Swale 1: Keld to Northallerton

River Swale

Source   Birkdale Beck and Great Sleddale Beck, Birkdale
Mouth   River Ouse, Myton on Swale
Length   73 miles
Towns   Richmond
Route   See on Ridewithgps

The seventh of my Rivers Rides was a spectacular two-day, 90-mile trip from remote moortop to vale farmland along the River Swale. Day 1 featured potentially illegal trousers, fjords, castles, upside-down pub signs and a lot of quite wonderful scenery. (On to Day 2 →)

Train problems meant it was lunchtime before I got to Kirkby Stephen station. Things got off to a rip-roaring start, but not in a good way: my ancient cargo pants, Vietnam veterans indeed, tore spectacularly as I cocked my leg to get on to my bike (pic).

They didn’t get any less torn as the day progressed, either. I spent the rest of the day increasingly well ventilated.

Luckily I managed to avoid arrest.



I rode through Nateby and up Lamps Moss, with views back to the Vale of Eden (pic). I wasn’t the only smiling cyclist out today.



At the watershed, with Nine Standards Rigg to my left and some wet but defiantly happy Coast-to-Coast walkers for company, I crossed from Cumbria into Yorkshire (pic). From here it was downhill all the way to my house.

In theory. But then in theory, it’s easy to switch bank accounts. Except HSBC’s phone banking told me to do it online, their website told me to go to a branch, and the branch told me to use phone banking.

A few determined streams begin their journey east (pic). I had a brisk tailwind behind me and altitude in the bank, though whether HSBC had switched it yet I wasn’t sure. Anyway, I was zooming along, and happy like you simply can’t imagine.

Unless you’re a cycle tourer, in which case you simply can.

This is the source of the Swale, though not where it begins (pic). The light drizzle that had dusted me on the way up gathers here, in Birkdale and neighbouring Sled Dale, and runs off the hillsides heading for the North Sea. In a couple of days’ time, the water here will be gracefully passing York Minster. And soon after, less gracefully, Hull.

This is where the Swale begins, though not its source (pic). Round about where that farmhouse is, Great Sled Dale Beck and Birkdale Beck join, and from here it’s the River Swale. The name comes from an Old English word meaning ’fast-moving and quick to rise’.

In which case, I’m not very swale.



Welcome to Swaledale (pic) When I’m riding in Wharfedale, I think that’s the most beautiful dale. When I’m riding in Swaledale, I know that’s the most beautiful dale.


From Keld, the highest village in the dale, begins the Swale Trail. The 20-mile mountain bike route starts off with some quite fabulous scenery, as you climb up out of the village for views of one of Yorkshire’s finest gorges (pic). I lunched at a waterfall, happy like you might be able to imagine even if you’re not a cycle tourer.



A picture is worth a thousand words, they say (pic). That’s 985 words saved, then.



I headed east, between Muker and Gunnerside, along the back lane above the dale (pic). There were lots of families out cycling, which was great to see. And, encouragingly, no childish moaning about tough climbs, stony surfaces, I’m tired, are we nearly there yet, etc. I’m pleased that I’ve managed to stop that.



In Reeth, I stopped to admire the green and have a snack among the demob-happy tourists...

...and smiled again at the upside-down pub sign (pic).

(¿ɥǝ ’ʇɐǝu - uʍop-ǝpısdn sɹǝʇʇǝן ןɐuoıʇuǝʌuoɔ ǝʞıן *ʞooן* oʇ uǝddɐɥ ʇsnɾ ʇɐɥʇ sɹǝʇɔɐɹɐɥɔ ǝɹnɔsqo sǝsn ʇɐɥʇ ןɯʇɥ uı ʇxǝʇ uʍop-ǝpısdn ƃuıʎɐןdsıp oʇ ʞɔıɹʇ ɐ s,ǝɹǝɥʇ)

Richmond is well-known for its ugly car park, or as the tourist brochures amusingly call it, ‘fine Georgian market square’, which I’ve cycled many times.

However, I’d somehow never ridden along the lane right alongside the Swale, dramatically situated underneath the ruins of the castle (pic).

Or, as an estate agent might call it, ‘fine building of period charm with bags of potential’.

The sign (pic) reminded me of the Swale’s reputation as Britain’s fastest-to-spate river. It can rise metres in minutes. These days, evidently, it does so even more abruptly than a generation or two ago, when it only rose feet in minutes.

You can imagine what’s to blame. The EU, clearly.



