NORTHERN NEWS

Number 157                                                                              

Nov 07

 

 

 

Guerlesquin Memorial Gardens                             

by Archie Powell

 

 

 

NEXT COPY DATE – TUESDAY 27th NOVEMBER

 

HON SEC’S JOTTINGS                                           

by John Bedford      

Annual General Meeting. The Committee was returned unchanged (see inside front cover of NN).  T Moore tabled the following “ I wish to express my concern over poor compliance with the Highway Code, our own Code of Conduct and the law on many of our rides”. This will be considered by the Committee. They will also be considering the new Policy Document from Head Office.

Mudguards. Please note that our Code of Conduct says” in consideration of your fellow riders all are asked to have full-length mudguards with a rear mudflap” Where there is any sign of wet on the roads, riders whose bikes are not fitted with full mudguards must ride at the rear of the group. Leaders are asked to remind these riders.

Found. A pair of red & black large Cranesports mitts. See me.

Connect 2 Project. This is a £50 million bid for lottery money by Sustrans, which would fund a large number of Sustrans projects for the benefit of cycling across the whole country. Locally it will be used to extend the New Hall Valley route through Rectory Park to Good Hope Hospital, with connections to Sutton town centre and Sutton Park. Sustrans will be competing against other organisations for this money in a series of television programmes to be followed by telephone and internet voting on 8th and 9th December. Stay updated by logging onto www.sustransconnect2.org.uk, or Texting Connect2 to 80010.

Slideshows. Coventry Group are holding their Annual Slideshow on Tuesday 27th November at 7.30pm at The Friends Meeting House, Hill St, Coventry. Admission £4, including interval buffet. ‘Two Pedestrians on Bicycles’. Join Mary & Graham on their round the world cycle trip taking 15 months to cover 12000 miles and crossing 12 countries.

 Birmingham Clubroom, Carrs Lane Church Centre, 7.30pm £2.

Tues. 13th November. ‘Touring Peru & Bolivia’ by Peter Crofts.

Tues. 11th December. ‘C to C and back’ by Roger Thorpe

Tues. 8th January. ‘Transylvania’ by Rob Bishop.

DA AGM, Sunday November 18th, at 12 noon. This will be held at Nether Whitacre Village Hall, which opens for teas, coffee, cakes at 11.30.

 

Carol Service, Sunday December 16th. Due to roof repairs Meriden Church will be out of use for several months and therefore the Cyclists’ Carol Service is being held at Fillongley Church. Refreshments i.e. Mince Pies etc will be available at the Village Hall from 12 noon. The Hall is situated about a quarter of a mile along the B4098 on the right side in the direction of Coventry. For those having a car assisted ride the cars can be parked at the village hall. The Service will follow the usual pattern and will start at 2pm.

Albert Taylor. We understand that Albert is steadily recovering from his accident and send best wishes from all club members

 

SOCIAL DIARY

 

HIGHBURY LITTLE THEATRE

 

John, Mary & Katie are considering organising theatre visits to the above during the next year. If we can get 15+ people then we could make a social occasion by having a pre-performance or a post-performance supper at the theatre.

5-16th February: “Love Begins at Fifty”. This may be a good start.

6-17th May: Neville’s Island

Please let us know if there is any interest. We would like to hear from all of you whether you are interested or not.

 

FESTIVE TEA – SUNDAY 9th DECEMBER

at SHENSTONE CLUBROOM at 3pm

 

Cost £3-50. Bookings to Beryl, with cash, asap.

Maximum 50 places. Catering masterminded by Enid & Mary!

Please do not turn up until 3pm unless you have a specific job to do.

No bikes in the Hall please.

 

 

 

 

MORE MANIFOLD MAGIC                              

by Tom Moore

Car-assisted 13th September

 

The ride was to start from Grindon Church high above the Manifold Valley. By 10.15 it was clear that nobody else would be with me for the ride so I set off under a cloudy sky. The four miles to Waterhouses were largely downhill with extensive views either side of the road; pity about the view of the quarry and crushing plant straight ahead beyond Waterhouses. By the time I reached the main road the sun was shining and shortly I turned onto the River Hamps section of the Manifold track. As many of you will know both the Hamps and the Manifold have the habit of disappearing to flow under the ground – today was such a day. The Hamps section is different in character from the Manifold proper with few limestone outcrops, but on reaching the confluence of the two rivers the scenery becomes more dramatic but still has an air of modest gentility.

