Number Seventy News

Bus with folding bike to Tadcaster - Wharfe reasonably full, but not excessively so.  Off along the lane to Bolton Percy - peaceful Autumn countryside, very quiet, few birds along this stretch.  Fine colours in the hedges, particularly birch.  Bolton Percy dank, the beck spread all over the gloomy fields below the village, grey and stagnant.  Leaving the village, a huge flock of birds over towards Colton, too far away to recognise, too small for starlings, I thought, but they might have been. 

From the bridge at Colton Junction a fine view of traffic on the ECML and from Leeds.  A couple of real trains, a 225 and a 125 in full white/grey national express livery, and several of the Cross Country ex Virgin mini trains, even the 5 car version ridiculously short for the distances they cover, taking in commuter traffic for various parts of the journey, as they do.  (I’m not suggesting the 12-coach standard of London commuter lines, but surely replacing the HSTs with reduced sets, even if more frequent, showed little faith in the future railway. Thanks, Branson!)

And so to Colton and through to the Roman road to Copmanthorpe, where I had to mend a puncture, caused by the ever-thoughtful farmers’ habit of flail-mowing hawthorn hedges and spreading thorns across the carriageway.  But successfully mended en-route, and so home. It was good to be out.

Last Sunday it was extremely blustery half way up the Sheffield Hills, and by the time I got to the top along Long Lane out of Loxley it was very very extremely blustery, from the SSW, approximately.  But one could make progress, in bottom gear on the flat, with the wind on the port bow.  The views were good - the valley and hills in autumn colours, the galloping clouds in a variety of shades of grey, with the occasional patch of ragged blue.  After a few miles I decided that at my age and with no competitive events other than sailing past Bell Farm boy racers coming up, a morning out on the bike didn’t have to be about suffering so I dropped down into the valley.  High Bradfield first, where a high wall sheltered me from a sharp squall.  The church here is magnificent, and magnificently sited on the hillside. Very classic North of England. Then down to Lower Bradfield on one of the most dangerous roads for cyclists I’ve been on for a long time - not traffic, road surface.  Pottered up the valley a short way, beautiful woods turning through all the reds, orange and yellows. Spent 15 minutes looking at the world from the bus shelter while another shower passed by, then off alongside the Damflask reservoir, more beautiful tree colours and so back in time for lunch, which felt well deserved.

So, the pedallers 2008 season came to an end a few weeks ago with a very gentle ride first to the Fox and Roman, which does good food judging by the well-filled and swiftly emptied plates of two of our number, but where the choice of drinkable beers was not great. (Better, however, than the Black Bull on Hull Road which has an impressive array of shiny pumps selling nothing one would want to buy, or drink). But off into the dark of the night and through the utter blackness of Knavesmire Wood, faith and the trusty dynamo showing but a short way ahead, and into Bishopthorpe, where I have already forgotten the name of the pub (could it have been the Woodman?) but which did have drinkable beer and a pleasing not too crowded ambiance. (I seem to remember the decor was striking in some way - but not necessarily a positive one).  And so via the Millenium Bridge to the safe haven of the Welly, where we were joined by those for whom even such a modest excursion is too much to contemplate, and where the Sam Smiths went down very nicely and cheaply.  Watch this space for reports of the pedestrian season, starting after the clocks go back. 

By what serendipitous telepathy I know not, but something told me to head to Elvington and Sutton on Derwent via Heslington, rather than cut across to Murton after leaving yet another tedious evening meeting at the office.  A light summer drizzle was falling so I had donned the much abused and down-at-brim Tilly hat as protection.  Now, at 8.45 or so, one would expect the Portland Street Pedallers to have moved on swiftly from their first port of call and be cosily ensconced in the second, so my glance into the beer garden of the Charles XII was intended to be no more than that. However, sheltering from the barely noticeable drizzle, there were the pedallers, getting in another pint. Anything, even the negligible charms of the Charles, to keep them from the damp and the prospect of a further few miles in the balmy and by this time extremely pleasant evening air.  So we huddled there amongst the student masses, who clearly have either no taste or no ability to get off their backsides to find a decent pub, until we agreed to pootle across the Stray to the Wellington, where it was a relief to find a well-kept pint and a bar full of real people.

Cognoscenti amongst my readers will note that this hardly qualifies as an evenings cycling (even taking into account advancing age and infirmity).  Perhaps our highest aim should be to breach the ring road.  Onward !

What a delight a May evening can be ! Especially after staying late at the office for a meeting of the Audit Committee, surely one of life’s non-pleasures, but heigh-ho, we still need the bacon.

So off into the north-westering sun and a serendipitous rendezvous with the rest of the peloton outside Moorlands, where the rhododendrons were not yet out. A short ride between burgeoning hedgerows to the Jacobean, a quite undistinguished building pretending it was once a royal hunting lodge and with only one acceptable ale - Last Drop. The inside of the pub is quite plush, even over-stuffed, but outside in the smokers shelter on the verandah (not because we had any smokers with us but it seemed a shame to miss the birdsong and the 15% waxing moon) there were some relatively comfortable cast iron chairs and benches.  (Inside there had also been some local boors who probably do a lot to curtail trade).

