Not quite sure where to put this! It's a ride report but an Audax one. It might be a good idea to get some refreshments in before you start!
TAN HILL 200 26th June 2011
This is a big, hilly loop through the northern dales, starting and finishing in Padiham, near Burnley and taking in Slaidburn in beautiful Bowland, Hawes, Tan Hill, the highest inn in England, Castle Bolton, Kettlewell and Gargrave. Obviously, there is as much descending as climbing but it doesn’t feel like that. The ride seems like one of Escher’s impossible staircases. But it is beautiful beyond belief. We were lucky enough to do it on one of the sunniest days of the year. Last time it was on, in 2008, it was pretty grim!
Almost immediately after the start, we tackled the Nick of Pendle and the first climbing chevrons of the day (there are about twenty on the ride). At this point I was still chatting to Bob Johnson (briefly) and Andy Clarkson (at greater length) and I was encouraged to realise that I’d got up on the middle chain-ring. We got into Slaidburn before the café opened but organiser Andy Corless was there in his trademark shades to stamp our cards. Next we were on to one of the great moorland crossings, over Tatham Fell via Cross of Greet. Andy having stopped to adjust his clothing in Slaidburn, I climbed alone, accompanied only by the irritating jangling of my back spokes, which seemed to play “pick-up-sticks” all the way round. As you climb, two of the other north-south crossings are clearly visible to the east: the outcropping Bowland Knotts and the looming Fleet Moss. My satisfaction at not having to do the latter on this ride was soon to be obliterated.
From Cross Of Greet itself (more correctly called Plinth Of Greet, now), there came into view a scene that was breathtaking – all the fabled Three Peaks, Ingleborough, Penyghent and Whernside, at once. I have always loved to climb but moments like that emphasise that it’s as much about the view as the physical satisfaction, which is just as well because satisfaction and despair are very close cousins on a long, hilly ride. I’ll treasure that moment for as long as I can recall it.
After a fine descent I reached High Bentham and was astonished to find myself gawping at an art deco factory on the way in. Art Deco has its place but the Dales isn’t it. But soon it was behind me as I got onto the flattest section of the course, which took us through Ingleton and up Widdale to Hawes in Wensleydale, past the staggering prospect of Ribblehead viaduct and the lesser known but to me perfectly poised Denthead viaduct, both on the Settle-Carlisle railway. This section was a nice respite. I’ve been up this road several times but always with the wind in my face, when it can get a bit tough over Newby Head. The thing about wind is its unerring homing instinct. How does it manage to hit such a narrow target as a cyclist? Easily. Another thing about wind is that when you think it’s a still day, that means it’s behind you. Soon it’ll be in your face.
In Hawes, I stopped to buy drinks at the Spar and Andy Clarkson arrived. I said, “I’ll see you in a bit,” to which he replied, “You said that in Slaidburn,” but I knew he would finish miles ahead of me anyway. More immediately there was the little matter of Buttertubs Pass to occupy me. To reach it you cross the Ure (Wensleydale is unusual in the dales, being named after a cheese rather than the river that flows through it). As I swung left over the bridge, the sun glinting on the water made it seem as if the river, like everything else round there was flowing uphill. I’d been anxious about Buttertubs Pass and it was indeed a struggle for me but I made it and it was well worth the effort. The road falls away into Fossdale in a way that is almost alpine, a feature that is accentuated by the metal rope fencing at the edge. I nearly came unstuck on the way down to Keld. I have a tendency to look at the view instead of the road and this view was exceptional with both lush countryside and a group of athletic woman cyclists pretending to smile as they ascended towards Hawes. On at least one of the sharp, steep bends, I felt my back wheel slide sideways under braking.
At the (temporary) bottom you arrive in Thwaite, which struck me strongly with its greyness. Perhaps it was the contrast with the greenery, the sunny blue sky and the ladies, but it was, well, grey. However, I was now on the last pull up to Tan Hill. This is an ephemeral road. It’s almost as if the contractors had been looking for a place to dispose of a few lorry-loads of tarmac, like the cowboys who knock on your door, offering to do your drive, missus. It’s different, and on a sharp left-hander near the summit, I found that the wind hadn’t forgotten about me. But I got to the fabled highest inn in England (1732 ft.) to be greeted by Bob Bialek, Chris Crookes and Wyn Evans with pints in their hands, Bob Johnson having already been through. I had intended only to have a sandwich and drink and push on but ended up having a cooked meal and a chance to soak up the atmosphere of the place. And it’s some atmosphere: many bikers, including one from my old home town of Stockton-on-Tees; vintage MG drivers on a rally and the very friendly staff. But mostly the sense of isolation, that you really are on the top here. And the countryside has changed from grass and limestone pavement to vast heather moorland sweeping into the distance to the blueness of Mickle and Cross Fells. While I paused, Andy Clarkson came and went, never to be seen again.
