Tintabs and Bats

[clarion]

Not so much a ride report as a camping one

You never know where and when the best times will strike, but you know when it happens, and you want to stay in that moment forever.

How could you follow York, and the beautiful dreamlike night ride with Crinklycub reaching out and feeling the tips of the grass swishing against his hand in the dark?

Well, it couldn’t be beaten, but good times keep coming if you’re open to them.

Mid week, we still didn’t know what was happening for last weekend.  We’d hoped that TGL was going to be travelling to a youth camp and we would be free to pick from a cornucopia of events happening.

But when it became clear that TGL’s lift wasn’t going to happen, we got ourselves organised.  Trains to Oswestry after work on a Friday were too tricky, so we hired a van.

Oh heck, I wasn’t looking forward to that

And the Parents Meet was a Greenfield site with no toilet block.  That’s not looking good either.

But Friday morning early, we loaded up the bikes with touring gear.  I had TGL’s tent and a toilet tent on board.  Butterfly was carrying our tent and some toilet things.  

Have I mentioned how much I don’t like camping toilets?  I can take pretty much the scuzziest campsite bogs, or crapping in the woods & burying it, but there’s something about chemical toilets etc which really put me off.  

But it was to be more straightforward than that, though the campsite was a long way off yet.

I’d left my panniers at Butterfly’s work, so I rode unencumbered to get the van, and drove terrified by London traffic back up the hill to wait for her.

TGL got a train after school with his rucksack, and met with us.

Then, we were off!  Sort of.  It was a slow slog through London, and a looooong motorway to the Midlands.  Despite stopping at a services, Butterfly drove all the way.

It was a simple route as far as Oswestry, but the Showground wasn’t obvious in the dark.  We found it eventually, and the lad was settled in with his peers.

But we were far from our beds, and still in a hire van.

Having spotted a different set of tiny signs three miles up the road, however, and with the clutch warm and smelling slightly, we drove up the rocky track into the grassy field.

Oh heck.  A broad field of longish grass stretched across a hillside.  How were we ever to find a suitable pitch?  This wasn’t looking great, but the Steward offered a cup of tea, which was nice.  I kind of expected him to bring it across while we were pitching, but I suppose that the speed of our pitching took him by surprise.

No matter, we had the tent up really qu…BANG!

Oh sod it, what was that?  A pole breaking, as it happens.  No tape on board, unusually, so I reorientated the join to move the stress, and it did hold after that.

Set up, we traipsed across to the Stewards’ caravan, and the sun began to shine.  Not literally, as it was after 11pm.  Far too late to still be up at a C&CC camp, but we were welcome in the caravan for a cup of tea, a loan of some gaff tape (which we didn’t use) and a chat about bikes and touring.

Our hosts, Dave and IIRC Barbara, were from Leek, and were experienced cycle tourists, with many fun stories of their trips, particularly their tour of Ireland with the Tandem Club.

A full hour later, we were still at the caravan, admiring Dave’s Super Galaxy, but shattered and ready for bed.  Time to stagger across the field, comparing headtorch beams, then head for an inspection of the hedge (well, it was dark, we were away from the other units, and what the hell.

How cold we got!  I wish I had been wearing a t-shirt as my shoulders felt the sharp chill in the middle of the night.  I pulled the baffle closer around me and went back to sleep.

How hot we got!  By morning, the sun was directly on the tent, roasting us, and bathing us in sweat.

Reminded of Sunday morning in York, I stirred and got out of the sleeping bag, but dozed on while Butterfly sat up to read.

But it just got hotter, so we stirred ourselves and got moving.  Toilet and breakfast were calling.

Cont...

[clarion]

OK.  A weekend together, no kids.  In an area we don't really know.

But we like Shropshire, so we could have a bit of an explore.

Besides, we were both a bit desperate for the toilet.  Onsite facilities notwithstanding (it's nice to make the point that it can be done by cyclotourists) it's better to have somewhere you can sit down.

Down down down into Ellesmere.  I easily hit 60kph before easing it back.  Nice straight, smooth road almost all the way.  But green on the OS map, so best to look for summat else to get back up.

In Ellesmere, we spotted a tearooms, and some take aways.  A newsagent was useful.  Then a trip round the one way system brought us to a cafe on the corner.

Butterfly's first question:
'Do you have a toilet?'

Well, they did (which was being redecoreated, and had a small scrap of wallpaper decorated with frankly quite scary clowns), and also mashed a fine brew, and provided a choice of vegetarian breakfasts, as well as a sardonic line in conversation. 

It was speech day and the end of year Ball at the local public school, and the showy-off cars were there in force, which didn't impress the cafe owner at all. 

We heard about the Regatta the next day, which we hoped to come back for.  Then got on our way, via the local deli and the hardware store (we didn't buy anything).  Down to the Mere next, which is a very pretty little lake with a picturesque pleasure boat on it.  Unfortunately, it isn't possible to ride all round the Mere, but we had a look at the visitor centre.

