DUFTON CAMPING WEEKEND 9 – 11 OCTOBER 2015
For one reason or another I've not been climbing for months, so a camping weekend centred on the climb of “England's Ventoux” held great attraction: five miles of good, traffic-free tarmac up to the radar dome on the second highest summit in the Pennines, Great Dun Fell in Westmorland. Throw in the company of old friends and the promise of new ones and attraction becomes excitement (I don't get out much!). To be honest, though, I also had some trepidation because of lack of practice and the hill's reputation. A friend from university had talked about a successful ascent he had made many years ago and though I'd never got around to it I've had it in my head since then. Still, buried in what looked like being a very sociable weekend, it wouldn't loom so large, would it?
I'd booked tickets weeks ahead and was thrilled to be finally tackling the Settle to Carlisle rail route, though I have done many of the relevant roads on my bike. As it turned out, I ended up talking all the way up, though was able to re-christen my 50-year-old KFS by offering it to my fellow passenger for her coleslaw. I felt a further good omen as I chatted to a cyclist going to Gargrave who had marshalled on Beryl Burton's famous 12-hour ride.
Dufton is three miles from Appleby station but I decided on the long way round, through Hilton and Murton to avoid the chevron on the direct route, as I could barely lift the back end of the bike, so loaded was it. Also it was lovely to ride a few miles and I wondered if I might see High Cup Nick (I didn't).
Mike and Pauline were already camped and people arrived in ones and twos from as far away as really distant places. Characteristically, Dean had ridden over the Pennines from Darlington. My tent caused some amusement because it turned out to be what retailers term a snug fit. Pretty good in a gale, though, because it would have had nowhere to fall.
After pitching and greetings, Dean and I went for a ride/walk up towards High Cup Nick. We didn't go all the way, but far enough to see the great lava cliff of the whinsill and for me to bag another lime kiln for my collection.
I confided my reservations about the next day's climb. Returning to the site at dusk, I went in to Appleby to get provisions. I've been through before on rides, usually the Old 240 on which it is a last staging post before the climb over Hartside to Alston. This time, I took the short way there and back, anxious not to lose too much time on the return because I had pastie and chips in my pannier.
Some pints and good conversation were had in the Stag Inn and then several hours sleep, which surprised me as I struggle to sleep away from home or whenever I'm really looking forward to something.
After breakfast ( Dean cooked me some porridge and a great cup of coffee, which I supplemented from my evening's raiding party), we rolled out about a dozen strong to warm up via a roundabout route. A few miles later, we pitched up at the start of the climb, just outside the village of Knock. There was a wonderfully dead-pan briefing from Our Leader, as we sheltered in the lee of the turning hawthorn bushes. “Ok, this is the start, take it easy, we'll re-group at the top, ok?” He might so easily have gone Python and started, “ Some of you will not be coming back...”
Having already filled my pannier with rocks to the equivalent weight of Lynn and Aidan's tandem trike, I thought of my loved ones, fingered the Will and Testament in my back pocket and set off. It's quite benign to start with. It is so wonderful to have such a long stretch of road pretty much to yourself; nearly five miles with nothing but sheep and snow-poles for company, once we were strung out. For a long time you can see the white radar dome haughtily mocking your efforts to get closer. Then it disappears and it's not going to re-appear until you are pretty well there.
The climb has many turns and false summits and although the gradient varies, there is only one place where it flattens out and I don't know whether or not I was just too tired or whether there was a bit of a breeze on that short section but I was unable to carry any speed onto the subsequent series of very stiff ramps, which had appeared ahead like a sickening staircase. The whole climb put me in mind of trying to walk up a down escalator: no matter how hard you try, you don't seem to get any nearer the top.
The steepest ramps seemed to me to be just after the levelling out. That's also the most romantic section, as you haul yourself round bend after bend with frost shattered rock fields to your left and the occasional crag. Oh, and another lime kiln, which I decided to snap on the way down, rather than stall my steady winching. As I ground on, past the furnace, I marvelled at the toughness of the people who had worked in this austere landscape; miners, limers and shepherds. It felt literally fantastic to be riding a bike through such terrain.
On a clear day, the views from the top must be incredible. Even hazy as it was, they were still astonishing: the sheet of Cow Green reservoir, the building of which was so controversial in my youth; Mickle Fell to the south and Cross Fell with its mandatory covering of cloud to the north. Best of all (for me, at any rate) I could look into my motherland, Durham, County Palatine and home of the Prince Bishops; the border runs right through the reservoir.
Everybody made it. Photographs were taken, food was eaten, fishermen's tales were told.
I had a good wander around the place and am full of admiration for the logistical ability that has put all the structures and equipment on top of such an inhospitable place. I think the only thing that will have stopped them building the station on the next hill, Cross Fell, the highest point in the Pennines, is the fact that for most days, you can't even find the top of Cross Fell, under its shroud of cloud
TM.
