or
The (not so) Wild Frontier
or
The Conservation of Momentum
So, round my way, it's almost all heroic hills & gasping for breath. That's OK (no, it's wonderful really), but if I wanted to build up my stamina and have a ride where I just kept moving as much as possible, then I needed something a shade more... rolling.
By the magical power of the horseless carriage, I transported Swiftsure to a car park in Clitheroe, with the aim of exploring the stolen lands of Bowland.
See, the proper border of Yorkshire & Lancashire billows Westward, including West Craven and the Forest of Bowland, both of which have, since 1974, been exiled in Lancashire. Yorkshire comes within eight miles of spanning our island.
And the River Hodder forms a flowing part of the true boundary. But it was the Ribble I met first. Over the bridge, and off to the right towards Bashall Eaves.
The air was crisp and cool, and I was grateful for my new Aldi jacket. I began to spin on the gently climbing road, admiring the lovely trees dotting the fields.
I'm a boy of dale, moor and fell, and this flatter land felt unusual, but not unwelcome, beneath my wheels. I was heading North, into Yorkshire, but to my South was the beautiful Longridge Fell, acting like ramparts to defend Lancashire.
And the mist swept like a milky sea around me, wrapping the trees and hedges in muslin. My world extended one hundred metres in any direction, and it belonged to me.
I watched my long, long shadow speed across the fields, and I moved onward, chain whispering, tyres humming gently, and gear changes almost silent.
I had wanted to try reaching Whitewell in half an hour, but I didn't manage it. It didn't worry me, though - I was just out for fun, and I would go as far as I would go.
As the climbs grew steeper towards the aptly named Browsholme Hall, in the lower slopes of the surprising Waddington Fell, I was caught by two inspiring figures appearing out of the mist. Two men on carbon bikes, swiftly cutting through the morning, sharing a brief joke with me, then standing on the pedals and off into the distance like wraiths. And they were both at least twenty years my senior.
But, slow though I may have been by their standards, the series of winding climbs gave me a lovely descent into Cow Ark, as i pushed my top gear - not something I get to do very often.
Sharp left, slight wiggle, and I was onto one of the few roman roads in our area.
There are a couple of reasons for this - firstly, Calderdale was never conquered by the Romans (and only very very late by the Normans ), and, secondly - even the Romans were not fool enough to try putting straight roads over the edges.
So the unfamiliar feeling of steaming on towards a point way ahead. It doesn't last too long, however, as it disappears into a green lane and farm access as the road swings around what feel like mediaeval fields.
We're into really fertile land, now - formerly flood plains, I would guess, and there's a swift descent to the Hodder at last.
But I unshipped my chain Don't care - I just freewheeled down to my second stone bridge (of three - four if you count the one I crossed twice) of the day. Doeford Bridge, below Longridge Fell - the true county border. I couldn't resist taking photos before sorting my chain.
First looking upstream (Westward) in the silent spot where the River Loud joins.
Then downstream towards the meanders before it flows into the Ribble near Whalley. This photo is contre-jour with a low sun, so there is a slight vignetting at the top where I used my hand as an ad hoc lens hood.
After fettling my chain, I started up the steep climb standing on a woefully inappropriately high gear, up to the road running below Longridge Fell.
The road climbed gently, but I needed a break, and was very grateful for the oat bar I had packed. When I remounted, I climbed slowly and steadily, but I kept moving.
As ever, though, the metres gained were not lost. I had a beautiful view near the village of Chaigley. I took two photos of the Yorkshire landscape I had ridden across, with a backdrop of Birkett Fell, Marl Hill Moor, and Waddington Fell.
The height gained gave me another fast downhill to another lovely river crossing at Higher Hodder Bridge. But I didn't stop for photos this time, as I knew I was about to encounter the only arrow of this ride. And I flew up it, surprised how short the climb was.
Down the valley a bit more again to Angerham, before I said goodbye to the Hodder, and rode the short link to the Ribble.
Back over the bridge, and rushing a short climb to the car park was where I came across the only idiot motorist of the ride (and one of only about a dozen I had seen all morning).
I was pulling out to turn right. He was emerging in his campervan from a road on the right, but he decided he should be able to overtake me as part of the manoeuvre, and ended up on the wrong side of the road. I used my first word of the entire morning, 'Maniac!', but, unruffled, I returned to my inward smile.
First posted 1 October 2006
