DAY 5: The Excruciating Pedantry of Officialdom
I rose to frost so thick it looked like snow -- no wonder the wildlife was bitching -- the water bottle on my bike was frozen solid. Minus 3°C in May? What the hell? I decided this would be a good time to stay in my sleeping bag and have a rest day to let my knackered body recuperate from the ravages of the previous days' cycling. When it got warmer I'd fiddle with my infernal front brake a bit more, so I watched a couple of movies and breakfasted on coffee, chocolate digestives and a vitamin tablet.
I would've stayed all day, that is, if two clipboards hadn't turned up on an ATV and said I wasn't allowed to camp here. Some early morning hikers had dutifully reported seeing a tent. Imagine that, a tent in the middle of nowhere! Fuck me, alert the media.
Two things bother me immensely about this. First, realizing there are people who think someone sleeping in the wilderness warrants intervention from the 'authorities', and second, those 'authorities' enthusiastically agreeing with them.
Aside from the obvious immorality of attempting to curtail such natural freedoms, there's a whole legal grey area here I want to explore. If the right to roam allows us to traverse ancient pathways established over long centuries, indeed millennia in many cases, despite the ever-changing land ownership and political climate, are we not 'allowed' to stop and rest at any point, on a public right of way? If so, how long are we 'allowed' to rest for? Ten minutes? An hour? Is someone going to time us? Will we get arrested for sitting down to eat a sandwich? What about lying down in the heather for an afternoon nap, Last of the Summer Wine-style? Further, what about lying down in the evening for a snooze? Why not just stay 'til morning and leave then? Who is it hurting? And who establishes these parameters? And who gives them the right to, ultimately, physically altercate with us to stop us from doing so? I think the answer may well be to tell them to piss off and mind their own fucking business, and if they attempt to physically remove us, defend ourselves. These individuals are initiating a personal confrontation, no matter how thick the clipboard paperwork arbitrarily granting them permission to do so. They're human beings sticking their oar in, not arbiters of heavenly justice righting the wrongs of property abuse. It really would be a better idea for everyone involved to just leave everyone else alone.
Of course, the landowners point of view is they don't want their land, crops or livestock damaged. Well, to normal people, that goes without saying. The last thing any reasonable person would do is damage another's livelihood. But what about those that will, you ask? Prosecute them for damages, not everyone. Introducing blanket rules to exclude everybody because of a few inconsiderate idiots is the kind of misgoverning that leads to revolution. It's like banning all sitting because someone took a shit.
Yes, it's exactly like that.
I had made a couple of fundamental errors in my 'wild camping' however, (as 'camping' is now called, I suppose to make it sound more edgy for the kids) by pitching in sight of a trail, and not leaving at first light. I resolved to start looking for campsites earlier in the day from now on, so I could select more covertly. Do I dislike having to do it this way? Yeah, but it's far less hassle than having to roundly beat officials up every morning, which neatly avoids consequences like grave descriptions on Crimewatch and countrywide manhunts.
I quizzed the clipboards about the legality of their objections. Their primary concern was fires, which is fair enough, I suppose (I didn't have a fire), but when they started on about erosion and environmental damage, I had to interject. I didn't say anything, but I did look meaningfully at my bike, then levelled a stare at the chunky tyres on their four-wheeler. Their arguments trailed off, slightly embarrassed, as well they should be. All I leave behind is flattened grass and the occasional buried biodegradable bag of shit. If anything, I'm actually fertilizing the countryside, causing more good than harm. Now then, what are you fucking doing by comparison? Shooting birds?
'The grouse population has to be managed or there won't be enough food for them...'
'Because landowners chopped down all the trees and killed all the predators. Tell me more about this environmental conservation.'
'It's not that simple.'
'It's not. Neither is physically trying to impose your will on someone bigger than you for no other reason than attempting to enforce an arbitrary rule some twit made up in London.'
Realizing they were losing this one rapidly, they changed the subject and suggested they were going to involve additional officialdom of a more medieval demeanour armed with truncheons. I generously agreed to leave.
I climbed further onto the tops and saw far more concealed opportunities for camping I could've exploited if I hadn't been so tired yesterday. Oh well. Stopping to rest by a spring, I used my Travel Tap water filter for the first time, essentially a water bottle with a filter in the cap, which purports to eliminate every dangerous pathogen. I filtered enough water to fill up my two litre main bottle and half-litre bike bottle, feeling very Enid Blyton.
It was really started to warm up into a beautiful day, contrasting starkly to the bleakness of the rolling moorland and early chill. I pedalled across the tops peeling off layers, thoroughly impressed with this entire bike touring idea. This is what it was all about: an easy ride through dramatic scenery without a clipboard, stopwatch or nerdy office rubber stamp twat in sight.
When I started to descend into Wensleydale, I realized the folly of not returning to Reeth to get my brakes looked at. With such massive descents spreading over many miles, I was forced to dismount and not push, but pull my rig back from hurtling down the incline as I progressed valleyward. The bonus was I got to enjoy the immense views for longer, as a working bike would've meant slamming down this hills at fifty for an entirely different jolly.
