I went to Barnsley today and I liked it. Not just Barnsley, but the whole ride there from home. It took under three hours, and only an hour and a quarter to get home again by train. So why, I have to ask myself, have I never been there before? I have spent a large part of my life less than an hour’s drive from Barnsley, and yet the closest I ever got was playing cricket there many years ago (I remember taking a steepling catch) and that wasn’t really in the town centre. If you had shown me a series of photographs, I couldn’t have told you which town it was. That isn’t really like me and I find it difficult to explain. Oh well, better late than never.
I hope that this cycling adventure helps me to overcome more of these little mental hurdles. Barnsley looks like a place worth visiting, and now I know how easy it is, I can feel a day trip coming on. Why not?
Trips like the one I made today are great, but all too often you arrive in a place at the end of a ride just in time to hop straight on a train and leave. You don’t get to know it very well under those circumstances. Of course there is never time to see everywhere, and the nature of my cycling is to keep moving and journey through as many places as possible, many of them new or little known. In truth I saw Barnsley only as much as I had seen Bolton on Dearne on my ENE ride, which is to say not much at all. That was being unfair to this proud Yorkshire town, and I now see the error of my ways. Sorry Barnsley, you deserve better. Still, I’d be back in the morning. Two visits in two days at least starts to make up for a lifetime of neglect.
Before all this, however, I had to get there, following the closest line I could to my straight NNE line drawn on the map. That was a challenge, because the line crosses very hilly country with very few routes available. It was the same challenge I had for my rides NNW and NW, and it will happen again when I head due north. I have tried to make sure the lines don’t cross over one another; but they run very close together and mostly start with the same ride past Ladybower reservoir. On this occasion, my line then took me right through the twin villages of Low and High Bradfield in the beautiful Loxley valley. This is where I made my very first cycle camping trip aged about 13, with my friend from home, Simon. We carried a huge amount of camping equipment 30 miles or so on our bikes and arrived in glorious weather to camp in a field across the road from Simons’s uncle. It began well, but on the first full day I managed to crash my bike and badly graze my arm on a steep bend about a mile away from the end of our ride. The holiday was over, and my dad had to come and get us in the car. Not the most illustrious start to my lifetime of cycling adventures. I still have a scar on my elbow.
Low and High Bradfield are well named. The mile that separates them is a continuous tough, steep climb. The large and ancient parish church stands at the top, next to The Old Horns inn, whose garden commands a superbly sweeping view of the whole valley. In Low Bradfield, a large cricket ground dominates proceedings and it is a very popular spot for visitors to come and enjoy watching a game, as well as picnicking among the ducks by the stepping stones. There is usually an ice cream van present and today was no exception. I took advantage and watched while a team of cricket players warmed up for an evening match. On a previous visit here I was chatting to an elderly chap who was local to the village. He asked me if I ever played. I used to, a long time ago, I said, without mentioning that this was in Doncaster. “Really?” he said with great interest. “What’s tha name?”
I didn’t see him around this afternoon, and as the match began my ice cream ran out, and with it my excuse for not climbing the long, steep hill. I crawled my way up and was greeted at the top by a sign saying “Cote de Bradfield 350m, Max Gradient 19%, Average gradient 9.2%”, which was a hangover from the triumphant visit of the Tour de France to Yorkshire in 2014. It also gives a sense of the nature of the cycling in these parts. It’s pretty brutal.
After the first climb came more, with some hairy descents in between on narrow, winding lanes. It was all beautiful, but it was some of the toughest hill climbing you will find in England. I made through all the hills, not least because I had no bags to carry today and I was on my lightest road bike. That helped. A bit.
The last really big hill took me up to the pretty little hilltop village of Bolsterstone. I’d never stopped here before. There is a pub and an old church and a collection of old cottages. In the square is an old village pump, whose long handle a couple of small girls were vigorously pulling up and down. An elderly gentleman, I’d guess in his seventies at least, walked awkwardly over with his dog. “That doesn’t work any more” he told them in a broad local accent. “It hasn’t worked for years. But I remember it working when I was your size”.
I didn’t realise, but Bolsterstone is actually named after two large bolster stones that today sit in the church yard for safe keeping. They are believed by archaeologists once to have held up twin Anglo Saxon crosses; although local legend claims they were the base of a gibbet. On the other side of the wall stand the old village stocks – with provision for three occupants – and whipping post. It must have been a turbulent place in earlier days.
From here I had a very long downhill into Deepcar on the edge of Stocksbridge, where there is still an active steelworks in the valley bottom. After that I rode through attractive country and well turned out villages all the way into Barnsley. This part was all new to me. It took almost no time to reach the town centre, which is very obviously marked out by its town hall, complete with tall central clock tower. Alongside it were modern fountains and very nice landscaping. I took a photo of the scene against the blue skies. It was exactly 6pm. My train home left from the station, two minutes away, at 6.12pm. Seamless. I wished Barnsley a happy evening in the sunny weather and left for Sheffield, where there was time for a pint at the Sheffield Tap before my train to Hathersage. It was almost too easy.
