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6th. A nice downhill road start today to bed in the new brake pads
we all required following last month’s Dalby trip. Straight down to
Ingleby Greenhow got the pads nicely heated up and before long we were
slogging up the bank from Bank Foot Farm to join the Cleveland Way at Tidy
Brown Hill, the track up Ingleby Bank much deteriorated, very loose
underfoot. Eventually the Cleveland Way fingerpost came into sight, the
boulders by the gate became makeshift seats for me and Oz as we waited for
the Cannondale Push to come into sight, being cajoled uphill by it’s
owner. Some amenable doubletrack took us to the Baysdale Abbey road, Oz
arrived with 25% less brake pads than he began the ride, somehow one of
his back pads had vanished, backing plate and all, on the doubletrack.
Vaporisation owing to the phenomenal velocities often attained by the
Terra Trailblazers was discounted as being less feasible than alien
abduction or Chris pedalling a whole ride. Just one of those mysteries of
life like pregnant ugly women or the continuing popularity of Abba, hard
to understand but it happens nevertheless. Anyway the coffee was within
smelling distance, so with replacement pads fitted, a quick tarmac blast
brought us to Glebe Cottage. Refreshed we rode back to Clay Bank through
the woods with more stops than the Middlesbrough to Whitby train, Chris
blaming his lack of condition on a surfeit of barbequed kangaroo and emu
following his recent trip to Australia.
14th. Just a brief
run out with Chris today, around Guisborough Woods, Captain Cooks Monument
and Kildale. A brief round made longer by somehow getting a split in one
of my (tubeless) tyres, too big for the sealant to block, so it’s back to
the old technology - put in an inner tube. Perhaps this tubeless is not
all it’s cracked up to be, this will be the second tyre split beyond
repair in eight months.
16th. Sedbergh Day One. After receiving several
recommendations from various people, we decided it was time to give The
Howgills a coat of looking at. Parking up in Sedbergh’s main car park we
realised the only way out of this town is up and we were surrounded by
some substantial lumps of soil. I true Terra Trailblazers style, we rose
to the challenge by leaping out of the car and heading directly into the
nearest café. Carbohydrate stores suitably replenished, we had half hour
faff in the car park before venturing into the one way system, then
northward on the A683, steadily gaining height until a bridleway on
Bluecaster . It was a lovely day to be out and about, blue sky, fluffy
clouds and grand views across to Cautley Spout. Judging by the state of
the bridleway we were attempting to pedal along this must be atypical of
normal Howgills weather because the track appeared to have recently had a
torrent cascading down it; the surface varying between unconsolidated
gravel and swamp with the odd pond thrown in to keep things interesting. A
bit of soggy downhill brought us to the picturesque Rawthey Gill, followed
by a technical uphill stretch which seemed to consist mostly of ankle-deep
mud, leaves and tree roots. We attacked it in true Chris style, pushing
our bikes. Some remote country lanes brought us to a bridleway at Fell
End, this still had the torrent cascading down it, being an actual river,
which Oz skilfully managed to immerse himself in before we reached the
A683 again. Crossing the road the nature of the route changed, presenting
us with our first real bit of steepness on a bridleway to Murthwaite,
luckily it wasn’t too long before the steep track reverted to level swamp
and we squelched our way along, wading through several rivers and a flock
of sheep to reach, first Narthwaite, then Cautley Beck, which we crossed
via a proper bridge. The bridleway then led us muddily back to Sedbergh
where we rewarded ourselves with a pre-dinner snack of coffee and cakes,
before heading to our B&B for a welcome shower.
A quick mention for our landlady Kath and her
excellent bike-friendly premises, she made us feel very welcome and we
would definitely recommend her to anyone staying in the area,
High Roans Bed and Breakfast,
Sedbergh
.
17th. Sedbergh Day Two. As seems to be the norm on or
trips away the second day dawned grey and cloudy, most of the cloud
appeared to be covering the tops of the fells we were to ascend, following
the MBR Killer Loop from a couple of months ago. Actually getting from our
accommodation to the two thousand and odd foot mountain towering over the
village was harder than it looked but we managed after a few false starts.
Leaving the road and entering the open fellside was to enter a realm of
verticality previously unknown to Terra Trailblazers, the grannies rings
proved inadequate as we began a four mile hike-a-bike to the summit of The
Calf, via Winder, peering through gaps in the mist at the precipitous
slopes taunting us ahead. Suddenly the trig
point appeared and we were at the top of The Calf, 676m, freezing our nuts
off in the grey claggy mist, a few minutes later the weather gods rewarded
us by blowing the mist away to reveal Alfred Wainwright's herd of sleeping
elephants in all their glory. From the Calf a bridleway descends northward
for 4Kms, through the remote valley of Bowderdale, on twisty singletrack,
little more than a tyres width across with a sharp drop to the right to
keep your wits about you. Being half-wits, this section, for us, was not
without the odd stumble or two but we made it to level ground with only
minor injuries and flesh wounds. Unfortunately as the track became more
horizontal it also became boggier, slowing our progress to the sort of
average speed only normally seen when Captain Slow and his Cannondale Push
are out with us. Watched only by some bemused wild horses, we made our
sloth-like way to firmer ground, then to the road at Wath. A garden centre
advertising a coffee shop at beside the A685 at Newbiggin On Lune, sucked
us in like footballers to a spit roast, where we realised it was 3pm and a
lot of muddy bridleway stood between us and Sedbergh. At Ravonstonedale it
began raining, so an executive decision was made to finish the ride on
tarmac rather than continue on the same bridleways we’d splodged through
yesterday afternoon. So, suspensions duly locked out, we made like roadies
back along the A683 to Sedbergh.
