SW2: Grange Moor to Saddleworth

This is an archive blog post. For the updated version see it on my new website yorkshireridings.co.uk.

Day 2 of the fourth of my Yorkshire Compass Rides was a morning of misty hills, the setting of a comedy that wouldn't die, the magnificently bleak Saddleworth Moor, some awesome reservoir views, and a border that wouldn't die either. (Back to ← Day 1)


From Grange Moor I headed on back lanes (pic) past the village of Lepton. This must be one of the few places in the world named after an elementary particle in subatomic physics. They should twin it with Boson Island in Canada. Shortly afterwards I cycled right underneath the Emley Moor mast. At least I think I did. It was so cloudy up there I couldn't see it.

I'd had a very early start, and arrived in Holmfirth (pic), with its picturesque cottages stacked over steep cobbled lanes, about 9am.

Holmfirth Folk Festival was on this weekend, though the folk dancing was not due to start until later that morning. So I had a lucky escape.
I had a cup of tea at Sid's Cafe (pic), whose decor reminds you of a long-running farce located here that involves men behaving disgracefully. I'm referring to the Tour de France, which visited in 2014.

Oh, OK, Holmfirth is also famous as the setting for Last of the Summer Wine, the BBC series which somehow lasted from 1973 to 2010. You can see many locations that featured repeatedly in every episode, and which had stayed unchanged for well over a hundred years.

Actually, both of those apply to the jokes too.


A long climb out of Holmfirth took me on to Saddleworth Moor (pic), a place with some very dark associations. Once at the top – nearly 500m up, and it feels like it – it was a thrilling ride with a brisk tailwind past peat bogs and scowling road cyclists labouring the other way into the wind. They were a miserable lot, and few returned my cheery wave as I freewheeled past them. I wonder why.


The ride down the other side of the moor was a great bending descent through picturesque reservoir country (pic) to the valley bottom: Saddleworth. I crossed the remarkable transpennine Huddersfield Narrow Canal, restored in 2001.

And here's where the question of borders gets as bogged down as walkers on the top of that peaty moor. Nowadays, Lancashire officially starts at the highest point on Saddleworth Moor (at the picture above with the 'Welcome to Saddleworth' sign, in fact, despite what it then says).


But the historic, pre-1974, boundary is about 10km further west. It's somewhere on this road (pic), just before the bend right; we're looking westwards, and still in historic Yorkshire but firmly in modern-day Lancashire. Oldham, in fact, if you can call it modern-day.

I was wary about asking directions here, as I thought the request 'Can you tell me the best way to Oldham?' might be misunderstood.


But many people living here still identify with Yorkshire. As indeed did the friendly chap I chatted to at County End, where a sign marking the true boundary was put up in 2010 (pic). He still regards Saddleworth as Yorkshire, and cites as proof the fact that his golf club (like many other sports clubs, music groups and so on) participates in the Yorkshire leagues. In fact, many people maintain that the 'historic' border was never rescinded except for technical administrative purposes.

Curiously, there's a 50m gap between the historic border signs for Lancashire and Yorkshire. Is this some sort of DMZ? Are the inhabitants of the strip stateless? Clearly borders matter, though the way they resolved things at Towton was a bit extreme.

Anyway, it had been a fine ride. I made my way back to Greenfield station and got the train home, stopping off at Stalybridge station bar for a celebration pint. In Lancashire.

Miles today: 28
Total miles York to Saddleworth: 65

Back to ← Day 1

SW1: York to Grange Moor

The fourth of my Yorkshire Compass Rides was a two-day trip out to the southwestern extreme in what is now Oldham. Day 1 involved Yorkshire's old brewing capital, the site of England's bloodiest battle, the tallest freestanding structure in the UK, and a psycho cat. (On to Day 2 →)


I headed out south on a sunny afternoon on the cycle path that runs alongside the A64 to Tadcaster, home to three big chemical factories: John Smith's, Sam Smith's, and Coors. The first house in the town (pic) was decked out in celebration of the Tour de Yorkshire, which passed through last week. Thanks to the big tailwind, I was probably going as fast as the TdY riders had been.

