Leaving Skipton wasn’t easy. For starters, it required an early departure to combat the threat of rain mid-afternoon where I was heading. And an early start is always a stretch for me. It means forcing down the breakfast you know you need, in this case a rather delicious one at our BnB, when you aren’t ready to digest it, never mind enjoy it. And then there was the matter of leaving Jenni, with whom I had shared a very enjoyable day, and also separating myself from Skipton itself. Because Skipton is a fine town with much to recommend it, and I could happily have stayed longer.
But this was no time to look backwards. I had 90 miles of cycling to immerse myself in and I had reason to believe it would be a really rewarding day. Which, indeed, it truly was!
I hadn’t specifically planned it this way; but my straight line NNW from Skipton took me for 90 of the most beautiful, traffic free miles of cycling you could ever wish for. In such circumstances, there aren’t too many better ways to spend your time. Even the weather was feeling good about things and decided to be cycle-friendly all day long, with the threatened rain only starting literally as I arrived at my destination, almost to the second! When it finally came, it was quite heavy, too, so I felt pretty smug, all things considered.
My linear route through the Yorkshire Dales took me via just a few settlements of note, so the usual rules applied regarding sustenance. I don’t believe I passed an opportunity. I began the day with a gorgeous ride up the length of Upper Wharfedale, following the river almost to its source by way of Grassington and Kettlewell. This is a wonderful corner of the world and I get up here too seldom. The cycling is superb, along the tiniest of lanes along a mostly flat valley floor, with grand views all the way. Beyond Kettlewell, the last big village, the population gets sparse and the last shop is in the pretty village of Buckden, where the road splits to ascend out of the valley in two different directions. It was now a couple of hours since I began, and ahead lay a long, lonely climb of many miles. The village shop advertised two things in its small front window: hot drinks and pies. It was time to stop.
I opened the door and entered a different era. The inside must have looked the same for decades. They only took cash. On a rack was a magazine dated October 2022. After a little while, an old man appeared. He was wiry and slightly unkempt in appearance; but the most noticeable thing about him was his wig. It was grey, to match the rest of his hair which stuck out underneath; but made up of tight curls, like a 1980s footballer’s perm. He made a decent cup of tea, though, which I took outside to enjoy with a view of the hills.
I continued to follow the infant River Wharfe on the tiniest of roads that took me through the tiniest and most traditional of settlements, with names that fit perfectly, like Hubberholme and Yockenthwaite and Oughtershaw. It felt a long way from the bright lights of Skipton. Or anywhere else.
There was a long, tough climb up out of Wharfedale and over into Wensleydale. From the top the distinctive outline of Ingleborough came into view to the west. Then I enjoyed a thrilling descent for several downhill miles into Gayle and then, after the Wensleydale creamery, Hawes, the capital of Upper Wensleydale. I like Hawes and it has been a place of sustenance for me on many a journey across the country. Today, the Market Place was a hive of activity with motorcyclists occupying the pubs and cafes at the top end of town, and a church festival pumping out the tunes at the lower end, where I chose to locate myself at a cafe with outdoor tables. And so I found myself consuming the biggest fish finger sandwich I have ever seen, containing five (5) fish fingers, to the tune of “Hold Your Hand Out You Naughty Boy” – and other musical hall classics – in a situation I could not have foreseen in a month of Sundays.
Duly revived, it was time once again to head for the high hills. The main road was almost empty as far as Garsdale Head, where I met the Settle-Carlisle railway. Here it, and I, took the route north up the rugged valley of Mallerstang. I had it all to myself and it was a treat. Somewhere along here I crossed the continental divide, if you will. I passed the point – easily missed – from which the headwaters of the infant River Ure emanate, flowing all the way back through Wensleydale and eventually into the Ouse and the Humber to the North Sea. Just metres away, another stream from the same hillside begins its own journey in the opposite direction, becoming the River Eden which flows all the way to the Irish Sea beyond Carlisle. It was a watershed moment. From here onwards (today at least) I would stay on the west side of the country, roughly following its course – and the railway’s – through the Vale of Eden, with the North Pennine hills for company on my right had side all the way.
Along this route I would pass through two red sandstone small towns: first Kirkby Stephen and then Appleby. Neither is very large but you wouldn’t call them villages. Well, you might if you were trying to win the Village of the Year competition, like Kirkby Stephen did a decade or so ago. I wouldn’t mention it; but they beat my home village, Hathersage, into second place in the national final and I led our bid. It’s a nice place and I was happy to pause there and have a coffee. But that coffee came from Costa, which I think tells you everything you need to know. It’s a town. They cheated. But I’m over it, as I hope you can tell.
Appleby is a lovely place whose Main Street spills down a tree-lined hill from its castle at the top to the parish church and moot hall at the bottom. I found a bakery that had a single chair and table outside, and enjoyed a tea and a Viennese whirl. The town seemed to have been both yarn-bombed (every tree trunk wore a scarf) and infiltrated by small people made out of plant pots and metal buckets; but it was all very colourful and cheerful.
After that I enjoyed 30 miles of very quiet lanes and tiny villages that all lay in the shelter of the impressive range of Pennine hills, which formed a continuous wall to my right. These hills are quite different in character to their neighbours in the Lake District, just visible on the other side of the Vale of Eden; but in Cross Fell they include the highest point in England outside the Lakes, which comes in just a shade below 3,000 feet. So they are not to be underestimated.
I met a few cyclists, including a very chatty Dutch lady, who were riding the C2C route from Whitehaven over to the east coast. They were just about to begin the ascent of Hartside Pass, where the main road from Penrith to Alston crosses the Pennines at a height of 1,900 feet. At that point in the day, rather them than me.
I stopped about four miles short of Brampton for a well earned pint in a pretty village called Castle Carrock. I sat out on the “Marr” outside the pub, where each July they hold “Cumbria’s Most Friendly Music Festival”, attracting entertainers from around the world, or so they say. As you enter the village, the name sign says “Please Dance”. I didn’t. I was too concerned with my excellent beer. And was that a spot of rain?