Pirates, cannon, and barrels of piss
I haven't always had a sweet tooth.
I used to be able to go for months without looking at sweets or cookies. I've forgone cake for years at a time. A new girlfriend once expressed concern over an impulse buy of several bumper packs of candy, only to marvel when they sat unopened on the sideboard six months later.
Not now, though. Now I hunt for sugar like a prowling night terror. Cycling did this to me.
In the saddle, one needs a steady supply of energy, and sugar is the most portable delivery system. I'm into the habit of snacking on Rowntree's Fruit Pastilles and Fruit Gums, but I'll occasionally foray into jelly babies when I'm feeling particularly pleased with myself, or if I'm flush with cash. This is because I tear through jelly babies with the same genocidal zeal seen in comic book villains and the enthusiastically religious. My average m.p.j. (miles per jelly baby) currently stands at 'haven't got any back to the bike yet'.
And away
Tactically loaded with rolls of pastilles and gums, I left in the late afternoon so I didn't have far to ride before camping for the night, shrewdly easing myself into the exercise to avoid suffering stiffness the days after. I knew where I was going to pitch my tent: an old alum quarry on the disused Scarborough to Whitby railway track, now a bridleway that could frankly use a little attention from a maintenance crew.
I'd watched a documentary on the quarry the night before, so I was excited to revisit a place I'd known since childhood, but this time armed with a little history to jimmy the imagination. It's about ten miles north of Scarborough, but I'd overestimated my pathetic cardio, arriving well after dark, huffing like a glue sniffer and cursing my inadequate bike lights.
I ignored the 'no overnight camping' signs because I refuse to acknowledge inarguably immoral rules, quickly set up my tent and settled down to an evening of sandwiches, movies, and satisfaction at finally setting off.
First day on the road
The morning was afire. Beneath my lofty vantage point, the broad sweep of coast from Ravenscar to Robin Hood's Bay silently basked in lazy corals, decadent blues and warmest gold. The world was drunk on summer.
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I can quite shamelessly say I've never seen anything so beautiful. It was so ridiculously pretty I actually chuckled. This magnificent sight encouraged me to linger, so like a proper libertine, I did. I waived breaking camp and went for a wander.
The ruins of the eighteenth century alum processing buildings sit a ways down the slope from the despoiled cliff face, where men chemically extracted the alum before packing it by mule and pony down the towering cliffs to the rocky beach. They carved a harbour from the solid stone shore (the sheer industry in such an endeavour boggles the mind. These men worked) which you can see at the centre of this photo.
This huge slot berthed Whitby Colliers: the same sturdy flat-bottomed ships used by Captain Cook (who grew up a morning's walk from here) to explore the far side of the world.
The flat keel meant they could be beached for loading the processed alum, and unloading barrels of piss used in the process from as far afield as London, and coal for the furnaces, and seaweed from the Orkneys: a rich source of potassium.
This unassuming but rugged stretch of coast was largely responsible for the European discovery of Australia, New Zealand, Hawaii, and the North West Passage. The alum was also similarly instrumental in kickstarting the industrial revolution and the hunger for empire... Let me explain.
Alum is used as a mordant to 'fix' dye in wool so it doesn't immediately wash out, as well as to soften leather, fireproof cloth, make paper smooth, and stop bleeding. In the late medieval, all of these things were pretty important, as you can well imagine. The all-powerful Vatican of the fifteenth century monopolized alum production throughout Europe, so when Henry VIII told them to bugger off, the British were cut from the supply. This forced their vital textile industry to rely on shipping cloth to Belgium for dyeing, whose alum, it is said, was inferior and expensive. Thus, when huge local sources were discovered in Yorkshire during the early seventeenth century, the entire island mobilized to exploit it. Something so trivial and seemingly innocent, from such an isolated and desolate place, significantly changed the face of the world. Forever. I've always loved peering into bottlenecks, especially historical ones. Not sure why.
The process
The shale quarried from these cliffs is rich in aluminium silicates and iron pyrites (bear with me, folks, this could get fucking boring). Alum was formed from combining the sulphur from the pyrites with the alumina from the silicates. The start of this complicated process (remarkably discovered through trial and error) was to burn the shale over brushwood fires, in great heaps called 'clamps' often approaching a hundred feet high. After a time, the chemical reaction produced enough heat to fuel itself, and these clamps would be allowed to smolder away for up to a year, turning the rock a red colour. This 'calcined' shale was then soaked in vats of water to create an aluminium sulphate liquor, which was stored for a while in settling tanks before being drained off down long stone channels to the Alum House a few hundred feet below.