So, I’d been climbing all morning and was pretty much half-way. Must have done the hard part? Not a bit of it. The hard part comes when you are tired and I was tired; exhilerated but tired. Leaving Tan Hill, the route makes for Reeth, through Arkengarthdale. I’ve never knowingly been here before unless it was on a Beeline mystery tour when I was a boy. Now it is up with Dentdale as my favourites: Dentdale for romantic scenery and a meandering course and Arkengarthdale for its strangeness, somehow. The crags are strange, possibly because of the “hush” method of mineral extraction and the buildings that go with that, I don’t know. I saw a pair of yellowhammers and some close-growing cinquefoil on the verges, so that raises it in my opinion. The road itself is mostly paved with sheep, so total abandon is not possible. But it is mostly downhill!
From Reeth, at the bottom of the dale, we crossed Swaledale to Grinton and the serious business of Harkerside Moor. By now, the wind, though only moderate, was definitely a factor and by the time I reached the third chevron on this short hill, I was perversely grateful to see Andy Corless waiting with his camera for evidence of weakness. He wouldn’t get it from me, oh no! I smiled inanely and tossed out a greeting. I hope he doesn’t speak German. From the top, another smooth heathery expanse, it’s a wonderful run down to Castle Bolton, where I overshot the sign. I saw it all right, just couldn’t make the turn at warp speed. The castle itself is in good condition and rather like a toddler might draw in design. The café, where Andy was waiting with his control stamp, was actually within the walls and marvellously cool, as was the young lady who served me with a slice of bread pudding and a very generous pot of tea.
I refreshed myself in a chair still smoking from the energetic Andy Clarkson before retracing my route past the 13th or 14th century church of St Oswald and on to Carperby and Aysgarth, where the peat- and coal-coloured Ure crashes over the rocks at the Falls, alongside a nifty little climb up to the A684 through Wensleydale. From there it was a nice drop down to the floor of Bishopdale, which is extensively pastured and contains many of the characteristic dales barns with the stone cross-pieces in the walls. The warm roofs of these are very popular with squabbling oyster-catchers, which are fast becoming the most obvious birds in the dales, with their noisy aerial sparring and display. There were many curlews and green-bronze lapwings, too.
This was a relatively leisurely section of the ride and included a very welcome shower on a day that had seen temperatures up around eighty degrees British.. The leisure came to an end in the climb of Kidstones, about which I had been warned. It has three kicks and the last one is the worst. Taken on its own, it’s not too bad, but after about a hundred miles of not-flat it’s a bit of a tester. Fortunately Andy was there with his camera to help me to the summit again.
There followed a steady progress down Wharfedale, with a chance to observe the magnificent hedgerows which had been a great feature of the lower sections of the whole ride: red campion, spikes of purple fox-gloves well over head-height, the yellow and maroon of bird’s-foot trefoil and mile upon mile of blue geraniums. What a country this is! These scenes persisted past Kettlewell and the climber’s haunt of Kilnsey Crag, with its impressive overhang and on to Cracoe and the approach to Gargrave. It was on this section that I spent ten or fifteen minutes fitting one of my spare tubes to a female cyclist’s Specialised . I rolled smugly into Gargrave, hoping to fill my bottles at the outside tap at the famous Dalesman café on the corner but it had been turned off from inside at that hour, presumably to prevent vandalism. It was concealed by a rather fine dark clematis, however, which I wouldn’t otherwise have noticed.
From Gargrave it was a familiar run home on roads well-used on other classics, like Spring Into The Dales. From Bank Newton the road wound to West Marton and then crossed the Leeds and Liverpool Canal near Thornton-in-Craven, before turning west through Barnoldswick and one last gentle climb around White Moor, before dropping into Barrowford and soon a lovely sweep down the main road to Padiham.
By the time I rolled into the finish car-park, Bob Johnson and Andy clarkson were long gone, as was Wyn Evans. A visit to Tesco for some drinks emphasised how hot the day still was: the heat hit like a hammer when I came back out from rifling the chiller compartments. In twos and threes, everybody finished in time and Bob Bialek, Don Black and I set off back towards Todmorden, where Bob peeled off for Halifax and Don and I trundled on through the gathering dusk towards Manchester. At about eleven pm Don left me at Milnrow to head home to Ashton-under- Lyne, which I guess he would reach at about midnight.
I had done about 170 miles for the day and the company on the last miles home was just right. It had been an epic ride for me, with so much climbing and consequent scenery, the banter in the cafés and good company on the road. This long-distance cycling lark has a lot going for it!
Special thanks to Andy Corless for organising the ride and for shepherding us round from start to finish.
