A Trip up North by Ron Trill
A long time ago, in l938 to be precise, I had a cheap road atlas and on looking through this I became fascinated with the county of Northumberland. So much so that I began to work out a tour of the area. It seemed that if I took three days to reach the Youth Hostel at Ilkley and another three days to get home again from York, that would leave me with ten days for touring, perhaps as far as the Roman Wall. On that basis I left home in Ringwood the following June at about 7.45 a.m. This is a brief tale of the ride to Ilkley. I was passing through Salisbury soon after 9.00 a.m. and turning left off the London road. I went via Tidworth, Marlborough and Swindon to a pub in Highworth, where I ate my own sandwiches, as one did in those days. Incidentally, this was the only time I have ever passed through Swindon, as every time since on my way north or north-west, I have turned right a mile or two before Swindon on to what used to be a little lane, picking up the Roman road running north-west to Gloucester as far as Stratton St. Margaret, where I regained my route to the north again. I crossed the Thames at Lechlade by the Halfpenny Bridge, a very narrow bridge now controlled by traffic lights. Then I was soon passing a pub with the name "The case is altered" in I think, the village of Broughton Poggs. There must be some story behind a name like that. Quite soon, I was dropping down the hill through Burford, with its stone houses and shops. Crossing the stream at the bottom of the hill, a signpost told me, rather surprisingly, that I was in Oxfordshire. The road from Burford climbs, and climbs and climbs. Steeply at first, then the gradient eases, slightly, and the summit can apparently be seen, about a quarter of a mile ahead. So one carries on, happy knowing that soon one can rest for a short while, only to find that it was not the summit one could see: the gradient merely eased slightly. The process was repeated several times, until after five or six miles I reached the top, nearly 700 feet above sea-level. Then it was a swift descent to Stow-on-the-Wold. I carried on through a nondescript sort of country. The next town of any size was Warwick and as it was now well into the evening and as there was a Youth Hostel there, I called it a day. I had cycled 115 miles; not bad for a first day. For the second night I had my eye on Ashover Hall, one of the very large houses used as a hostel by the Y.H.A. in Derbyshire, but first I had to find my way to it. A few miles north of Coventry the road to the north came to an end, against the Roman Ermine Way. I had to turn left along it for a few miles until I found a right turn to Burton-on-Trent. It was late afternoon by the time I made it to Burton-on-Trent, from where it was just ten miles to Derby and then a few more to Ashover. This hostel was such a large place that, while I had an idea that there were other people there, I did not meet anyone! First next morning, came a pleasant ride across the moor to Chesterfield, the town whose church has a twisted spire. Thereafter I was in the South Yorkshire Industrial Area, with plenty of traffic. At about mid-day, I was passing through Sheffield, or rather to the east side of it, upon a ridge so that I could look down upon the city. I began to count the number of chimney stacks, each one adding its quota of thick black smoke. I gave up after about twenty. Instead of a bright morning in June, the scene seemed to me to be representative of a November afternoon. Many years later, I read J.B. Priestley's "English. Journey", and it seems we viewed the city of Sheffield from the same spot. Nowadays people criticise the Electricity Industry for poisoning the atmosphere with its smoky chimneys, but they are all we have left now, nothing compared with what there used to be. Not only in South Yorkshire, but in the Birmingham area, the Black Country, Lancashire and North-east England, the Clyde valley in Scotland and many smaller areas, for many years. The damage had been done before the blame was heaped on the Electricity Industry. Later that day, I passed through Barnsley and Wakefield and then became involved with the Leeds ring road. There was a lot of traffic here, and little open country. Most of the buildings were of local stone, which was faintly yellow with large black patches which gave the appearance of being smoke-b1ackened. Together with those buildings which were actually smoke-blackened, and a wide road carving through built-up countryside, it all added up to a nightmarish journey. Then suddenly, to the west of Leeds, I found the turning to Ilkley and left all the traffic behind. For several miles I had a quiet road, almost to myself. After spending a night at Ilkley I could tour.
The only way to go from Ilkley was up Wharfedale, and at the far end where the hills and mountains crowded in, to take the bull by the horns and climb over Fleet Moss, at over 1800 feet above sea-level. After the previous days long and at times uncomfortable ride, I found the Wharfe valley just the opposite, peaceful and pleasant. This was my first time in this part of the country, so I could spend time touring. My first stop was Bolton Abbey, some five miles or so from Ilkley. According to the map, there were three Bolton Abbeys, one being the village, the second the name of the nearby railway station, and the third the remains of the abbey Itself. The monks had chosen its site with care, as always, and it was situated in a truly beautiful part of Wharfedale.
A little further on was the Strid, where the Wharfe narrows to a "just too far to jump" width for a few yards. Over the years, many have tried, but not all have made it to the other side. With the river at about a third of its normal width, not only is it much deeper but much faster, so to fall in, is very dangerous. There have been the occasional tragedies.
I continued my jaunt up the river valley, passing through several villages and hamlets, each with a pub. I cannot remember what I did for meals. I think I must have bought a loaf, at least, early in the day, and then found a suitable place for a picnic, at the appropriate time. On this occasion I chose the village of Grassington, which had a delightful pub by the river. However, by the time I had finished my lunch, it had clouded over. There was not much wind, or what there was, was behind me. Neither was it cold, so it became just a pleasant potter up the valley, climbing slowly. As a matter of fact, in the l5 miles from Bolton Abbey, I had climbed only about 300 feet, but that was too soon to change.
About three or four miles from Grassington, I passed Kilnsey Crag, a massive rock beside the road. Soon I forked right to pass through Kettlewell, keeping to the Wharfe valley. Thereafter each village seemed to be more and more remote from civilisation. I pressed on through Langstrothdale chase, where the Wharfe was much smaller than it was at Bolton Abbey and the Strid. A few miles up the dale and I turned right to tackle the big climb over Fleet Moss.
