Number Seventy News

First ride of the season – due to call first at The Ebor in Bishopthorpe. I cycled out there early in order to eat, our kitchen undergoing renovation, and enjoyed an excellent poached haddock in cream sauce with prawns. The chips were good – veg a little disappointing – overcooked in the English manner. The SAm Smiths bitter was well kept and cheap.  

Over the course of an hour or so I was joined by two pedallers, one of whom had come on the bus and the other by car.  Although the Ship at Acaster Malbis was on the itinerary, we agreed that a retreat to the Wellie was much the best plan. And at £1.35 a pint, who can beat it ?  Cosy as ever.

This time, by bus, with the Portland Street Pedestrians, on the closing tour of the winter season.  First pub was the Black Bull, crowded but only John Smiths cask and a mediocre Bass in the drinkable category. Digitised Juke Box had a vast selection but only gave part of the title and the singer’s name, which led to some oddities.  Better entertainment would have been had at the Arts Centre nearby, where Martin Simpson was appearing.

The Feathers Hotel was much more like it – a wide selection of beers, Caledonian Over the Bar was excellent.  At the next, almost deserted pub, just round the corner, they had Copper Dragon, from Skipton, and then at the last, which seemed a bit like someone’s rather untidy house, some Courage Directors went down very well.

We had our bus back to York to ourselves – it runs to bring revellers back to Pock after a night out, rather than the reverse, but it gave us time to contemplate the summer season of pedal-powered excursions – of which more, no doubt, anon.

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.