I made a book

Mild Excitement by John McClean | Make Your Own Book

So That's it.

So That's it.
We rode down the slipway and dipped our front wheels in the water. The tide was in, so we rode round on top of the wall to get to the beach. I found a stone to match the one I'd picked up in St. Bees, and we got an ice cream each.
Except that wasn't really it. We'd both been using the ride to raise money for building work to our churches. When we arrived, we were surprised to find that Martin's minister was there waiting to greet and congratulate us.
Shortly after, Alex and Tiny arrived with the kids and we had an enthusiastic reunion, lots of splashing in the sea and a bag of chips.
As we were heading back up that hill to the cars we met the guys from Kirkby Stephen Youth Hostel just finishing their ride, looking as exhausted as we felt.
And so we went on to begin our holiday proper, camping on Humblebee Farm with our families, and the next generation began preparing for their own cycling adventure.

lost in the forest (Day 5 part 3)

We'd originally planned to go around Newton House Plantation, but from where we were standing it looked like there was a clear path through the middle. So we took that. It turned out to be a logging track that led us deep inside the wood before stopping. We had the demoralising choice of going right back out the way we came and around the long way, or trying to force our way through the dense forest and felled trees to the other side.

This is the one place where the sat nav on my phone really saved our bacon. Looking at the map I could see where we were, I could see what direction we were looking, and I could see that if we forced our way through the trees to our right, there was a path on the other side. Leaving the bike, I pushed through to get a look, and sure enough, far below was the path, winding along beside a stream. It wasn't an easy descent, with the dead trees cracking beneath our weight, but we made it down with only minor scratches and not a few twigs stuck in our socks.

From there, the ride out was challenging, crossing the stream a few times, balancing along narrow paths with impressive drops to the brook below, turning corners to be faced with unexpected steep climbs or obstacles, but the path turned into a lane, the lane turned into a road and when we got to the end of that road, we were on the main A171 to Robin Hood's Bay.
As we blasted down the hill towards the sea I wished I'd put my phone back on the handlebars after we came out of the woods, but there was no way I was stopping to put it back now. The gradients were insane - 40% at one point according to the signs, and I've no idea what speed we were doing. Well within the speed limit, I'm sure.

Beck Hole (Day 5 part 2)

Ever since I'd heard about them in School I'd always wanted to see a real Roman road. I'd been taught that the Romans just pointed towards where they wanted to go and started building, chopping the tops off mountains and building bridges and embankments across valleys, so that their roads would be the shortest route from source to destination. The idea had really captured my imagination, so I was pleased to see the indication 'roman road' on the map between the bridleway and Beck hole.

And it was straight.

Maybe I could have been disappointed - it was an ordinary narrow tarmac'd road, nothing remarkable about it, except perhaps the masses of bright purple heather lining both sides, but I was really pleased that I'd finally got to ride on a real live roman road.

Enough nostalgia. We picked a track that looked as if it was heading in the right direction and plunged into a wood. It turned out to be a really really good trail with exceptionally steep downhill and interesting twists and turns. I thought it'd soon level out after such a good start, but it just kept going down and down through the woods, challenging, but very rideable. We finally popped out from behind a house right in the middle of the hamlet-that-could-be-a-hornby-model of Beck Hole.

At first it looked as if there was nowhere to eat, but when we crossed the bridge, we discovered the Birch Hall Inn.

After a lunch of sandwiches made with home made bread, eaten in scorching sunshine outside the inn, Martin bought us sweets from the wee shop next door. We looked at the map and decided to try taking the path to Goathland and heading up out the road.

As with every other road ot of Beck Hole and Goathland, this one started with a 25% gradient, and climbed 200m within 2km. On this trip I discovered that Martin likes to use mantras and repetition to get through difficulties. On this climb it was "This is the Last Hill" Actually, he used that mantra on the previous uphill - and the next one too.

It was hard work, but we were buoyed by the fact that we were pretty sure we'd be able to see the sea when we got to the top.

Back on the moors (Day 5 part 1)

Friday Morning, The Last Day. We were looking forward to the prospect of more time on the moors. If it was anything like Thursday evening this would be a great way to finish. The quickest way back up was along the road up Castleton Rigg, which was very exposed, so our enthusiasm got knocked out of us within a few miles.