Off to the west on the ride back towards the city the horizon red and smoky - and the air rapidly cooling.  So after navigating the shopping-trolley-booby-trapped underpass at the A19/ring road junction some of us were ready to settle into the fake rustic charms of the Dormouse - only to be encouraged outside by someone who wanted a ciggy.  Real rustic coolth out there, gazing at the ersatz 19th century terrace (c.2002).  

The Portland Street Pedallers set out in search of the original pickled egg once again !  A modest start, taking in the Deramore at Heslington, which I missed, but then I found the intrepid foursome sitting outside the Blacksmiths at Naburn, discouraging the ducks and glimpsing the first bats of the season. The beer was good enough, although I can’t remember what it was.

Then off to the Selby-York cycle path, the traditional stop on Naburn (former) swing bridge where the trellised fisherman had got his catch tangled round his rod, and a leisurely spin back to the homely comforts of the Golden Ball, where a pint of well-kept Deuchars, a comfy chair, and the sound of live blues from the public bar were about all a chap could wish for out on a Thursday night.  If the Golden Ball were the only pub around one would never feel the need to go anywhere else.

Some while ago someone wrote to the Guardian’s “Notes and Queries” to ask why roadies never acknowledged other cyclists.  My (unpublished) reply is below:

Dear Notes and Queries,

The poseurs with their fancy gear do not acknowledge fellow cyclists for one simple reason - embarrassment at being improperly dressed.      The correct wear for cycling in the countryside is a flat tweed cap, a cotton shirt, perhaps with a woven wool tie, a sleeveless pullover, a tweed jacket, matching tweed plus twos, argyll socks, and brogues. Lycra is mere underwear.

A beautiful sunny but not too hot June afternoon - Millenium Bridge, Walmgate Stray, University, Heslington Long Lane, Gypsey Corner, Bridle Paths to Scoreby, tea and lemon meringue pie at the Ballon Tree(and asparagus to take home), Gate Helmsley, Warthill, Stockton on the Forest, Deans Garden Centre for the ill-fated fish (see today’s other post) and home via Stockton Lane.  Flowers and leaves at their most vivid, lots of glossy brown cows, merciful absence of oil seed rape.  Almost all of this on bridleways and quiet lanes - could have increased that but for the fish.

A whole month of inactivity here !

During which I’ve done what seems like a lot of work, but also had a holiday in Delft, a poetry recording in York, a good circular tour to the south and west of the city by bike, and have read Kristin Lavransdatter, and some fascinating history and archaeology.

Delft is a delight - we arrived on a Saturday in July, to find a bustling conventional market, a hopping flea-market and just the end of a stomping jazz/cajun free concert from a barge on a canal. And food ! One does not think of the Netherlands as gastronomically distinguished (compared to its Flemish neighbour, Belgium, say) but by choosing restaurants which advertised dutch / flemish specialities we ate really really well. Of course, if it is so hot that you just have to spend the middle of the day sitting in a plane-tree shaded square drinking iced coffee, beer, and iced tea, and taking 3 hours over lunch, then the world looks incredibly rosy. But it’s such a civilised town - and of course you can hire bikes really cheaply at the station (the shop is open from about 7.00 to 23.00) and potter around the town or head out into the country where there are cycle tracks everywhere and bikes are acknowledged as equal road users with cars.

We went intending to buy some new panniers for our Dutch bikes back home - and were so spoilt for choice we bought 5.

Then, sitting out at the front of the hotel late in the evening, a peaceful canal, whiskey or cointreau in hand. I could get used to leisure.

If you care to go to www.radioryedale.co.uk you will find under “poetry corner”, 1st or 4th August, some pleasant readings, including my own “Barefoot in the Dark” and “Doncaster”.

I think “Kristin Lavransdatter” by Sigrid Undset is as good as “Anna Karenina.”

Did you know that during the Black Death, although the London dead were buried in mass graves, they were not just tipped in from the carts, as we imagine from accounts of the Plague in 1665,but carefully laid out parallel, but up to 5 deep !

That’s enough for now !

Do try the Thompson’s Arms at Flaxton, right by the level crossing. As rural a pub as you could imagine, set amongst the rolling arable landscape at the edge of the Vale of York as it runs up to the Howardian Hills. The beer is excellent, the welcome cheery, and you are unlikely to find it overcrowded.  Approach via Strensall Common, best route is to wheel your bike across the railway from the Strensall / Flaxton Road and use the track through the woods till you hit the Flaxton / Sherrif Hutton Road - Thompson’s is a few hundred yards to your right.
Then, in another direction entirely, take the Roman Road out of Copmanthorpe to the west, follow it as it deserts the straight line for Tadcaster and zigzags along the side of 18th century enclosures, until the Sun at Colton comes in sight.  Much more frequented this (they say the food is good too) with several notable real ales. A winding and undulating route, affording excellent trainspotting possibilities at Colton Junction, will take you to Bolton Percy, where The Crown serves what looked like extaordinarily nourishing gravy, allows sword-dancing in the garden, and the beer is cheap (Sam’s, of course). Follow this with one of the world’s most delightful green lanes to Appleton Roebuck where the pub had been so entirely anonymised externally that one wondered if it were truly still licensed premises.  But yes, and Sam’s again. And then it’s a long pedal back through the late dusk to the bright lights.