Where Is All This Water Coming From?

 How Many Gates?

Normal service has been restored, The Breadlad rolled into the car park at Blakey Bank Top his usual fifteen minutes late, full of excuses, mainly of ‘the dog ate my homework’ variety. Apart from us two, the car park is deserted, just how it ought to be, it looks as though the day people are all where they should be - working, leaving the countryside empty for our enjoyment. We rode past The Lion Inn and made our way to the Rosedale Head singletrack, which cuts a diagonal path between the Castleton/Hutton Le Hole road and the Ralph’s Cross/Rosedale Abbey road. Considering there has been no significant rain for quite a while, the singletrack is sloppy, perhaps the IRA (Irate Ramblers Association) have been indulging in a spot of sabotage. It was a slippery business but we were soon getting reacquainted with Fat Betty, White Cross on the  OS map but the pseudonym is more prevalent. As is the custom, food is left on the cross, today’s offerings are unlikely to grant much succour to weary travellers; three boiled sweets, a mostly consumed packet of cashew nuts and a cereal bar which looks as though it has been living in the bottom of someone’s backpack since before a Gary Glitter record was last played on the radio. Even the frugal Breadlad refused to be tempted. A short singletrack runs down to Castleton road, which is in much better condition than the previous track and we enjoy a brief moment of pleasure before we are back on tarmac and plodding back toward The Lion Inn. A steep descent runs down into the Rosedale valley, to Moorland Farm, it is a wide, rocky track, known on Strava as “the aldi lager decent” (sic) for reasons only known to the original poster. Judging by the ‘don’t follow sat nav’ signs at the top, it looks as though people may have attempted to drive down, heading for Dale Head Farm tea room, which must have been exciting, or expensive, for them. We bounced our way down to Moorland farm, rocks and ruts adding to the fun. Passing through the farm, we turned onto the Daleside Road, which is actually a track through fields to Thorgill; lots of fields equals lots of gates, there were eleven gates on this ride and ten of them are on this short section, naturally, most of them were closed. From Thorgill, a minor road takes us to Rosedale Abbey and a chance for The Breadlad to evacuate in Climbing Simon’s favourite public convenience, while I lurk about outside like George Michael’s minder. 

The remainder of the route is essentially the latter half of the Rosedale Round; tarmac takes us past Bell End, once a farm, now a collection of holiday cottages and source of nominative amusement for many years, continuing to Hill Cottages where a farm track takes us up Swine Stye Hill to gain the old rail track of Rosedale East Side. The rail track passes remains of the ironstone industry which dominated this valley just over a century ago, huge calcining kilns, where ironstone was heated before being loaded onto trains and sent to Teesside to be processed. Considering it is a rail track, there is actually 500 feet of ascent between here and our cars, although it is spread over four and a half miles, so the gradient isn’t too arduous. Might still have been a struggle for a fully laden locomotive though. Our legs pumping like steam driven pistons we ate up the miles back to the cars, eating being the one thing on our mind. Quickly packing away our kit, we headed for the cafe in Castleton, which of course, this being England, home of the hobby cafe, was closed. Back in the cars and off to the ever-reliable Birk Brow burger van, our dreams of cheeseburgers were thwarted when we were informed the gas had run out. Luckily there was bacon already cooked, malnutrition was staved off yet again. 

Just Like Livingstone.

Like that lone rider crossing the plain, the remainder of this week’s rides were bereft of companionship, perhaps I ought to get a trail dog, a faithful, trusting compadre, always willing to hit the trails unlike the indolent diletantes who make up most of the Terra Trailblazers nowadays. Then again, I don’t have to pick up their shit in a little bag, well, not every ride anyway. Whenever I’m struggling to think of somewhere to go, I default to Great Ayton, so, here I am, pedalling toward Fletcher’s Farm for what feels like the millionth time. For a change, I headed from the farm to the fishing pond and pushed up the steep bank to the Red Run, an area of old mine workings previously popular with local mountain bikers, nowadays an MX track with lots of Keep Out signs, all quiet today and getting overgrown. I carried on up forest tracks towards Captain Cook’s Monument, spotting a likely looking track, I pushed my way upward to see where it came from and if it would be within our skill set. Probably not (yet) must be the answer to that question. Any track where the chicken runs are so steep they can barely be pushed up is probably out of our league. At the monument, I stopped (naturally) for a breather and a bite to eat, a few fat raindrops letting me know not to get complacent. From the obelisk, I headed down toward Gribdale, exploring a few tracks in the woods but they were uninspiring and still a lot muddier than could be expected. Back on more familiar territory, I headed up from Gribdale, onto Newton Moor and across to Guisborough Woods, skirting the top edge of the woods, I made my way to Little Roseberry, a spur of Newton Moor which overlooks the mighty Roseberry Topping and a classic NYM descent. A straightforward return to Great Ayton was made from here, the lure of food too strong to resist. 