As we approached Rosedale Head we could see quite a few pairs of walkers at what appeared to be regular intervals, coming from Farndale moor in the West and making their way east along the road we were about to turn onto. There was a car in the car park with a couple of ladies drinking from a flask of tea, so we stopped and asked them what was happening. It wasn't an organised event as we'd thought. The ladies were patiently waiting for their husbands who had started walking at 4 o'clock in the morning in order to walk the lykewake walk within the 24 hour time limit.

We rode on, passing a few of the walkers as we went. Martin had ridden some of this route before and had been telling me all week about a really difficult section we'd have to negotiate and how he was both dreading it and looking forward to it. Tootling along the road didn't seem too hard, and I was daydreaming, leaving the navigation to him, when he just stopped. "I think this is it" he said. I looked around. As far as I could see we were on a moorland road with no distinguishing features. Then I saw the Bridleway sign. Now some of the bridleways we'd ridden would easliy have accomodated a team of horses pulling a carriage complete with footmen and petticoated ladies. This one would have been a squeeze for a donkey, but I had complete faith in Martin and followed him meekly as he directed his steed along the bridleway.

Like the Lake District and the Cleveland way, the path was laid out with a paved track of rough stones. Unlike the previous two tracks, this was on flat ground, and was easy to ride. the stones had been laid end to end on top of the peat soil, presumably to stop travellers from sinking into the earth, never to be seen again.
Martin's warnings increased as we cycled. He related the story of how, somewhere along the bridleway the stones were spaced further apart. The first time he'd been here he tried to bunny-hop his bike from one to the next, missed and ended up neck deep in mud. At least, it was neck deep on the third telling.

We didn't run into that problem. Yes, the stone blocks were spaced further apart, some were missing, and yes, it would have been possible to slip off the stones to the mud below. It wouldn't have been a problem though, because it hadn't rained for a week and the peat was as dry as a Yorkshireman's sense of humour.

It was a great path. Easy, fast riding for miles on a clearly marked path with nobody about. We stopped briefly at one point to watch a couple of eurofighters having a mock dogfight before deciding to head in the direction of Beck Hole to try and get some lunch.

The Moors (Day 4 part 2)

The path up onto the moors from Heathwaite is well marked, and we met plenty of walkers. One couple who held a gate open for us had walked the coast to coast a dozen times. Like in the Lakes, the path was designed to help walkers and reduce erosion, so it wasn't great for riding.

Once up onto the plateau, those same paths made riding extremely easy, solid paths broken only by the regular gashes which allow water to drain off. No need for drainage today, but up on the exposed moors it did get quite windy.

Just when we were getting used to the path, the Cleveland way dropped down into a steep valley, and immediately back up again. Martin's skills both on the technical down hill, and hauling the bike back up meant he pulled away from me and had to stop and wait. Because the trail was skirting around the edge of the Moors, this happened three more times. On the map we could see a fourth coming up, so we decided to find another way around. Following cattle tracks we crossed a couple of fields through some trees and followed a trail through five foot ferns, chased by a swarm of flies (actually I was chased by a swarm of flies. Martin didn't seem to attract them at all) and rejoined the Cleveland Way at the foot of the next hill. It was a much more enjoyable route.

For the lengh of Urra, Ingleby and Battersby moors, the Cleveland Way was wide enough to drive a landrover, it's a road without vehicles, but in many places the road was rough and eroded so it was decent double-track riding. We met nobody; no vehicles and no walkers for mile after mile. There were sheep and all sorts of birds everywhere, but we could almost have been the only human survivors of the zombie apocalypse.

As we turned off the Cleveland Way and approached Hograh moor, we had a climb through the forest. There was some sign indicating that it had been ridden before on mountain bikes, but where we were ascending, the track would have been a whole lot better for downhill. The path then dropped down into a dip with a waterfall and a park bench, trees and memorials to a few people "In memory of XXX. He loved these moors" etc. It really felt like an oasis in the middle of the desert. We mucked around for a few minutes before heading on. It was only later that we discovered both our watches stopped right about the time we were sitting on that seat. freaky.

