Welcome To The Jungle.

The British non-summer of 2024 is continuing unabated, frigid June has given way to tepid July, if it wasn’t for budget airlines, the nation’s sunscreen industry would collapse. Today, at least, managed some semblance of dryness, although the temperature is still so far below average, it seems we might have missed a season or two. Following last month’s surfeit of riding companions, it is back to situation normal as everyone scurries back into their hidey holes and battens down the metaphorical hatches. When I am lacking time or imagination, it is generally a Great Ayton start, there’s a nice warm up to get to Guisborough Woods, a cornucopia of routes to choose from and the prospect of the ride ending in a cafe, butchers, or if I am especially speedy, chip shop. The usual plod up through the farms to Roseberry Common is enlivened by a bit of activity today as work gets underway to repair some of the footpaths on the mighty Roseberry Topping, yesterday they used a helicopter to move stones into position for installation. More than twenty years ago, they used a team of llamas to perform a similar function, prompting our erstwhile riding companion, The Ginger One, to remark “What are those giraffe things?” It is fair to say he is no David Attenborough, his usual experience of the animal world is through the television in the bookies. There was definitely a route involved today but I can’t remember what it was. It stayed dry all day but there were still some massive puddles and unseasonably muddy patches. The vegetation is thriving though, probably the only thing enjoying this year’s excuse for a summer, bracken is at shoulder height already, gorse bushes and brambles are encroaching onto the trails, even grass is getting in on the act, weaving into wheel-grabbing strands. As usual, I scrounged about the woods, having an attempt at the trails which weren’t too wet, muddy or felled out before the lure of food dragged me back to Great Ayton.

Watch Out For Falling Branches

Today’s unseasonal offering from British summertime is wind, the sort of tree-bending, eye-watering gusts we usually get in winter have put in an appearance a season or two too late. I parked at Sheepwash for a change - but only just, the car park is as popular as ever, especially with those who like to enjoy the countryside but can’t bear to stray more than 100 metres from their cars. Plus there are lots of trees for dog walkers to decorate with faecal festoons from their fur-babies. I slid into one of the remaining parking spaces, let the wind blow my bike off the roof rack and into my hands and pedalled back down the road toward Osmotherley, turning off on the outskirts of the village, taking the private road which leads to the collection of dishes and antennae known locally as The Table And Chairs (or they were when I was a kid). Basically I rode up a hill to ride down the other side, which is the paved bridleway across Scarth Wood Moor, always fun, not overly steep but a decent length and today’s tailwind definitely livened things up. The bridleway ends at the road, not far from where I parked but I was headed in the opposite direction, straight into Clain Woods, reaching the bottom of the woods on a well-hidden and little publicised track - let’s hope it stays that way. I carried on to the valley of Scugdale, crossing the road at the hamlet of Heathwaite and continuing on the Cleveland Way into Faceby Plantation, riding through the plantation on a sweet little bridleway which has a couple of features which usually catch out the unwary. That tell-tale cloud of dust when those without local knowledge indulge in some emergency braking as the track drops into a small rock garden. No clouds of dust today though - the track is still damp from the weeks of rain we’ve had. The bridleway exits the trees into a field, again downhill and seeing as we usually ride this field the opposite way, it was a rare treat to be bouncing down over the grassy tussocks rather than slogging up through them. More fields, into a headwind this time but I was much lower down so it was not as significant, took me to Whorlton, from where downhill tarmac took me towards Swainby, with a quick detour into Whorlton Castle. The castle itself is long gone, only the remains of some cellars are still standing, the magnificent building beside the road is actually the keep, according to Professor Google dating back to mediaeval times and for those partial to that sort of thing, reputedly one of the most haunted places in Britain. Personally, the thought of dead relatives watching over my activities like operators in some kind of spectral CCTV control room is a bit disturbing; probably more so for them, come to think about it. Anyhow, I remained untroubled by errant entities during my visit and it wasn't long before I was heading down the hill into Swainby. Returning to Clain Woods, this time I had to go from bottom to top, luckily a handy set of steps is provided. It is possible to ride up the steps but I've never managed it in 25 years. On Strava they are called The Walk Of Shame, I have no shame, so it was bike on back and hoof it. After exiting the woods it is a short pedal back to Sheepwash but to paraphrase the Rolling Stones, time was on my side, so I splashed through the ford and rode up the hill onto High Lane, pedalling along the top of the woods before ducking into the trees to do a check on the state of Rod’s trails. I'm glad to say he hasn't been slacking, apart from a few windblown trees, too big for him to sort without a chainsaw, everything was looking good, even The Colonel has been having a bit of time off judging by the absence of booby traps on the trails. If anything, the wind was getting even stronger, all around me trees were creaking and swaying, branches susurrating like jet engines. I made my way down to the reservoir and headed back to the car park. During my last splash through the beck, the wind brought along its old mate, rain, for a few minutes and I had to shelter under a handy tree until it blew through. The British summer at its finest.

