The Peak District

I have been visiting the Peak District since I was a kid. I used to visit with my parents, a friend of my dad owned a 1950's caravan on a very simple caravan site. The caravan itself was simple, you had to attach the crocodile clips on the terminals of the car battery in a cupboard for the radio to work, the gas bottles powered the mantle lanterns above the dining table and the tap in the so-called kitchen required you to use a foot pump which was infront of the sink. The toilet? That was across the road on  a campsite. Wonderful memories from childhood holidays.

Anyways, 25 (ish) years later and we are in to 2021. For the fourth time we booked a family holiday in a lodge on a farm. An idyllic place with no need to book anywhere else if we are wanting to stay this way. If it ain't broken, don't fix it.  A couple of weeks before the holiday, I mentioned to my wife that I was taking a bike. I wasn't sure if she thought I was serious, but as this was the longest we would have stayed in the peaks, serious I was.

The day before the holiday, I started to pack the car. Priorities first, front wheel off, saddle and seat post off and bike in the car. Everything else will fit round this, humans included.  Thankfully the car is quite big and there was only 3 of us.

The day after arriving and after a morning hike on some beautiful hills, we returned back to the farm. We stroked some lambs, spoke to some horses and I had a play fight with one of the farm dogs, as you do. After nodding off laying in the afternoon sunshine, I made a strong coffee, ate some chocolate and put my cycling kit on. The bike had been ready since we arrived ready for a window of opportunity for a ride, the window was now open. "I'm not walking across the yard in my cycling shoes!" I told the wife. If you ride with SPD-SL cleats, you'll understand why I didn't want to walk on a gravel farmyard. If you haven't got a clue what I'm talking about, don't worry, you aren’t missing out on anything. Crocs on (I am sooooo cool!) , cycling shoes in my left hand and bike over my right shoulder,  I walked across the yard, through the gate and onto  the road outside the farm, ditched the Crocs in the grass verge, shoes on and clipped in. Straight away the road goes up, start as you mean to go on I guess! Although I knew the local routes, I hadn’t planned where I was going. I had found some great nearby hills on Google Maps/Streetview. I had soon decided to see how much climbing I could do in 10 miles, should be fun, a strange fun all the same.

Half a mile up the road, I came across to 2 cars parked across a country lane in odd positions. I could tell something  was going on. As I pulled up, 3 wannabe gangsters with mockney accents, dressed as though they had fallen into  a Sports Direct rejects bin, were giving a bloke in his 50’s loads of verbal grief. As he was out numbered, I felt a sense of duty to stop and just do something. I had no idea what was going on and no idea what I could do, but it was obviously between them and him. I stopped at the side and just stood, the flittering Skylarks above me had more to say, nothing said and nothing done by me, just a presence, arms folded, thighs wanting to get going. In the middle of nowhere, in this tranquillity, how can there be such a verbal mess between people?

To begin with they just looked at me between the heated verbal debate, the hooded gangsters and the outnumbered bloke included. It was all waffle form them, urban drivel which sounded like another language. The warriors swore and gestured every stereotypical body language stance you can imagine. Swinging their arms like a teenager not wanting to have a shower or clean their room.  A deluge of verbal abuse towards me was as imminent and arrived like clockwork, “Wha you lookin’ at bruv! You pedallin’ prick!”, trying not to laugh I just kept my mono look, my best impression of a soldiers thousand yard stare, no response, therefore nothing for them to argue with.  Call me what you want, I couldn’t care anyways. What is done causes me more concern than what is said form those I don’t know.  After they got closer to me and were getting in the blokes face, I moved around them sensing things could get physical, just out of the way but still there, looking odd. It was getting heated, something had to happen. I contemplated shouting as loud as I could, which is pretty loud to say the least.  I don’t know what I would have said, but the contrast between me being mute and a nigh on sonic boom would confuse their minimal brain cells  and they would hopefully disperse like water of a ducks back.  An old college tutor once gave me the wisdom of acting odd if I was ever in a difficult situation. Do something out of context, something weird, something to challenge those around you to therefore solve the situation. I used it before, about 10 years ago after being chased by about 4 blokes for money. I stood in the middle of a busy road as they stood at the side wondering what I was doing, waited for a car to come along, flagged it down, explained what was going on and jumped in, and it worked wonders. Only a few months ago I bumped into my tutor and thanked him.

