the paved bridleway, back to Sheepwash, then return through the woods to regain High Lane and the road back to Square Corner. Which is pretty much what we did and very pleasant it was too. 

At the top of Scarth Wood Moor all the conifers are being felled because the area is to be reforested with deciduous trees, more in keeping the ancient woodland status of the area. A particular favourite track used to run through the conifers, it is still there but without the trees it looks about as interesting as watching Darlington FC getting beat by some other team of semi-amateur footballers. Instead of riding back through the woods around the reservoir and the hordes of people they contain - the Sheepwash car parks were at capacity, as they have been all lockdown. For those who are unaware, Sheepwash is one of those places where people who can’t bear to be more than 100 metres from their cars go to see what this countryside stuff is all about. Whoops, digressed again, no wonder this rubbish takes me so long to write. 

Instead of the woods, La Mujerita found herself introduced to the delights of pushing her bike up a steep bank of dried mud, loose rock and waist-high stone slabs. Short but brutal - the push, not La Mujerita, it gains height quickly and misses out a steep fire road climb, so, not better not worse, just different. A bit like road cyclists, except for the not worse part. We continued back to Square Corner after a detour to the pond beside the Hawnby road, by which time the weather was amenable enough for us to have our tailgate picnic.

After a couple of days R&R, I found myself at Birk Brow, meeting someone who hasn’t been out with us for quite a while, the legendary cycling machine that is Brian. Or SuperBri as he was known to some, who once turned up to a Christmas dinner ride so hungover he had to have a lie down everytime we stopped but still managed the whole ride. In the pub afterwards, merely looking at the menu made him queasy enough to abandon the whole concept of food and disappear into the distance. All I can say is he remains a powerful rider, most of the twenty mile ride was spent watching him disappear into the distance. Our route took in the usual Birk Brow start trails, Dimmingdale Farm, Robin Hood’s Butts, Sis Cross, Clitherbecks, Danby Beacon, Roxby Moor, Scaling Dam. Returning along Robin Hood’s Butts and the Quaker's Causeway. Reaching the Sean The Sheep bus shelter, the ever-present cloud was down to tarmac level, we rode up into it to gain the start of the causeway, barely visible, only a modicum of local knowledge stopped us from riding past the bridleway sign. The Quaker’s Causeway, as I have no doubt mentioned previously, strikes terror into the hearts of otherwise valiant riders, a buttock-battering bridleway which makes the cobbled classics of the road cycling world look like newly-minted cyclepaths of smoothest red tarmac. Personally I can’t see what everyone is moaning about, just put the suspension on to full bounce and crack on, which is precisely what Brian did, vanishing into the mist with me pedalling along behind as fast as my almost middle-aged legs would go. Which is just about the time the rain began, not a gentle drizzle but neither was it torrential, just persistent precipitation; deeming it too close to the car, I decided to ride it out rather than stop and put a waterproof on. Suffice to say by the time we reached Birk Brow I was doing a fair impression of a seal riding a bike. But, Lord Be Praised, Hallelujah and all that - the burger van is back, with appropriate social distancing of course. Some dry clothes on the outside, a cheeseburger on the inside and I was ready to do it all again.

And it came to pass that three disciples of the MTB XC sect were gathered in Clay Bank car park, squinting in some unaccustomed brightness, for verily there burneth a celestial sphere in the firmament, beaming heat onto the assembled multitude. And the populace did rejoice, for this was a sign that the season of heat and happiness has returned, the people of the country knew it as summer and soon they would be exposing flesh until it turned red for this would be a sign of their faith and proof that summer existed. But soon they would begin to walk with leaden steps, bemoaning the heat and the sweat rashes in the folds of their flabby bodies, longing for cooling potions, imbibed in the hallowed turf of the beer garden, cursing the fallen angel Boris, who closed the beer gardens to prevent a great plague sweeping the country. 

To cut a long story short, it was a decent day, Keith’s last ride before his furlough is rescinded, his insight into the life of a retiree coming to an end as the production lines whirr back into action. Me and The Breadlad decided to introduce him to the delights of Tripsdale, a kind of surrogate for the Spanish trip we all missed, dry dusty, loose and rocky and today we had the heat if not the post-ride San Miguel and ice cream. He was thrilled to hear the ride would begin with a spot of uphill pushing followed by some rimming; after dragging bikes and bodies up the Carr Ridge steps, we rode the edge of Urra Moor, a track we know as The Rim, a peaty, rock-strewn singletrack through the heather, which drops to a stream. After cautiously crossing the stream, which runs over slippy bedrock and climbing up the other side, we continued on the rim until it joins the wide moor track above Medd Crag, ascending to Round Hill, where we pointed out the less than inspiring highest point on the North York Moors. 

Typical moorland tracks, broad and sandy, take us to Cockayne Heads, where we hang a right, then another right, down a loose rocky track, passing the oddly named Badger Stone (must have been some heavy drugs going down the day they named that, looks nothing like a badger). More of the broad and sandys take us to the Tripsdale bridleway, where we stop for refreshments and bladder voiding, another group of bikers passed us, also heading for Tripsdale, luckily after our worry wees, so indecent exposure charges were avoided. 

