Memory Lanes: Cycling Home Through Yorkshire

by Ian Walton

By Soigneur

September 29^th, 2019

Memory Lanes: Cycling Home Through Yorkshire

“I like my fellow men, but there are times when it is wonderful to be utterly alone in a wide landscape. There aren’t many places in England where you can do this, but you can do it in my Yorkshire.”

James Herriot, veterinarian, writer

It’s that escape I seek and find in cycling, so Yorkshire is paradise.

Herriot was talking more about getting on the moors and fells by foot, away from human traffic of any description, but Yorkshire’s narrow lanes are almost designed for cycling—tough cycling, mind. There’s nary a bit of flat to be found; lots of up, lots of down, it’s often steep and twisty.

More often than not, the lanes are framed by dry stone walls, which give clues as to the character of the earth underneath, for they are constructed from stones picked from the fields many a year ago, and maintained with the same. The changes in the sorts of rock used for the walls, and Yorkshire’s varied vegetation, mean there is a constant change in vistas when you’re riding here, and colours to pass the hours.

It is to these memories I returned for a few days of riding and bike packing: a couple of days’ solo riding out of my parents' place in the Pennines near Denby Dale—record holder for the biggest ever pie in the world—then a few days up in the Dales, bike packing with a mate between Ilkley and Hawes, weaving and winding, hither and thither.

“I was always very proud of living in Yorkshire, in that hilly part which is called the backbone of England, the Pennines Chain…”

Phyllis Bentley, Yorkshire novelist.

I don’t live in Yorkshire anymore, but, like Bentley, the pride bred in me from growing up in the foothills of the Pennines is there and barely diminished.

Flying from Barcelona into Leeds-Bradford airport and seeing barely a cloud in the sky was as forecast. I knew it wouldn’t last, from experience. That is part, along with the landscape, of what shapes Yorkshire folk. The weather is what it is, and you just get on with it. The acronym HTFU wasn’t and isn’t needed; it’s just being Yorkshire and living in Yorkshire. When it’s sunny and bright, as it was for my first days’ rides, in the Pennines and into the Dales, there is a magical air about the place. The landscape is shaped and coloured by rains and winds, suddenly released into the vivid high definition of 4K sunshine.

I was not concerned about ticking off Tour de France or worlds’ route climbs or roads; they can’t always take the nicest, smallest roads. I wanted to ride down memory lanes: roads I knew from childhood, from riding and days away as a family, often going to fell races, or that mad cyclocross race in the Dales. But it’s impossible to avoid crisscrossing places that have been raced, and will be raced, by the best in the world here. So within 10km or so—miles here, right, but I’ve been away for too long—I was over to Langsett Reservoir and the path of the 2014 Tour de France, the café there still bedecked on its outside wall with polka dots.

Either side of the Tour route, tiny farm roads connect Yorkshire’s traditional industries—dairy, beef, and the ubiquitous sheep which helped Yorkshire become a world leader in the wool industry in its heyday. The more modern way of exploiting the character of the Pennines is wind power. Tens of wind turbines were scattered around. For me, they bring a sense of peace, though the more they are generating, the harder the riding is obviously. The silence of these giants, cattle grazing peacefully at their feet, always moves me. In these times, perhaps that’s a good thing…

The Pennines, a true out-of-the-door ‘home’ ride, were but the appetiser for the Dales; the Yorkshire pudding to the main course of roast beef. Puddings should always be served before the meat course. Always. I was off to the Dales, now with company, as Chris from t’other side of t’Pennines joined—at least he was coming from Derbyshire and not from Lancashire. That just wouldn’t have been right.

“The Dales have never disappointed me. I still consider them the finest countryside in Britain, with their magnificent, clean, and austere outlines of hill and moor, their charming villages and remote whitewashed farms, their astonishing variety of aspect and appeal, from the high gaunt rocks down to the twinkling rivers. “

J B Priestly, novelist

Priestly has summarised it perfectly. Transplant yourself within those words on a bike; that’s as good as cycling gets.

We set off earlyish from Ilkley, the home of the UK’s largest cycling club and a bustling town with a long history of cycling and outdoors pursuits. It’s also in the title of a famed song, a Yorkshire anthem, in clichés at the least, which further confirms the hardy nature of Yorkshire. On Ilkley Moor Baht’at. Its message: if you go up on the moors behind Ilkely without a hat (baht’at), you’ll likely die of exposure (then be eaten by worms, and in turn by ducks, and then by fellow folk…as the song goes). Suffice to say, don’t mess with the weather up here. However, we got ready in early mist, which by the time we had had cracking Allpress coffee at the really rather lovely cycling café, The Commute Café, had burned away to yet another glorious sunny day. It couldn’t last.