It was a stiffish climb, and just before I reached the top it began to rain, so I had a wet ride down the other side to Hawes, in Wensleydale. Here, I turned right for about four miles down the valley to Askrigg, where there was a Youth Hostel. This turned out to be a two-storey house, and as we were a party of about a dozen to fifteen for the night, we fitted it very well. There were a couple of fairly local cyclists bound for the Buttertubs and beyond the next day, two walkers I had met at the top of Fleet Moss, one university type cyclist and a number more. We had a very memorable evening. The hostel was closed during the war.
The next day I had a choice. I could go north from the hostel over Askrigg Common and then left, or I could go west back to Hawes and then right over the Buttertubs pass. Both routes took me near Muker in Swaledale. I settled on the Buttertubs route, and from Muker continued my northerly, climbing, ride until, in the early afternoon, I arrived at Tan Hill inn, at 1732 feet above sea-level, the highest English pub. It was open, I found, so l had a rather late lunch (picnic) there, but after all these years I really cannot remember much about it.
I descended from Tan Hill via Arkengarthdale, losing abut 700 feet in almost 7 miles. I had now changed direction to east or south-east, but then I turned left in a north-easterly direction to cross Hope Moor, which involved a climb to 1677 feet, not quite as high as Tan Hill. From the top I had, apart from one or two minor humps, a clear run down to Barnard Castle. Somewhere on the way down, I passed a cafe. It must have been on a main road near Barnard Castle as I remember it as being in fairly civilised surroundings, but it was called "Dotheboys Hall", which is the name of the school in Dicken's Nicholas Nickleby. It was certainly a bleak spot. Imagine washing in the early morning at a cold pump in the middle of winter.
I stopped for the night at the hostel at Barnard Castle. I had ridden almost 50 miles since Askrigg, through some of the most beautiful scenery in Yorkshire, if not the country.
I cannot remember much about my stop at Barnard Castle Hostel, but before I left I told myself that the next night I would be sleeping on the Roman Wall. Accordingly, I set off, as soon as I could get away, up the valley of the river Tees, and a lonely valley it was too. The weather was gloomy, as well to fit in with the moor land scenery. Middleton-in-Teesdale was the only cheerful place I passed through the whole morning.
A few miles after Middleton there was a footpath on the left signposted to "High Force", a well-known waterfall, so I walked down to the river to look at it. I was not very impressed. Perhaps there had not been much rain recently. Very near was the Langdon Beck Hotel which dominated the valley at this point, but thereafter there was nothing in the way of buildings until I arrived at Alston in the early afternoon. This is England's highest market town. I forget exactly how high, but it seems to be about 1500 feet, according to the contours. It was about 30 miles from Barnard Castle, mainly uphill, but now I had reached the top and I could look forward to a few miles downhill. Alston seemed a busy place as I passed through, possibly because there were no other similar towns anywhere near it.
I was making for the hostel at Gilsland, right on the Roman Wall and closed very many years ago. I eventually arrived there in the early evening to find one other hosteller beside myself. Gilsland was a very small town just big enough for a railway station, but not a lot else. The hostel warden had been unemployed for nine years, and had spent his spare time on the usual hobby of making violins. He cut the wooden body from the wood of the holly, which according to my fellow hosteller was altogether the wrong sort of wood. However, made them he did, wrong wood or not, and the one or two he had stashed around both looked and sounded like violins.
The following day, a Friday, I would have to turn South at last, but first, in the morning at any rate, a few miles of drifting North. I passed through the small town of Wark and eventually turned at a desolate spot, named as far as I could judge West Woodburn. I made it to the hostel at Acomb that night, three miles North of Hexham on the Roman Wall again. We were a merry group of hostellers that night, for no obvious reason.
After Acomb, I criss-crossed the Pennines for a day or two, until I arrived at York Hostel on the Wednesday night, ready for the 3-day dash for home. First I headed South for a few miles, passing through the strange village of Blanchland. I entered through one archway and left by another directly opposite, having ridden across a completely empty square. All the shops and other buildings were contained in the perimeter walls. Weird!
On the Sunday I rode Westwards, and all the shops being shut, I treated myself to a luxury lunch at a hotel in Appleby, which cost me all of 3/6 (17 1/2p). By Monday night I was back at Askrigg again, so my diary says, but I can remember nothing of this at all. Tuesday was wet, so I cut it a bit short and made for Ingleton. The result was that after 20 miles I was getting close to it, and wondering how I was going to spend the rest of the afternoon when I saw on my left The White Scar Caves, admission 1/3 (6 1/2p). Interesting as it was with its stalactites and its stalagmites, I was outside again in the rain in about 10 minutes. I was luckier in Ingleton, where I found the Ingleton Swimming Club and was welcomed by the attendant, who seemed glad of someone to talk to. There was shelter for the bike, and as many towels as I could possibly use. A well spent afternoon, and the hostel was quite close.
It was a long day on the Wednesday, nearly 70 miles, via Skipton, Harrogate and Knaresborough. Some 40 years later I had time to explore them, and charming places I found them. On this occasion, however, there was not much time.
It took me three days to reach Ilkley at the start of this tour, and it took me a simliar time to arrive home from York, via Doncaster, Nottingham and Leicester. I stayed the Friday night at Badby youth hostel, a charming cottage affair, still open after all these years and I have been back to it more than once, since. On the Saturday I got going fairly well in the morning via Banbury and was passing through Salisbury by the early evening, and arrived home in Ringwood much later in the evening. 110 miles that day and concluding a very pleasant and interesting tour in so unusual a part of the country.
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