Does Your Granny Always Tell You The Old Ones Are The Best...?
In a strange turnaround in the weather, we’ve woken to a covering of snow for the past two mornings, which melts away as soon as the sun caresses it, a few lingering patches on the moors are still clinging to the north facing slopes. Today is what has been dubbed the glorious twelfth, nothing to do with grouse being blasted from the sky by gadgies who can afford three grand for a day on the drink with deadly weapons but the day Boris said all non-essential shops can open, as can cafes and pubs but only for outdoor consumption. Some pubs took full advantage, opening at midnight for those hardy, or desperate, enough to want to spend the small hours in a snow-covered beer garden. Owing to the cafes reopening we arranged to meet in Swainby, where we would have a choice of two cafes for our post-ride calorie reimbursement - except they were both shut, not opening until later in the week - good job I had an emergency bag of crisps. For a change, we rode up by Whorlton Castle and along the road to the hamlet of Whorlton, at Whorlton House, a left turn took us onto a track through fields to Faceby, we paused to inspect, or be inspected by, a large, definitely non-native, species of bird, an emu I believe, who is probably wondering what he did wrong to be in a freezing North Yorkshire field instead of the Australian bush. We pressed on to Faceby, following the bridleway up a field of heavy gravity to Faceby Plantation, we rode through the plantation, up at first before, enjoying some downhill action all the way to the road at Heathwaite, we normally ride up this trail, so it was a rare treat. Sticking with the “change is as good as a rest” theme, we headed to the end of Scugdale and made the big climb to the gate at Stoney Wickes, this track is drying up a treat and is a great downhill in these conditions, not for the first time we questioned why we are going up it. Further climbing took us up Barker’s Ridge, at the top we were into the network of broad, sandy tracks which criss-cross the moors, mainly built to service the grouse shooting industry but a great, if none technical, way to blast over the moors, big skies and panoramic vistas, golden bracken and dull, winter heather, green fields and yellow tracks under the cerulean sky. Our thoughts extended to the poor suckers at work on such a day but only briefly.
Arnesgill Ridge is an old favourite we don’t ride often enough, beginning more or less from the the top of Barker’s Ridge, the trail drops down, past Osmotherley Stones, to a sandy T junction, scene of many accidents from the over-enthusiastic and unwary over the years, where it joins Arnsegill Ridge proper and continues dropping until just before Low Cote Farm, three and a half miles later. Exhilarating. Less exhilarating is the road climb from Low Cote and back along toward Square Corner, we could have done the Dale Head singletrack as an alternative but it has deteriorated in recent years. From a pretty packed Square Corner car park, I thought all the day people were back on their treadmills, we continued to High Lane, passing Chequers and made our way to the ford at Sheepwash on the ‘improved’ track, undoubtedly speedier but no fun without the wrist-breaking, face-smashing potential of the stone slabs and rocky drop offs now buried under tonnes of dolomite. Someone sat behind a desk, shuffling papers, probably with a brother-in-law in the road construction business, will have thought it was a good idea as part of the ever-increasing quest to make the countryside less rugged wherever possible; cowering from the fear of litigation by the terminally stupid who need nature bringing down to their level. A bit more tarmac riding to Scarth Nick, where we rode our recently ‘discovered’ bridleway which runs parallel to the road, still a bit damp and greasy today, a little over-zealousness and I was skidding down, eating tree branches and wondering who to sue for this blatant disregard for health and safety, not to mention duty of care for a sixty one year old whose mental age can be found by reversing those two numbers. Shortly after we were back at the cars, emergency rations were being consumed in the sunshine, reflecting on a grand ride - an oldie but a goody.
Terra Trailblazers Trail Hunting Crew, out on the prowl, looking for new trails in a new venue, the woods behind Slapewath, at the bottom of Birk Brow, naturally we parked at the top, close to the burger van, ready for sustenance on our return. A “new to us” bridleway took us down to the Margrove Park road, a mile and a half, according to the sign, nicely downhill through trees all the way, pleasant. We followed a track behind the pub at Slapewath, climbing steadily until an obvious trail beckoned us into the woods, situated beneath the power lines which are visible to anyone coming down Birk Brow. Still climbing, we came to a clearing and found ourselves in a wonderland of off-piste trails, well I did, The Breadlad was “using the facilities”, shall we say, and I endeavoured to stay upwind. I won’t dwell too much on the tracks, suffice to say there are lots of jumps, (quite a few which are, amazingly, in our league) spread around a complex network of tracks which don’t seem to have been discovered yet by the militant branch of The Rambler’s Association, the Trail Liberation Front and their booby traps.
