VENETIAN NIGHTS 210 – Not just a ride but an occasion. 12.10.2013
This was the fourth running of this event from John Perrin's group of audaxes based in Broken Cross, near Macclesfield. I'd just got the bike round to the front of the house when I saw Bob Bialek dropping down the road, his light cutting through the pre-dawn mirk of what looked like being an overcast day. After a quick, whispering breakfast, I drove us down from Rochdale to Macclesfield. At John's house, his son-in-law, Toastmeister Roy, was cheerfully serving up toast and croissants while John's wife Elaine and their daughter Claire were taking care of hot drinks. At thirty riders, we had the biggest turnout so far, though another ten or so had thought better of it.
Unusually, I managed to set off on time and spent the first few hundred metres chatting to Jim Gresty, before he pulled away into the distance. I was pretty soon at the back but I never bother about this because I usually stop to take a few pictures anyway. It wasn't going to be the best light for photographs but the low sun over my left shoulder cast a lovely glow over the turning trees. The Cheshire lanes were strewn with beech-mast and conkers as we crunched our way west to the first control at Bunbury. The bucolic scenes were balm for grit-sore eyes and nourishment for the urban soul.
I stopped for my first picture at Jodrell Bank, where the radio telescope was scanning the heavens for traces of the fast riders like Ade Hughes. I took another just south of Winsford, when I noticed for the first time that there is a pub named after me.
We had a pretty good wind behind us and in no time at all (about two and a bit hours) I pulled up outside the Co-op in Bunbury. A Co-op in Bunbury has to be pretty much a contradiction in terms and this is emphasised by its position opposite what looks to be a genuine black and white Tudor house. This juxtaposition was underlined when I stood queuing for my receipt, as a couple of women discussed exactly the right age to be sending their children to boarding school. I wonder if they felt the need of a bath after stooping to shop with the proletariat. I know I did (and was about to get one!)
The church in Bunbury is a magnificent affair, built of the Cheshire red sandstone and colossal for the size of the village. I found out later, from James, another rider, that it was built to serve several villages.
From Bunbury we turned east into the wind, which wasn't as bad as I'd feared. I was still making pretty good time as I followed the excellent routesheet. John has extensive local knowledge as, I suppose, do all organisers, and he uses it to great effect, using all sorts of traffic-free ruses to keep us out of too much urban riding. On this leg, we wove our way south of Sandbach, from Church Minshull to Wheelock. We rode along Forgemill Lane, Crabmill Lane and others poetically redolent of a rural history that was probably less poetic than the scenery that remains. After Wheelock a typical Perrin manoeuvre took us onto a bridleway across the middle of a golf-course before we rejoined lanes to Astbury, just below Congleton. There is an excellent church here, too, again early English. It has a fine curtain of yew trees at the front.
Not long after Astbury, I caught my first view of a Peak District outlier, appropriately named The Cloud, which thrusts itself up with no preamble of foot-hill. Soon I was crossing the Stoke road and beginning the serious climbing over Biddulph Common to the Leek road. I think it was along this stretch that I passed Michael, Dale and Yvonne of Macclesfield Wheelers “caping up”, though I decided to defy the increasingly persistent drizzle for a little longer. I was making for Gun Hill, which is mentioned with some reverence by locals. It probably justifies its reputation when tackled from the south (that's the side they use in the Tour of Britain), but the earlier climbs towards Merebrook and Tittesworth Reservoir are not inconsiderable. They were leavened at Heaton wedding venue by the hay bale effigies of a happy couple. The descents required a lot of concentration, too, especially on lanes made greasy with fallen leaves and obscured by overhanging trees.
Having done the ride three times, I was well aware of the pull up to the Van of DelightsTM near The Roaches Tea Rooms. Perhaps the initial tail-wind had enabled me to save energy because I didn't find it as tough as I was expecting and I managed to look nonchalant as John took a photo. However, the weather had set in bad and proper by now, so the rain-top, such as it was, went back on. Roy had accompanied John and did a great job in dishing out drinks and delicacies. I stopped longer than I meant to because the atmosphere was so convivial, with riders arriving and departing and smiling grimly through the rapidly deteriorating conditions. We must have made a perverse sight, huddling with our hot drinks in the drizzle, with Hen Cloud just visible through the hedge behind us, all cloud and no hen. It was a shame that the weather had closed in, because there is nowhere quite like The Roaches; huge slabs of millstone grit, thrusting up like so many broken teeth and affording great sport for climbers. And it is so condensed, the whole ridge being only about two kilometres long.
Delights! Hen Cloud(sorry wrong picture!)
Toastmeister Roy Yvonne
Ade hughes "We've got to eat all that?!"