Being a Scrabble player, I've never been able to look at it without noting that TADCASTER is an anagram of CASTRATED. One day I'll create a Wikipedia Category page of 'Places that form amusing anagrams', with entries such as NEWARK and BRUGGE.


I cycled past the village of Towton, south of Tadcaster, renowned as the venue of one of the key battles in the Wars of the Roses, in 1461 (pic). (Confusingly, York itself was a Lancastrian stronghold.)

The Lancastrians were routed, and the Yorkist Edward VI took over from the Lancastrian Henry VI. Yorkshire, as you know, always claims the biggest and best of everything. The 28,000 casualties makes it (probably) the deadliest ever fought on English soil, no doubt a great source of pride to many Yorkshire people.


In Wakefield I dropped in on the excellent Hepworth Museum. I was particularly impressed with this piece (pic), by an artist called Renova Tions. Wittily entitled 'No entry - Exhibition in preparation', it features a lifting platform in an otherwise empty gallery.

At once static and yet hinting at the dynamic, it blurs the boundaries between art and engineering, and asks fundamental questions of the viewer about continuity and renewal. The empty cradle of the apparatus invites us to mentally supply our own 'cargo', 'elevating' the mundane and/or quotidian to the 'exalted' podium of sporting or/and election 'victory' – are we 'lifting', or 'being lifted'?


In the next gallery were some old bits of wood that I expect were waiting to be recycled before the next exhibition came in (pic). I thought that was a bit disrespectful to Barbara Hepworth, who apparently was a famous sculptor. They could have put some of her statues there instead.

I passed Emley Moor in the evening sun, admiring Arqiva Tower (pic) – or, as everyone calls it, the Emley Moor mast. At 330m it's Britain's tallest free-standing structure, 20m taller than the Shard. Thanks to being on top of a moor – whose altitude I was keenly aware of, having cycled up the long climb of the A642 from Wakefield – the mast's top is 594m above sea level. (That's higher than the top of Toronto's CN Tower. Take that, Canada!)

In March 1969 though, the Emley Moor mast was only a few metres high, because it fell over in a storm. TV was severely disrupted for a few days and millions of people had no signal at all.

Nine months later, according to ONS data, there was no baby boom. This was Britain in the 1960s after all.

My bed for the evening, in the village of Grange Moor, was kindly provided by Tess and Jamie through the fabulous cycle-tourist-accomm-swopping site Warmshowers.org. It was great to enjoy their hospitality and chat about bike touring over a glass of wine. One of their cats went a bit psycho: it caught a mouse, which escaped, and wasn't allowed to chase it. If they ever make a cat version of Trainspotting, this one would be Begbie.

Miles today: 40

On to Day 2 →

Hebden Bridge: Hip operations

Hippy life in Yorkshire? I can promise you, having grown up through them, that the Swinging Sixties barely even wobbled in Hull, never mind swung. All that love, peace and alternative living may have gone on in the decadent south but it never made it north of Sheffield. So it's a pleasant surprise to come to Hebden Bridge, Yorkshire's Hippy Capital.


The market town (pic) has a population of under 5,000 but, like the blister caused by my cheap bike shoes, feels bigger than it is. And taller: stacked up on the Calder valley's steep hillsides are double-decker houses with the top stories facing the hill and comprising one dwelling, and the bottom stories facing the valley and comprising another.


It's an alternative sort of place, tolerant and gay-friendly: the Lesbian Capital of England, it's often called. It's certainly got an alternative-lifestyle feel, as a glance at a typical coffee shop noticeboard shows (pic). If you're after Reiki, Holistic Massage, Existential Therapy or Energy Medicine, you're spoilt for choice. And while you make your mind up, the cafe offers 19 sorts of cake and 15 types of herbal tea.

