Another hilly day today, though to me it was a walk in the park. Because it’s the Yorkshire Dales National Park, and whenever it got steep I got off to walk. All thrilling scenery, though, as more quiet back lanes wound their way through, up and over the hills of Malhamdale, Wharfedale and Nidderdale. It rained a lot, and I spent a lot of money on emergency coffee and cake; but I survived the horrible descent of Greenhow Hill, so on balance, a good day.
From Malham it was only a couple of miles to rejoin the WoR at Airton, a handsome village of stone cottages round a green.
I had a nose round the Friends’ Meeting House. With its simplicity, honesty and social conscience, I often feel on the same wavelength as Quaker thought (though talking of wavelengths, if there is a Quaker radio station, it must have a lot of silences). There’s something about cycle touring – thoughtful, private yet social, self-sufficient, environmentally responsible, taking only what you need – that reflects Quaker values too. Plus cycle-campers eat a lot of porridge.
Anyway, I love the tranquil simplicity of these Meeting Houses, and often stop at them to meditate on life’s imponderables, such as why are people born, why do they die, and why do they spend so much of the intervening period stealing Douglas Adams jokes.
I could have stayed here last night, it turned out.
Just beyond Airton was the first of several floods I had to slosh through. They all proved sloshable without submerging any of the drivetrain, fortunately. Climate change is even threatening the world’s bottom brackets.
I admired the commanding view over Wharfedale from the undulating lane to Thorpe. My up and down world of grey and green stayed dry until Burnsall, when it started to pelt it down.
I sat out the first half hour in the lovely cafe overlooking the riverside green, full of lively locals, and enjoyed leafing through the local paper: the Craven Herald, Voice of the Dales since 1853. The news stories had an enduring air about them, just like my cafe stop itself.
But the rain was clearly set in, so I thought I may as well carry on. So I donned my kaftan-like yellow rain cape, looking like Demis Roussos after falling into a vat of custard, and headed up more quiet back lanes into the drizzle.
Normally I scan weather forecasts closely, even though the BBC’s are little more than guesswork by some people with a laptop in Finland.
I’m not sure it’s a good use of time, because I end up riding anyway, and the actual weather rarely matches the confident symbols. So it was quite a relief not fretting about whether the 1300 to 1400 slot was going to yield a 90% one-drop white cloud (BBC) or a 70% two-drop grey cloud (Met Office).
Whatever that all means anyway. In the seventies it was just the weatherman, such as Bert Foord or Barbara Edwards, saying it would be wet in the north and dry in the south. That was enough for us then. Expected less, you see.
I went through Appletreewick, which is actually pronounced ‘it’s actually pronounced “Aptrick”’, and slogged through the downpour to join the A road that clambers past Stump Cross Caverns and then plunges down to Pateley Bridge. This was pretty unpleasant, with driving rain, nasty winds, lots of puddles on the road, and passing HGVs and SUVs hurling spray over me.
The long 16% career down to town tested my brakes to the limit and made my hands ache. I thought I needed something warm and sustaining, so once in Pateley Bridge I treat myself to a pricy but enjoyable coffee and cake in a nice warm, dry, lively and full cafe. I set out from the cafe with a spring in my step, as if I’d lost a few kilos. Which I was, because of all the pound coins I had to hand over. It wasn’t a cheap place.
More lanes wandered up from Pateley Bridge to take the me and the WoR to Brimham Rocks, one of Yorkshire’s showcase wonders.
I like the place very much, mainly because it’s free if you arrive by bike – no car park charges – and you can take your bike right up to the stones.
I spent a happy hour admiring the strange, dark, grotesquely weathered shapes – though I get enough of that in the bathroom mirror – and set off on the long, long downhill to Ripon.
I could enjoy the sweeping views down over the plains beyond Ripon to the full. The roads down from Brimham Rocks lose height consistently and gradually, and I was able to freewheel without braking and without worrying about oncoming traffic. The Claud Butler was in its element here, and while the element was iron rather than titanium, it rode just as lightly and whippily.
I passed Fountains Abbey (which is pretty bike-friendly: they’ll lend you a lock, tools and pump if you ask nicely) and followed the WoR through Studley Royal. This features a splendid long downhill down the car-free estate road into town from St Mary’s Church. The building is no longer used for services, but is a very good place to stop and look round, particularly if you want to talk bikes with the delightful volunteer guides.
The search for accommodation in Ripon was again stymied by the Tourist Info not being open, but I asked in a nearby cafe and they suggested the neighbouring Wetherspoons hotel. Which, e2e-watchers will know, is a chain of pubs never far from my thoughts.
I locked up my bike in the square using the 1970s-style ‘lock’ I’d improvised: a padlock and length of chain from a hardware shop, costing a few quid. It was light, compact, easy to use, and had the advantage that you could secure it to any suitable length, depending on which links you padlocked. Though, of course, it would only withstand a modern thief’s portable angle grinder for about ten seconds – in comparison with a top-rated present-day max-security D-lock, which would survive more like, oh, thirty.
Anyway: another dynamic-pricing last-minute bounty! The Wetherspoon had rooms for just £55, which seemed a bargain. I celebrated with an Afternoon Deal Fish and Chips Includes A Drink. It cost £8, about the same as my coffee and cake back in Pateley Bridge.
To wash it down, embracing the spirit of 1970s cuisine fully, I went for a Stella. (The mild was off.) I didn’t, however, go the whole way and add a dash of lime. Like flares, kipper ties and casual racism, there are some seventies things in too poor taste to revisit, even in the name of authenticity.
Cheers!
Miles today: 40
Miles since Morecambe: 81