 

The sight of Thor’s Cave high up on the hillside provided an excuse to pause for a drink and to admire the view and the blue cranesbill flowers alongside the track. They must be one of our prettiest native wild flowers and were still abundant at this time of year.

 

All too soon I reached Wetton Mill café for 11’s. This is a special place to stop, particularly on a sunny day. Here the Manifold was above ground and, as usual, a large number of Mallards had gathered, hoping for tit-bits from clientel. This was their lucky day as two young toddlers were obligingly throwing them food. Unusually, my pot of tea was made from loose tea leaves with a strainer provided to catch the leaves – and very nice tea it was too.

 

As I was on my own I decided to explore the route on the east side of the river. Within a few hundred yards the tarmac was replaced by a gravely surface leading to a closed gate, both deterents to motorists I hoped. Once through the gate the tarmac resumed and the narrow, gently undulating road afforded views of the river from the other side. After a few gates (they had detered  the motorists) I rejoined the Manifold track north of Swainsley tunnel to reach Hulme End. I left the village on the Hartington road and, after crossing the Manifold, took the left turning to Sheen. This section rose steadily to pass through the village and below Sheen Hill, which obscured views of the Manifold. To the right the ground fell away to the River Dove which forms the Staffordshire/Derbyshire border. After a flat section the road swooped downhill to the village of Longnor, the objective of the ride.

 

Longnor is a very attractive village and a particular favourite of mine. It has four pubs, a pleasant fish and chip shop/café and ‘The Old Market Hall Tearoom and Craft Centre’, all vying for lunchtime custom. I chose the latter – who could resist it? It was built in 1873 and above the entrance is a sign of 1905 listing the dues to be paid for various forms of livestock sold in the market. In recent times it has been tastefully converted to its present role. As well as excellent food, a wide range of craft items, made locally, were on exhibition and/or for sale.

 

Following lunch I decided to opt for returning along the Manifold Valley, taking a more direct and gentle route to Hulme End. Regaining the Manifold track I retraced to Weags Bridge. It was then time to leave the Manifold and grind up Grindon hill. I took the opportunity to walk the steepest section, pausing to look back at the valley which had provided such a wonderful day out. Why not join me next time?

 

Footnote: In the early 70’s there had been plans to construct a reservoir in the Upper Manifold Valley above Hulme End, and the water level would have reached just below Longnor. A vigorous protest campaign was raised, leading to the scheme being dropped.

 

A YORKSHIRE AUGUST BREAK                        

by John Bedford

 

Earlier in the year I had booked ‘three nights for the price of two’ (£80) at the Innkeeper’s Lodge, Keighley for a weekend in June. Because of the heavy flooding we experienced a week or so before, I rebooked for a weekend in August. We left home at 9.30 with the bikes in the Berlingo. Along the A38 and the M1, with a coffee break at Woodall Services. We then cut across country to Nostell Priory, a National Trust property, just in time for lunch in the restaurant. We had an interesting tour of the house, followed by a walk to the Rose Garden and Lakeside. It was a lovely sunny day and the walk was very relaxing. We then set off again, heading through Bradford to Keighley; not a bad run when you’ve got a good navigator! The Innkeeper’s Lodge was easy to find on the outskirts of the town, and we arrived comfortably about 5pm. After eating some prepared sandwiches and having a cuppa (all rooms have teamaking facilities) we walked the short distance into town. Despite having lived in the north for some years this was a town that I had not previously visited, but it proved most interesting. We called in at Aire Cycles and had a good browse, before going to the local cinema to see ‘Hairspray’, an excellent musical set in Baltimore, which we both thoroughly enjoyed.