The town started off as Heptonstall, a broodily characterful village (pic) a short cycle away.

If you're coming downhill into Hebden Bridge, anyway. Because, like any road that doesn't actually run along the valley floor parallel with the railway or canal, it's very very steep.

And cobbled, like many lanes around here. Forget Paris-Roubaix: you can test the security of your fillings by cycling down Heptonstall main street.

Until the 1800s, there was no road along the valley floor. But as the industrial revolution revolved, the canal (pic) and railway came through the valley, Hebden Bridge grew around the river crossing, and textile mills thrived. It became known as Trouser Town; not any more, now that the mills are long closed and converted to chic apartments. It's no longer a place defined by images of patriarchal legwear. More like jams, either of the preserve or musical kind.

There's a strong community feel, as the town's local website demonstrates. It has a fair few meeja types who live here in those chichi lofts, commute to Manchester or Leeds by the slow but frequent trains, and enjoy organic gluten-free artisan local bread in Hebden Bridge's chic cafes and bistros.

But, also, many people don't have Monday-to-Friday, 9-to-5 jobs. Or any clear job at all. (Perhaps the people who live on the colourful narrowboats moored all along the canal.) So I feel I have a lot in common with them.

For all those people, there are plenty of events to fill the afternoons in bookshops or art studios or community-owned facilities such as the Fox and Goose pub (pic).

Scruffy in appearance, it's actually friendly and well-organised, with fine local real ale always close at hand. So I feel I have a lot in common with it, too.

E: York to Bridlington

The third of my Yorkshire Compass Rides was a wind-assisted glide through the Wolds to seaside Bridlington, and the eastern promontory of Flamborough Head. It included the area's most scenic downhill, a Roman Road, a lighthouse-rich chalkberg, and a land train.


There's always something nice about returning home. Less so this morning, though, as I twice had to go back after setting off thanks to forgetting maps, water, locks, lunch etc.

The maps I could have forgone, but not the lunch: it's socially more acceptable to ask for directions than for food. But, by mid-morning, I was being airlifted by the tailwind up into the Wolds from Leavening, with the hardier of the daffs still painting the morning yellow (pic).


The freewheel down Water Lane's winding dry valley into Thixendale is one of my favourite rides in Yorkshire (pic). It's worth stopping occasionally to enjoy the solitude, admire the fields full of perky lambs, and evade the bladed tractor trailers that speed past occupying the entire single-track road.

'There's always a bike', it's said. The always-bike was here (pic) on the information boards in my Second Breakfast stop in Thixendale village. This is farmer William Sedman chuffed with his new bike circa 1890.

He'd have known only rough farm tracks and potholed, crudely-surfaced – but virtually untrafficked – country lanes, so he'd be amazed to see what cycling is like here today. It's exactly the same.
My approach to Bridlington was along the old Roman Road that linked the town right through to York (pic). It's still possible to trace, even ride, the old road all the way: by turns it is the A166, overgrown footpaths, tractorways and single-lane tarmac back lanes.

Miserable old poet AE Housman moaned on about standing in dead Romans' footsteps like this in his lament On Wenlock Edge.

Come on, AE, cheer up lad! Yes, Brexit, Trump, climate change, we're all going to die, blah blah. But the wind's behind us, it's a bright breezy day, we're on our bikes in friendly scenery in the best county in the world, and the sign outside Sledmere House's cafe promises us ICE CREAM – VENISON – RHUBARB.
Anyway, in Brid (locals truncate place names by eliding all suffixes: 'Brid', 'Pock', 'Driff' etc) they're gearing up for the Tour de Yorkshire's arrival next week. In tribute, gaudily coloured bikes had been put high up on walls or up trees (pic). Or perhaps it's the only place you can stop them getting nicked.
Brid was the location for the filming of the recent Dad's Army remake. The Old Town – really one street that the Sustrans route helpfully takes you down – still has a few shops left in the period setting for it, most notably the Black Lion (pic), the 'Royal Oak' of the film.