Within minutes, via largely traffic-free lanes, we made sinuous progress towards Bolton Abbey, a spectacular 12th century monastery on the lands of a beautiful estate. It’s a destination for locals and visitors. Local, Ian (not your writer), was just preparing his rods for a day’s father-daughter bonding (she was less keen on the fishing bit than he…) while a little further up, Dave was off on a walk with his owners from Leicester; a weekend away for Dave the Dog.

Next for us was Burnsall, memories of fell races we supported dad at, and then onto the livestock auction village of Pately Bridge, where we lunched in a tea room and had cream tea—of course —before reconnecting with the women’s worlds’ course all the way up to Hawes. The changing scenery approaching Pately, over the exposed fells and moors, was stunning, oranges replacing the lush greens, dry stone walls less predominant, the strong wind, blustering into our faces. That’s another reason I put together this route out here; the Dales’ variety is what I craved.

We went according to my idea of slow-cycling—cycle hard and fast, but stop and soak up whatever appeals, stopping often, simply to be awestruck, or to chat to folk, to learn about where you’re riding. That meant arriving into Hawes—England’s highest town—in the late afternoon sun. The beautiful glow over the moors welcomed us to the cobbled heart of Wensleydale. A quick visit to the YHA (hostel) to dump our bags, and we had just enough time to ride up Buttertubs.

Buttertubs (and the crowds) might have found acclaim at the Tour de France, but I wanted to go up and see not only the climb and the views, but also the reason it is called Buttertubs: the rock formations that resemble the shape of traditional butter-making tubs. Thing is I hadn’t checked exactly where they were.

Thankfully as we plodded—this wasn’t slow cycling; this was cycling slowly—up the steep climb, a young whippet shot past us. We found Sam atop Buttertubs and heard he was making up for a disappointing hill climb the day before in the Lakes. Top ten, but disappointing! Hence he was out at sunset at the top of the Dales. Thankfully, Sam wasn’t just a look-at-the-stem-and-race-for-a-time kind of guy; he knew his Buttertubs and could point us to where the rocks were: a couple of kilometres down the other side. So, our climbing for the day wasn’t quite finished. We had a sunset picnic with my mum’s home-made scones. The key ingredient: butter…

We got back too late for my preferred fish-n-chip supper on a street bench, so we went inside the cozy café instead. Fresh fish fried in beef drippings, with an extra of Wensleydale cheese deep fried in the same, replenished somewhat, as did a pint down the pub.

If you have travelled on foot from Hawes to Ingleton you are a walker; and if you have braved the autumn winds tearing over those moorland miles, you are also a wrestler.

Lois Victor Coppin

I never thought I was a wrestler, but there we were. Somehow it wouldn’t have been right to get sun all the way.

And we didn’t, as it rained right out the door. Chris said he saw hail, but I reckon that’s Derbyshire delicateness (leave alone my lack of Yorkshire grit from years living in the sunshine…); regardless we got wet and the wind blew. It was appropriate, though, to have such weather, as we passed between the Three Peaks of Ingleborough, Whernside, and Pen-y-ghent: the three pillars of arguably the world’s toughest and longest cyclocross race. It’s certainly special and unique. That was another memory lane with mum, as dad did the race many moons ago. There was much less slow-cycling happening then, but as we went past Whernside, we had a brief pause (and a slight trundle up the track the race takes) to soak up the rain and the memories. It wouldn’t have been right if it was sunny.

Finally Ilkley bound, via the huge limestone cliff face of Malham Cove, more dry stone walls, perhaps the steepest climbs all trip, but the legs had realised this was the norm now and they didn’t as much dread them as cope (I’d say relish them, but that might be a stretch).

Such deep memories from a Yorkshireman might seem parochial—of course the place is still my blood—but I’ve lived away from Yorkshire for a long time now, and I’m an immigrant in many ways when I come here, so it’s with these eyes I’ve shared these memories and created them anew. Truth is, there’s something magic here. The people, the landscape and the riding: memory lanes for all, no matter from where you come.