The exhausted shale was then unceremoniously dumped in huge mounds near the quarry, now a preferred habitat of hardy gorse bushes.
Once in the Alum House the liquor was boiled and mixed with either potash (from the seaweed) or ammonia (from the piss) to reduce acidity, and allowed to cool. Alum crystals would form, which is what they were after. The liquor could be reboiled several times to maximize the yield. At its height, the operation garnered around two tons of alum per day.
So valuable was this stuff there was a real threat of attack by pirates, so the clifftops were armed with cannon.
Pirates, cannon, and barrels of piss. Chemistry just got interesting.
Esk valley
Happy as a squirrel with three nuts I set off for Whitby, enthused by discovery, encouraged by the industry of folks I'd never meet, and thoroughly impressed that my British adventure was set for compelling heights if I'm making such finds a mere hour's ride from home.
On the way, I came across a loose horse on the track. We pretty much surprised each other, and he cantered off away from me. I had to head in the same direction, so I followed him.
This little procession lasted for a good ten minutes before he decided he was far enough from home, and tried to figure out how to turn back without getting too close. I stopped and shimmied over to the side of the track to give him as much room as possible, but he still pushed through the undergrowth on the far side instead. Domesticated horses are pretty fucking stupid.
Turning left at Whitby I headed up the Esk valley, where the sharp slopes found my legs sorely lacking in steam. I spent an hour pushing up inclines too steep to pedal, most notably the unpaved (and extremely rough) Straight Lane, which used to join the medieval hillside village of Aislaby to its twelfth century riverside mill. The mill was dismantled during the 1800s so I didn't bother searching for it. (Another mill dating from Saxon times and named in the Doomsday Book is to be found at Ruswarp where I'd crossed the river a mile or two seaward, which I recently discovered had been owned by my grand uncle-in-law.)
Climbing out of the valley onto the moors, I encountered a large group of cyclists on a circuitous day's ride from Pickering. They stopped for a chat and polite marvel at the trailer. One or two of the older men were a little dismissive of my plans, which I took to be envy, and openly criticized my rig, saying panniers were the better way to go. I danced around the conversation, managed to avoid telling them to fuck off, and didn't punch anybody. Positive result all round, I feel.
What is this bitchy infighting thing in cycling? I'm not used to this veiled aggression, I'm used to sharp wit and bloody knuckles. Maybe tight shorts cut off circulation to the balls or something.
Hinderwell
Eavesdropped on two old dears in the pub chatting over a photo album: 'She spent four grand on her teeth, y'know. Two month later, she were dead.'
I never mean to snot beer across the bar, because of the mess it makes. Bartenders have a thankless enough job as it is, dealing with the likes of me after a few jars, so to compound their duties with mopping up an overspill is really quite ungrateful. I made my apologies and helped him clean, all the while straining my ears for further gems.
'She's dead. She's dead. He died of cancer. I think he's alive. No, no, let me think. No, he's dead.'
I absolutely lost it with the giggles. These two were perfect Yorkshire caricatures. Scarcely believing my luck, I drunkenly repaired to the campsite and wrote this down, because I knew I would forget the particulars in the morning.
I'd never been to Hinderwell, which sounds weird to say because my Scarborough primary school was similarly named, so I was intrigued as I rolled in. Quite a pretty village with a great artisanal butcher and a lovely campsite called 'Serenity'. Very friendly folks, and I was the only camper there, so I had the entire field to myself. I took the opportunity to reorganize the way I packed my gear, as after camping last night, glaring inconveniences became apparent.
The ducks from their duck pond came calling in the morning, obviously tamed by more charitable campers chucking out breakfast scraps. I love duck, especially with pork stuffing. I decided they'd miss one and issued a reprieve. They probably had names.
I stayed for two days to get some work done and charge up, aided by their comfy 24 hour WiFi cabin. Wise move, because it rained the entire day. I dashed to the chippy that night for sausage and chips, deftly sidestepped some predatory local women looking for a shag, then considered the wisdom of my agility back at the tent. Oh well.
Seize the day, they say
I'm particularly bad at this. My first instinct is to say 'no'. I've got to learn to say 'yes'. And I'm not just talking about orgies in remote villages named after my primary school, I'm talking about life in general. Be enthusiastic and encouraging, even when you don't feel it, because the recipient certainly does. And the recipient is everything.
