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.
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.
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.
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