I turned right on the way down to head to Castle Bolton, because it's a castle and I'm a history whore. As I rode into the village I saw an untended tablet computer on a bench on the green. A Kindle Fire, it looked like. I knocked on a few nearby doors to no avail, until I tried a larger house further afield and bumped into the homeowners sitting outside, enjoying the sun and the view from their position on the side of the dale. I explained what I'd found, and they promised to hand it in to the truncheon men. I declined the offer of a cup of tea, immediately regretting doing so -- I've got to stop doing that: my deeply ingrained English wish to avoid being a bother seriously hampers my networking ability -- and set off to inspect the castle.
Castle Bolton was built between 1378 and 1399 by Richard le Scrope, a famous knight who fought at the renowned French battle of Crecy under the Black Prince in 1346. His name also sounds a little like 'scrote', which is tremendously funny to people like me who appreciate such things and suggests Richard (Dick) may have been 'A Boy Named Sue' tough. It also hosted Mary, Queen of Scots for a while.
The castle is currently run by the heir to the 8th Baron of Bolton, a Capt. Hon. Thomas Peter Algar Orde-Powlett MC, recipient of a 2003 Military Cross in Iraq, and now, more than likely, someone who stops people sleeping in tents. I didn't get to meet him, so I'm probably judging unfairly, but it's a relatively well-preserved castle with some pleasant gardens and a maze, which are to his credit.
With the wind now at my back I hurried on through Wensleydale, passing through the village of Carperby and its Wheatsheaf hotel, where James Herriot himself spent his 1941 honeymoon.
I was trucking along so well I declined to stop for a pint, which isn't like me at all.
Wrestling my rig down one particular hill outside Hawes, I came upon a couple of farmers rebuilding a dry stone wall knocked down by a car some weeks previously. I watched them work and chatted with them for a while, fascinated by the skill set; dry stone walling is the one construction trade I've never had the opportunity to learn. They gave me directions to the bike shop in Hawes, which subsequently turned out to have closed down a couple of years ago.
I got on Google Maps and found another at the far end of the village, which dropped me at the Youth Hostel. Weird. I decided to wait the couple of hours for them to open at 5pm, and see if they had any bike parts to sell, perhaps explaining their Google Map reference. They didn't, so it didn't. Fuck.
Okay, do I continue on with no brakes? Bumbling around mountainous country visiting non-existent bike shops (that, I later found, were unlikely to carry the pads I needed anyway) was rapidly wearing thin. I decided to backtrack to Leyburn, the largest nearby town, and see what was available there.
I'm trying to keep these blogs to less than 1,500 words, and failing miserably. So I'm going to stop here and continue on with Day 5: Part II later. Thanks for reading!
I would've stayed all day, that is, if two clipboards hadn't turned up on an ATV and said I wasn't allowed to camp here. Some early morning hikers had dutifully reported seeing a tent. Imagine that, a tent in the middle of nowhere! Fuck me, alert the media.
Emergency!
Two things bother me immensely about this. First, realizing there are people who think someone sleeping in the wilderness warrants intervention from the 'authorities', and second, those 'authorities' enthusiastically agreeing with them.
Aside from the obvious immorality of attempting to curtail such natural freedoms, there's a whole legal grey area here I want to explore. If the right to roam allows us to traverse ancient pathways established over long centuries, indeed millennia in many cases, despite the ever-changing land ownership and political climate, are we not 'allowed' to stop and rest at any point, on a public right of way? If so, how long are we 'allowed' to rest for? Ten minutes? An hour? Is someone going to time us? Will we get arrested for sitting down to eat a sandwich? What about lying down in the heather for an afternoon nap, Last of the Summer Wine-style? Further, what about lying down in the evening for a snooze? Why not just stay 'til morning and leave then? Who is it hurting? And who establishes these parameters? And who gives them the right to, ultimately, physically altercate with us to stop us from doing so? I think the answer may well be to tell them to piss off and mind their own fucking business, and if they attempt to physically remove us, defend ourselves. These individuals are initiating a personal confrontation, no matter how thick the clipboard paperwork arbitrarily granting them permission to do so. They're human beings sticking their oar in, not arbiters of heavenly justice righting the wrongs of property abuse. It really would be a better idea for everyone involved to just leave everyone else alone.
Of course, the landowners point of view is they don't want their land, crops or livestock damaged. Well, to normal people, that goes without saying. The last thing any reasonable person would do is damage another's livelihood. But what about those that will, you ask? Prosecute them for damages, not everyone. Introducing blanket rules to exclude everybody because of a few inconsiderate idiots is the kind of misgoverning that leads to revolution. It's like banning all sitting because someone took a shit.
Yes, it's exactly like that.