 

Next morning we had a very good continental breakfast. Soon we were off cycling along the old Skipton Road, with a long climb through Silsdon and a drop into Addingham We arrived at Bolton Abbey Tea Rooms for a late, but reasonably priced, coffee. Then down to the Abbey itself before cycling and walking to The Strid. Here the River Wharfe thunders through a very narrow rock cutting. It was a bit lumpy on the way back to the Abbey Tearooms for pie and coffee for lunch. Then on to look at the Embsay Steam Railway at Bolton Abbey Station. For those into trains, there is also the Worth Valley Railway, which we saw the previous evening in Keighley. On the way to Skipton we cut off the main road, through Embsay, to avoid a long hill and the busy traffic. Being Saturday, Skipton market was in progress and the town centre was very crowded. Rather than taking the main road back all the way to Keighley we took the very hilly route through Low Bradley and Kildwick before rejoining the old Skipton Road. Just 34 miles today.

 

Attached to our accommodation there was a Toby Carvery so we decided to eat here in the evening. It was still very pleasant so we had a quiet walk along the canal (Sustrans 69) to Ribblesden .

 

Sunday started fine but by the time we’d had breakfast it was raining, so we sat & read until it cleared up. We had a good long climb out to Howarth, home of the Brontes. Here there were plenty of cafes for 11’s and lunch. There are also plenty of sights to see. It was down and very steeply up to Oakworth where we browsed round a most unusual park given by a local benefactor. Then back to Keighley, onto route 69, along the wide canal to Ribblesden NT. This is a small house with a lot of interest. Off again along the canal towpath, past the impressive Bingley locks to Saltaire. Whilst the architecture is very different to Bournville, it was founded on the same benefactorial principles. In the Salt Mill we browsed round the large David Hockney art exhibition, had a coffee and then returned back along the canal to Keighley. As many of you know, Beryl doesn’t like rough tracks, but she coped adequately with this towpath. Only 23 miles today, but what can you expect when you spend time looking round!

 

Monday morning breakfast was included. As I wanted to call at one of my wholesalers we left straight after breakfast, though it would have been possible under normal circumstances to get another days cycling in. We took a different route back to the M1, calling in at the pretty town of Hebden Bridge for coffee and a look round.

 

The stay at the Innkeeper’s Lodge was excellent value. The rooms were spotless and everything worked, so much so that I sought out the Housekeeper and told how much we liked the place. The Carvery was also very good value.

 

PABLO NERUDA’S BICYCLE                           

by  Arthur McHugh

 

Sólo quería ser ciclista.   (I just wanted to be a cyclist.)  Pablo Neruda

 

Forget the sleek, impatient jet

racing down the runway,

forget that ravenous jaguar

eager to devour without mercy

the air, the harmless clouds,

the blurred oceanic miles.

 

Forget the long noisy trains

howling through tunnels,

clattering across viaducts,

rattling over points, over points,

as they arrive and depart,

morning, noon and shuddering night

on their implacable journeys.

 

Forget the pretty automobiles

with their paintbox colours,

their gleaming glass and chrome,

their little windows,

their duels on the motorway,

their rusting cemeteries.

Who needs to move at their speed,

slaughtering the innocent hedgehog,

the foolhardy rabbit,

the fox not quite cunning enough,

the wood-pigeon struggling to rise into the wind?

 

Forget even the beautiful brown horse,

that ballet-dancer,

its haunch shining like a new-fallen chestnut,

its lustrous eye always uncertain,

its bewitching tail forever restless,

its proud hoof pounding the pathetic turf.

 

I want no truck with any of these.

I need to find out who I am,

to get to know this lifetime acquaintance,

whether mind or machine,

spirit or stardust.

 

So let me have my bicycle

in order that my poor feet,

incarcerated in leather,

may have a respite from their prison routine,

from that fateful falling, one after another,

on the unfeeling tarmac,

the brutal pavement-slabs:

let them escape for a time

from that purgatory which is walking.

 

Just let me have my bicycle,

the docile machine

that looks as if it means to move forward,

ready to take me,

at a pace anyone can understand,

among bars and butterflies;

my patient bicycle,

eager to visit the secret harbours,

the ships at anchor far up the fjords,

the islands of afternoon.

 

Who has seen a wheeled shadow

gliding ahead, away from the sunset?

Who has felt a swooping wind

rush by, heard a downhill wind

whine against the ear?

Who has found an unexpected dovecot,

a witch on a weather-vane,

a wrought-iron gate that spells alpha and omega,

griffin sentinels in stone?

