The First Bit Of December.

 Rainbows And Llamas.

Almost a fortnight since my last outing, for various reasons, mainly a failed attempt at tooth extraction, a professional failure I hasten to add, not an attempt at home dentistry and a jaw looking like the aftermath of Mike Tyson right hook. Me and The Breadlad found ourselves in a dry but breezy Birk Brow car park, already looking forward to the burger van. The dry part is unusual in itself, we’ve had more or less constant rain since the last ride, our route was carefully contrived to avoid as much sogginess as possible. Which, unfortunately, meant a few road miles to begin, pedalling along the A171 to Lockwood Beck before hanging a right along the Castleton road until we reached the Shaun The Sheep bus stop, where another right turn saw a pleasant bit of downhill towards Commondale. When I was in the Scouts, as a youth, we used to go to the county campsite in Commondale, sleeping on bunks in wooden huts, which looked as though they were army surplus from a 1940’s prisoner of war camp; big hut, long table down the middle, bunks around the walls, we thought it was great. The toilet block was across a (usually) muddy path, so, once the leaders had retired to their quarters, nocturnal urination was executed by standing on a top bunk to reach the open windows. Simple childhood pleasures, our concept of a playstation was a pack of cards and an incomplete set of dominos kept in the same box. That’s enough mooching down the memory lane, back to the present and our first bit of off road riding, or proper riding as it should be known,  we took a bridleway leading toward the unattractively named Foul Green. At a bifurcation, we chose to head down through a couple of fields, the track became vague and squelchy, a couple of damp ditches were deeper than they looked, we were lucky to emerge onto the Box Hall bridleway with only wet feet. A couple of llamas in a pen kept us amused for a while, attempting to get them to pose for a photo before we continued on the gravelled track, a few puddles but better than slopping about in a field. Crossing the road, we continued through Danby Park, this track is mainly surfaced, so it is not too sloppy, the bridleway continues almost to Danby, joining the road for the last few hundred yards. 

We were treated to some fine rainbows as we rode toward the village, of course rainbows cannot form without moisture in the air and it wasn’t long before the pleasant winter sunshine was blotted out by sodden clouds preceding a lengthy shower, keeping us dampened all the way to Robin Hood’s Butts. Looking on the positive side, we were safe from bushfires and spontaneous combustion. Robin Hood’s Butts, for those who don’t know, is a wide, stony track across Danby Low Moor, linking the Castleton road to the Danby road, it is a byway open to all traffic and has suffered some abuse from the “One Life: Live It” (so long as you can afford the diesel) wobbly heads in their ever so butch 4x4’s. It has recently been resurfaced, the worst bits cordoned off to recover and is always a preferable alternative to tarmac. This time of year it does hold some large puddles, if the puddles all merged into one continuous waterway it could be Robin Hood’s Canal. Our next objective was the Quaker’s Causeway, or the dreaded causeway as some lesser riders know it, a paved trod over the moors, allegedly built by monks long before Quakers and their porridge oats were even thought of. The irregular paving strikes terror into the buttocks of some of our companions, who fail to appreciate the convenience of a solid pathway across an otherwise boggy moor, preferring to focus on their pummelled posteriors. Me and The Breadlad are made of sterner stuff, we glided along, the sun had returned and the smell of frying onions was in our nostrils, although maybe we imagined the smell, seeing as we were still a couple of miles away from the burger van. Soon we were a socially distanced couple of metres from the burger van, shouting our entirely predictable order through the perspex screen. 

Looking windswept and interesting.

Muddy Meanderings.

A few days later, we were in Guisborough Woods, just me and La Mujerita, sticking mainly to fire roads and the less muddy tracks, although we did venture off the beaten track into what we used to call Teletubbyland, after a Teletubby which lived in a tree. Obviously it was a toy Tellytubby because the real ones live in a hill not a forest. Now the area has become home to fairy doors in the trees, overlooking fairy gardens and assorted elves, dolls, cartoon spiders, stars, ribbons, rainbows and all manner of glittering enchantment. Presumably constructed by local children or maybe tooth fairies blowing the cash they forget to leave under pillows. The snake of painted stones which ran alongside the old rail track is being made permanent, the stones are cemented into a long trench, the whole installation has been christened Covid The Cobra, as if we will need anything to remind us of this year. I still haven’t forgotten the Foot And Mouth outbreak of 2001, when most of the countryside was forbidden to us mountain bikers. We rode up some hills and down some hills, trying to avoid the worst of the mud, sticking to fire roads where possible but eyeing up likely looking tracks for post-monsoon exploration. Gradually we worked our way back towards Pinchinthorpe and La Mujerita could almost taste the hot chocolate but the Garmin hadn’t even made it to double figures in the mileage stakes, so I pointed her toward another hill, which is always a crushing psychological blow when you think you are finished but a paltry seven miles was not even worth the diesel and the parking fee. Our extra loop took us up the slippery slope to Bousdale Farm and through fields toward Roseberry Topping, from where the fire roads of Guisborough Forest funnelled us back towards the cafe. A special seasonal After Eight Hot Chocolate awaited - who says I don’t know how to treat a lady? The weather forecast proved correct for once and the rain arrived at the same time as the food, no sort of afternoon to be sitting at the picnic tables, so we sat in the car to replenish our calories.

Covid The Cobra.

Looking For Dry Bits.

Another week long gap in my riding - this must be what it’s like to have a day job but now I’ve had the troublesome tooth ripped from my head, jaw stitched up and strenuous exercise refrained from for the recommended 72 hours, I’m raring to go. Me and The Breadlad depleted Redcar And Cleveland Council funds of another eight quid by parking at Hutton Village - we’ll keep it up until the yellow lines appear. We made our way from along the old rail track, over the bridge and climbed gradually to the top of the forest at Highcliffe Nab, mainly using fire roads and one steep and muddy push up a likely looking track, which turned out to be so steep our 5:10’s were more of a hazard than the trail, no purchase at all in the steep mud, literally one step forward, two steps back. Eventually we made it to the top and had an “I know where I am moment”, yeah, on a fire road in Guisborough Forest. We climbed higher, actually riding the bikes this time, the steep trail we had just pushed up filed away in the “it’ll be okay when it’s dry” folder like most of the trails lately. Swerving around the back of Highcliffe Nab, we made our way out onto Codhill Heights and enjoyed the descent across the moor in low winter sunlight, courtesy of a virtually cloudless sky, a bit more of this and the trails might begin to dry up - about six months of drought ought to do it. At the end of Percy Cross Rigg, we took ourselves around the Lonsdale Bowl and onto Newton Moor, heading for the gate overlooking Roseberry Topping resplendent in the sunshine. 

Unwilling to lose our height yet, we swerved towards Guisborough Woods and had a convoluted ride to the top of The Unsuitables, which was descended for a change. The plan was to check out an old trail which used to head down to Hutton Village but the entrance had the dreaded red and white tape across the entrance and a danger do not enter men wielding chainsaws sign, obviously I’m paraphrasing there but it is a firm Terra Trailblazer’s rule never to enter men wielding chainsaws. Our route was hastily modified to include the maximum descending with the minimum of mud and it wasn’t long before we were consuming goodies from the cafe in a cold field while hearty dog-walkers attempted to control their animals. Replete we made our way back over the hill to Hutton Village arriving back at the cars just as The Breadlad’s unruly bowels began stirring - hopefully he’d make it home and before he turned his car seat into a makeshift commode.

Highcliffe Nab

As always the route names are the Strava names, Strava account under the pseudonym Lordy Lardy, where you can see maps of the routes and marvel at how slow men on the verge of middle-age can ride.