We let them go ahead as we checked brakes and suspension in preparation for the mile or so of pure pleasure ahead of us. Three blokes on the verge of middle-age set off down the track and instantly reverted to sixteen year olds, whooping downhill, dry and dusty, loose and rocky, humps and curves to calm us down but still clocking up speeds in the thirties as the track steepens into sandy hairpins, one hairpin, two hairpins, third hairpin, bike leaning over, weight on outside pedal, the Spanish coaching paying off, around the fourth hairpin, brakes off, straight-lining over rubble to the bridge, where the other party are milling about, having their lunch, half off them stood on the bridge. WTF. Trail etiquette sadly lacking there. Remaining civil, we continue upwards, climbing out of the valley, pausing for a photo opportunity where we can look back at what we have just descended, looking awesome in the sunlight. A magnificent red kite cruised over to check us out, eyeing us up like the giant roc in The Arabian Nights tales. 

The ride finished with a descent of Medd Crag, which has a variety of sections, from steep singletrack with rocky drops to shale blasts and broad, grassy tracks. Too soon we arrived at Bilsdale Hall, knowing the fun was over and we had a couple of miles of uphill tarmac to return us to the car park for another picnic, this time looking across the moors to a distant Roseberry Topping.

Wetter Than Spongebob Having A Bath.

Wetter Than Spongebob Having A Bath.

And so it came to pass, on the wettest day of the wettest month of the year so far, when old Noah would have been herding animals up the gangplank, we had arranged a ride. The sort of day when a lone rider would have taken one look out of the window before diving back under the duvet. The power of peer pressure in group riding meant nobody wanted to be the one to cry off, so three of us ended up in Pinchinthorpe car park, Keith having driven all the way from Sunderland for the privilege; we couldn’t stretch to Boris’s magic six, I suppose because there weren’t three other people as daft as us. The rain, while not especially heavy, was constant and had been for about twenty four hours by now and showing no signs of stopping, the cloud ceiling was not far off ground level, obscuring the hillsides, all around the sound of rushing water, new streams appearing as water skidded off bone-dry fields instead of soaking in as you would expect. 

There was a display of hesitation from The Breadlad, not to start the ride but to deposit three pound coins in the ticket machine which he did with the same reluctance as someone teabagging an electric fence. Riding past the closed and shuttered visitor centre, a ray of sunshine, sadly only metaphorical, entered our lives; we met one of the cafe ladies who informed us the cafe will be opening next week - that’s a bit of good news, moving away from car park picnics. Cheered we headed into the forest, riding through sheets of water pouring down inclines, tops of trees shrouded in mist, climbing higher until we were almost at the mighty Roseberry Topping, hidden by thick cloud. Continuing upward, making our way toward the Hanging Stone track, we checked out a few other tracks on the way but left them for better days. Our brief singletrack excursion finished back on the fireroad, next challenge - The Unsuitables, a first for Keith, luckily the low cloud veiled the depression-inducing upward view, letting the summit come (eventually) as a pleasant surprise for him. If there can ever be anything pleasant about ascending The Unsuitables. 

A soggy Percy Cross Rigg came next, the stunning vista of the North York Moors obnubilated as we transitioned from sandy track to tarmac, taking the road down to Sleddale, the little stream which runs under the road today the sort of torrent which could sweep away a small child, so we kept a close eye on The Breadlad. We ascended Codhill Heights, the occasional walkers or runners looming out of the mist and made our way back into Guisborough Woods. After climbing the fireroad behind Highcliffe Nab the usual view across Guisborough to the North Sea was, today, a wall of grey. Sticking with the fireroad theme, passing many fine trails which were just too wet to ride without damaging them (or maybe us), we kept heading east, eventually reaching the lower parts of the “One Man And His Dog” trails. Being more open and a bit wider than the trails in the trees, they seemed to be holding up better, so a cautious descent or two followed, until the lure of the car park picnic became impossible to ignore. The last bit of the trails, which leads to the bottom of the concrete road was a pouring torrent of water, bubbling and cascading down the singletrack, hidden roots, slicker than a greased seal on an iceberg, wet feet all round. 

A spate of water was roaring across the road further down, gushing from a farmer’s field and parts of the old railway, which would lead us back to Pinchinthorpe, were completely underwater, turning it into the world’s shallowest canal. Predictably the rain relented to mere drizzle as we headed back, the sun even made a couple of half-hearted attempts to appear as we enjoyed our socially-distanced car park picnic. In defiance of the forecast, we had set out and ended up having an enjoyable, if decidedly wet, ride. Almost but not quite up there with “The Ride Of The Steamy Fart” an exceptionally wet and cold Borrowdale Bash when The Pensioner’s farts were visible as puffs of steam. One of his finest moments.