After the park bench everything changed. We were obviously on a trail regularly used by mountain bikers, and this time we were going the right direction. That trail down to Westerdale stands out in my mind as the best section of the entire trip. It was technical enough that it required full concentration, but fast enough that it was just a bit scary. I don't think I've ever ridden anything quite as good. we were tired after the day's ride, and I'd love to do that section again on its own when I'm fresh.

From Westerdale we didn't waste any time taking the roads to Castleton where we easily found Greystones B&B on the main street. After we wheeled our bikes round to the conservatory, Sean drove us over the valley to the Eskdale inn where we ate well and drank lots. the staff there were extremely friendly even though we were filthy and smelly after our day on the bikes. Neither of us drinks alcohol, but my lemonade came in a Magners glass, and I had a strange urge to order some. I got a half pint, but I was stuffed so I didn't even finish that. We burned off some of the excellent meal by walking back across the valley to the guest house where we had baths before going to bed. Youth Hostels are closing all across the country and it's obvious why. They offer basic accomodation, but yet their prices are not significantly lower than bed and breakfasts offering personal service and all the comforts of home.

To the Moors (Day 4 part 1)

Acorn corner to Swainby

First thing on Thursday morning, we rode back through East Cowton. Alex had arranged our final night in a hamlet called Castleton, bang in the middle of the North York Moors. Instead of starting the climb up to the top of the moors from Osmotherly first thing Friday morning we could be doing it shortly after lunch on Thursday. We decided the best way was via Swainby, about 15 miles from Acorn Corner via quiet country roads.

We were in no great hurry, but the roads were flat and it was easy to rumble along at a steady 15 mph. We stopped a couple of times to take photographs. In East Harlsey, while Martin dealt with a crisis at work, I decided to fix my lowest gear so I could have an easier climb into the Moors. It had been slipping so I just had to adjust the limiting screw. Martin had never worked with derailleur gears before so I passed on my scant knowledge. He builds classic motorbikes for fun, so if I know something that he doesn't, I feel good.

Crossing the A19 we rode into Ingleby Cross and began looking for somewhere to stop for Lunch. There's not much there, so we headed on up into Swainby. As we entered the village, there was a warning sign with a duck on it. I noticed it, but didn't think much of it until we turned a corner and were met by a very strange sight. The whole street had ground to a halt because about twenty ducks and ducklings were parading across the road.

Lunch was in the beer garden of the Black Horse pub, where we spent some time plotting our route up into the Moors.

East Cowton (or not)

East Cowton to Acorn Corner
When we arrived in East Cowton and began looking for Acorn Corner B&B. We soon realised that with no road name or house number, the address of "Markstone House" was going to be a little bit too vague to be useful. It's not a huge village, it has a post office (which had closed for the day) and a couple of streets of houses.

We asked a girl pushing a buggy, but she had no idea.

Martin asked a woman washing her car, but after listening to her talk for a full ten miuntes, waving her arms about as she told us to try turning "left, then right, no, second left, no straight on..." we realised that she didn't have a clue either.

Everybody was trying hard to be helpful, but nobody actually knew where Markstone House was. Eventually we laid the bikes down on a grassy verge outside a large house and Martin called laterooms.com for directions, while I tried to hunt it down on google maps. Neither was very helpful, and we were starting to wonder if we'd be sharing my orange emergency bivvy for the night when a lady came out of the house. We told her our predicament and she disappeared inside to fetch her son.

We then tried to get hold of Tiny to see if she and the computer could get a working phone number for Acorn Corner. Given our recent experiences of Yorkshire helpfulness, we weren't convinced the son would be much help, but instead of coming out to give us directions he appeared wearing cycling shoes and a helmet. "I'll just go down the store and get my bike."

George Robinson led us almost three miles out of the village on his road bike to take us to Markstone house. Of course we got talking. He was 17, and not content with just cycling, George does triathlon. In my book, anybody who even completes a triathlon is super-fit, but George apparently isn't content with just completing them. He wins them. I did some googling when I got back, and he's definitely one of the fastest in the region for his age group. Most people we talked to were pretty impressed that we were riding across England in five days. George did it last year in six. Except he started in nearby Northallerton, rode to the Robin Hood's Bay, cycled to the West coast and then back home. Yup, that's twice.