I don't know if it was the shelter of The Roaches, or what, but I “shot up” the climb to the turn around the north-side of the ridge and then admired the cloudy view of the farmland below as I coasted down southwards. I was being a little circumspect as I could feel that the rain wasn't helping my braking very much. Reaching the main road crossing by The Winking Man, I was passed by Tail End Charlie, who soon powered away into the distance across what the routesheet precisely describes as the rollers over the area called Morridge. Soon, I turned right down a narrow, twisty and debris-strewn lane to a crossing of the infant River Manifold. This is an almost “Scottish” section of little habitation and occasional copses before we arrive at Brund, another crossing of the Manifold, which is much stronger by then. The bridge here is a work of art, with dressed stone covered in lichen and moss. It's hard to imagine that so much effort and care would go into a present-day structure in such a remote spot.
By now, I was wet from head to toe but still enjoying the riding through the familiar countryside in anticipation of delights to come. That said, I was definitely beginning to feel the need of some warmth, being slightly under-dressed, having correctly interpreted the weather forecast, which was incorrect. Hartington, which is very attractive and more like a market town than a village, was subdued, not surprisingly in view of the weather. However, I decided not to stop at a cafe but to push on to Matlock and try Sainsbury's. This may have been a mistake.
The climb out of Hartington, up Hand Dale, is quite stiff but has much of interest. There is a fine taster of the trail to come with a view high on the right of a signal-box on the Tissington Trail, which the route passes under a little further on. Just beyond, on the right of the road is an excellent lime-kiln, which I stopped to photograph.
A short but welcome section of fast main road takes you to a left turn towards Winster and a gradual climb over Elton Common to Brightgate. This lane is littered with the shells of old stone barns and dwellings, indicating changes in farming practices over the years. There then followed a very steep descent to Matlock, on which I was reminded about the less than perfect state of my brakes. The routesheet mentioned the turn off the hill to Sainsbury's but I was at the bottom and in Matlock before I remembered. As I'd feared, I began to shiver the second I stopped moving. After sorting out my proof-of-passage at an ATM, I walked to the nearest cafe, all of thirty yards away and locked my bike up. The price list looked a little intimidating and designed to keep out people such as myself but the welcome couldn't have been friendlier, even though I was obviously a big drip and it was near to closing time. I had an excellent cream of broccoli soup, with French bread and a good-sized cafetiere of coffee, all piping hot.
After half an hour or so, mostly spent with my hands around the coffee cup, I ventured outside again – and was instantly trembling. This is what happens when you are wet through. This is the fourth time I've done this ride but the first time I was actually looking forward to the usually-dreaded climb out of Cromford in the expectation that it would warm me up. I was not too concerned about the fact that my routesheet had developed its own black cloud while I'd been in the cafe. I always carry a spare but I'd already given it to another rider. However, I could certainly make it to the next control from memory and if I couldn't join up with someone better-equipped, I know the area well enough to find a way back without too much extra mileage.
First there was the roll through the spa town of Matlock Bath, which always seems so continental to me, wedged between the Heights of Abraham and the River Derwent. There is always a carnival atmosphere when I ride through and the shops are brightly painted, almost Dickensian in style. The town is home to the festival of candle-lit boats that gives our ride its name but even I was too early in the day to coincide with it. The only boats I saw were the inflatables a group of wet-suited intrepids had just hauled out of the river. They seemed very joyful with their glistening faces and red noses but I'm guessing they hadn't been in the water for quite as long as we riders.
And so to the climb. It's taken me some time to work out that big climbs can seem like little ones, after you've had a rest. The severity of a climb owes as much to its position along the ride as to its gradient. I'm not saying it was easy, I could rest for a week and Cromford Hill still wouldn't be easy, but after my sojourn in the cafe I got up it on the middle ring and welcomed the warmth back to my body. Fortunately, I remembered that the climbing isn't over at the top of this hill and the right turn delivers another horizon to be conquered. Just after the turn there is a curious sight on the left of the road; a tumble-down stone building with a bright red plastic tube passing from an upstairs window to the ground. I first saw it a couple of years ago and had a poke around it while a riding companion lay on the ground checking his pulse. It is what is called an “installation” and therefore somehow enhances our artistic experience of the environment. I was astonished and not a little depressed to find it unvandalised by now. I can only think Cromford Hill has saved it from destruction. Even the last few yards up to the High Peak Trail are pointedly steep, as if to say, “You want 20 kilometres of flat riding? First you pay.”
I love riding old railway lines, sharing my journey with ghosts of locomotives and workers. This particular traverse was especially atmospheric in the fading light and the constant rain that was pretty much low cloud. I actually whooped as I turned onto the gravelly surface. I was enjoying riding my new 30-year-old Harry Hall bike, with its forgiving steel frame and long rake fork. I was almost warm enough and now had nothing to concentrate on except staying upright as the trail wound its way through gorges and over roads, passing old and current quarry workings and other industrial sites. If that all sounds a bit grim, it's far from it; I love industrial archaeology but it only provides the occasional punctuation marks in what is essentially a peaceful rural odyssey.