Unless, of course, you're a selfish cunt.
I used to be able to go for months without looking at sweets or cookies. I've forgone cake for years at a time. A new girlfriend once expressed concern over an impulse buy of several bumper packs of candy, only to marvel when they sat unopened on the sideboard six months later.
Not now, though. Now I hunt for sugar like a prowling night terror. Cycling did this to me.
In the saddle, one needs a steady supply of energy, and sugar is the most portable delivery system. I'm into the habit of snacking on Rowntree's Fruit Pastilles and Fruit Gums, but I'll occasionally foray into jelly babies when I'm feeling particularly pleased with myself, or if I'm flush with cash. This is because I tear through jelly babies with the same genocidal zeal seen in comic book villains and the enthusiastically religious. My average m.p.j. (miles per jelly baby) currently stands at 'haven't got any back to the bike yet'.
And away
Tactically loaded with rolls of pastilles and gums, I left in the late afternoon so I didn't have far to ride before camping for the night, shrewdly easing myself into the exercise to avoid suffering stiffness the days after. I knew where I was going to pitch my tent: an old alum quarry on the disused Scarborough to Whitby railway track, now a bridleway that could frankly use a little attention from a maintenance crew.
I'd watched a documentary on the quarry the night before, so I was excited to revisit a place I'd known since childhood, but this time armed with a little history to jimmy the imagination. It's about ten miles north of Scarborough, but I'd overestimated my pathetic cardio, arriving well after dark, huffing like a glue sniffer and cursing my inadequate bike lights.
I ignored the 'no overnight camping' signs because I refuse to acknowledge inarguably immoral rules, quickly set up my tent and settled down to an evening of sandwiches, movies, and satisfaction at finally setting off.
First day on the road
The morning was afire. Beneath my lofty vantage point, the broad sweep of coast from Ravenscar to Robin Hood's Bay silently basked in lazy corals, decadent blues and warmest gold. The world was drunk on summer.
.JPG)
.JPG)
Hold the camera straight, stupid
.JPG)
.JPG)
I can quite shamelessly say I've never seen anything so beautiful. It was so ridiculously pretty I actually chuckled. This magnificent sight encouraged me to linger, so like a proper libertine, I did. I waived breaking camp and went for a wander.
The ruins of the eighteenth century alum processing buildings sit a ways down the slope from the despoiled cliff face, where men chemically extracted the alum before packing it by mule and pony down the towering cliffs to the rocky beach. They carved a harbour from the solid stone shore (the sheer industry in such an endeavour boggles the mind. These men worked) which you can see at the centre of this photo.
This huge slot berthed Whitby Colliers: the same sturdy flat-bottomed ships used by Captain Cook (who grew up a morning's walk from here) to explore the far side of the world.
The flat keel meant they could be beached for loading the processed alum, and unloading barrels of piss used in the process from as far afield as London, and coal for the furnaces, and seaweed from the Orkneys: a rich source of potassium.
Alum is used as a mordant to 'fix' dye in wool so it doesn't immediately wash out, as well as to soften leather, fireproof cloth, make paper smooth, and stop bleeding. In the late medieval, all of these things were pretty important, as you can well imagine. The all-powerful Vatican of the fifteenth century monopolized alum production throughout Europe, so when Henry VIII told them to bugger off, the British were cut from the supply. This forced their vital textile industry to rely on shipping cloth to Belgium for dyeing, whose alum, it is said, was inferior and expensive. Thus, when huge local sources were discovered in Yorkshire during the early seventeenth century, the entire island mobilized to exploit it. Something so trivial and seemingly innocent, from such an isolated and desolate place, significantly changed the face of the world. Forever. I've always loved peering into bottlenecks, especially historical ones. Not sure why.
The process
The shale quarried from these cliffs is rich in aluminium silicates and iron pyrites (bear with me, folks, this could get fucking boring). Alum was formed from combining the sulphur from the pyrites with the alumina from the silicates. The start of this complicated process (remarkably discovered through trial and error) was to burn the shale over brushwood fires, in great heaps called 'clamps' often approaching a hundred feet high. After a time, the chemical reaction produced enough heat to fuel itself, and these clamps would be allowed to smolder away for up to a year, turning the rock a red colour. This 'calcined' shale was then soaked in vats of water to create an aluminium sulphate liquor, which was stored for a while in settling tanks before being drained off down long stone channels to the Alum House a few hundred feet below.