It's amazing. Even more amazing is that they first built the road, and a superb road. I must look into this. Can they really have used road-rollers? The thought of one of them losing traction and plummetting backwards to the centre of the earth brings me to one of the chief features of the return to beer level – the recumbent re-entry.
Before long, it was too cold for rapidly-cooling bodies to linger. I for one was a little anxious about the descent. I love to climb, but I've always been a cautious descender after a salutory lesson from a bulging tyre and a pair of pliers on my seatpost on a drop in the North York Moors when I was a teenager. So, I determined to use the descent to take some more pictures. But I was still in the bunch as we approached a “serious” cyclist on his lung-bursting ascent, head down and weaving. When he looked up his first thought may have been surprise at seeing a rag-tag bunch of tourists who appeared to have been up to the top of this proper hill. That thought will have lasted about a nano-second as, with cries of “On your right!”, Kim shot past us all, hurtling towards and past the amazed rider. Kim's recumbent has about the same frontal cross-section as a sheep, so it may have been a pretty unnerving experience for him! She left us for dead, her grin slicing through the air like a scythe. I'm sure the chainguard is actually a heat-shield.
I snapped the lime kiln before rejoining the group at the bottom where we waited for Aidan and Lynn on the tractor. News came through that the heavy braking had caused the rim tape on the front wheel to melt, which was alarming to me. But Aidan and Lynn took it all in their stride and were soon with us, having stuffed bits of wet-wipe in the spoke recesses.
Together again (Buck Owens, I think), we took the direct route back through Knock to Dufton, where the staff of the Post Office Tea Room provided a steady stream of hot food, cakes and drinks. Returning to the site, I had a shower, put on my mufti, then strolled around the village like the tourist I was. I think the settlement goes back a long way but owes its current establishment to the lead mining industry. The London Lead Mining Company, who were active all over the North of England, were a Quaker concern and seem to have been philanthropic in their provision of schools and other amenities for their workers. I doubt if they had much to do with the pubs, of which the excellent Stag Inn (previously The Buck) is the sole survivor of three, which must have been one for every dozen inhabitants. Sycamore House in the village used to be The Black Bull and I was childishly pleased to find that Dufton is indeed on an old drove-road from Scotland, as predicted by the inn name.
The village had also been reived, if these fortifications are any indication.
And everywhere there was the beautiful red St Bees Sandstone
I must mention how much I enjoyed Kim's tutorials for Isaac and Xander on the street machine and the Isla bike. Kat, you are doing a great job – and Andrew, that's a fabulous picture of Xander hanging from the swing!
The team meal in the evening (in The Stag) was very good. I only wish Peli and Woolly had been able to sit with us but their dog Tilly precluded that, I'm afraid. A second night under canvas was followed by the leisurely departure of most of us. An exception to the leisurely bit was Lindsay who set off at 5.30am to do a 200k Audax, starting with the fabled climb of Birkdale, out of Nateby into Swaledale. I went for a trundle through the woods below the site. On my way back, I noticed a post-hole sans post, and went to have a look. At the bottom of the hole, about a foot down, was a hedgehog, curled up but breathing steadily. Too early for hibernation Watson, thought I. It had presumably fallen in and was unable to climb out. I bloodied my fingers trying to retrieve it before successfully rescuing it with my fork and spoon in what I suppose could be considered a reverse Romany manoeuvre. Kim was on hand to help and photograph the deed, which was pleasing: on arrival, I had shown her the tent pegs I had made out of old mud-guard stays, with which she was justifiably unimpressed. This is after all, someone who can re-wire GCHQ (or Great Dun Fell NATS station) using only a packet of loom bands and a toilet duck.
I had half an hour after riding to Appleby station, so I wandered about taking pictures of the railwayana.
The ride down to Skipton was everything I'd hoped as I hopped from one side of the carriage to the other, gawping and recognising sights I'd seen from my bikes over the years and drinking in the staggering scenery of Mallerstang Common. To arrive at Garsdale Head and see the Coal Road steepling up into the sky from beneath the railway was a magnificent experience. For a moment I was glad not to have to ride up it but then I remembered I had climbed the mighty Great Dun Fell, albeit on one of the stillest days I've ever had on a bike.
Sunday engineering work meant I had to ride the Leeds and Liverpool Canal towpath to Leeds before catching a heaving two coach Sprinter back to Rochdale. But apart from the first half-mile out of Shipley, the surface is excellent, though studded with dogs and people in a ratio of about four to one.
It was a marvellous weekend. I'd love to have been able to talk to more people at greater length but I hope there will be other times. It's hard not to feel driven by the urge to explore when you never know when you'll get to a place again – and Dufton and the area around it is full of interest.
Dean, thanks for a wizard wheeze, wonderfully wealised and thanks to all of you for the companionship. Stap me, I might even have a go at that chess thing.
Rochdale to Appleby and back seems an awfully long way to go to climb a bit of a hill but I brought bit of cloud down with me and I'm still walking on it.
This has been a Deanworks Production