I seem to remember three main sections to the trail. The first includes the Hopton Incline, down which runaway trucks occasionally thundered; naturally, we rode up it. At the end of this there is the Longliffe picnic area, which has railway buildings and walls and seats studded with industrial artwork of a wholly appropriate kind. Beyond this the surface changes distinctly and on this occasion was very black and grabbed at my tyres. I decided the most efficient way to cope with this was to head straight through the middle of the puddles and this seemed to work. With the exception of one or two dog-walkers, mysteriously dressed in black, I didn't see anyone on the whole length of the trail. Having done this ride four times, now, I know what to look out for and even in the failing light, the rusty crane at the abandoned quarry near Minninglow appeared like an old friend. I had hoped to see the classic tree-topped burial mound of Minninglow, too, but the weather was against it. After Minninglow car-park, the track changes character again and becomes very much narrower after crossing the Buxton to Matlock road. I wondered how Dave Jackson would cope with it on his trike. The trail also became very bumpy for the last few kilometres, which was different from previous years.
The evening was beginning to close in now, though the magnificent flame-coloured willowherb did its best to light my way. My only slight concern was that I might get the shakes on the way down from the Cat and Fiddle to the finish at Broken Cross. But first, the Van of DelightsTM again! John had the van parked at Parsley Hay and for a few minutes I was the only rider there. I gratefully accepted John's offer of a seat inside the van, where I had hot tea and a sandwich and some of the excellent selection of cakes on offer. I was even more grateful when John offered me his jacket and a spare pair of gloves for the last section. I'd have been ok without as long as I was riding but at the end I would have had the shakes pretty badly, I think; a miscalculation on my part. I was still chatting to John when Tail End Charlie arrived (in shorts!) and availed himself of the seat next to me, before stoking up on culinary excellence. He kindly agreed to ride with me for the last section. I only hope he didn't regret it too much. By the time we decided to leave the warmth of the van, darkness had closed in and I delayed Peter a bit when I realised I had still to attach my best light. However, we were soon barrelling along the last section of trail and I was enjoying both the night-riding and my luck at having picked up a pilot.
Leaving the trail at Sparklow we were back on metalled roads and soon through Earl Sterndale and hauling ourselves up the rises that are the sighters for the main target of Axe Edge. I'd hoped to do this in the light because it is a very mysterious and lonely crossing, with wide views and almost no habitation. I soon began to wish that I'd had a test ride for my light mounts. I'd just attached a “space-bar” to keep stuff off the handlebars and the rubber mount I had the light on kept slipping as we worked our way up the less than perfect surface towards the Cat and Fiddle. On the first occasion,TEC back-tracked as I was tightening the fitting so I explained the problem, confident that I would be able to survive by occasionally levering the lamp back into place. I had to do this with increasing frequency but never lost sight of Charlie's tail-light winking away across the deserted moor.
At the pub, we huddled out of the wind and had a bite from our saddle-bags before hurling ourselves off the ridge and down to the finish. This should have been an exhilerating plunge down the mountain and I hope it was for Charlie! My descent was disappointingly fraught as my technical problems doubled. Whether or not it was the rain, I don't know, but the light kept flipping round on the spacebar and shining directly into my eyes, leaving me with no idea where I was on the road. I couldn't get it to stay still and so was riding down with one hand on the front brake and one on the light. It's a very steep hill and so naturally there were times when I used both brakes by instinct and I soon found out that what I had thought was rain-affected braking front and back was in fact complete failure of the rear brake. I wasn't sure that my arthritic, wet hands were up to doing the adjustments in the dark and was anxious about making things worse, so I limited myself to just getting down in one piece on one brake, rather than finishing in style. TEC was long gone, so I was delighted to see that he'd waited for me at the turn off the main road and we percolated the last couple of kilometres together.
John and Elaine's house is always a true traveller's rest at the end of the Broken Cross Audaxes. With Claire and Roy, they put in an even longer day than the riders, providing coffee and croissants at the start and a three-course meal at the finish. It was a merry band that made light of our slog up hills and through weather. Julian Dyson and Bob Bialek, presumably long-since finished, were cheerfully working their way through the comestibles and gradually the final riders rolled home. Dave Jackson squelched in wringing wet but understandably cheerful at having completed his first “Randonneur Round The Year” on his trike.
Eventually we tore ourselves away and Bob and I drove off. I'd learned a lot: my “new” bike is really comfortable but needs attention to the brakes (I have a lot to learn about adjusting cantilevers); my light mounts weren't up to the conditions – and neither were my “waterproofs”. Then I had the blurred routesheet, having already given away my spare! Fortunately, it's rare for me to have such a combination of irritations but it's no bad thing to have to think about such things.
This ride is almost perfect for me. It has a long flat start, a fair amount of climbing, the wonderful trail and the Van Of DelightsTM, which makes it pretty much a fully-supported 200. The catering before and after is superb, as is the family atmosphere of the whole event. It's an occasion, rather than a ride. Indeed, there is so much to see that you could make a two or three day tour out of the route. I liked the High Peak Trail so much that I brought most of it home with me.
Thanks, as ever, to John and his family and to the extraordinarily patient TEC for his company on the last leg.
(JayP also took some of the pictures)