I was getting antsy by now.  What with a leisurely start, big breakfast, two pots of tea, and shopping in the town, we hadn't got far, and, having looked at the map, I was eager to get some riding in.

So were a lot of others.  As we were outside the Visitor Centre, three guys went past, crouched on their tri-bars, yet not riding especially fast.

We saw a woman with a similarly equipped bike and a Hewitt jersey emerge from the visitor centre, and assumed she must have been with them.

No crouching tuck and high speed lane-pounding for us, though.  The sun was up, warm on our backs, and we wanted to enjoy this day.

Cont...

[clarion]

We had been told there is a Marina at Ellesmere, so we doubled back to the town and out to what was quite a disappointing basin.  Lots of signs telling us how private it all was.

Unwelcome, we headed onwards. Past the school, where all the posh cars were going, then the lanes were quiet except for the sound of tyres on the road, and birdsong.  We were pretty much on our own.  Next target was a place labelled 'Outcast'. 

But I screeched to a halt before that.  On the left, on a piece of land cutting into a field, was a tin tabernacle.  A cute little Methodist chapel, with half-timbering and leaded lights trying to make an Arts & Crafts building out of a metal shed.

I love chapels (odd, I know).  I find them fascinating.   But the chapels I used to know in Yorkshire were those big limestone constructions - many of them disused and converted.  I'd love to live in a converted chapel.  Just one of those things.  A friend lived in a wooden one in Helmsley, but corrugated iron?

The first tin tab I ever saw was when I was out for one of the long walks I did as an adolescent.  As a consequence, I couldn't really say where it was, but I'd say somewhere North of Derby.

What an odd building type, but such a great physical expression of the explosion of nonconformism in the 19th Century and onwards.

I did take some photos of this church, with the field of poppies behind, but sadly I can't share them with you.

Looking around, it was hard to see why the chapel was there.  Although there were houses scattered about, there really didn't seem to ever have been the congregation to support even a tiny chapel like this one.  Curious history.

And curious history, too, when we got to Outcast.  A lonely ish farmhouse, but not more isolated than any other in the area.  I wonder what the tale of that name might be.

A brief pause to contemplate the idyllic landscape to be seem, decide on the next bit of the ride, then on, turning the wheels again...

Cont...

Tin Tabs

[clarion]

The thing about riding with no particular end in mind is that you just get to meander.  Not haring off to scale mountains, or steaming off across the flat into the distance.  OK, so it might be a slow progress, but what does that matter really?

It's difficult if you're not riding on your own to take off at a whim to look at something, or explore a back road.  But Butterfly has the same sort of curiosity as me, and we can generally decide where to go without too long dithering at a junction, scouring the map.

I do love that time in the evenings before heading out for a ride, looking at all the options, checking there aren't too many busy A roads or contour lines, and planning the route with care.  But this ride was different.  The sun was shining, the scent of chamomile in the verges was rising, the leaves were green, the wheat was golden, and the cows were bouncing across the fields.

Yes, cows bouncing.  Gambolling, if you like, but Shropshire's cows do seem more playful than the normal, lumbering, beasts we know.  Perhaps it was something about the day that gave them, too, a lightness of heart.

Whatever it was, the lanes were all enticing, and I wished I had at least a week to explore the area.  Never mind.  Perhaps we could come back another day/week/month to see more.

Meanwhile, the only fixed points for the day were breakfast (with toilets), lunch (ideally with toilets), tea (and toilets), visit the Youth Rally site, and dinner (with toilets).

So we were free.  Pretty free, anyway.

Butterfly and I both have a puerile attraction to silly place names.  Perhaps it is because she comes from Kent, home of the infamous Ham Sandwich sign.

We often extend our routes unnecessarily to take in silly and curiously-named places.  This had already dragged us past Outcast, and the next aim was Grimpo.  But we had spotted a good place for lunch, and we wanted to get to that.

The road led down the side of the canal.  Waterways are a very important part of the landscape round Ellesmere etc, and we crossed and recrossed canals and their replacements, railways and former railways.  Soon, we came to Queens Head, a small hamlet dominated by the Queens Head pub.  We turned into the car park, prominently labelled 'Queens Head Customers Only', and ignored the signs completely.

We had no intention of going to the pub, and what they failed to mark was that there was a car park beyond that, and a small area of grass beside the cut equipped with picnic tables.

OK, so it was squeezed between the A5 running over an embankment and the old road bridging the canal, but it was a pleasant spot, and we set out our purchases from the deli in Ellesmere that morning.  Big, flat granary baps, which we hadn't had much hope for, two local cheeses - Newport and, er, I can't remember the other, but it was nice.  And a small (touring-sized?) jar of locally-made chutney.  It made for great butties, with the bread actually nice and soft, and the cheese creamy enough to make up for the lack of butter.