I’d also never seen Richmond’s ‘Iguazu Falls’ (pic). Well, it resembles Iguazu no less than the car park resembles a market square.

The scenery quietens down after Richmond, and the Swale placidly wanders along Vale of York farmland. It was nearly seven, thanks to my delayed start this morning, and I scuttled along quiet back lanes through little villages with occasional views of the waters (pic).

With accommodation snapped up by staycationers and campsites rendered pointless by their not providing toilets or showers, I got the train home from Northallerton, intending to return the next morning to continue.

Unfortunately I was booked on a late train and the station waiting room was shut, so I had to kick my heels in the pub next door with nothing to entertain me except the TV highlights of England’s test victory today.

Miles today: 51

On to Day 2 →

Nidd 2: Knaresborough to Nun Monkton

Day 2 of the River Nidd ride featured the world’s first unicycle, Yorkshire trompe l’œuil, my namesake’s cave home, the UK's tallest maypole, and the slightly flooded end of the ride at the mouth into the Ouse. (Back to ← Day 1)

Resuming at Knaresborough railway station, I made my way into the main square.

A monument there (pic) celebrates the town’s most famous son, Blind Jack of Knaresborough.

Sight loss notwithstanding, Jack was an expert fiddler and road-builder – that elusive combination of skills – but on the evidence of this apparently also devised the world’s first unicycle, complete with a massive speedometer.



It was market day, and stalls were being set out (pic). Fruit was being arranged, vegetables stacked, and apostrophes prepared for misapplication. That statue is of alleged prophetess of doom Mother Shipton, the town's most famous daughter.



A notable feature of Knaresborough, apart from its chessboard-pattern houses, is its trompe l’œuil windows (pic). And here, meta-trompe-l’œuil, oh, very clever. Housepainting in the 1970s evidently had a different approach to Health & Safety.

It was still early – just gone seven – and I had the castle to myself (pic). Which meant I had no qualms about cycling around it.

Where was everyone else? Self-isolating, perhaps.



The view from the castle rock is pretty spectacular... (pic)



...and shows off the magnificent railway viaduct (pic). It was built in 1848, replacing the previous effort which collapsed that year. Several thousands of fish died, and several dozen lawyers thrived on the ensuing legal action.

The stretch from here through town east alongside the Nidd is super.

I followed the lane along with other cyclists (pic) around the hulking cliffs which, reassuringly, are protected from rockfalls by wire cages.



At the north end of town, by the riverside, is St Robert’s Cave (pic), named after the 12th-century hermit and wise man who lived here. He had no children, didn't live in a building, didn't burn fossil fuels, ate only what he could forage and bathed in the cold muddy waters of the river, so was clearly a role model for sustainability.

From here the Nidd, as if confused by the flatpack farmland, starts to meander wildly on its final stretch towards the Ouse.

The road, more certain of where it’s going, cracks on in straight lines, so I made good progress in the pleasant morning sun to Cattal’s pleasant but narrow bridge (pic).

The Nidd is last seen at Nun Monkton, which I’ve blogged about before: proud owner of perhaps Britain’s smallest ferry and certainly tallest maypole (pic).



Here is where the Nidd ends (pic): joining the Ouse from the right, opposite the grounds of Beningborough Hall, a few miles north of York. The waters had subsided after the weeks of flooding, but were still high – that's the ferry landing stage, clearly out of action.



This panorama (pic) was my final view of the Nidd. I zipped back to Hammerton to get a train home, abstemiously by-passing the Alice Hawthorn pub in the village. Mind you, it was still only ten o’clock, so it wasn’t actually open yet.

Miles today: 25
Miles total: 71

Back to ← Day 1

Nidd 1: Scar House to Knaresborough

River Nidd

Source   Nidd Head, Great Whernside
Mouth   River Ouse, Nun Monkton
Length   59 miles
Towns   Pateley Bridge, Knaresborough
Route   See on Ridewithgps

The sixth of my Rivers Rides was a varied two-day, 80-mile trip from remote moortop to muddy estuary along the River Nidd. Day 1 featured monster chess pieces, alpine views, snow and sun, unusual pork pies, a little bit of Italy, and a taste of the World’s End. (On to Day 2 →)

Getting near the source needed a bus (pic) which meant the maiden trip for my new (third-hand) folding tourer, or possibly touring folder: a Dahon Speed TR.

I was the only passenger on the 24 from Harrogate to Pateley Bridge, and the only user of the back roads from there northwest up along the Nidd to its source.

