CHOCOLATE CAFÉ 23.11.2013
This is a ride devised and led by Andrew Br of this place. It starts in Chorlton, south Manchester. and uses mostly surfaced tracks (chiefly NCN 6) to go north to Rawtenstall in the Irwell valley, with a break for lunch at the Chocolate Café in Ramsbottom From Rawtenstall, we would take a south-bound service of the East Lancashire Railway to Bury before riding the last leg home. I was going to join the ride somewhere north of Bury and then leave it after the train ride.
I rode out through Rochdale to Bury, along the main roads, having decided against the lanes, which were icy. I'd half an idea of intercepting Andrew and the Chorlton Massif on the cycle track from Tottington, which is, I think, the old line to Haslingden. As it was, I set off alone and was tickled to find myself on an estate with street names from my own north-east, presumably chosen for their railway connections.
Once on the route proper, I had a lovely percolate along the well surfaced, though leaf-littered track. For a good half-kilometre I could hear the barbaric howls of touchline dads preventing their footballing off-spring from developing their talents naturally. It's pathetic, really. However, it was soon behind me and I was exchanging civilised greetings with dog-walkers and in some cases dogs as I sauntered along the tree tunnels and occasionally over viaducts and a be-seagulled reservoir, gleaming like blue enamel in the winter sun.
I kept stopping to take pictures and checking to see if the group was coming up behind, though for all I knew, they might have been in front, so I just trundled along easily, enjoying the juxtaposition of autumn colour and glimpses of the area's strong industrial past and less certain present.
Soon, I was spewed out onto the main road to coast the last mile or two into Ramsbottom, where I locked my bike up outside the Chocolate Café and went in to await the arrival of Andrew and the others. The Chocolate Café is like a little piece of German fairy story, a sort of gingerbread house made of chocolate. They sell animals made of chocolate, love-hearts made of chocolate, toys made of chocolate and even chocolate made of chocolate. The café itself is up the wooden stairs to Bedfordshire and you are supposed to wait at the top to be shown to a seat. I could see that there were several spaces so I suggested to the gaggle of teenage waitresses that I could go and perch on a corner seat and that the expected peloton could use the spaces next to me. I'm sure I saw panic fleetingly cloud their eyes as they realised there were going to be a lot more of people like me arriving but I was soon seated. I think I caused a little consternation amongst the diners, too, as I occasionally loomed towards them; my only intent was to keep checking the continuing existence of my bike, chained to a lamp-post below. Ramsbottom is notorious for lamp-post theft.
Eventually Andrew and the gang of about fifteen riders arrived and were soon seated and ordering. I had an excellent sweet potato and red-pepper soup, with bread and coffee. Lunch was very convivial and I had a good chat with, I think, Doug and Phil, with whom I had lots in common, in either “career” paths or geography and frequently both. I was influenced by Phil's choice of Rocky Road cake but disappointed to find that it came covered in marshmallows. This is a mistake; everything in its place. The correct recipe for Rocky Road is to be experienced via JayP's Van Of Delights on the Broken Cross Audaxes. But this is a small quibble and I think most people were satisfied with the time spent in the café, though casual droppers-in should be aware that it's more of a restaurant than a café. All in all, it's a magical little place.
Reclaiming our bikes, most of which had been locked to the railings round the town Christmas tree, a huge if temporary improvement on the installation, we rolled out of town in the direction of Rawtenstall, where we were to catch the toy train. But first there was more excellent railway track riding and a bit of climbing twisty lanes. We passed weirs and river bridges and even did a small amount of easy, if precipitous off-roading to cross gulleys debouching in the river below.
After a bit of cautious road-crossing near Haslingden, we arrived at Rawtenstall, which is the northern terminus of the East Lancashire Railway. Horror of horrors, the preservation society has this year opened a bar on the platform, serving real beer. Before I went in, I popped down to the other end of the (very long) platform to take pictures of the atmospheric scene where a standard tank was taking on water amid clouds of steam. I wonder if the length of platform is related to the goods nature of the line, serving the local mills, because it is hard to see why it would be necessary for passenger traffic in a town the size of Rawtenstall. Whatever the reason, by the time I was back at the business end, I had missed an opportunity: it was Lancashire Day and the railway was offering 2 for 1 travel to people sporting red roses. I was wearing three but as everyone had bought their tickets I had no-one to pair up with. This necessitated me drowning my sorrows in the snug little bar, which was no hardship at all.
The train was running late for some unspecified reason, so sorrows got even more attention and we also experienced the little waiting room which has a coal fire and railwayana. There was railway art on the walls, including a facsimile of the original publicity poster for a BSA Gold Flash 650cc motorbike, on one of which I toured Europe in some century or other.
When the train eventually arrived, hauled by a Newton-le-Willows-made Class 50 diesel Valiant, we piled the bikes into the guard's van (remember?) and I found myself in a six-seat 1st class compartment with Andrew and four other riders. I've never travelled first class before, so I imagine it was mild hysteria that fuelled my loquaciousness on the return journey. I got the opportunity to slaughter my limited German with one of the riders, who was aus Berlin, but this was a mercifully short exchange (es war ein kurz Austauch).
At the end of our ride in Bury, we wrangled the bikes onto the platform, which was joyfully got up in its Christmas decoration, as was the whole station; nobody does Christmas quite like a steam railway. I said my goodbyes and shouldered my bike, cyclo-cross style, before carrying it up the steps and over onto the other side of the tracks to get to the exit. I was ruefully rubbing my shoulder when I caught sight of a colourful serpent of illuminated bikes and riders being led across the tracks like a bunch of Manc softies.
I had a coffee in the Trackside, which is an extremely evocative real ale bar on the other platform. As I watched the football results come in, chief of these being Newcastle 2 Norwich 1 and Rochdale 3 Exeter 1, I realised that on Lancashire day, out of the fifteen or so Lancashire clubs in what passes for action, only two had lost.
During a leisurely ride home along Bury Old Road, I reflected on what had been a great day out. I'd probably only ridden thirty miles or so but the ingredients were perfect: soup and steam, bikes and beer, cake and company. Thanks, Andrew and all of you. Christmas came early!