We spent some time channelling our inner children, maybe getting our wheels, yes, plural, as much as 30cm in the air, before moving over the road to squeeze in a few of Guisborough Woods’ finest. A circuitous return route saw us underneath the redundant viaduct near Charltons, rather than where we should have been, on top of it. Some pretty determined methods have been taken to prevent people climbing up the hillside beneath the viaduct from the stream, although it looks as though they are to stop people riding down rather than going up. The thought of retracing our steps was almost considered but we are proper men, so that wasn’t going to happen and we ended up crawling over deeply stacked brushwood like a couple of intrepid explorers, dragging bikes behind us until we were back on solid ground. Which only left an ascent of Birk Brow to complete the ride, or as it is known (allegedly) in Darlington, Guisborough Bank, which probably says a lot about the parochialism of the inbreds who live in that festering sore of a town than anything else. It’s not a bad climb, nowhere near as difficult as it seems when driving up and we were soon joining the lorry drivers in the queue for the burger van.
The next day was just a local ride as La Mujerita was still feeling the effects of celebrating her birthday, two days earlier and it was a big one, a one with a zero; I am too much of a gentleman to reveal a lady’s age but she was born a month after black and white £5 notes ceased to be legal tender. Rather than the usual alcohol fuelled debauchery of previous birthdays, she celebrated by going horse riding for the first time in over twenty years. For those of us old enough to remember John Wayne, that’s how she walked after two hours on horseback. Suffice to say she was still a little stiff today, so we had a pootle around the local byways and back lanes. Not a very exciting ride but the sun shone, the tracks were dry, the dog-walkers were friendly and we were back in time for a Greggs. What’s not to like?
The car park at Chop Gate village hall is now home to a rather official looking parking ticket machine, obviously the honesty box and the pay by phone fee collection systems were largely ignored (and you know who you are...) so they have gone heavy. Not certain if anyone ever inspects the tickets but it’s only two quid, hardly going to break the bank. In other Chop Gate news, the pub is open again, doing tea room type things in addition to the all important beer. Handy for that post-ride snack, as well as the energy and mineral replacement shandy. Another day so glorious it’s hard to believe we’re in England, one of those days when people who have never been abroad say things like:
“See, there’s no need to go abroad...”
Not unless you want cafes that stay open beyond four pm and consistent weather anyway. Keith has travelled down from the far north to join me and Simon T. for a trawl around Bilsdale, the plan is to finish down the classic Cold Moor Descent but first we had to put in a few miles or have a very short ride. We put a few feet in the gravity bank, getting ourselves up to Scugdale and across Carlton Bank, only to plummet down the old gliding club access track, heading for Lordstones. A minor detour to the little play area, saw us attempting to emulate teenagers, searching bushes for old copies of Razzle, smoking behind the bike sheds and bathing in Clearasil, no, not really, we gave the jumps another few goes, maybe improved slightly but Danny Hart still has nothing to worry about. My companions have never ridden The Fronts, so they were in for a proper treat as it is in first class condition, bone dry and practically devoid of other users, carving an undulating path across the north face of Cringle Moor. Suitably impressed, we moved to Cold Moor, riding the shale singletrack before a quick hike-a-bike got us onto the top of said moor, ready for the descent, a North York Moors classic, beginning on the broad ridge of moor top before dropping down a dried up stream bed, changing to singletrack lower down, still descending the moor, emerging at a gate grinning like baboons. If we had been Americans we would have been high fiving and whooping “yeah bro” and other such inanities while waiting for Donald Trump to make us great again. Being British, we made do with a muttered,
“S’alright that like...” before moving on, still downward along a slightly enclosed gully until we were back in Chop Gate, the descent finishes at the village church. A quick scoot back down the road and we were back in the car park, a car park the ever frugal duo of The Breadlad and The Ginger One will never enter again owing to that sinister presence, an evil parking meter, the mechanical embodiment of a long-fingered witch, cackling while she empties their wallets, bleeding them of two whole pounds. Perhaps they ought to set up a Go Fund Me page, I can even imagine the opening lines.
“We are two impoverished working men whose hobby of mountain biking is being put in jeopardy by the spiralling cost of parking our cars. Barely earning a meagre £100k per year between us, we can’t afford to be lashing out hard earned cash whenever we want a bike ride in the countryside. Your generous donations will enable us to continue our passion, keeping us mentally and physically fit, so as not to be a burden on the NHS in these troubled times. And how will you benefit? If we can’t find anywhere to park for free, it may be your house we park outside, do you really want mud-spattered old men stripping off their stinking sweaty clothes outside your front window? In front of your innocent children? Your poor grandmother trying to bleach her eyes after they have been sullied by the sight of The Ginger One’s body hair or The Breadlad’s crumpets, pasty white and compacted after being jammed in his cycling shorts for hours? Give generously, for everyone’s sake.”
Click on the route title to go to the Strava page.
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