No identity problems with this river. There may be impostor Derwents, Calders and Ouses, but there’s only one River Nidd.

Less celebrated than the bigger dales, Nidderdale is a real cracker, an underrated gem, a connoisseur’s delight. And great for pork pies.



The nearest you can get to the origin of the Nidd on a bike is the topmost of the three reservoirs in Upper Nidderdale: Anagram (pic).



Oh, sorry, Angram. An anagram of ‘reservoir’ is ‘river rose’, though, which is appropriate. The Nidd rose to fill Angram in the early 1900s when this mighty retaining dam (pic) was built, along with Scar House’s even bigger one slightly further down, and Gouthwaite towards Pateley Bridge.

I was astonished to learn that their waters supply the parched population of Bradford, via a pipe that runs almost all underground for 30 miles, working purely on gravity. I’ll remember that next time I quench a curry there.



It was a glorious cold but sunny morning, and there was fresh snow on the tops (pic). That’s Great Whernside in the distance (not to be confused with the confusingly higher Whernside, of Yorkshire Three Peaks fame). The Nidd coalesces there, on its slopes.

Unfortunately this giant rook was the only one of the chess pieces left from the dam’s original design.



I’d slogged twelve miles uphill into the wind from Pateley Bridge, so now I could enjoy freewheeling the same distance back down the lovely upper dale (pic).

The four miles of smooth tarmac up to the reservoirs from Lofthouse is a private road belonging to Yorkshire Water, but you’re allowed to cycle it. I wasn’t the only one doing so this fine morning, but I was probably the slowest.



At Goyden Pot, a couple of miles down from Anagram River Rose, the river – like a Prime Minister avoiding scrutiny from an expert TV interrogator – does a disappearing act, ducking down into a hole (pic).



The course of the Nidd when in spate continues dry for a few hundred metres. It gathers a few springs and restarts, and just outside Lofthouse it’s rejoined by the Goyden Pot branch, which appears out the side of a hill (pic) like a Prime Minister popping up to make some simplistic, populist, unbudgeted pledge in an impromptu press conference.



Anyway, the road continues alongside the Nidd...



...and alongside Gouthwaite, the last of the reservoir chain (pic).



Back in Pateley Bridge, where my bus had decanted me and bike earlier in the day, I ambled up the High St and stopped to admire the yellow ‘penny-farthing’ on the wall of the Oldest Sweatshop in Britain (pic), dating back to 1661. Oh, sorry, sweetshop.

I also snacked on a fine piece of fusion cuisine – the fusion being Yorkshire–Yorkshire – from Kendall’s the Farm Butcher: a pork pie with mushy peas (pic).

Mindful of floods on the south bank road alongside the Nidd – the bus had waded through them on my way out – I took the higher alternative on the north bank to Summerbridge, and past a place entertainingly called New York. Alas, no amusing signpost photo opportunities: it’s an industrial estate.

The sun was out, the fields were a glistening emerald, and I was happy. Perhaps it was the mushy peas.



I rode over the toll bridge at Hartwith Mill (cars 35p, bikes free) and went through Clint along the Sustrans route to lovely Ripley, with its castle and Italianate village (pic). So Italianate that it’s famous for its ice cream, but it was too cold for ice cream today. I didn’t want raspberry ripple all over my gloves.



Just outside Ripley is this monument (pic) commemorating the Tour de France 2014, which came past here. Not on the Sustrans path, I presume: the cattle grids would outrattle any stretch of Paris-Roubaix.

Then it was the delightful railtrail towards Harrogate, which culminates in the splendid viaduct over the Nidd (pic).

It’s a grand view this way, with the shadow helpfully hinting at the grandeur of the viaduct itself.

The other way is less impressive. It’s a sewage farm.



Journey’s end today was at Knaresborough, its houses stacked up on the gorge side in a rather non-English way (pic).

The town’s most famous daughter is Mother Shipton, the legendary 16th-century seer who predicted the End of the World, according to fanciful 19th-century fabrications, for for 1881. Clearly nonsense. Now, 2020 on the other hand, I could believe.

To celebrate her gloomy soothsayings I dropped into the friendly World’s End pub by the riverside, and enjoyed a pint of Daleside World’s End (pic) to round off the day.

A refreshing light session beer with hints of viral apocalypse, notes of irreversible climate change, and a long aftertaste of nuclear fallout.

Cheers!

