Well, I finally got to do the rest of my recce run for the Cub's Awfully Big Adventure.
We got back from Prague on Friday afternoon. I should have spent Saturday with the friends who looked after our children for the week, saying thank you. Or sorting out the laundry mountain. Or seeing an old uni friend who is oop north and was at a loose end for the day. Or with my children, who hadn't seen me since Saturday evening last weekend.
But I didn't
I woke up before the alarm went off at stupid o'clock, and bimbled around trying to find the rack pack and all the gubbins to go in it. Spare tubes were in the bottom of one pannier. The toolkit on the bookshelf. The spare brake cable in a coat pocket. Waterproof turned up in the end. And, having checked weather forecasts for various points on the route and learning from my previous somewhat humid ride through the Dales, I actually took some spare clothes to change into before training it home (thus guaranteeing that it wouldn't actually even drizzle). I briefly considered setting off early and getting to York station in time to surprise Deano with a cake to take with him as he was setting off to do a 200 somewhere, but I'm afraid that coffee and a bit of footling about on the interwebs appealed a bit more.
I had a ticket and bike reservations to get me to Arnside and planned to do the route in reverse - because it meant that I could buy a cheap return ticket plus a cheap single from Barrow to Arnside and get the journey back for me and my bike after the big adventure sorted for next to nothing. It also meant that I wouldn't have to work to an inflexible arrival time in Arnside, which was useful as there's a couple of routes back from there, some of which cost a lot more and some on which it's very much in your interest to book a bike space on as the trains go to and from Manchester airport and the bike spaces are often stuffed with luggage. The guards are a bit more sympathetic to you standing in the doorway in 1st class if you've played by the rules but been thwarted by iritating holiday-makers with 3 suitcases the size of a house each.
Unsurprisingly, the weather reports indicated that using the reverse route would mean head or crosswinds pretty much all the way. And Bikely told me that on the way from Garsdale to Arnside I would average rather more down than up, which will be great when I do it in the other direction with the cub later this week (although you can guarantee the wind will be the other way) but meant that I expected to be walking rather a lot....
My vague and wooly plan was to just go and play it by ear how far I rode, depending on where I got to at what time, what the weather was like and how it felt. I knew I'd have to go at least as far as Garsdale which I thought would be a bit under 40 miles, but idly wondered if it'd be worth carrying on the extra 40-ish miles to Northallerton. Or 60-ish to Cattal. Or the 75-ish to home.... maybe.
Quarter past 7 saw me at York station, buying coffee and an almond croissant for my breakfast. The 7:24 to Leeds was quiet, the bike space empty and the guard cheerful, chatty and surprised that I had a reservation for Valencia. At Leeds station I experienced helpfulness from the station staff, who said yes I could leave my bike with them at the information point on the platform and they'd keep an eye on it while I nipped to the loo. The train to Carnforth was also quiet, although that didn't stop the family with 4 kids, one of whom was a teeny weeny in a buggy, that got on (off for a day trip to Morecambe) from glowering at me for parking my bike in the bike space and sitting in a seat next to it. Of course if they'd gone 2 metres the other way when they got in there was a large number of empty seats, and a big enough space for the buggy. But the kids were all remarkably civilised - so I just snoozed and idly browed the interwebs on my shiny new phone. At Carnforth there's a very sensible ramp down to and up from the subway, and the Arnside train turned up on time. The guard told me not to bother going to the bike space as it was full of people and luggage on the way home from Manchester airport, so Valencia got parked in a doorway. He also told me which side the doors opened, so I didn't have to stand with her if I didn't want to. So about half ten saw me in Arnside, after three trains (all on time, all with space, all reasonably presentable, none of them with 'orrible other passengers), no railway station stairs and a positive plethora of helpful railway staff. The early signs were that the day was looking good.