I had made a couple of fundamental errors in my 'wild camping' however, (as 'camping' is now called, I suppose to make it sound more edgy for the kids) by pitching in sight of a trail, and not leaving at first light. I resolved to start looking for campsites earlier in the day from now on, so I could select more covertly. Do I dislike having to do it this way? Yeah, but it's far less hassle than having to roundly beat officials up every morning, which neatly avoids consequences like grave descriptions on Crimewatch and countrywide manhunts.
I quizzed the clipboards about the legality of their objections. Their primary concern was fires, which is fair enough, I suppose (I didn't have a fire), but when they started on about erosion and environmental damage, I had to interject. I didn't say anything, but I did look meaningfully at my bike, then levelled a stare at the chunky tyres on their four-wheeler. Their arguments trailed off, slightly embarrassed, as well they should be. All I leave behind is flattened grass and the occasional buried biodegradable bag of shit. If anything, I'm actually fertilizing the countryside, causing more good than harm. Now then, what are you fucking doing by comparison? Shooting birds?
'The grouse population has to be managed or there won't be enough food for them...'
'Because landowners chopped down all the trees and killed all the predators. Tell me more about this environmental conservation.'
'It's not that simple.'
'It's not. Neither is physically trying to impose your will on someone bigger than you for no other reason than attempting to enforce an arbitrary rule some twit made up in London.'
Realizing they were losing this one rapidly, they changed the subject and suggested they were going to involve additional officialdom of a more medieval demeanour armed with truncheons. I generously agreed to leave.
I climbed further onto the tops and saw far more concealed opportunities for camping I could've exploited if I hadn't been so tired yesterday. Oh well. Stopping to rest by a spring, I used my Travel Tap water filter for the first time, essentially a water bottle with a filter in the cap, which purports to eliminate every dangerous pathogen. I filtered enough water to fill up my two litre main bottle and half-litre bike bottle, feeling very Enid Blyton.
Stopping for water
It was really started to warm up into a beautiful day, contrasting starkly to the bleakness of the rolling moorland and early chill. I pedalled across the tops peeling off layers, thoroughly impressed with this entire bike touring idea. This is what it was all about: an easy ride through dramatic scenery without a clipboard, stopwatch or nerdy office rubber stamp twat in sight.
When I started to descend into Wensleydale, I realized the folly of not returning to Reeth to get my brakes looked at. With such massive descents spreading over many miles, I was forced to dismount and not push, but pull my rig back from hurtling down the incline as I progressed valleyward. The bonus was I got to enjoy the immense views for longer, as a working bike would've meant slamming down this hills at fifty for an entirely different jolly.
Looking down into Wensleydale
I turned right on the way down to head to Castle Bolton, because it's a castle and I'm a history whore. As I rode into the village I saw an untended tablet computer on a bench on the green. A Kindle Fire, it looked like. I knocked on a few nearby doors to no avail, until I tried a larger house further afield and bumped into the homeowners sitting outside, enjoying the sun and the view from their position on the side of the dale. I explained what I'd found, and they promised to hand it in to the truncheon men. I declined the offer of a cup of tea, immediately regretting doing so -- I've got to stop doing that: my deeply ingrained English wish to avoid being a bother seriously hampers my networking ability -- and set off to inspect the castle.
Castle Bolton the village
Castle Bolton the castle
The castle is currently run by the heir to the 8th Baron of Bolton, a Capt. Hon. Thomas Peter Algar Orde-Powlett MC, recipient of a 2003 Military Cross in Iraq, and now, more than likely, someone who stops people sleeping in tents. I didn't get to meet him, so I'm probably judging unfairly, but it's a relatively well-preserved castle with some pleasant gardens and a maze, which are to his credit.
With the wind now at my back I hurried on through Wensleydale, passing through the village of Carperby and its Wheatsheaf hotel, where James Herriot himself spent his 1941 honeymoon.
Wheatsheaf Hotel, where James Herriot honeymooned
I was trucking along so well I declined to stop for a pint, which isn't like me at all.
Some kind of hobbit hole thing
Another castle happened along unannounced
Can you see the paragliders?
Wrestling my rig down one particular hill outside Hawes, I came upon a couple of farmers rebuilding a dry stone wall knocked down by a car some weeks previously. I watched them work and chatted with them for a while, fascinated by the skill set; dry stone walling is the one construction trade I've never had the opportunity to learn. They gave me directions to the bike shop in Hawes, which subsequently turned out to have closed down a couple of years ago.
Gayle Beck in Hawes
I got on Google Maps and found another at the far end of the village, which dropped me at the Youth Hostel. Weird. I decided to wait the couple of hours for them to open at 5pm, and see if they had any bike parts to sell, perhaps explaining their Google Map reference. They didn't, so it didn't. Fuck.
Okay, do I continue on with no brakes? Bumbling around mountainous country visiting non-existent bike shops (that, I later found, were unlikely to carry the pads I needed anyway) was rapidly wearing thin. I decided to backtrack to Leyburn, the largest nearby town, and see what was available there.
* * *
I'm trying to keep these blogs to less than 1,500 words, and failing miserably. So I'm going to stop here and continue on with Day 5: Part II later. Thanks for reading!
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