DAY 6: From Top to Bottom
Aside from the hopefully paused rather than deleted dream orgy, I had a wonderfully uninterrupted night of sleep. I breakfasted, decamped, and was on the road by 5.30am. Now that's how wild camping is supposed to bloody go! I didn't once have to shake the tent to dislodge amorous fowl, or attempt to decipher extra-terrestrial chatter, or threaten a single obstinate clipboard with thinly-veiled violence.
The rising sun came at me sideways on the empty road, diffused by the loitering mist in the lowlands, but bathing the sparsely treed upland slopes in stripes of warmth and colour. Perfection. I enjoyed a couple of quiet hours cycling through scenery that'd cause even the most workshy poet to stop fiddling with himself and scrabble for a thesaurus.
I switched off the audio book* to bask in the silence and solitude. With no one else up this early, it was all for me. Right then, I was the only person in the world. Yeah, so I'm an indulgent twat. Like you haven't figured this out yet.
*I'd been listening to Dan Carlin's Hardcore History podcast as I rode these past few days, and they were a revelation. Each podcast is essentially a short audio book, where Dan makes intelligent historical connections to illustrate the foibles of the human condition. Fascinating conversation fodder. I can't recommend him enough.
On this tour I'd also started listening to David Mitchell's Cloud Atlas and had to stop after the first few minutes, because I was struck immediately this was something I needed to read in print. Really good writing has to be read, I think, because print reading is a serial consideration: one gets to pause and ponder at leisure, and review a phrase, sentence, paragraph, or chapter as necessary. Audio books don't allow this luxury quite so easily; they spool inexorably onward, especially when one's pedalling in traffic, rectum bellowing like a Jango Fett seismic charge every time a heavy goods vehicle thunders close. You can't just whip out your phone and press 'pause' on a whim. And even then, I wouldn't want to. I want to see the wordy juxtaposition as it's designed to be seen. Old-fashioned, me.
When traffic finally did show up in the ones and twos common to rural areas, to a car they were Land Rovers or Range Rovers. The difference, my wall building buddies had informed me, was 'new' farmers versus 'old'. New farmers, apparently driving the Range Rovers, are a gentle, useless lot. Chinless and inbred, they'd spent time at schools 'pupah' had to pay for, all the while being roundly buggered by their classmates. They recoil from building dry stone walls, which is why these skills, like so many others, are being lost. They're land managers, not farmers. Land Rovers, on the other hand, are driven by the old school: real men in patched wellies with holes in their jumpers, gaps in their dentistry, and pensive proverbs but a wistful scratch away. These are the only two options, I was reliably informed, and it was obvious which group this salty brace belonged to.
While these sweeping demographics exhibit a certain distain, I couldn't help but ascribe them an element of truth if driving habits are anything to go by. Land Rovers would typically potter along behind me until I could find space to let them pass, when they'd do so with a cheery wave, or even stop for a chat. Range Rovers acted more like minicabs at an airport, with every overtake oozing hostility. Of course, it could just be me redlining my confirmation bias, but it has to be said.
I do enjoy the enmity exhibited towards cyclists by some drivers, because deflating ignorant entitlement is a particularly satisfying pet project of mine, to road space or anything else. I understand some cyclists are becoming increasingly militant about careless driving, as an uncountable number of YouTube videos attest, but I'm of a more aggressive mindset, especially with such a hefty bike lock. Yep, riding a bike allows you to carry an offensive weapon. Mine's about three feet of heavy duty industrial chain in a fabric sheath, held together by a weighty padlock not much smaller than my fist, stored in a frame bag just in front of my saddle. It's one helluva game changer. I haven't had to pull it on anyone yet, but I'm itching for the day just to see how much damage it'll do, I mean, how much of a deterrent it is.
I do understand, of course, that I'm incriminating myself by announcing an intent to use my bike lock as a medieval flail. It's a curious wobble in English law that many objects aren't deemed offensive weapons until one uses them so, or expresses an intent. (Odd lot, English lawmakers. Anyway, pretend I didn't say anything or I'll belt you with it.)
There is, of course, a third group: the Range Rover driver slumming in a Land Rover. These stealth fops are difficult to identify until they start to speak. And it's just then you'll notice their artificial dishevelment: the flat cap is jauntily askew rather than indifferently placed: corduroy trousers held up by a belt instead of rope: the Barbour crumpled because it fell off the hook by the kitchen AGA, not a result of sleeping in a field on the way home from the pub last week.
There are those who say it's only the working farmers and the ridiculously rich who drive the Land Rovers, because they're similar in not giving too much of a fuck. Range Rovers are for people in the middle, who struggle for identity between the two. I have to say my experiences so far support this notion.
Leyburn proved to be a dead end for brake pads, so that was the end of that. I'd have to head home. I did actually have a supplemental motive; I had some formatting work to finish which is far more doable on the large laptop I'd left behind than the little netbook I'd brought with me.