Blundering Around Blakey.

For the second time this week I am at Blakey Bank Top car park, today almost filled with cars, as a ‘safety in numbers’ walking group get ready to stride out, walking poles at the ready as they prepare to battle the arduous terrain of an old rail track. One bloke even had four walking poles, one in each hand and two strapped to his pack - taking no chances that gadgie. Soon I was on the rail track myself, reversing Monday’s finish, turning five hundred feet of ascent into descent, pedalling around the head of the valley significantly faster than the opposite direction. At the gate on Swine Stye Hill which marks the end of the railway, I turned left and followed the bridleway uphill, a first for me but something I’ve had my eye on for years. Not too inspiring to be honest, a wide grassy doubletrack, a few clarty bits (where is all this water coming from?) and undoubtedly a sharp ascent but a nice view back to the valley. It emerges onto the Knott Road, thankfully above the steep bit, I pedal up the gradual slope, weighing up my options. A superb bridleway leads back down to the rail track but that means a big climb back to the car park plus lone days are an opportunity for a bit of exploration without any whining from the less adventurous.I kept my height with a quick blast along the George Gap Causeway to the Trough House track, as seems to the case all over the moors, the boggy bits are exceptionally boggy, fortunately a lot of the track has rudimentary paving, in the style of many moorland ‘trods’ and the squelchy bits a brief. The seat at Trough House, which will always be remembered as the spot a woman threatened to toss us off (but only if we had been riding electric bikes) was nicely sheltered today, just the place for an energy bar and a think about the route ahead. It would be a shame to miss out Fat Betty, so I headed that way via a ‘wish I hadn’t bothered’ path, which turned out to be sloppier than an orgy in a jelly factory. 

The Fat Betty track was, oddly enough, still in fine condition. Another path I had spotted on the map, Jackson’s Road, looked promising, the satellite pictures show a definite path, what else could I do but give it a go? Like the story of my life, it failed to fulfil its early promise, starting well before deteriorating into a morass of peat bog and marsh grass, I could see it, stretching ahead of me with no promise of redemption, just a long boring slog, like those Lord Of The Rings films my daughter cajoled me into seeing. Unlike the movies, I was able to reverse my tracks before I was too far along and went to ride the trail behind the Lion Inn instead, which is always fun. Another old rail track leads to Blakey Bank - thankfully the last few metres of Blakey Bank and it is always gratifying to power up to the junction opposite the car park, looking as though you have blasted up the whole hill like some Tour De France hill climbing monster, full of EPO and synthetic testosterone instead of Haribo and last night’s Guinness. 

Where Is All This Mud Coming From?

Third lonely ride of the week and despite being a poor, impoverished pensioner, I’m lashing four quid into the parking machine at Pinchinthorpe Visitor Centre just because it’s nice to ride all the way down from the top of the woods to the bottom occasionally and there is a nice cafe. But first the climbing and it doesn’t get any less but eventually I’m at Roseberry Common and shouldering the bike for the plod up the steps to Newton Moor. A few trails get me to the back of Highcliffe Nab, where a few more trails keep me heading eastwards through the forest, the top fire road, where Mintballz and Screwball Scramble begin, is rank. It is usually a puddle-fest, especially in winter but in the middle of September, when we’ve had no significant rain it is ridiculous - absolutely ridiculous as someone we once rode with would undoubtedly say. The puddles are now joining up into one sloppy quagmire, stretching the whole width of the path. Where is it all coming from? Are the melting ice caps elevating the water table, pushing water out of the earth like the sweat out of my back? Are the IRA (Irate Ramblers Association) sneaking up in the dead of night with fire hoses and giving the place a good drenching? It is very hard to understand and equally as hard to pedal through, as the saying goes “When you are going through Hell, keep going.” Leaving the mud behind I squeezed in a couple more trails before hitting the fire roads back toward Pinchinthorpe, stopping off to take in the view from HIghcliffe Nab. Further on a bit of exploration netted me a whole network of singletracks, kind of tame by Guisborough Woods’ standards but very pleasant - or they will be if they ever dry out. The last trail of the day was an old faithful, Les’s 3, still fun after all these years probably seeing a bit more use nowadays since the new Amber Gambler trail joins straight into it. A couple of fire road miles later, I’m tucking into my first Branch Walkway cheese and onion toastie for many months and contemplating the absurd amount of mud clinging to my bike. Naturally, the bike wash is still not working. 

Clicking on the route names will take you to the Strava page for the route. Where you can marvel at how slow we are.