Who has touched cool marble,

the inscription above a forgotten grave?

Who has glimpsed the wary wren

flit along the hedgerow?

The languid heron flap over the lake?

The hare flee the tractor?

The fox at dusk, a silhouette between dog and wolf?

Who has smelt the new-ploughed field,

rain in the wind,

the heavy scent of harvest?

Who has known the seasons

spread out across the landscape

like a hand of poker?

 

Beyond the grasp of  those tedious Tuesdays,

of the staring clocks in public places,

of the unyielding timetable,

the festering promises,

the appointed appointments, the dead deadlines,

the dreary dawns trumpeting reveille –

out of reach of that octopus, routine,

that’s where I want to be.

 

More peaceful than the snoring colt

that sleeps stretched out on the grass;

more free than the silent glider

roaming the thermals;

more alive than the grasshopper,

more alert than the starling,

an insignificant part of everything,

that’s what I want to become.

 

Let me balance:  head, hands, feet,

at one with the moving machine,

at one with the wind and the changing weather,

with the dragonfly and the distant mountains,

near to the near,

remote from the remote,

happy as a child on a windblown beach.

 

That’s what I want,

that’s what I always wanted –

in Temuco, in Santiago, in Colombo,

below the green statues on the roof of Notre Dame,

watching those horses in Berlin –

I just wanted to be a cyclist.

-----------------------------------

Note:  Pablo Neruda, the Chilean poet, served

as his country’s Ambassador in various capitals.

 

RECYCLED YARNS 18                                        

by Arthur McHugh

 

We’ve all had the experience:  you think you know somebody well, till one day you find you don’t know them at all.   You cycle with a man who seems perfectly normal, then you discover that he plays golf.   You chat regularly to a woman cyclist about the Vietnamese pig she used to keep, until she mentions that there’s a shrine to the deceased porker at the end of her back garden.   At that point your head swims, and the ground seems to give way under your wheels.

 

Which is where my friend Davenport comes in.   I’ve known him quite a while, and I can often guess what his next outrage against civilized behaviour will be.   But now and again he surprises me.   The last time this happened, we were touring together in the West of Scotland, staying for the most part in cosy bed-and-breakfasts, some distinctly less cosy than others.   In one of the latter, we were offered accommodation where you would have hesitated to stable a pony; so, late in the day though it was, we decided to cycle on up the coast in search of somewhere better.

 

On our left, the sun was setting among a muddle of islands; to the right, conifer forest stretched for mile after mile.  As dusk fell, we found ourselves at an imposing gateway with a sign that read:  “ETTRICK LODGE – B & B – VACANCIES.”   From the gate, a steep grassy track led upward between clumps of rhododendron, and we were soon pushing the bikes in pitch darkness.   It seemed a long way, and in fact it must have been fifteen minutes before we got to a quiet clearing where a stone-built house was showing one or two faint lights.   Since we could see very little in the gloom, we banged at the big front door.   “It’s a bit spooky,” remarked Davenport, as we waited for someone to open up.

 

However, there was nothing spooky about the large, solid, red-bearded fellow who greeted us.   We were ushered warmly into a plain kitchen, and were pleased to notice a bike leaning against the sink.   In no time at all we got a nice room with twin beds, and our host had cooked a slap-up meal, the centrepiece being grilled mackerel which he had caught that very day.   There was no-one else around, and over an after-dinner whisky, Redbeard explained that visitors were rare:  but he didn’t seem to care, and he didn’t say how he made a living.   Ettrick Lodge, he told us, had once been a manse, and before that a convent; some of the previous occupants were supposed to haunt the place.

 

This last remark was not well received by Davenport, and the speaker noticed.   Embroidering his theme, he went on to describe incidents where people had been scared witless by a variety of apparitions:  all the usual tosh about things that go bump in the night, plus a tale about a bevy of headless nuns chanting in procession through the pinewoods.   I realised that the wide-eyed Davenport was soaking up this rubbish, and at my suggestion we adjourned and went to bed.