He left us at Acorn Corner and the owner, Dianne, led us in and showed us our twin room and the stone byre where we could store our bikes. Absolute luxury after two nights in hostels. The power shower got well used and the TV got turned on (Top Gear on Dave, of course) Proper clean fresh towels included in the price, and excellent beds. Dianne directed us to the Arden Arms where we could go to get food. She did offer to make us something herself, but we thought that'd be a bit unfair since we'd given her no warning.

The Arden Arms turned out to be a fair old ride from the B&B. We thought we must have missed a turnoff, but we hadn't and we got there eventually.

When King Chulalongkorn of Siam visited germany in 1907 his hosts commissioned an artist to paint an elephant so he would feel at home. The picture had all the features of an elephant - a long trunk, thick legs, big ears etc. - but it was obvious that the artist was drawing the beast, not from his own experience, but from descriptions that he'd heard. the 'elephant' looked more like a grey cow.

That surreal elephant picture sprang into my head as we ate. Minestrone soup with no pasta. hard boiled eggs in the curry. Mango chutney without popadoms. It felt like the chef had heard descriptions of exotic meals and tried to recreate them, but having never seen them himself, had used his own experience to fill in the gaps.

I know that immediately sounds as if I didn't like the food. In fact it was some of the best food I've ever tasted, and if i was manager of the Arden Arms I'd tell chef to let his imagination run wild and I'd use it as a selling point.

Maybe instead of the elephant picture I should use the analogy of a great singer who takes a song and makes it 'their own', turning a decent song into a great one.

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I have since learned that Minestrone just means 'big soup' and doesn't have to contain pasta.
and for future potential guests to Acorn Corner, Dianne has created a website, with a map showing how to get there.

Yorkshire Dales (Day 3)

Kirkby Stephen to West Moor
Wednesday was always going to be mostly road riding, but the roads across the Yorkshire dales are quiet enough. After our decision to ride further today, Tina had come up trumps with a guest house in East Cowton. It was just off the top of my maps, but we found it easily enough on the hostel's computer.
After stocking up on shortbread from the co-op, and scoffing cereal and toast for breakfast, we set out at about ten o'clock for our 60 mile ride.

Just to get us warmed up for the day - to get us over that first real challenge, there's a 20% gradient out of Nateby village. As we ascended, climbing from our starting altitude of 150m up to a height of over 500m in the space of a few miles, the landscape changed, becoming more and more barren. Unshorn sheep wandered across the road in front of us and apart from a couple of landrovers and a tractor we saw very little evience of human activity.

There were one or two oddities in the windswept wilderness. As we looked down into the valley a giant dry stone wall sheep pen caught our eye because the grass within the walls was lush green, while everything outside was grey-brown. As we began to descend, stone structures began to become a feature in many fields, their numbers increasing, with more and more fields containing two storey stone barns in the corner, until in the valley between Keld and Thwaite it seemed that every field contained one of these unusual buildings.

Lunch was a very civilised affair, sitting outside the Kearton hotel in Muker. On the menu mine sounded like a gourmet dish worthy of at least two michelin stars, but turned out to be cumberland sausage with onion rings. Actually it tasted fine, but I was picking bits of gristle out of my teeth the rest of the day. Martin was able to keep his rapidly diminishing wad of cash in his pocket for once, because they took American Express!

West Moor to Grinton
From Muker, the bus to Richmond cost 50p, but we saved our money and took the bikes instead. For a couple of miles we weren't far behind the bus either, because the roads were very narrow and much of it was downhill. Our route ran down the Swaledale valley, the barren moss giving way to wooded hillsides. We stopped for ice cream at three o'clock in the picture postcard village of Grinton, We'd originally intended to stay there for the night, so riding further was without question a very good decision.

On into Richmond, the hamstring that had been niggling me during training started to play up. It wasn't bad enough to affect my riding, but I was concerned that it might get worse, so I started to ease off. Martin was very understanding and we stopped for a short break in Brompton. This part of England seems quite isolated from other parts of the country, and they've developed some strange customs and forms of entertainment. Duck racing anyone? Actually I think that would be worth watching.

From Scorton, there were plenty of signs for 'Cowtons' and it was only four o'clock, so we were in high spirits, opting to finish our journey along the bridleway from Atley Hill to East Corton and finish our journey having ridden at least a little off-road at the end of day three.