Spring Is In The Air. (Until It Snows Anyway.)

If The Pensioner was still with us, he would have viewed today’s weather with deep suspicion, as he did all fine days occurring early in the year. As I trudged up the Carr Ridge steps from Clay Bank, I could hear a ghostly voice from the ether.

“We’ll pay for this, you know. We won’t get away with it. The summer will be shit, it always is when we get nice days in the winter.”

It definitely was unseasonably warm, another day without a coat, seems like a good way to begin a month. I pedalled across the roof of the moors, passing Round Hill and continuing to Bloworth Crossing, the wide, sandy track pleasantly dry, not wheel-sucking for a change. I stopped at Bloworth Crossing to take a picture. Nineteenth century railway workers who were stationed here called the place Siberia but today it was more like Algeria. A continuation of Rudland Rigg carries the Cleveland Way north from here and I followed it to Burton Howe, where I turned off for a blast down the old Coal Road to Armoth Wath - blast of course being a purely relative term, a cursory browse at the stats on Strava reveals my blast to be more sightseeing tour than speeding arrow. From here, another track links back to the Cleveland Way, I take the track, when it meets the Cleveland Way, I cross over and take a singletrack bridleway to the 4x4 track down Ingleby Bank. About half way down the bank there is a singletrack alternative which makes a nice change from the gravel. From the gate at the bottom of the bank, I head into the woods, Battersby Plantation and seek out some old favourite tracks; unfortunately a combination of storm damage and tree felling has not done them any favours and I arrived at the old rail track wishing I had stayed on the main track, directly to Bank Foot Farm. All that was left was the up and down fireroad plod through the woods, gradually climbing until Clay Bank was reached. It was a grand day for it though.

Travelling Ancient Tracks

Double Causeway day today, a bit of route planning, which, back in the days when I had companions to ride with, would have caused mutiny amongst those soft of buttock. The Quaker’s Causeway is almost two miles of roughly paved path across Stanghow Moor, it has been there for hundreds of years, constructed to provide the pious a respite from bog and mud on their journey to Guisborough Priory, or maybe it was for the burger van at Birk Brow. Anyway seeing as I was alone, I could plan a route which went out and back along the Causeway without any whinging from the dilettante. Not that a great deal of planning went into this excursion; the first bit was Birk Brow, Causeway, road to Shaun The Sheep (bus shelter), Robin Hood’s Butts, Sis Cross. The relative dryness of the past few weeks fooled me into thinking the Sis Cross track would be in decent riding condition. There was more chance of The Breadlad paying for parking. The gentle climb to the ‘cross’ was soggy, the singletrack downhill was slippery mud, the wheel-sucking peat hags were sucking like a Geordie lass in a Bigg Market toilet. From the end of the trail, I crossed the road and accessed another ancient track, the Lord’s Turnpike, which leads down into Danby, although I went the opposite way, to Clitherbeck Farm. I could have continued north on another bygone trail, the Pannierman’s Causeway but opted instead to follow the gravel doubletrack across the moor bringing me out on the road to Danby Beacon. A few miles of tarmac plodding got me back to Robin Hood’s Butts, via the beacon. I rode the full length of Robin Hood’s Butts, back to the Shaun The Sheep bus shelter and continued for my second buttock-battering encounter of the day, with the Quaker’s Causeway. I don’t know what all the fuss is about, a bit of rear suspension, a nice steady rhythm and before you know it, you’re at the burger fun being handed a cheese and bacon burger with extra onions to replace the lost calories.

The End Of The First False Spring

The unseasonably pleasant weather has returned to hibernation for another few weeks, bitter wind, grey sky and incipient drizzle , nothing to fill us full of the joys of spring. No wonder the closest anyone else comes to cycling nowadays is the cycle on the central heating thermostat. It is definitely coats on weather. But nobody told the daffodils which are beginning to bring a bit of colour to the drab landscape. I pedalled up the road to Whorlton Castle, from Swainby, taking a few pictures of said flowers around the old keep, the only remnant still standing, all that remains of the castle are a couple of arched cellars. The keep is firmly locked up today but a path leads around the outside. I found an arrow stuck in the ground, any speculation it may have been lost by a yeoman archer practicing for Agincourt was dispelled by the plastic shaft, nylon feathers and stainless steel tip. A path across fields from Whorlton takes me to Faceby, from where I climb up to the woods, or what is left of them, another set of trails lost to conifer harvesting. At least the bridleway to Heathwaite is still intact, I follow this and make my way to Clain Woods, shouldering the bike for the steps, as usual. Twenty seven years of mountain biking and I still haven’t conquered them, mainly because I have never tried, as the great Homer (Simpson) said: “If something looks too hard, it probably is.” It is the visions of my heart exploding like Mr. Creosote after just one wafer thin mint which hold me back, nothing to do with my general air of lassitude. Anyway, enough of this waffle, there’s a lot more ride to get through. Out of the woods and on to Scarth Wood Moor, riding from east to west in a reversal of the usual route, all to take advantage of a hefty tailwind. Down the other side and around across Cod Beck Reservoir, via the dam because my Jesus credentials only extend to a surfeit of hair and a beard. Climbing up between the log piles which were recently a forest, I reach High Lane and continue to Square Corner, following the track upward to check out a bridleway on the outskirts of Silton Wood. Last time I rode this particular bridleway it was ruined by some gruesome muddy patches, it was some years ago, so it seemed about time to check if things had improved. The short answer is no. Retracing my tyre tracks back along High Lane to Sheepwash, the amenable tailwind became a tiresome headwind, the plummet to the ford tempered by Nature’s firm hand. The sky was darkening, the miles were in the legs and heading back to Swainby seemed the best option, particularly as that option included riding the Clain Wood steps in a gravity-friendly direction for a change.

Back To Reality

The sky hasn’t got any less grey, letting us know the false spring is over with the occasional snow flurries, the north wind is blasting straight off the sea, just the sort of day for a quick scrounge about Guisborough Woods. Taking advantage of the remaining tree shelter. The trails are not drying out anything like as speedily as we would like, so it was mainly a miles in the legs fire road extravaganza, climbing to the far end of the woods, doing a U turn, climbing some more to the top track, finishing on top of a bitterly cold Highcliffe Nab. Not the place to be hanging about on a day like today. So it was a quick zip down the back of the nab and across to Codhill Heights, for a tailwind assisted cruise down to Sleddale. Percy Cross Rigg took me to the Lonsdale Bowl, around onto Newton Moor, following a broken, rutted track to FingerBender Bank, so called from one of The Pensioner’s accidents, which resulted in him bending a finger a long way beyond its normal range of movement, even more impressive when you consider that normal range for him was either holding a handlebar grip or a roll up so thin we were convinced he had spent some time in prison. The bank itself is a collection of rocks, some loose, some planted, usually wet, nothing to a modern full suspension bike but back in the day when we had to think about things like line choice... Let’s just say The Pensioner’s poor eyesight let him down on many occasions. Another bridleway curves down to Gribdale, a gruesome concoction of loose rocks, mud and water; the car park at Gribdale is practically empty, testament to the weather. Winter miles make summer smiles, the saying goes but cycling in mud, up to the eyes means you deserve those butcher’s pies.