 

Back to the here and now, the youth were starting to get bored and starting to retreat to their late night retail car park mobile love shacks, still parked in the middle of the road. The inevitable wheel spin and heading towards me was about to come, so I went further up the grass verge and with a dip of his knackered clutch and a poke of his accelerator, he wheel spun right infront of us while kicking up a load of dust as they sped off into the distance. “You alright mate?” I asked. He told me that they were in the car park smoking Sheffield’s finest Jamaican Woodbine and had dropped rubbish in the nearby wooded car park, he told them to pick up some rubbish and that was it, they started on him.  One of “them” had already driven at him and mounted the grass verge. The blokes response to me was a bit odd, I guess he was shaken up and apart from just being there, I hadn’t actually done anything, but perhaps that was enough. I questioned myself about staying local for the ride as they could easily recognise me in my bright GYCC jersey and cause more grief, but local I did stay.

The farm we stayed at is on a hill, very handy for some hill reps. Up and down one of the two roads, as little uphill or flat as possible and as much climbing as I could. After 10 miles I had racked up 1,302ft of climbing, not bad for a Suffolk lad! I finished the ride on my Garmin and spun over to Curbar Edge, a wonderful part of the world. One I knew that I would be seeing again in a couple of day’s time, but more on that later.  Sitting there looking over the seemingly never ending rolling hills, I downed one of Aldi’s finest Mars Bar knock offs (a Titan bar) then headed back for tea.

 

A couple of days later, we decided to hire some bikes and ride the Monsal trail from the Buxton end. Although I had brought my road bike, I needed an MTB and so did my wife and son. This is a trail that runs along the route of a railway line which was operational between 1863 to 1968. Most of the route was opened to the public in 1981, but some of the 6 tunnels remained closed. All of these were opened in 2011 which resulted in a vehicle free, 8 mile stretch of gravel for use by humans on foot or bicycles. We didn’t book the bikes and arrived hoping for the best, the best was only just possible and we were left with what was left, which was absolutely fine by us. The trail was so busy, with everyone having the same idea as us on such a beautiful summers day.  The tunnels were a welcome feature as they provided a cool breeze, a welcoming glimpse of respite from the sweltering heat. Due to the wind direction, even before entering the tunnels,  we could feel the coolness being blown towards us. In the tunnels, cool water was dripping from the top of the perfectly made semi-circle Victorian architecture. If we were lucky enough we got dripped on, lovely!

The scenery all along the trail was magical, the colours of nature in all its glory. The trail cuts through the countryside and quite literally through the hills. As we rode out of one tunnel into the daylight, we were met by such a vast valley, a delightful contrast to the minimal surroundings of the tunnel. I always think that there’s something quite magical about those experiences, from a confined space to the big wide world, even still, I can only imagine how a prisoner feels when released.

We carried on to the end of the trail near Bakewell , where there was nothing much but a bench. We sat, chatted and sweated lots without the constant slightly cooler breeze that riding a bike brings. A couple in the later years walked passed, the gentleman limped passed before leaning against a stone based information board to tell us tourists what we were looking at. We were about to leave, “Would you like to sit here? We are about to go” I offered. With no questioning but lots of gratitude, the couple took up my offer of the bench. I was trying to find something  in my rucksack, “You haven’t got a spare knee in there have you?” the gentleman asked. We started chatting, obviously about the weather and then the Monsal Trail. They were local, they suggested other places to ride such as the Tissington Trail. I told them we were from Lowestoft, they had been on holiday there and recounted their memories of their trip. They thanked us for giving the bench up and I wished them well. With a sense of guilt, I swung my leg over the bike and we peddled off back the way we came.  As walking seemed to be an effort in itself for the gentleman, I’m sure he wished he could do such a simple thing like riding a bike, something that his ill health hinders him from doing. What is simple and achievable for one person is difficult and out of reach for another.

We stopped a mile up the trail at Hassop Station for lunch, and bought some postcards to send to family back home. Some traditions are pointless, postcards aren’t. No one is going to look back at WhatsApp messages in years to come. As the sun got higher, so did the temperature. The coolness of the tunnels was needed even more now. We stopped at Monsal Head, locked the bikes up and walked up the hillside footpath to see the view of the valley and the viaduct. A quintessential view of the English countryside, the type you would find on a jigsaw. 