Now I encountered my usual problem when I get to somewhere new on a train. I walk out of the station, and have a complete left/right
?? moment. Traditionally I plump for one, set off, and realise at some point (between 5 and 50 minutes later) that it was the wrong one. Instead I parked the bike and got the map and the phone out. A bit of squinting at street signs and I worked out which way up I was and which way I (probably) wanted to go. Spatial awareness is not one of my particular skills - but then, that was why I was doing a recce run in the first place, in order to slightly decrease the getting_lost potential. I then faffed (definitely one of my special skills) with fleeces and water bottles and rearranging things in pockets and eventually set off.
In the next couple of miles I got passed by at least 3 speedy roadies - obviously a popular place to ride on a lovely Saturday morning, and I can understand why as is really rather pretty. Slightly worrying though, in that wherever you look the landscape seems to have a lot of these strange lumps in it. And, as I discovered at the first hill of any length, a week off the bike and eating hotel breakfasts on top of a couple of right stinkers of colds in quick succession in the last month that left me with a bit of a rattly cough still really don't improve my rubbish-to-start-off-with climbing. Hey ho, nothing you can do about it and it (probably) wouldn't kill me. I managed, by keeping the gearing very very low and just plodding with the occasional stop to admire the view, to stay on the bike. And I am pleased to report that no brake cables snapped on the descents, and I managed to get down a few hills without looking like a petrified rabbit in the headlights - I think I've forgiven Valencia for scaring the pants of me on the KTTR ride
I stopped several times to check maps, and realised that the battery on my swish new smartphone wasn't looking very healthy. Serves me right for spending so much time browsing on the train - so I switched the phone off, other than for emergency google-mappery and a couple of quick texts to let Dearly_Beloved know where I was (and a couple of teeny posts on here) for the rest of the day.
I'd vaguely decided to go through Yealand Redmayne, partly because it was such a daft-sounding name for a village that I thought I ought to go there and partly because google-mappery implied that going that way should eventually allow me to cross the A6 without having to ride on it, which (having lived in a house on the A6 for a while many years ago and actually having lost a housemate to "joyriders" on it) seemed like a good plan. With typical Crinkly ineptitude I managed to completely miss the turning off in the village, but on arriving in Yealand Conyers I thought this might be the case, took a close look at the map, worked out where I was and turned back and managed to find Eight Acre Lane, which magically turns into Nineteen Acre Lane after a mile or so, so went that way. At the A6 crossing I was stopped for what felt like a year waiting for a break in the traffic, which made me glad that I had avoided riding on it. Shockingly, the royal mail van behind me waited patiently with no complaining until a (slow) bicycle sized gap appeared. And gave me a cheerful wave in acknowledgement of my shouted 'thank you', thumbs up and big wave when he (carefully) overtook me after having followed me across. Helpful train staff, considerate RM drivers, beautiful weather - shocking stuff.
Crossing the bridge over the M6 I stopped to look at all the people trudging along in their little metal boxes or wandering around the service station just below and thought how exceptionally pleasant it is to not be doing either of those things. Along Tarn Lane to Burton in Kendal then over the A6070 and onto Dalton Lane. Which just seemed to go on and up forever! There may have been a couple of points where I decided discretion was the better part of valour and 'cross-trained', as Nutkin would put it, by walking a bit. I stopped for a drink and to catch my breath at a layby at one point, and a bloke with what I guessed to be his teenage son pootled gently past up the hill, chatting amiably away and making it look remarkably easy. Gits. After a few minutes I set off again, and proceeded to play tag with this pair for the next 3 or 4 miles with them effortlessly pulling off into the distance on every uphill, and me having to brake to avoid running into them on every downhill - but I wasn't confident of having enough speed to get past them riding two up (and subsequently stay in front at the next mild incline!). It was most bizarre to be following someone who was a more tentative descender than me, and slightly unnerving - I kept wondering if they knew something about the road ahead that I didn't! Eventually I started to find it mildly frustrating that I couldn't build up a decent head of steam downwards to take full advantage of the magic carpet to get me up the other side, so just after a turning to the left towards Kirkby Lonsdale I stopped for 5 or 10 minutes to have a drink and look at maps to make sure this was the road I thought it was and to let them get enough head start for me to be way behind. Then whoosh, down the Biggins road, over the somewhat busy A65 and into Kirkby Lonsdale I went - where I looked at the hill down past the school and didn't think twice about getting off and walking it!