The exhausted shale was then unceremoniously dumped in huge mounds near the quarry, now a preferred habitat of hardy gorse bushes.
Once in the Alum House the liquor was boiled and mixed with either potash (from the seaweed) or ammonia (from the piss) to reduce acidity, and allowed to cool. Alum crystals would form, which is what they were after. The liquor could be reboiled several times to maximize the yield. At its height, the operation garnered around two tons of alum per day.
So valuable was this stuff there was a real threat of attack by pirates, so the clifftops were armed with cannon.
Pirates, cannon, and barrels of piss. Chemistry just got interesting.
Esk valley
Happy as a squirrel with three nuts I set off for Whitby, enthused by discovery, encouraged by the industry of folks I'd never meet, and thoroughly impressed that my British adventure was set for compelling heights if I'm making such finds a mere hour's ride from home.
On the way, I came across a loose horse on the track. We pretty much surprised each other, and he cantered off away from me. I had to head in the same direction, so I followed him.
This little procession lasted for a good ten minutes before he decided he was far enough from home, and tried to figure out how to turn back without getting too close. I stopped and shimmied over to the side of the track to give him as much room as possible, but he still pushed through the undergrowth on the far side instead. Domesticated horses are pretty fucking stupid.
Turning left at Whitby I headed up the Esk valley, where the sharp slopes found my legs sorely lacking in steam. I spent an hour pushing up inclines too steep to pedal, most notably the unpaved (and extremely rough) Straight Lane, which used to join the medieval hillside village of Aislaby to its twelfth century riverside mill. The mill was dismantled during the 1800s so I didn't bother searching for it. (Another mill dating from Saxon times and named in the Doomsday Book is to be found at Ruswarp where I'd crossed the river a mile or two seaward, which I recently discovered had been owned by my grand uncle-in-law.)
Climbing out of the valley onto the moors, I encountered a large group of cyclists on a circuitous day's ride from Pickering. They stopped for a chat and polite marvel at the trailer. One or two of the older men were a little dismissive of my plans, which I took to be envy, and openly criticized my rig, saying panniers were the better way to go. I danced around the conversation, managed to avoid telling them to fuck off, and didn't punch anybody. Positive result all round, I feel.
What is this bitchy infighting thing in cycling? I'm not used to this veiled aggression, I'm used to sharp wit and bloody knuckles. Maybe tight shorts cut off circulation to the balls or something.
Hinderwell
Eavesdropped on two old dears in the pub chatting over a photo album: 'She spent four grand on her teeth, y'know. Two month later, she were dead.'
I never mean to snot beer across the bar, because of the mess it makes. Bartenders have a thankless enough job as it is, dealing with the likes of me after a few jars, so to compound their duties with mopping up an overspill is really quite ungrateful. I made my apologies and helped him clean, all the while straining my ears for further gems.
'She's dead. She's dead. He died of cancer. I think he's alive. No, no, let me think. No, he's dead.'
I absolutely lost it with the giggles. These two were perfect Yorkshire caricatures. Scarcely believing my luck, I drunkenly repaired to the campsite and wrote this down, because I knew I would forget the particulars in the morning.
I'd never been to Hinderwell, which sounds weird to say because my Scarborough primary school was similarly named, so I was intrigued as I rolled in. Quite a pretty village with a great artisanal butcher and a lovely campsite called 'Serenity'. Very friendly folks, and I was the only camper there, so I had the entire field to myself. I took the opportunity to reorganize the way I packed my gear, as after camping last night, glaring inconveniences became apparent.
The ducks from their duck pond came calling in the morning, obviously tamed by more charitable campers chucking out breakfast scraps. I love duck, especially with pork stuffing. I decided they'd miss one and issued a reprieve. They probably had names.
I stayed for two days to get some work done and charge up, aided by their comfy 24 hour WiFi cabin. Wise move, because it rained the entire day. I dashed to the chippy that night for sausage and chips, deftly sidestepped some predatory local women looking for a shag, then considered the wisdom of my agility back at the tent. Oh well.
Seize the day, they say
I'm particularly bad at this. My first instinct is to say 'no'. I've got to learn to say 'yes'. And I'm not just talking about orgies in remote villages named after my primary school, I'm talking about life in general. Be enthusiastic and encouraging, even when you don't feel it, because the recipient certainly does. And the recipient is everything.
Unless, of course, you're a selfish cunt.
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