The Howgills are one of the unspoilt gems of Britain,
not unlike the Lakes but minus the grumpy red sock brigades with their
trekking poles, suitcase size map cases and hostility to anyone not in
their clique. The cycling is probably best after a prolonged dry spell
though unless we were merely unlucky.
20th. River Tees kayak. As a complete change from
cycling Simon and myself decided to do our much discussed tees kayak
before the clocks go back and mid-afternoon darkness descends on us.
Strangely, for a river passing through so much urban sprawl, the Tees has
few access and egress points, Simon had reccied a put-in at Middleton One
Row which was where we found ourselves slipping and sliding down a muddy
slope this fine Monday morning, with Ken our logistics manager, who helped
us launch the boats into the fast-flowing water on the first step of our
epic journey to the Tees Barrage some 17 miles downstream. Of course,
being virtual novices at this kayak game, it was unknown to us that canoes
only travel at a maximum speed of around 4 miles per hour, it was almost
lunchtime when we set off and we’d be lucky to reach the Tees Barrage
before nightfall. Oblivious to this we cruised downriver, helped by the
current, at one with nature, sharing the river with cormorants and herons,
revelling in the peace and tranquillity of our water-borne passage,
nothing but trees and water until the next bend. Around the next bend,
more trees and more water, followed by more trees and water shared with
more cormorants and herons, or maybe it was the same ones tracking us
vulture fashion until we succumbed to paddler’s palsy or canoeist’s
cholera, when they would pounce on us and pick our bones clean. Or maybe
not. Rounding one of the countless bends we spotted something different –
waves. Waves? In a river? Cautiously approaching, we realised it was a
weir, a brief surf through a canoeing website prior to this trip had
impressed upon me the dangers of weirs, Simon being someone for whom the
internet is akin to marriage, he knows it exists but has no desire to
visit it, was, shall we say, less than aware of the danger inherent in a
weir, so I let him go first. Having the sense to stick to the smoother
water at the sides, he dropped over the weir with barely a splash, I
followed and, adrenaline rush over, it was back to water, trees,
cormorants and herons. After two hours paddling, a few buildings began to
appear the first indication we were paddling in an inhabited country since
we left Middleton One Row. At Yarm our logistics manager was waiting on a
fishing platform bearing gifts of pies and coffee, essential fuel for our
finely honed athletic bodies and a chance for us to stretch our legs.
Back on board, as us nautical types say, we passed
under Yarm viaduct, which looks strangely small from down on the water,
then under the road bridge, now paddling into a headwind and having rather
less current than we’d became accustomed to, past the Teesside Princess
mooring point, leaving Yarm behind. It soon became apparent a lot more
actual paddling would be required on this section, as opposed to taking
phone calls, chatting and taking pictures of each other as we’d done for
the previous two hours. Ominous dark cloud began to block out the light,
throwing down the odd wintry squall just in case we were getting too
complacent, reaching our next prearranged meeting point, Preston Park, we
decided we’d had enough for one day, it was past three and Simon had an
appointment to keep with mighty Darlo FC that evening, so we hauled out,
saving the last section for another time.
22nd. A damn fine day. Sunny, cold but not too cold
except when you’re standing at the top of the hills waiting for Chris to
catch up and the sweat is chilling off nicely. He’d managed to duck
beneath the radar and get himself out for some bicycle related action,
unfortunately for him it began with ascending the gliding club track up
Carlton Bank. A hard start but worth it for the fine views and relatively
flat tracks across the moors to Swainby Shooting House. We continued down
into Clain Woods and along the pleasant singletrack to Scugdale where
gravity caught up with us again until we were back over Carlton Bank and
zipping down the breathless climb we’d began the day with.
30th. Idly browsing a newspaper in one of the
infrequent free moments we have at work, an article about a stone circle
near Osmotherly caught our interest. A few days later we assembled in the
arctic microclimate of the Square Corner car park, donning all available
clothing while inspecting ice rimmed puddles before heading off along the
road toward Hawnby scanning the right-hand verge for the elusive stone
circle. Not immediately visible from the road because it sits in a slight
dip, our first sight of the allegedly mysterious stonework was distinctly
underwhelming, more a congress of medieval gateposts than a worshipful
alter to pagan gods, like Ozzy Osbourne at The Alamo, Simon let rip with a
shower of urinary desecration, to mark his passage. Back on the bikes, we
made our way to Low Cote Farm and up onto Arnesgill Ridge, through the
smoke from the burning heather to Bilsdale Mast and down past Low Thwaites
to Moor Gate. Simon was heard to remark how it easy it would be to zip
down the road and straight into the café at Hawnby but where would the fun
be in that? We rode round the side of the Hawnby Hump, to Hill End House
and down through the woods, crossing the River Rye and onto the Kepwick
road at New Hall, then zipped down the road to the café. Pork and apple
burgers with chips all round, except for the boring git who had a cheese
sandwich gave us enough energy for the climb out of Hawnby, up Murton Bank
and along the road to Sneck Yate, where a brief rainstorm caught up with
us. A pleasant plod back along the Drove Road with only the Mad Mile to
look forward to went without incident and soon we were back at the cars.
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