By this point it was fairly obvious to me that this was not a fast day for me, and the chances of me riding all the way home were miniscule. And the breakfast on the train felt a very long time ago, so I looked for somewhere to park the bike and get some food. Kirkby Lonsdale was both very busy, and remarkably short of either decent bike locking options or pubs/cafes with outdoor seating. Eventually I found a very pleasant looking bakery/cafe with a courtyard seating area, parked up and ordered teacake, tea and (in the spirit of the famous five and having an Adventure) ginger beer and most pleasant it was too. A gentleman wandered over to inspect Valencia, which led to a fairly long conversation with him and his wife about bikes, slick tyres, disk brakes, dynohubs, night-riding and the Cub's big adventure. Then they wandered off, leaving me to enjoy my apparently bottomless pot of tea and be quietly astounded by a lady who was there with three unbearably cute and astinishingly well-behaved children - so good that I actually said as much to her as they were leaving, which made her happy. I paid my very reasonable bill, then wandered off to look for the B&B that I've booked for Friday night so I know where we're heading for before heading out of town, unsurprisingly up a big hill.
I'd decided, rather than taking the A683, to go up the little road on the other side of the river. And, just for a change, I completely missed the turning that I was planning to take to Rigmaden. I really am hopeless at navigating! Although I worked out that I could carry on up the B road and get back on route I decided to double back, and I'm very glad that I did. It's a bit bumpy, and there's stretches that are quite gravelly, and a lot of it is a narrow twisty lane with high hedges and you really hope there's nothing coming up the hill round the corner but crikey it's pretty and enourmously good fun! I ignored a tempting "Sebergh over that way sign" that pointed downhill towards, I presume, the 683 and carried on up. And it was a really good decision - I think I encountered 3 vehicles in total on the road and they all passed sensibly or pulled right over to let me pass and waved or smiled cheerfully too. And it meant that I joined the B road at Killington New Bridge Nature Reserve which, on a sunny August afternoon, is a tiny little slice of heaven so I stopped and parked the bike up and went and leant against a tree just a few metres from the road to watch the river flowing by for a while and contemplate quite what a fantastic way of getting around a bike is, as I would never have spotted it from a car.
Having thoroughly approved of my previous 'take the twisty little road' decision I nipped round a teeny lane to the left just after the bridge instead of going along the B6256 to join the A road. Only half a mile, but NSTN would NOT have approved. Gravelly loose surface, twisty corners and a little bit roller-coastery. But also no traffic, pleasant dappled shade and a babbling brook alongside. Blooming lovely.
A bit of a blast down the A683, where many motorbikes were seen, and I found Sedbergh where, if you believe the signposts, all roads lead to Hawes. There's one labelled as a cycle route and I looked at it, realised that I was fairly certain that it would have involved hauling my sorry self over Garsdale Head and several roads with chevrons on the map and decided that would be a Very_Bad_Plan. So the A684 it would be, not necessarily the most pleasant prospect on a lovely Saturday afternoon in August. And I had a very clear recollection of Mr Nesbitt telling me what a great descent it would be when the Cub and I rode this road. In the opposite direction.... I stopped to eat a packet of crisps and some chocolate to fortify me then set off to see how bad it could be. However, a couple of minutes down the road i got distracted by a sign that said simply two words - "Coffee" and "Books". Well, you can't ignore that can you? It was the utterly brilliant Westwood Books. The coffee was mediocre machine stuff, but there was plenty of space out front to dump Valencia, the loo is large and salubrious and wallpapered with maps and it's the sort of shop I could cheerfully lose half a day in. Definitely one to stop at with the Cub, and possibly purchase a small reward for getting up to and down from Garsdale. I was very sensible though, and only stayed for 20 minutes or so....