Heatwave.

 The Hosepipe Ban Is Coming...

It looks as though the heatwave has arrived, well, what passes for a heatwave in this country, the sun popped out sometime yesterday afternoon, the earth did a spin and when it turned back, the sun was still there. Actually blazing too. I passed a bloke wearing a huge sombrero while cutting his garden hedge, like Pancho Villa catching up on a few gardening jobs between revolutions. Great Ayton was filling up as I parked, although most of the kids are back at school which thinned out the crowds a bit. Back to my Billy No Mates existence today, everyone is either at work/school/can’t be arsed* (*delete as appropriate). The standard start, through Fletcher’s Farm, up to Aireyholme Farm and on to Roseberry Common, saw me arrive at Roseberry Common sweating like a nun in a cucumber field (my daughter told me that joke many years ago, I can only blame the school for her tendency to impious depravity, it can’t have came from me). I shouldered the bike and hiked up the steps to Newton Moor, the unaccustomed feeling of sweat running down my back and into my eyes. 

From the top I pointed the bike towards some of Guisborough Woods’ finest trails, pretty much all in grand condition, although the woods are still hanging on to some squelchy bits, just to make sure enjoyment is not total. Gradually, I made my way toward the east end of the forest, before climbing up onto the top track and heading back west. The section where Screwball Scramble and Mintballz begin is rarely dry, today was no exception, despite the relentless heat, huge puddles were slopped along the track like gravy spills from a giant’s dinner. A little more climbing, to the very top of the woods, where a singletrack runs parallel to the fence with the moor. This side of the fence is bike heaven, the other side of the fence, bikes are not tolerated. Ignore the signs and armed men driving quad bikes or Land Rovers will appear from nowhere to make you aware of your transgression before they return to decimating the raptor population. Not wishing to incur the wrath of the landowner’s lackeys, I stayed on the permitted side of the fence and dropped into the relative coolness of The Lost World, a shady trail through a small plantation. After The Lost World, a speedy descent of Codhill Heights followed, even the wind rushing by didn’t do much to cool me. A last climb took me to Percy Cross Rigg, which only left a quick scoot around the Lonsdale Bowl and a blast down Andy’s Track to finish. The bracken is taking over again and the track won’t be getting many more descents between now and winter, when the green jungle turns to a squashy, orange carpet. 

Up The Downs and Down The Ups

Birk Brow today, for a change, mainly changing from butchers and bakers to burger van - nutrition is very important for us athletes. Another day of solitude ahead of me, as the workers work and the shirkers shirk, here’s me slapping on the factor 30 in Birk Brow car park, anticipating another scorcher. A bit of a breeze makes it a little more bearable than yesterday. First step, the Quaker’s Causeway, that infamous North Yorkshire buttock buffetter, detailed on this blog many times before. Unlock the suspension and keep pedalling, nothing to it. The muddy bits between the paved sections are in pristine condition today - barely a puddle in sight and it wasn’t long before I was off the moor and heading down the road towards Commondale, picking up the short bridleway into the village, where I turned left to Foul Green. Another bridleway leads to Danby Park, passing a couple of llamas soaking up the sunshine in a field. Down here in the valley it is windless, the sun’s full heat concentrated on the lone cyclist as he pedals uphill and down dale. Through Danby Park, which is really little more than a small plantation, the bridleway heading for Danby is joined by the Pannierman’s Causeway, another bridleway which we normally ride down to this point. In a fit of masochism/boredom/stupidity* (*delete as appropriate) it seemed to be a good idea to ride up the trail for a change. So, all the downs were up and the ups were down and it wasn’t too bad, only the steep and rocky section, just before the bridleway runs through someone’s garden (yes, really) had to be carried, the remainder was perfectly rideable and kind of enjoyable. A definite alternative to the road bank out of Danby, which I joined at the top of said bank. 

Staying on the tarmac took me to Robin Hood’s Butts, from where another trail found itself being ridden the wrong way, which, of course, could be the right way depending where you are heading. The bridleway we usually take from The Jolly Sailors pub to Robin Hood’s Butts works just as well in the opposite direction, better in fact, seeing as it is mainly downhill this way, the problem is when you reach the moor road, the A171 and it’s constant stream of traffic. Less than a mile later I was turning up a farm road in the shadow of the mighty mound of Freeborough Hill, where legend has it, King Arthur and the knights of the round table are sleeping, ready to arise in England’s hour of need. Obviously nothing worth setting their alarm clocks for has happened in the past fourteen centuries, a few invasions, a couple of world wars, the odd pandemic or two, Margaret Thatcher, not exciting enough to oil the armour and sharpen the swords. The road leads to Dimmingdale Farm, from where a bridleway carries on across a boggy moor to Three Howes Rigg and the Sean The Sheep bus shelter. A little bit of tarmac and I was soon retracing my tyre tracks across the Quaker’s Causeway - because real mountain bikers, with buttocks like a well worn Brooks saddle can do the causeway twice without flinching.