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I dismounted and pushed up the hill into Middleham, a hillside town of 850 people, 500 race horses, 4 pubs and a castle. It was mid-morning, so I stopped for a rest on the village square war memorial, fought the urge to move here permanently, and watched a couple of hours go by. The number of horses clopping through the streets to the exercise fields was extraordinary.
I've never seen so many in one place. Skittish lot, too, these thoroughbreds. Village squares don't come much quieter than Middleham, but the horses apparently hadn't been informed. Their eyes darted about, widening at every imagined novelty. Riders struggled to stop their charges stampeding at the merest wisp of a threat. Have we done this to these animals with our selective breeding? It's difficult to imagine any beast so teetering on the edge of frenzied panic ever surviving long in the wild. I toyed with the notion that if these psychotic clusterfucks were the product of induced inbreeding, it explains a lot of people in government.
I noticed a public lavatory and scoffed at the idea. Amateurs. It was next door to the chip shop, so I waited for them to open for lunch and treated myself to battered sausage and chips before mounting up, no longer considering the word 'thoroughbred' a compliment.
I relaxed in my tent, fired up the latest episode of Kill Generation, and set the mosquito coil outside to deflect the emerging hordes of midges, only to watch an actual mosquito fly in and land on the tent wall, looking as surprised as I was. What the fuck? In Britain?! I'd never seen one in the UK before. I looked at it, it looked at me, so I backhanded it like a shortchanged pimp.
What the hell? Since when has the Old Country had mosquitoes? We've always had midges: clouds of invasive little buggers who camp follow hikers and like nothing better than kamikaze attacks on eyes or mouth, nipping skin like tiny terriers when they miss, but mosquitoes? I guess we really are in Europe now.
I zipped up and spent a pleasant evening with Kill Generation until nearby gunfire roused me from a snooze. People were hunting in the woods, but I figured I was close enough to the road to be out of danger.
I bedded in and went to proper sleep. It turned cold again, however, and I woke shivering. Rather than break out the heater, sleeping bag liner, or extra layers, I pulled my fleece in through the sleeping bag breathing hole but couldn't be arsed to put it on, falling back asleep immediately.
Now there's a neat trick I didn't know. When it turns cold during the night, there's no need to open up the warm cocoon of your sleeping bag to augment your layers; simply pull in a sweater. It fills up the empty space and, in this particular instance, kept me warm until morning.
It also began to rain for the first time on this tour. There's nothing more cosy than being in a tent during a rainstorm, yet this is the thing that apparently puts a lot of people off camping. What a strange lot.
The rising sun came at me sideways on the empty road, diffused by the loitering mist in the lowlands, but bathing the sparsely treed upland slopes in stripes of warmth and colour. Perfection. I enjoyed a couple of quiet hours cycling through scenery that'd cause even the most workshy poet to stop fiddling with himself and scrabble for a thesaurus.
I switched off the audio book* to bask in the silence and solitude. With no one else up this early, it was all for me. Right then, I was the only person in the world. Yeah, so I'm an indulgent twat. Like you haven't figured this out yet.
*I'd been listening to Dan Carlin's Hardcore History podcast as I rode these past few days, and they were a revelation. Each podcast is essentially a short audio book, where Dan makes intelligent historical connections to illustrate the foibles of the human condition. Fascinating conversation fodder. I can't recommend him enough.
On this tour I'd also started listening to David Mitchell's Cloud Atlas and had to stop after the first few minutes, because I was struck immediately this was something I needed to read in print. Really good writing has to be read, I think, because print reading is a serial consideration: one gets to pause and ponder at leisure, and review a phrase, sentence, paragraph, or chapter as necessary. Audio books don't allow this luxury quite so easily; they spool inexorably onward, especially when one's pedalling in traffic, rectum bellowing like a Jango Fett seismic charge every time a heavy goods vehicle thunders close. You can't just whip out your phone and press 'pause' on a whim. And even then, I wouldn't want to. I want to see the wordy juxtaposition as it's designed to be seen. Old-fashioned, me.
When traffic finally did show up in the ones and twos common to rural areas, to a car they were Land Rovers or Range Rovers. The difference, my wall building buddies had informed me, was 'new' farmers versus 'old'. New farmers, apparently driving the Range Rovers, are a gentle, useless lot. Chinless and inbred, they'd spent time at schools 'pupah' had to pay for, all the while being roundly buggered by their classmates. They recoil from building dry stone walls, which is why these skills, like so many others, are being lost. They're land managers, not farmers. Land Rovers, on the other hand, are driven by the old school: real men in patched wellies with holes in their jumpers, gaps in their dentistry, and pensive proverbs but a wistful scratch away. These are the only two options, I was reliably informed, and it was obvious which group this salty brace belonged to.