Then I really really couldn't put off the climb to Garsdale any longer. And actually, it wasn't as bad as I'd feared, althoough the catlle grids are a bit ferocious and the motorbikes can be fairly alarming. I did have to walk a bit but that just meant that I got to admire the view. Then I got to the car park bit that people drive to so that they can read an information panel about the Dent fault and then sit in their tin boxes and look at it. I was quite lucky in that there were only a few vehicles there to spoil the view, so I went and sat on a big rock to eat the last of my chocolate, and just stared at the Fells in front of me, and the Dales behind me, and got stared at by the sheep. I was vaguely aware that I probably ought to get a shift on, although I had no idea what time it was, but actually I just didn't care as it was such an absolutely perfect place to be so I probably sat there for half an hour.
Back on the bike, and back up the hill. I don't think I had any more rambling moments after that, although I certainly didn't go very fast on the ups. The road twisted up and down, through Garsdale village which I vaguely remembered as being 2 or 3 miles from the station. Then, somehow a bit sooner than I'd expected, I spotted the railway cottages ahead, up and to the right and realised I was about there. And that a train was in the station... which I had no chance of catching. I got to the hill to the station, which is very definitely a walking only one for me, and went to check timetables. I had indeed just missed the half past 5-ish train, having taken the best part of 7 hours to cover less than 40 miles. And there wasn't another one for a couple of hours. A large part of me was very very tempted to just keep riding because I really, really didn't want to stop. But if I'd continued at that pace Northallerton would have taken til midnight which seemed like a bad plan, especially given that my lights are perfectly competent for round town but probably not best suited for riding throught the Dales in the dark.
This was the point that I most regretted my flat phone battery. I called home to warn them I'd be proper late, posted a couple of lines on here and then got a call from my mum having a bit of a moan about my dad, who had just been taken (very reluctantly) in to a home for a week for respite care and that was the end of the battery. A bit of power would have given me two options; either footling about on the interwebs to keep me busy, or setting an alarm and settling down for a proper sleep. Since neither was an option I put on my warm fleece and had an hour's doze on the deliciously sun-warmed and rather comfy bench on the somewhat breezy platform, then rooted around in the rackpack for the emergency pack of sweets that lives in there for the CrinklyCub wobblylegs moments and went and had a gander at the mini exhibition in the waiting room. Then the train arrived, and I wrestled Valencia into the bike space and discovered once again the wisdom of taking a bungee along to secure her. I love the train journey back to Leeds on the Settle-Carlisle line. The stations along the Dales all look like proper train stations, with their cream and burgundy paintwork and delightfully ornate ironwork. And it was the most beautiful time of day, with the ridiculously flattering light of the golden hour showing every hill, valley, stone wall and building and ovine inhabitant off in idyllic picture postcard technicolour.
Arriving in Leeds, I realised that although I only had just under 20 minutes before the first train home I was in fairly urgent need of something substantial to eat so I wandered out to the station concourse in search of calories. "Nice bike," the chap on the gate commented as he waved me through without a glance at my ticket. The only place open was burger king, so beanburger for tea it would be. I managed to stash my food in the amazing expandable topeak rackpack, and got back to the platform for the York train with a couple of minutes to spare. The train arrived, heaving with Saturday night revellers and returning holiday-makers with ridiculous amounts of luggage. But, fortunately, they nearly all got off and there was only a half dozen or so suitcases to shuffle so that I could fit Valencia in to the bike space, and loads of empty seats. 20 minutes (just long enough to scarf down my rubbish but welcome tea) later and we were in York, and it's less than 2 miles home. A very long day, and faintly ridiculous to spend nearly 6 hours on a total of 5 trains for the sake of less than 40 miles riding, but Gods! it was glorious.