Next were Chelsea buns, and I have to say that Chelsea has a lot to learn.  These were absolutely stuffed with dried fruit, and had a wonderful consistency, with a slight crunch to the sugar glazing a contrast to the light softness of the bun itself.  Top marks.

More prosaically, we were drinking water from our bottles.  We were tempted to get a pot of tea from the pub, but couldn't be arsed.  Besides, why go to the canalside pub which has no view of the canal?

While we were eating, a family turned up, carrying paddles and lifejackets.  They hauled a big canoe out from under a large bush, and, after a bit of an argument between the two small girls about who was to sit in the front, they were off along the canal.  Looks like a regular family outing, and looks like it could be a lot of fun, too.  I hope they had a great day, and that the girl who didn't get to be in the front got over her sulk.

Time ticks by, and I wanted to get riding again.

Cont...

[Peter]

Keep it coming, Clarion!  Have you seen the tin tab above Hollingworth Lake, near Littleborough?  (I''ll check if it's still there!)

[clarion]

No, I haven't seen that one, surprisingly.  I used to live quite near.

I need to refer to a map for the next bit of report, I think, so it'll probably be tonight.

[clarion]

Refreshed after lunch, we seemed to pick up the pace a bit.  At West Felton, we took a bridge over the A5 - the third transport link we were to cross and recross.

At Woolston, we turned, and saw what looked like a fast sweep down the hill.  Actually, it was a bit of a damp squib of a descent, but there was a grand bridge over the canal again at Maesbury Marsh.  It's a steep humpbacked bridge, narrowing to a single lane at the crest.  I bet it's seen its fair share of incidents

Moving on again, I saw a building with a bell tower.  Well, more of a gable, actually, and that was puzzling me, because, while there was a chapel coming up, that was the wrong place.  I guess it must be a former school.  Just a little further on, however, there was - another tin tabernacle!

The odd thing about this one was that it wasn't a noncomformist chapel, but an Anglican church.  It's a bit odd to think that, at the time of the Oxford Movement, with their penchant for grand architectural statements, here in the west midlands someone was putting together a corrugated iron building to worship in.  It's very pretty, mind, and we looked at it a while before moving on.

At Maesbury, we joined Route 31, which wound its way through more lovely lanes, and past a couple more big estates (enormous gateposts seem to be a feature of the area).  Then a death-defying dash across the A5 again before a turn down a road marked as Access Only, but which did take us into Oswestry, via a new estate where the route became again as unsigned as it had been when we met it near Ellesmere.

A bit of headscratching and a lucky guess (or a skilled reading of the subtle clues, depending on your interpretation ) got us right, and soon we were on our way to the first of Oswestry's two good bike shops, which are remarkably close together.

We didn't buy anything in either, but the staff in both were friendly.

It was time for tea next, of course, so we asked the bikeshop staff where was a good cafe.  Unfortunately, this was the more MTBish of the two, so they were a bit unsure, but soon we were wheeling our bikes up a narrow ginnel past a repurposed church, resisting the delights of a gym staffed by muscular gentlemen, in favour of strawberry milkshake.

Tea and milkshake consumed, chat with carer trying to take three autistic teenagers on an outing to the town had, and a visit to the loo completed (I was still conscious I didn't want to be using our facilities any more than necessary), we set off again.  Nothing more in Oswestry caught our eye particularly, and we were on the road to Gobowen before you knew it.

[clarion]

Gobowen?  Eh?  Much though it is a very fine silly name, it wasn't our plan to do that, so we had to stop and retrace our steps, but not before Butterfly had inspected some facilities next to the disused railway.

Next: Up.

I have a theory about market towns over here.  You don't really want to go to the West.

Malvern, Much Wenlock, Craven Arms etc: They all go up to the West.  And we were now heading to the Western side of Oswestry, where Shropshire as I know it better asserts itself. 

It was only a short and slightly surreal grimp through a post-war council estate to get to the top.  We looked down to see a cricket match in progress.  Well, as much as they ever progress.  Looked like a new batsman was on his way out to the crease.

I went off-road a bit to see if I could get up to the impressive earthwork that is Old Oswestry Fort, but it wasn't going to be easy to get there on the bike.  We should, of course, have parked and walked up the last bit, but we didn't, so there.

As we looked down to the cricket pitch, we couldn't see the road, but I deduced it was somewhere just in front of, and below us, so we got back on it and went up & down to get to another bridge over the A5. The road does tend to carve up the countryside a bit round there, but, once we'd followed down to a roundabout junction with it, then turned away, we'd left it behind.

The next section was odd, because it seemed we were riding through the grounds of a hospital, but it was still a public road.  We turned towards the back of the Showground, and followed the quiet lanes in.  There was a building determined not to let you know what its purpose or ownership might be (we concluded, naturally, that it belonged to the CIA).