While these sweeping demographics exhibit a certain distain, I couldn't help but ascribe them an element of truth if driving habits are anything to go by. Land Rovers would typically potter along behind me until I could find space to let them pass, when they'd do so with a cheery wave, or even stop for a chat. Range Rovers acted more like minicabs at an airport, with every overtake oozing hostility. Of course, it could just be me redlining my confirmation bias, but it has to be said.
I do enjoy the enmity exhibited towards cyclists by some drivers, because deflating ignorant entitlement is a particularly satisfying pet project of mine, to road space or anything else. I understand some cyclists are becoming increasingly militant about careless driving, as an uncountable number of YouTube videos attest, but I'm of a more aggressive mindset, especially with such a hefty bike lock. Yep, riding a bike allows you to carry an offensive weapon. Mine's about three feet of heavy duty industrial chain in a fabric sheath, held together by a weighty padlock not much smaller than my fist, stored in a frame bag just in front of my saddle. It's one helluva game changer. I haven't had to pull it on anyone yet, but I'm itching for the day just to see how much damage it'll do, I mean, how much of a deterrent it is.
I do understand, of course, that I'm incriminating myself by announcing an intent to use my bike lock as a medieval flail. It's a curious wobble in English law that many objects aren't deemed offensive weapons until one uses them so, or expresses an intent. (Odd lot, English lawmakers. Anyway, pretend I didn't say anything or I'll belt you with it.)
There is, of course, a third group: the Range Rover driver slumming in a Land Rover. These stealth fops are difficult to identify until they start to speak. And it's just then you'll notice their artificial dishevelment: the flat cap is jauntily askew rather than indifferently placed: corduroy trousers held up by a belt instead of rope: the Barbour crumpled because it fell off the hook by the kitchen AGA, not a result of sleeping in a field on the way home from the pub last week.
There are those who say it's only the working farmers and the ridiculously rich who drive the Land Rovers, because they're similar in not giving too much of a fuck. Range Rovers are for people in the middle, who struggle for identity between the two. I have to say my experiences so far support this notion.
* * *
Leyburn proved to be a dead end for brake pads, so that was the end of that. I'd have to head home. I did actually have a supplemental motive; I had some formatting work to finish which is far more doable on the large laptop I'd left behind than the little netbook I'd brought with me.
Stopping for water at the bridge over the Ure at Wensley, built by our old friend, Dick Scrote
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Love old churches, this one's at Wensley
I dismounted and pushed up the hill into Middleham, a hillside town of 850 people, 500 race horses, 4 pubs and a castle. It was mid-morning, so I stopped for a rest on the village square war memorial, fought the urge to move here permanently, and watched a couple of hours go by. The number of horses clopping through the streets to the exercise fields was extraordinary.
I think I prefer my steed
I've never seen so many in one place. Skittish lot, too, these thoroughbreds. Village squares don't come much quieter than Middleham, but the horses apparently hadn't been informed. Their eyes darted about, widening at every imagined novelty. Riders struggled to stop their charges stampeding at the merest wisp of a threat. Have we done this to these animals with our selective breeding? It's difficult to imagine any beast so teetering on the edge of frenzied panic ever surviving long in the wild. I toyed with the notion that if these psychotic clusterfucks were the product of induced inbreeding, it explains a lot of people in government.
I noticed a public lavatory and scoffed at the idea. Amateurs. It was next door to the chip shop, so I waited for them to open for lunch and treated myself to battered sausage and chips before mounting up, no longer considering the word 'thoroughbred' a compliment.
Google told me Ripon had a library, so I set off in that direction for the recharging facilities. About 2 in the afternoon I was getting knackered, so I started looking for a campsite. It was a long look, ending at a small patch of woodland about 4.30pm. It wasn't perfect, being a little too close to the road, so I carried on for another 20 minutes, couldn't find anything better, so gave up and doubled back.
What the hell? Since when has the Old Country had mosquitoes? We've always had midges: clouds of invasive little buggers who camp follow hikers and like nothing better than kamikaze attacks on eyes or mouth, nipping skin like tiny terriers when they miss, but mosquitoes? I guess we really are in Europe now.
I zipped up and spent a pleasant evening with Kill Generation until nearby gunfire roused me from a snooze. People were hunting in the woods, but I figured I was close enough to the road to be out of danger.
I bedded in and went to proper sleep. It turned cold again, however, and I woke shivering. Rather than break out the heater, sleeping bag liner, or extra layers, I pulled my fleece in through the sleeping bag breathing hole but couldn't be arsed to put it on, falling back asleep immediately.
Now there's a neat trick I didn't know. When it turns cold during the night, there's no need to open up the warm cocoon of your sleeping bag to augment your layers; simply pull in a sweater. It fills up the empty space and, in this particular instance, kept me warm until morning.
It also began to rain for the first time on this tour. There's nothing more cosy than being in a tent during a rainstorm, yet this is the thing that apparently puts a lot of people off camping. What a strange lot.
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