After sitting for a while, sipping our drinks and enjoying the view, we went to down the hill side to our bikes and carried on. There were even more people than before. No one going fast, there is just no need.

We stopped at Miller’s Dale Station for an ice-cream. The queue was thankfully long,  it served as a perfect reason to just stand, listen and just take in the tranquillity of our surroundings. We sat and watched everyone cycling and walking by, just people watching. We watched a dog sitting infront of its owner, patiently waiting for a bit of its masters ice-cream. Patiently waiting it sat, panting in the summer sun. The owner left the smallest bit possible for the dog, the patience and obedience of the dog didn’t equate to the cold, milky goodness it received.  We carried on for the remaining 1.5 miles to the end, where we disappointingly stopped. Disappointed as we had all enjoyed it so much and didn’t want it to end. A 16 mile ride, nothing fast, nothing difficult but absolutely glorious. A ride that will stay with us all for years to come, more than a majority of boring rides that all blend in to one. Garmins don’t measure fun, but thankfully we can.

We returned the bikes to the hire centre, and to the very helpful chap who was more than happy to answer our questions about the trail and told us everything we needed to know that morning, as well as provide us with some decent bikes although we hadn’t booked. If you’re up that way, check them out; https://www.peakblackwellcyclehire.com

After we returned the bikes, we went and sat next to the nearby River Wye, dipping our feet in the crystal clear water while watching some trout rise to the surface in the shade of the trees. There was a 20 minute walk back to our car along the river bank. On the way we spotted a Dipper in the river. A Dipper is a bird which is the size of a Blackbird but lives in and along rivers such as this. Resting on protruding rocks from the river, they stand and then dip under the water to feed on small fish and aquatic insects and then appear further downstream. When we arrived that morning I said to look out for Dippers, my learned skills from my dad paying off once again. I was even more chuffed when my boy spotted another Dipper up stream, skills through the generations.

When we arrived at the farm a few days earlier, we got chatting to one of the owners. I mentioned that I would be going really early one morning for a ride, so if she heard something or the dogs started kicking off, she would know why. I wasn’t sure if she thought that I was for serious or not. Come the morning of the ride, I was walking across the farmyard at 5am, creeping along in my Crocs of course. The dogs slept in a barn. They’re lovely, mundane animals, but they do their job well, any noise and they bark loud, but thankfully not this time, phew! Crocs chucked in the verge again, shoes on and off I go, straight into the hill of course, no warm up. I didn’t know my route, but knew what hills I wanted to ride. The first is a hill on the A621 between Baslow and Owler Bar, a 4 mile stretch with 638ft of climbing. It starts at the steepest gradient, then gradually flattens out with a few false flats towards the end and up again. The second is the renowned Curbar Edge climb. Road Cycling UK describes it as “a true test for anyone”. It’s a mile long with just over 600ft of climbing at a constant gradient of 10%.

Leaving the farm, I headed for the A621, and left a bag of calories in the grass verge at a junction I knew I would be passing many times, its half way up the hill and not far from Curbar Edge. I’m carrying enough weight of my own at the moment, I don’t need any more even I do have room in my jersey pockets!

I headed up the A621 climb to warm up, at the top is Owler Bar with an odd roundabout which is strung out like a rounded off rectangle, like a long bubble out of a kids bottle of bubble mixture. The anticipation for the upcoming 4 mile descent was exhilarating. The initial rolling road gave way to the increasing gradient and the obvious increasing speed. I have little fear on the bike, things can go wrong doing a track stand the chances of something going wrong are always there, just cast them aside if you can. As I got faster, the casting of such thoughts failed as flashbacks of a rabbit ending up under mine and Jonny Lincoln’s wheels a few weeks ago entered my head. Poor thing, I felt really guilty that evening , but also lucky that Lincoln didn’t hardly react (he was on the front with about a foot between our wheels) and we both stayed upright. Such a little thing can have a huge impact .

As long as the wildlife stayed in the fields and grass verges and not on the road, I would be fine. Knees on top tube, chin on bars, top gear, sprinting I reached 45mph and let out a very loud “WAAAAAAAHHHEEEEEEEEEYYYY!” as I passed a roadside farmhouse at 5:30am.

