I grumbled loud and long this last winter to anybody willing to listen, and few more besides. I may well be that guy you saw on the bus, chuntering away to himself interminably about the weather, while you dreaded him taking that seat next to you.
Five months of November. Grey. Interminably dreich. Storm after storm rolling in from the Atlantic. Wet, wet, wet. And those winds, that never let up! I’ve got out of the habit of following my nose, riding out, and finding somewhere new.
Part of it is the effect of winter on my familiar local routes, with so many of my favourite quiet little byways now badly damaged. It’s only now, as May has burst open the doors for summer, that I have the heart to get out and finding new routes, confident that I will not be riding impassably rough lanes.
Partly, it is depressing to ride through flood-filth. A favourite detour on my way home from work – down the River Aire, as far as St Aidans or even Woodlesford, to swing back through Temple Newsam – has been like riding a rubbish tip. Mile after mile of riverside shrubs and trees festooned with rubbish, shrouded sometimes to eight or ten feet high, with plastic bags and sheets, fabric, cartons, boxes, and rope. All sorts of detritus, washed out of Leeds by the floods, and none of it will biodegrade.
And (silly me), I have run up against a wee problem. Seasons come and seasons go. I love that first snowdrop ride; the first gorse blooms; spring-time leaf-burst. But I wrote them all up last year. Do I want ro repeat myself? Not really.
Bear with me, folks. To break the chains, a few highlights from the last few months; not much more than notes to myself, promising return visits.
Castleford – one Sunday in March.
Queen’s Mill/Allinson’s Flour Mill, once the world’s largest stone grinding flour mill with twenty pairs of grinding stones. Now owned by Castleford Heritage Trust, and open to the public; worth returning for a visit during opening hours.
St Aidan’s Country Park – 1st April.
Odd to see a large flock of Greylags – I had expected them to be gone, or at least broken up. Flocks of Black-headed Gulls; mewling and wheeling, squabbling and ill-tempered, quarrelsome around their nesting pitches.
But the first sign of summer riding across the causeway! Sand Martins, newly arrived from their wintering grounds in West Africa, swooping and swerving across the ponds.
Otley – on a dreich day in early April.
Tucked away, up a ginnel off Kirkgate, to the right of All Saints Parish Church, is the Navvies’ Monument, a replica of the rather fine Gothic portal at the north end of the railway tunnel under Bramhope Moor, built for the Leeds & Thirsk Railway. A memorial to twenty three of the men who were killed in the building of it, and who lie buried beneath it.
“What dangers do surround
Poor miners everywhere,
And they that labour underground
Thay should be men of prayer.”
(from the gravestone of James Myers of Yeadon, another victim)
Tour de Yorkshire – bigger and better than last year. I was extraordinarily lucky in my Tourmaker locations this year. On day two, at the head of the KOM climb at East Rigton for both the women’s and the men’s races; and on day three, twenty-five metres from the finishing line in Scarborough.
East Rigton. A great crowd of keen and knowledgable supporters, creating that special atmosphere of suspense, gradually building up over the hours of waiting, with people passing on updates and speculation. Then the few brief ecstatic moments as the escorts and cyclists raced through, to the crowd’s cheers.
My ride home pretty well followed the race route through Thorner. The races had long moved on, but Yorkshire’s party continued. I dropped in on live music, a community art festival, a barbecue, and fine ales at The Fox Inn; I could equally have chosen any of the other pubs, here, in Scholes, or in Barwick.
Scarborough. Quite astonishing the enormous crowds along the North Bay esplanade, and thronging the steep grassy slopes up to the town.
May 8th, the 90th Annual Cyclists’ Service at Coxwold.
My legs did not have the ninety miles in them to repeat last year’s ride from Leeds and back, I knew that. So I cheated by having a lazy lie-in, and taking the train to York. Karma! I only just missed the one I needed for a well-paced, leisurely ride.
Instead, I battled the eight miles from York to Sutton-on-the-Forest; a short-cut, but unpleasant riding along a heavily trafficked, fast road. One of those where your senses shut down almost entirely, to focus exclusively on the next fool who “overtakes” at 70, and gives six inches of space. Not a road I’ll choose to ride again in a hurry.
Back on to quiet lanes for the next twelve miles, through Huby to Easingwold (I do like that wee town – must come back on a week day), then the long climb over the ridge and down to Newburgh Priory, and on to Coxwold.
Just over the ridge crest, by High Leys Farm, I took time for the view across St Michael’s Church in Coxwold, and on to the Kilburn White Horse; to rest my legs and savour a cigarette. Aye, and hear the bells toll inviting us cyclists in. Sorry, folks, I was the late arrival. Just in time to hear the address by the Bishop of Selby, resplendent in fine vestments worn over his lycra. I suspect he rode in for the service like the rest of us – a nice touch.
Tea, sandwiches and cake at the village hall, and the ride back to York. No short-cuts this time – I followed the signs for Sustrans Route 65.
Through Easingwold and Alne, to take a pleasant dogleg on a bridleway to skirt RAF Linton-on-Ouse. Riding through the hedgerows and farmland, watching for bumblebees and songbirds, soaking the sun’s warmth into my shoulders – and a couple of hundred metres away, one of the busiest RAF airfields in the country.
On through Newton-on-Ouse and the grounds of Beningbrough Hall, skirting Shipton, to ride a mile or two of quiet lane by the railway; then the off-road path along the banks of the River Ouse into the heart of York.
Fine riding most of the way, until Newton-on-Ouse. What makes it special is the camaraderie of the cyclists you’ve seen in Coxwold; greetings and waves, looking out for each other and helping with mechanicals, giving a boost to people for whom it is their first testing ride. But that’s all the folks who have come in from West Yorkshire.
Maybe my end of the county breeds tougher folk. Because my last stretch, from Beningbrough Hall into York, was plain boring. Sorry – but there it is. Blunt fact.
Characterless flat riding in forgotten bog lands between the railway line and the A19; SLOOOOOWWWW riding, dodging dog walkers and pushchairs, once you are inside the ring road; and none of the camaraderie. Maybe Coxwold’s York contingent know a better route.
Lesson learned for next year – prepare for the ride from Leeds, and get my legs into long-distance fettle.
Cycling Round Yorkshire 