Ride 045.

 
Two seconds later he was laid in the mud

Hamsterley Forest singletrack

Hamsterley Forest singletrack

Hamsterley Forest first river crossing

Hamsterley Forest singletrack

Hamsterley Forest singletrack, Chris giving his new disc brake some serious testing

Hamsterley Forest second river crossing

Deeper than it looked

It's easy, just bomb down the slope and jump the path!

Chris refusing to acknowledge the downhill course's existence

We haven't got the gear, what a shame.

Hamsterley forest singletrack before the revenge of the pine trees

These aren't marked on the map

These aren't marked on the map

These aren't marked on the map

Almost back at the cafe

Simon refusing to pass a satellite dish despite the house being derelict.

Closed?

Closed?

The play area will still be open, lets go and eat a kid.

 

Date:      22nd April 2005         Distance: 17.25 miles

A Tale Of Two Cafes

The Terra Trailblazers first group ride for quite some time, so we decided to check out the revamped Hamsterly Forest for a change. Simon escaping the heavy gravity field generated by his new settee and Sky TV package and having a try at some actual moving about in the outdoors as opposed to watching it on telly. We were not expecting great things of him considering he’s spent the past eight months supine, other than his regular Friday night foray to the snooker club. 

Passing the visitor centre and the tantalising café, saving the delicious treats within as a reward for endeavours to come, we immediately headed upwards on the Black Route, a mercifully short, steep section which soon had us wishing we’d worn less clothing. Levelling out, the track turned to rooty singletrack beside a drystone wall, Simon’s enthusiasm was not matched by his ability and he was over the bars at the first drop off. The singletrack led to a pleasantly technical downhill prior to a fire road. Continuing on the Black Route, we pedalled along the fire road, enjoying the spring sunshine – or rather Oz, Chris and Simon did, while I panted along some distance behind, wondering if some gruesome swamp fever had robbed me of my (already limited) strength and stamina. A quick halt and some nifty Allen key wielding soon had the brake pads centred properly and we were on our way again. 

Still following the black arrows we enjoyed more singletrack, including a partially surfaced section with man-made drop-offs; a couple of stream crossings; some exceptionally muddy ground and plenty more roots. Arriving at The Grove, we elected to keep following Black Route despite it now reverting to the less poular uphill direction. Back in panting mode, we plodded upward until we reached the cabins adjacent to the downhill course, which we duly stopped to inspect – any route which requires foam pads on the tree trunks is obviously out of our league, only because of our cross-country bikes naturally. Given nine inches of travel front and rear and a full suit of body armour, we’d show these youngsters a thing or two – mostly how easily over 40’s bones’ break.  

The cabins also mark a bifurcation in the red and black routes, the black turning left, heading back to the visitor centre and the red going right back into the forest. Simon suggested (an idea born out of unwillingness to tackle any more gradients) rather than lose all our height, we now commence following the red route. Why not? More pleasantly firm singletrack followed until we met a fallen tree, which was followed by another fallen tree and another until the track disappeared completely beneath a tsunami of pine branches. None of our cunning multi-tools featured a petrol-driven chainsaw, so we had no option but to shoulder the bikes and start climbing, we could always have reversed our tracks, back along the tree free track but of course, we’re pigheaded men so retreat was never considered. Eventually we chanced upon a tarmac road which seemed to be heading in vaguely the right direction – the right direction at this stage being downward rather than any compass related imperative. Some time later a red arrow pointing out of the forest onto our road appeared – with a track closed sign beside it – perhaps one at the other end may have been a better idea. 

The rest of the Red Route passed without incident; except for Simon declaring he would be unfit for work in the morning if we climbed any more hills and trying to instigate mutiny by pleading with us to follow the Blue arrows directly back to the car park because he had to be at the snooker club in four hours. Needless to say, the hardy Teesside contingent vetoed the Darlington One and another hour of uphill and down dale, mud and roots followed before we arrived back at the café. The CLOSED café. Four o’clock on a sunny Friday afternoon, when all the unfortunates who work day hours have been let loose for the weekend and the café is closed? Is Britain the only country in the world where businesses close at the same time as hordes of potential customers are being disgorged from offices and factories, hungry and ready to spend money. It’s most strange. 

More than a little peckish, we packed the bikes up, Simon’s delicate nether regions already wincing from the unaccustomed lack of upholstery and made our way up the A68 with fingers crossed the Wear View Diner didn’t operate a policy of closing half-way through the afternoon. And it didn’t. Furthermore it’s cheap, the menu varied and the portions gargantuan. Chris’s toasted teacake was the size of bin lid and our ham sandwiches filled with real ham not the mechanically-reclaimed, wafer-thin slime that masquerades as ham in so many caffs nowadays.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


 

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