After a splendid time at Reeth Show yesterday, I rode up hill and down dale to Skipton today: a leisurely forty-mile traverse of the Yorkshire Dales from top to bottom, involving Swaledale, Wensleydale, Coverdale, Wharfedale and Airedale. (There’s something like 30–50 dales in the Dales, so this only involved a fraction of them.)
→See map of the route
I stayed in the YHA hostel at Grinton last night, a former shooting lodge that looks like the sort of place you’d imprison Rudolf Hess. I’ve overnighted here several times, partly because of the excellent atmosphere, friendly staff, and superb views over Swaledale, but also because it’s often under £15 a night.
After a bridleway shortcut across the moors I took the narrow road over the top from Swaledale to Wensleydale. The Glorious Twelfth was nearly two weeks ago. There were dozens of grouse out on the moors, all burbling at me like cartoon ducks comically spoiling for a fight.
I passed a car from which a bloke with a huge telephoto lens was taking photos of the game birds. This is the sort of grouse shooting I can approve of.
It was a long haul to the top. Heavy black clouds were so low it felt I might bump my head on them. A lone tree on the skyline reminded me of the late Sycamore Gap sycamore.
I hurtled down the other side to Castle Bolton (not to be confused with Bolton Abbey). I turned and followed a narrow, gated farm lane along the contour line. Wensleydale glowed mistily down there somewhere, and I whizzed down the hill to Wensley, gateway to the Dales – a village that somehow gave its name to the entire dale – where I crossed the Ure and started the long climb up Coverdale.
Coverdale is one of the lesser-celebrated dales, with Carlton as its ‘capital’. About a hundred people live there, and (the info board informed me) 35 of the 90 houses are holiday cottages. Once there were several inns. Only one survives, though that’s better than many dry dales towns: the Foresters Arms, run as a community pub.
I passed a few flocks of sheep being moved around by farmers on quad bikes with teams of collies, and carried on through the pleasingly-named Horsehouse up to the head of the dale for another traverse.
From the summit I had a thrilling view opening up over Wharfedale, and over the road that would plummet down to Kettlewell, gateway to the Dales, via the infamous 1 in 4 hairpins of Park Rash.
In the village I bumped into someone I was at college with forty-five years ago. She kindly invited me into her cottage for coffee. I thought of how I was in 1982: naive, jobless, drifting and skint, but at least I had a bike. And I thought how different things are for me now. Still naive, jobless, drifting and skint, but with six bikes.
Enlivened by some excellent single-bean dark roast, I headed south along the flat, drizzly splendour of Wharfedale (until 1982, I thought this was only the speakers in my hi-fi system). The main road between Kettlewell and Grassington goes on the west side, but there’s a narrow lane on the east side much quieter and better for cycling. A young couple – well, most couples are young to me now – glided past me on e-bikes, and I felt smug because I was on a conventional pedal-powered machine. Then I thought of how much easier today’s riding would have been and felt envious instead.
Grassington, gateway to the Dales, is one of those villages famous for a very rare, unpredictable event of great beauty. Once or twice a year, perhaps at half-past four on a summer morning when a TV crew is filming the remake of some heartwarming light-entertainment series, something astounding happens. There are no motor vehicles parked in the handsome main square. So you can see what the place actually looks like, instead of it being a car park. Not today, obviously.
I muttered to myself about car culture over a sausage sandwich and then carried on through pretty Linton and along the horrible B road to Skipton. En route was Rylstone, where Yorkshire’s famous calendar girls first stripped off for charity. Everybody was fully clothed today.
And so to Skipton, gateway to the Dales. It’s a lively and pleasant market town with things like castles and canals and train stations and Wetherspoons and statues of Yorkshire fast bowlers. I like it.
MAP
Alas, no time for a post-ride IPA today: my social encounter in Kettlewell, headwinds, and hill climbs, meant I needed to get the next train home. It had been a fine ride across the Dales, more or less top to bottom. Cheers anyway!