Third Day Of Sunshine...

And still it continues, at Scaling Dam in any case, for many other areas the heatwave has been replaced by heavy rain and thick cloud but it looks like we are on a roll. Keith travelled down from Sunderland to join me today, local riders are so scarce we are having to import them from 25 miles away, or maybe it’s because I promised him an easy ride - the now legendary Scaling Dam ride, 13 miles, two excellent singletracks and less than 750 feet of ascent - just the thing for a scorching day. It is just a shame we have a mile or so of moor road to contend with at the start. The route has been described many times in this blog, I’m sure you don’t want to read through it again. The first singletrack - the Sis Cross track is in fine condition, only the deepest mud wallows remain and they are all rideable - another no-dabs descent. We crossed the road to join the ‘Link O’the Flying Bees’ named after the tautological sign farther down the track. A sign which used to so deeply offended The Pensioner’s sense of logic it was worthy of a thirty minute moan. We turned left and followed a section of the Pannierman’s Causeway, another partially paved moorland ‘trod’, up to the minor road which leads to Danby Beacon. Formerly RAF Danby Beacon, from where the first enemy plane to be shot down over English soil was tracked, only a few paths and roads remain, which we passed as we rode up to the beacon and our first proper breather of the ride. We sat beneath the beacon and languished in the fact almost all the climbing for today’s ride had been done - not quite downhill all the way from here but close enough. Our next singletrack, across Roxby Moor, is actually a doubletrack but that doesn't detract from the fun, again dry and speedy, as well as loose and rocky, we hurtled across the moor at speeds probably unwise for two blokes on the verge of middle age but we are Terra Trailblazers and hurtling is our default setting. Or should that be hurting? Sounds more realistic. We finished the ride along the dam at Scaling reservoir, water to our left, grass to our right and blue sky above us, heading for a tailgate picnic in the blazing sun.

Another Hot And Sweaty One.

Now here’s a first, I descended the bank into Danby, five minutes early for our accustomed half ten meeting time, fully expecting a twenty minute wait while The Breadlad emerges from the horological aberration between NMT (New Marske Time) and BST. Looking toward the village hall, it seemed some sort of mirage had projected him onto the car park but no, he really was early, this is a bloke who will be late for his own funeral, everyone will be in the crematorium waiting for the late Breadlad when he is the late, late Breadlad. We hauled ourselves up and over Ainthorpe Rigg, the downhill part, naturally, a lot more fun than the uphill. Continuing to the Yorkshire Cycle Hub, we called in to check on the progress with their cycle route, which runs around the perimeter of their land. It turns out we are a day too early, it is opening tomorrow, a nominal fee is being charged to cover insurance, so watch this space, we’ll be checking it out at the next opportunity. Seeing as it was too early, even by Terra Trailblazer’s standards, to stop at the cafe, we headed back to Stonebeck Gate Farm and took the bridleway across the fields to Crag farm and Lawns Road, most of the gates were open today, the ground was firm and personal record speeds were recorded, despite our leisurely pedalling. The climb up Oakley Walls, on the steep and rocky track, is getting harder, there seems to be much more loose rock to spin out on. As that great philosopher Homer (Simpson) said: “If it looks too hard, it probably is. Just don’t bother.” An axiom that has served us well over the years and I can always revel in the glory of having ridden it previously, when it was easier or I was fitter. We still needed a rest and a snack at the top, admiring the view across to Fryupdale. 

The Clitherbecks bridleway came next, the water splashes have not dried up yet, after four days of blistering sunshine, or what passes for blistering sunshine in North Yorkshire. We rode to the Sis Cross track, my second visit within 24 hours, a couple of puddles have appeared since yesterday, I guess there may have been some overnight rain, the majority of the trail is dry though and another no-dabs descent is in the bag. We finished down The Flying Bees, as mentioned yesterday, unfortunately the sign has gone, which will render the name a curiosity for years to come. A bit like The Ginger One, who now has so little hair people are beginning to wonder where the name came from. Minutes later we were sitting outside the Stonehouse Bakery, literally basking in the sunshine, flicking cake into our mouths like a pair of sweaty iguanas. The doom mongers and naysayers are predicting the end of the heatwave, I’m sure they are right, so let’s make the most of it before the country returns to grim, grey normality.

Clicking on the route names will take you to the Strava page for the route. Where you can marvel at how slow we are.