Reviews of the film were unanimous in their high praise for the fine script, superb acting and rich humour of the original.
Flamborough Head isn't the easternmost point in Yorkshire – that's further south, on Spurn Head – but it's locally the furthest out into the North Sea.

It certainly feels like a place on the edge, with its two lighthouses that are like chalk and cheese. This one (pic) is made of chalk...
...and this one (pic) is made of brick. The chalk one was built in 1669, and was never lit.

Perhaps it failed because unlike this modern one, it did not have a café-bistro serving fish and chips and lager to friendly, busy crowds of locals.

This is Flamborough Head itself (pic), a chalky rival to the Isle of Wight's Needles, except it's Yorkshire which means it's harder, brighter and better-looking.


I toiled back west to Bridlington into the wind. There were no cycle spaces on the Land Train (renationalise the rail system NOW) so I enjoyed a sunny cycle into town along the lovely promenade (pic; that's Flamborough Head in the background). The prom also is the endpoint of the Way of the Roses, which runs 170 miles to Morecambe. With today's wind, you could have done the ride from the west coast in a day.

I used to say Bridlington is a place that grows on you, like athlete's foot. But actually, you know, I'm rather taking to the place. It was lively, full of people, and on this blowy but bright day was a very pleasant place to be. Not St Tropez, admittedly – where is? – but it was a nice reminder that Yorkshire has that bit of everything.

Then I enjoyed a sunny cycle to Wetherspoons. I wondered if it had been a location for the Dad's Army film too, because to judge by the taste, my pint of Riggwelter had a drink-by date of summer 1944.

Miles from York to Flamborough Head: 53

S: York to Harthill

The second of my Yorkshire Compass Rides took me south to the county's most obscure extremity, and was a day of planets, power stations, pints, and a place called Wales.

I rode south alongside a mirror-flat Ouse out of York and down the planets trail, a fantastic scale model of the solar system where the speed of light is roughly 1mph. The planets had evidently just had a lick of paint, so Earth was a blue marble, Mars was cherry red, Uranus (pic) duck egg blue. (NB Actual planets' colours may differ.)

Riding this path is a great way to get a feeling for the sheer emptiness of space, and these remote extraordinary worlds very different from our own. Selby, for instance.


I only have space for one picture from Selby, so sadly images of the Rank Hovis plant, derelict factories and disused warehouses had to make way for the Abbey (pic).


South of Selby the landscape consists largely of power stations, such as the thicket of cooling towers at Eggborough (pic). Here traditional crafts, dying out elsewhere, are still practised, such as coal fired electricity generation.


I continued south-ish through a series of nondescript villages and humdrum flat farmlands to Adwick le Street, where there's a rather handy paved cycle path called Roman Ridge. This took me past some wild and savage landscapes, all of them back gardens in Adwick. The sign is a bit of an exaggeration, to be honest: it's not exactly Striding Edge. Similarly, Don Gorge, signed further down, is no Cheddar. Another sign that promised more than it delivered was in the cafe in Maltby promising a 'luxury breakfast'.


The southernmost point in historic Yorkshire that you can cycle is this rather inconsequential location (pic, looking south). It's at a stream by Pebley Pond, south of Harthill, helpfully colour-coded in the tarmac. (Post-1974 South Yorkshire stretches further south than this, having stolen bits of Derbyshire.)

To get the train home I had to go to Wales (pic). It's a village outside Rotherham. The name derives in the same way as the country, meaning literally 'land of closed coal mines and disused steelworks'.

I had a pint of Sam Smith's for two quid in Kiveton, then a pint of Yorkshire Blackout in the Tap in Sheffield train station to take the taste away.

Miles from York to Harthill: 57

N: York to Redcar

The first of my Yorkshire Compass Rides was a glorious day offering some characteristic Yorkshire views – stately homes; the North York Moors; beaches with hardy bathers; closed factories; and penguins.