 

Much later, something woke me and I sat up to find the room bathed in moonlight.   A far-from-spectral figure, fully clothed, was sitting on the end of my bed – none other than Davenport.   In a frightened whisper, he said he wanted to leave immediately:  he had seen a vague shape floating by the door, moaning pitifully.   Though still half-asleep, I could see it was 4 a.m., and felt that pitiful moaning was an entirely appropriate response to the situation.   But Davenport was adamant that we had to leave, and leave we did as soon as I too was dressed.   A thin drizzle was descending as we made our way cautiously back downhill, and by the time we were cycling along the shore road, we were nicely wet, in no mood to appreciate either moonset on the calm sea or the faint glimmer of dawn in the East.

 

We hadn’t paid for our stay at Ettrick Lodge, but Davenport undertook to send a cheque in due course.   He may even have done so; he never mentioned the episode again.

 

PARK CYCLES ARE NOW STOCKING

THE AERON FRAME BY RIDLEY.

 

This fast touring/Audax frameset has clearance for mudguards and has rear rack braze-ons. 7005 Heat treated Aluminium. Carbon fibre forks.

Only £250.  CUSTOM BUILDS AVAILABLE from £500.

TREAT YOURSELF THIS WINTER

 

AN EPIC RIDE                                                                   

by Brian Langdell

 

An article appeared in Carl Chinn’s magazine ‘Brummagen’ written by Douglas Wood in tribute to his older brother Edwin about his life and escapades together. I have selected a couple of them.

 

They were born in the 1920’s and lived near Aston Hall in a house that the number 2/21 suggests a ‘back to back’. There were three brothers and they all slept in the one bed in a tiny bedroom. The elder, Edwin, was always looking for schemes to make money and Douglas helped him since he always wanted to be with him. They collected drinks bottles to reclaim the deposits and scavenged dust bins for jam jars to take to the ‘Rag’ yard where they could get 1/2D each. A good money raising scheme was to travel to the timber yard with a trolley and purchase a gross (144) bundles of wooden laths. They put a notice outside the house advertising ‘3 for a penny, 2 for a bow, 1 for an arrow’; so many children came from all over the district that they had queues at the front door.

 

Edwin eventually acquired a ‘fairy cycle’ (small bicycle with 12” wheels) and declared he was going for a cycle ride to find out what ‘the countryside’ was all about. Douglas insisted on going with him, but being five years younger only had a child’s tricycle. They packed some sandwiches and put some lemon ‘Kayli’ powder in a milk bottle and filled it with water, pulling the glass stopper down onto the rubber seal by means of the integral wire clip.

 

They started off  by following the tram lines to Perry Barr and then branched off up the Walsall road (few houses then) eventually reaching the cross roads at the Scott Arms, where they turned right down the Queslett Road. This was very narrow in those days and they found it very twisting by the ‘Lunatic Asylum’. The youngster was getting very tired by now but carried on pedalling his little tricycle up the long grind to Barr Beacon – their destination. Douglas lay on his back in the grass watching the skylarks. After some time they started the long ride back to Aston, arriving home late in the evening. Douglas said “I well remember how glad I was to get to bed feeling as though I had been to the end of the world and back.”

 

I think you will agree this was an epic ride and the effort and determination of the mini tricyclist equates to a Paris-Brest-Paris ride!

 

TO LIVE A GOOD LIFE                          

by Robert Louis Stevenson

 

To live a good life make up your mind to be happy:

Learn to find pleasure in simple things.

To live a good life make the best of your

circumstances: no one has everything and everyone

has something of sorrow intermingled with the

gladness of life. The trick is to make the laughter

outweigh the tears.

 

To live a good life don’t take yourself too seriously:

Don’t think that somehow you should be protected

from misfortunes that befall others.

You can’t please everybody: don’t let criticism hurt

you.

Don’t let your neighbours set your standards: be yourself.

 

To live a good life don’t borrow trouble: imaginary

things are harder to bear than the actual ones.

Since hate poisons the soul, don’t cherish enmities or

grudges: avoid people who make you unhappy.

 

To live a good life have many interests: if you can’t

travel, read about new places.

Don’t hold postmortems: don’t spend your life

brooding over sorrows or mistakes: don’t be one who

never gets over things.

 

To live a good life do what you can for those less

fortunate than yourself.

Keep busy at something: a busy person never has time

to be unhappy.

 

Or you could just go for a bike ride!