Miles today: 46

On to Day 2 →

York: Floody but unbowed

I’ve lived in York since 2011, so it’s about time I blogged about it. It’s a tourist Mecca of course, with a large and important religious building – the Minster – like Mecca. Though unlike Mecca, it has 365 pubs. (Actually the figure is more like 200, but it’s nice to think that a year’s entertainment could be so easily scheduled.)

Not to mention the quaint cobbled centre, the Shambles, the museums, the parks, the magnificent free National Rail Museum, or the medieval city walls dating back to Victorian times. So I won’t. Instead today I’m looking at York’s other tourist attraction: the Ouse, whose amiable city centre riverside provides walks, cycle paths, postcard views and a million selfies.



Unfortunately you can have too much of a good thing – Storm Ciara and Storm Dennis combined to produce flood levels this morning of 4.5m, figures not seen since 2015, though mercifully short of the disastrous 5.4m during the floods of 2000. Which meant the river was twice as wide as usual through much of the centre, cutting off paths and inundating parks (pic).

The business of the river’s name can be as cloudy as the water itself. Hydrologically, York’s on the River Ure, but for some reason unknown even to clever people, the Ure changes its name to the Ouse about ten miles outside the city, where the trickle of Ouse Gill Beck joins it by stealth. (Downstream, it joins the Trent to become the Humber.)

Muddying the waters further, the upper Ure doesn’t flow through Uredale: it’s called Wensleydale, after a once significant town on its banks. And, more turbid still, the name ‘York’ comes from ‘Jorvik’, which looks like ‘Ure-vik’, especially as ‘Yoredale’ was the old name for Wensleydale; but we’re told, unconvincingly, that it comes from a corruption of ‘Eboracum’ via ‘Eoforwic’. OK: We'll have to go with the flow.



Anyway, the upstream bit of the Ure/ Yore/ Ouse looked more like a lake district this morning (pic). Clearly no trundling up the riverside path to Beningborough today.



At least one good news story is Scarborough Bridge, a 2019 rebuild of the old iron bridge from the train station (pic). It used to be inaccessible during floods, but the new one provides a trenchfoot-free crossing of the river. So you can still get to the station, well in time to find your train has been cancelled because of signalling problems.

‘Cyclists use lower landing only’, says the sign (pic).

Yes, you obviously wouldn’t want to use the upper one. It’s cobbled.



A standard shot of 'flooded York’ is the King’s Arms (pic), a Sam Smith pub which turns into a lido every time the river swells. No customers today, obviously.

Seriously though, one must sympathise with SS’s owner, Humphrey Smith. Being inundated by foul, dirty liquid that leaves a lingering stench is no joke. Yes, you can insert your own joke about his beer. ONLY JOKING, LEGAL PEOPLE. I actually have a soft spot for Humphrey Smith. It’s a bog in the Dales.

Skeldergate (pic) only floods when the river’s really high. Today’s max of 4.5m York can cope with, just, thanks to sandbags, floodgates and pumps.

But the peaks are getting higher. Currently, the defences work up to 4.8m. I’m told by Environment Agency people that the highest water levels each flood have risen by 60cm in the last century, and will go up a further 100cm in the next.



This used to be a once-in-a-decade water level (pic); well, this is the second one in a week, thanks to Ciara and Dennis. No doubt some of the people who make idiotic anti-bike comments on the York Press website are looking at this pic and thinking, Typical! All that money they spend on cycle routes and nobody’s using it.

The York Orbital route (pic) encourages all sorts of non-motorised users – walkers, bikes, wheelchairs, child buggies, roller bladers, mobility scooters etc.

Though, these days, it’s increasingly the province of canoeists.



The ped-bike Millennium Bridge (pic) is a vital link between the South Bank and the University, as well as being a social space. So long as the river’s less than 4.5m above normal, anyway (remedial works are promised)...



...and this cyclist thought long and hard before tackling the marshy bit blocking him off from the South Bank (pic). He eventually decided to ride through rather than risk the impromptu stepping stones.



Encouragingly, it looks like York has got away with this pair of floods: 4.5m both times, but contained, just. We’ve stayed open for business, and the camera crews stalking Tower St and Skeldergate looking for disaster stories looked rather disappointed that everyone was coping OK, actually, thanks. This stranded bike (pic) was about as apocalyptic as things got... this time round.



But what the future holds in an ever rainier world, who knows? I wasn’t joking about the canoes. This cyclist (pic), who we saw yesterday on Bishy Rd, is taking no chances.