Delightful Danby

This may come as a surprise: the weather is not bad today, still a bit cool for the time of year but the sky is blue, the winds are light and I’ve even broken out the sunscreen for the first time since Spain. I’ve had a hankering to ride Ainthorpe Rigg from Crossley Side to Ainthorpe, the opposite way to how we usually do it. It is a superb downhill finish to a ride and one we did regularly until they sanitised the trail and made it possible to ride all the way up it. However, to paraphrase the comedy aphorism, tragedy plus time equals humour; weather plus time equals more fun for the mountain bike boys (and girls, of course). The track is now becoming rocky and broken, which probably explains why it is more difficult to ride up nowadays, old drops are reappearing and it's a whole lot more fun to descend on than it was a couple of years ago. Long may it continue. But as I said, it is a grand way to end a ride, so a route was required to facilitate the satisfactory squandering of a few hours prior to this delectable morsel from the smorgasbord of North Yorkshire riding. From Danby I pedalled to Robin Hood’s Butts on tarmac, turning off onto the wide track of Robin Hood’s Butts, which is still harbouring some harbour sized puddles. A left turn across the moor, on a thin track, took me to a waist-high, standing stone, SIs Cross, which is definitely not a cross but might be a Sis, whatever a Sis may be, the main thing is it is the start of the SIs Cross Singletrack, first class excursion own the moor, through heather and across streams, all on some majestic singletrack. Still a few puddles and muddy patches today but good considering the summer we have had so far. From the end of the track, I crossed the road and began climbing to Danby Beacon, via Clitherbeck Farm and the bridleway known as The Watersplash Singletrack - even though it is a doubletrack, I suppose if there are two of you it is a singletrack each. From Danby Beacon another sanitised track leads back down the hill to Oakley Walls, to be fair, this track needed a bit of work, the wobbly heads had battered it with their 4x4’s, leaving it looking like there had been a tank battle. There were thin ridges along the edges of ruts deep enough to hide bodies in and they made the route down a lot more enjoyable than the present dolomite dullness. The next downhill we call the Rocky Road, it is another we often push up, so it was grand to hurtle down it for a change. Hurtle, you understand, is a purely subjective description of the way it was ridden. The way someone on the verge of middle-age, who has seen enough of the NHS to last a lifetime hurtles downhill may be entirely at odds with that of a bouncy youth. Anyway, it was fun, the surface is littered with rubble and loose rocks, striated with ruts and gorse bushes lean in to have their pound of flesh. Just a dabless descent was an achievement for me. A steady climb up the opposite side of the valley, through fields of Little Fryup Dale, brought me to Crossley Side and the start of the climb up Ainthorpe Rigg. It is possible to ride this climb. We once witnessed a young man do it, encouraged by his mates, a superhuman effort, although he was modest about it when we spoke to him at the top. Probably about 50% of it is rideable to us normal humans, steep but rideable, until the trail enters a narrow gully with a couple of rocky step ups, once through these, the angle ramps up for the finish, a set of broken sandstone slabs, still enclosed within a heathery gully. Once you've mastered those, the summit plateau gives a chance to recover breath and take in the stunning view of Fyup Dale from the top. Unless the lifetime of pork pies, lager and kebabs finally catches up with you and you’re laid clutching your chest and wondering if the air ambulance helicopter can land on heather. No, of course that won’t happen, we’re all athletes. From here, almost a mile of singletrack awaits, as mentioned earlier, it is reverting to the rocky fun it was a few years ago, the angle becomes steeper as it descends and it is easy to get carried away, until the moment you realise enthusiasm is no substitute for skill. The Breadlad once found this out the hard way coming down here, imagining he was young, dumb and full of come, until he was a crumpled heap in the rocks; old, cold and not so bold. The route finishes with a tarmac downhill, through Ainthorpe and back into Danby, to be more precise, The Danby Bakery, always there to fulfil the calorific requirements of hungry bikers.