Onto the A623 towards Curbar, I knew it was a right at The Bridge Inn and it kicks up straight away. From feeling like a speeding hero to absolute zero in 10 minutes. It ramped up straight away through the village, no surprises that I was in my lowest gear. A field full of sheep and lambs appeared, I stopped at the gate, about a third of the way up, if that. Shaking, mumbling and gasping for air, I considered turning round and not doing it. If I hadn’t trained myself to ignore such thoughts, I probably would have, but I didn’t. I didn’t care about stopping, I have nothing to prove, apart from wanting to complete it. I’m not a mountain goat, I have the physique of a professional rugby player (just not as toned, but you get my drift), not a professional bike racer with mountains as their speciality. I can normally get away with it and look alright on the bike, but not on climbs like this. Any extra baggage makes it feel like a bungee rope is tied to a streetlight at the bottom of the hill pulling me back, Dan Martin I am not. Composure gained and shaking stopped and off again, I was too far back off the saddle and started to wheelie with every peddle stroke, shuffle forward to move my centre of gravity and spin Jonny, nice and steady. Out of the village it kinks left, I was going so slow my Garmin paused, it auto-pauses at 3mph, funny enough I stopped again. My heart was pounding out of my chest, I was shaking again, my breathing was erratic, all over the place. The reactions the body only does when it’s on its limits, only climbs like this and time trials effect me this way. Deep breaths, trying to regain focus quite literally and mentally and off I went again, the last push to the top, wheelying again, bum forward. I was trying to manage my chimp who wanted to stop again, the chimp won this time, pesky chimp. Same routine, composure, get some pattern in the breathing and go………..again. It’s the kind of climb that you can hardly push off to clip in. By the time you push, go to clip in you have stopped. As a result I was going across the road to reduce the angle of ascent, therefore more time to clip in. Off for the last push to the top and I look up to see a huge Roe Deer in the road. Standing in the road while I’m hardly moving is fine, if it was in the middle of the A621 while I was doing 45mph, I dread to think. But I’m the one in its environment, I am the guest, the intruder. It walked to the side of the road, how could I not stop to view this gorgeous animal, a perfect reason to stop.  After my best Chris Packham impersonation, I got to the top which then headed back to the junction where I left my snacks. Chomping on a cheap and cheerful long life, vacuum packed croissant, I decided to just ride the hill on the A621, up and down. There’s no boredom in this. I now had the aim to get in 3000ft of climbing in as few miles as possible. Heading up to Owler Bar I was thinking about the fun I was having in this beautiful part of our fine country, no pressure, do what I want, where I want at whatever speed. Isn’t this what riding should be about? I started thinking about time trials and how they are in theory the absolute opposite of this. Upto Owler Bar again, round the big bubble  and down for 4 miles, 180 degrees round the roundabout a straight up again. About half a mile up I stopped, bike against a gate and sat on a stile. In a moment of self-rebellion, I grabbed my phone out of my jersey pocket, logged onto the CTT (Cycling Time Trials) website and withdrew from my upcoming TTs. There’s more to riding than these. The CTT website is the way to book onto open time trails, the formal approach to the sport. On the lead up to TTs, there’s a certain amount of stress. What is the weather/wind forecast? Who is racing?  Who will I beat? Who will beat me? Will I be better than last year? Will I be slower? All this for a mediocre result of which I will always be disappointed at. I’ll still ride club 10 mile TTs if I fancy it, if I don’t, I won’t. Life is stressful enough, there’s no point adding more stress for very little outcome and the rare sense of satisfaction. 

I carried on for another couple attempts of the climb before returning back to the farm, having to back track up a slight climb to make sure I was over 3000ft of climbing. In total I did 3054ft of climbing in 40.3 miles. In comparison to the 140 mile ride that featured in my first blog, there was 3700ft of climbing. 

What a fantastic time in the Peak District. Not just the rides and the walks, but spending quality time with family and just sitting, doing nothing, reading a Mark Beaumont book that I started months ago, closing my eyes and listening to nature. Sometimes doing virtually nothing means everything.  

If you have been to the peaks, you’ll know how great it is, the lads I mentioned earlier are a minority. If you haven’t been, get there and find out, a passport doesn’t guarantee paradise, but this place near enough does.