I headed north out of York through the misty Howardian Hills (pic). They take their name from the Howard family, who still own much of the land. This is officially designated an Area of Outstanding Natural Swearing by Cyclists.

In the village of Bulmer I stopped off at one of those old red phone boxes that now serve as a library (pic). Many books caught my eye but I read through the best bits of a book by famous renowned 5' 9" author Dan Brown.

That way I only delayed myself by a couple of seconds.


The Howards did quite well for themselves, building Castle Howard, one of England's greatest country houses. And film sets: it's been used in Brideshead Revisited among others. There's something about big budget productions that's appropriate here, such as when you see the price of an adult entry. Still, at least cycling along the remarkably gated and obelisked road to the west (pic) is free.


After handsome Kirkbymoorside, a place that seemed to consist entirely of pubs and cafes, I rode up into the Moors through Hutton le Hole (pic) and its quirky, sprawling green. It's one of my favourite Moors villages, and is home to the Ryedale Folk Museum, where you can go inside historic old buildings and see how ordinary poor people used to live. Alternatively, you could just come to my home in York and stay with me for a weekend.


This is the characteristic North York Moor-top road view, across Blakey Ridge. I stopped off at the fabulous Lion Inn, one of England's highest and remotest. It was packed with lunching couples, and is a great place to come on a budget. If your budget is £20 for a main course.


Hill? Call this a hill? In Yorkshire this is a slope.


My northward line brought me to the coast at Saltburn. The pier has been refurbed, the prom given a lick of paint, and on this sunny afternoon the beach, cafes and bars were humming. It was very pleasant, and I found it hard to leave, though that was mainly because the Sustrans route out was closed with electricity works, and the only alternative was to ride along the dual carriageway horribly busy with HGVs.


Redcar isn't quite the most northerly point in Yorkshire – that's over to the north-west at Cauldron Snout – but my northerly line from York finished here, at the mouth of the Tees. Redcar's prom is jauntily decorated with these penguins, and there's a boating lake.

The background illustrates Yorkshire's industrial past, and – recent awful closure of the steelworks here notwithstanding – present: from here west to Middlesbrough is one long line of factories, and just out to sea is a line of graceful wind turbines. I celebrated finishing my first Yorkshire Compass Ride with a beer in Wetherspoons, down past the clock tower. Which was handy: ah, I can see, just time for another.

And finally, the train back home. Someone had been busy yarnbombing the station. This could be the fate of the steelworks one day.

Miles from York to Redcar: 63

Skipsea: Till the coast crumbles

Yorkshire's Holderness coast is one of the strangest places to cycle in Britain. I spent today wandering the lanes round Skipsea (pic), south of Bridlington. Many old people – in other words, me – remember when these linked up with roads running along the clifftop.

I cycled along them thirty years ago on my Raleigh Clubman; now most of them are gone, stolen by the sea, just like my Clubman was stolen by some git in Oxford.


This is Skipsea Sands caravan park at Ulrome (pic). The stretch south from here down to Spurn Head is some of the fastest-disappearing coast in Europe. Each year, another metre or two of the soft glacial till gets washed away by storms and tides – up to 10m in a bad year.

In Roman times, the shore was well over a kilometre from where it is now. Many villages have vanished into the waves, and every year another farm or clifftop cottage goes west. Or rather east.


It's a weird feeling, walking a landscape made of dust that you know is only here for a short time. Like us. In 2010 I wrote a short piece for chamber orchestra called Till that portrays some of my feelings about this temporary, shifting world. It was recorded by by the London Contemporary Chamber Orchestra conducted by Alan Taylor, and you can listen to it at archive.org.

Sombre stuff. After pondering on all this impermanence I cheered myself up with a couple of pints crafted in Wold Top Brewery a few miles down the road in Hunmanby. The beers disappeared even faster than the coastline.