The magic spinner chose East North East as the next ride out of Hathersage – and what the spinner dictates I must obey! That meant a ride of significantly more than 100 miles to the chalk cliffs of the Yorkshire coast at (in fact very slightly beyond) the resort town of Bridlington. In the now customary fashion, I had plans to meet Jenni along the way – in this case in Bridlington itself for some pre-booked evening musical entertainment – so I needed to make sure I didn’t leave myself more than I could enjoyably manage in a single day. And that is why I set out from home this week to ride the first 30 miles to Bolton-upon-Dearne, which proved a handy place from which to take a train back home again in about an hour, for about a fiver!
But I’m getting ahead of myself. The weather forecast promised – and delivered – a grey and cloudy (but dry) start to the day. Since that was the best thing on offer all this July week, I grabbed it. To be fair, it was warm enough and it perked up considerably once I got beyond Sheffield; but this summer has not been memorably hot or sunny and it certainly didn’t feel like July. The breeze, however, was behind me, anxious also to get to Bridlington, and I understand it was raining at Wimbledon, so I won’t complain.
It’s easy to forget (when you live there) that the first miles through the beautiful countryside of the Peak National Park are worthy of special attention. I tried to see everything through the eyes of someone who is passing by for the first time, and stopped to take photos of my local landscape under the brooding skies. The bracken is at its height in summer, so the hills are shown off at their greenest. The same views are coated in bronze for more than half of the year – equally pretty but quite different. As my old neighbour once sagely pointed out, you really do never see the same view twice here. Today was a tapestry of light, shade and colour as quiet lanes led me steeply uphill to Stanage Edge, with the flat, Arizona-style summit of Higger Tor to my right. It is a rugged world of mill stone grit edges that provide world class rock climbing opportunities, as well as popular launching spots for paragliders. But this morning it was just me, the sheep, the cows and the birds of prey who were out and about.
The first 30 minutes were basically just up; but the reward was the views from the top stretching far in every direction. Looking east after crossing Burbage Brook, as the land falls away into Sheffield and beyond, you can often see as far as Drax Power station, Scunthorpe and even Lincoln Cathedral, if you know what to look for. That’s about 45 miles away. Perhaps things were not quite so distinct today; but it was still a broad vista. Looking back where I had come from, the view from Stanage showed the whole of the Hope Valley with the highest Peak District hills of the Kinder plateau on the western horizon. To the south, beyond the Derwent valley and Chatsworth estate, you could just about see the distant wind generators near Carsington Water and the distinctive clump of beech trees on Mininglow, a collection of Neolithic and Bronze Age tombs on the top of one of furthest hills. It all looked a picture, as it generally does.
It is only a few miles into the nicer suburbs of Sheffield from Burbage; but I turned left and stayed away from the city, choosing instead to follow my line along the Rivelin Valley, which stays green and pleasant right until it reaches Hillsborough, where everything suddenly changes. The transformation was abrupt and complete. One minute I was following the small river through woodland and past millponds, and the next I was trying to avoid treacherous tramlines on busy city streets lined with buildings.
I chose a short stretch of dual carriageway over more tramlines. We have previous and tramlines really do not mix with bicycles. Stay away from them is my best advice. I have heard horror stories. Instead, the busy road took me away from town past Sheffield Wednesday Football Ground and then I escaped into the quieter but equally unlovely former council estates of north Sheffield. These roads were fine for cycling along; but everywhere here felt a little neglected and run down. I was experiencing areas of the city I didn’t know and I won’t say I have any immediate plans to return. Today there were a lot of England flags and bunting draped from house windows as I rode past – a reminder that tonight was a men’s football semi-final in the Euros against The Netherlands.
After a long downhill I was once again out of buildings and into a scruffy area of country that felt like it suffered from being too close to too many people. But soon I reached the village of Thorpe Hesley and things improved a lot. A couple of pleasant country miles after that and I was in another world: the estate village of Wentworth. Here, behind high stone walls and out of sight along a big drive, stands what was previously Britain’s largest private residence, Wentworth Woodhouse.
The current Georgian house – which replaced an earlier 17th century one – was built for the 1st Marquess of Rockingham from 1725, with work continued by his son, the second Marquess (and twice prime minister) over four decades. It then passed to the Fitzwilliam family. The huge East facade stretches for 618 feet. Its turbulent history and great wealth is closely linked to the coal mining industry, which was once the economic backbone of this area. There were as many as 70 collieries surrounding Wentworth, employing tens of thousands of men. The rise and fall of the dynasty is described in the fascinating book “Black Diamonds” by Catherine Bailey.
The house is now owned by the Wentworth Woodhouse Preservation Trust whose sole purpose is regeneration of the site for the benefit of South Yorkshire. There is a huge regeneration project underway. I feel the need to return and learn much more. There are gardens and lakes to see, too. It’s not far away and now I know what I am missing. I must visit.
I had lunch outdoors at a busy restaurant in a garden centre in the old walled garden. The sun was now shining brightly. My short ride was almost done and I could relax and enjoy my surroundings. I had a proper look around the estate village. It was very pretty and full of interesting buildings, including a church the size of a small cathedral. But I also had a train to catch and didn’t fancy the hour wait if I missed it. So I reluctantly moved on and began the last seven miles, which took me through Wath-upon-Dearne, the home town of former Tory party leader William Hague – and significant in my young life as the place I went for the South Yorkshire schools rugby trials.
A couple of miles later I reached my destination of Bolton-upon-Dearne, the home of a much greater man, in my estimation. It was here that shouty crackers actor and explorer Brian Blessed grew up, the son of a coal miner, and went to school. He has led the most extraordinary life and has been honoured in many ways, including the title of “Official Shoutsperson” by the University of York. I encourage you to read his Wikipedia entry, if not his excellent 2015 autobiography “Absolute Pandemonium”. We should be proud he is one of ours.