We swept past a field full of Honda Goldwings and their tents (not very lightweight, I'd have to say), and onto the Youth Rally field.

Teenagers were millin about everywhere.  There was volleyball, football, water fights and lots of other stuff going on, along with an awful lot of hanging around (yes, camping teenagers are just like other teenagers ).

We had come to the purpose of our ride: the delivery. 

When we'd grabbed his stuff out the van and pitched his tent quickly in the dark, he'd not picked up an important box.  This contained two pies and three packets of crisps - almost one breakfast's worth, in other words.

Given that the catering prices were a bit steep, this was gratefully received.  I say that, but I didn't actually see TGL when we called in, just left his stuff in his tent and left.  He did, at least, thank me later, but I guess no one wants to be seen with their aged parents when their friends are around.

Now for the homeward leg, and something about bats, at last...

[Canardly]

Grand stuff. Love Shropshire.

[clarion]

The rain outside is falling hard, and the skies are grey.  It's hard to believe this perfect blue-skied sunny day is just gone by, and only just beyond reach.

But it's real, and it lives in our memories as all our great rides do, bringing us warmth on cold days and a smile when we are low.

Not far back to the campsite from the Showground.  Rather than ride the obvious way, up the hill of the A495, we decided to backtrack slightly, cross the (active) railway,  then joined Route 31 again to Hindford.

The pub there is called the Jack Mytton.  You may or may not be aware of him - perhaps by association with the Jack Mytton Way, a footpath through Shropshire (which I assume passes by these parts).  Jack lived at Halston Hall, just a short way from Hindford, on what is now the A495.  If you think of colourful characters, then 'Mad' Jack was a psychedelic rainbow.  A Regency rake in high style, with eccentricities to spare and a profligate way with money.  The sort of person who is fun to read about, but must have been a complete pain in the arse to be around. 

He died in poverty a short way from where I am sitting now, in the Southwark debtors prison, now IIRC the Harper Road courts where the poloengers meet.

From the Jack Mytton, it's a sharp pull up another hump-backed bridge.  This is the canal again, which we left south of Oswestry, and the opposite branch from where the Marina is where this ride began to coalesce.

Shortly after Hindford, I got confused.  I was following the cycle route, but it was different on the road from how it was on the map.  I preferred the map's option, so we backtracked for a fifth time.  It doesn't matter, really.  A second chance to see the sights of Shropshire is generally a good thing.

Following over the dismantled railway, and through Lower Ridge, and up a couple of steep but quiet climbs (I got congratulated by a car full of women waiting at the top of one ), which took us back to the site.

Up the steep and gravelly entrance, over the long grass, and back to the tent with Butterfly.

We mashed a brew and lay in the sunshine, enjoying the beautiful day.

I lay back in the long grass and snoozed.  One of those beautiful summer afternoon naps which in the depths of winter you barely believe possible, and I woke in time to set off for dinner.

We decided to head downhill into Whittington for dinner, partle because we knew there were two pubs there, but also because we'd come through it on our way in the van (ach! I hadn't wanted to think about vans - it had been such a day of seeing cyclists of all kinds pootling or racing around), and I'd spotted a castle, which I wanted to have a better look at.

We zoomed straight down the hill to The Old Boote Inn, which provided some overexpensive mushroom stroganoff, which was Ok, I suppose.  Then we had a kind of half-hearted wander round what remains of the castle.  It's a bit odd, really, as the moat seems to cut through the castle itself.  I didn't get to work it out, and thought we might return in the morning.

Off back up the hill, and, for the second time that day, we decided not to go straight up the busy hill.

We turned off opposite the entrance to Halston Hall, where, legend has it, Jack Mytton once dressed up as a highwayman to ambush his departing dinner guests.

Back to the Jack Mytton pub (glad we hadn't eaten there - the Steward of the meet said the publican was a bit unpleasant).

Over the canal and the dismantled railway, stripped out and overgrown, but fit for turning into something like the Worth Way, if it can't be a railway again.  And back up to the site, up the gravelly entrance, with the rear wheel kicking out unpredictable.

I rode straight back to the tent with But..Bu...

Where's Butterfly?

Ah - she'd ridden across the field to speak to some other campers (and round up the mileage).  I rode over, not least because I was on 10.84km for the evening trip, and we chatted.

The sun was setting like an apricot into a pink blancmange.  I trundled up to the crest of the hill to get a better view.  It was magnificent, with rich, deep colours, which seemed to fill me up and I felt a wave of contented warmth.  End of a beautiful day.

Well, almost the end.  I haven't mentioned the bats.

[scott]

Still hanging about the bats....

[clarion]

Never quite got round to that, did I?

[Butterfly]

No, and if I do, it won't be anywhere near as poetic

[scott]

No bats--just crickets.