Recycled ride to North Cave Wetlands March 31st 2017

Present: Mike Baxter, Barbara Baxter, Alan Beecroft, Adrian Benson, Dave Berger, Derek Clark, Alan Jones, Helen Kitson, Phil MacMullen, Sheila Mullen, George Sweeting, Steve Watts, Trev Whatmore, Dave Williamson

Distance 29 miles

I found today one of our most interesting rides yet for three reasons: the route, bits of which were new to me; the group, which at 14 was the biggest ever and had two new members, Alan J and Philip; and finally, because I now have a new philosophy of cycling. Read on…

The day was bright and breezy, promising 16 degrees, showers that didn’t materialise, and a strong dose of spring. Fourteen’s a lot to manage, and our raggle-taggle group got split up before we even reached the Westwood. Sheila was ringing up Dave B, as he and I had got stuck at the traffic lights, and then taken a wrong (if logical) turn up Westwood Road where Dave stopped to pick up a lucky 10p on the road. The rest were better behaved and followed our leader to the cycle track where they waited for us.

I noticed the wood anemones in flower in the upper reaches of the Westwood, quite early, yet another sign of climate change. They’re indicator species of ancient woodland, and show that the Westwood, as its name suggests, was once densely wooded. We’re so lucky to have the Beverley Commons, protected since at least the Middle Ages from too many incursions (golf courses, Derek Clark, hospitals and cycle tracks notwithstanding). I read that JG Ballard once said the greatest problem facing the modern world was where to park your car. I don’t know if he did say that or not, but parking certainly seems to dominate a lot of conversations among visitors to Beverley. I just wish they wouldn’t resort to our precious Westwood.

There were daffodils lining the roadsides everywhere. They are jolly and I know our group are great fans, often stopping to take pictures (you’d never guess). I prefer the star-like lesser celandines that are also flowering everywhere now, native wildflowers that are less ostentatious but prettier, and don’t need to poison animals or other flowers with their sap to survive. I’m in good company.

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Wordsworth wrote three poems in praise of the “Little, humble Celandine”, but just one about daffodils which was in any case mostly written by his sister.

There was much bird-darting too, and later I saw my first yellowhammer of the season, an iconic bird of our summer rides and on the long haul to High Hunsley, I heard many chiffchaffs, other harbingers of spring in the woods, rarely seen but always heard and unmistakeable. I talked to Sheila about her ride last week around Sheffield, where she had to tackle ten hills, one after the other, steeper no doubt than anything we have here. She told me her friend told her she needed to change her attitude towards climbs and start thinking, “Welcome to the hills!” That got me thinking about my attitude to cycling, and I suppose to life really.

We were soon cycling through the grounds of Hotham Hall, a private road accessible only to “walkers, cyclists and horses” which was new to me and quite spectacular with some great views back to the sumptuous Hall itself. This was the home of the Hotham family (though not the notorious Sir John Hotham of City of Culture “The Hypocrite” fame. He was the turncoat who refused entry to Charles 1 at the Beverley Gate into Hull then tried to change sides but was arrested near his home at Scorborough, which later burned down so his descendants moved to Hotham). At the front gate was a sign to commemorate Ypres, erected by Colonel Tom Clitherow who had lived here and who fought there. What we didn’t see, as it is apparently hidden behind a hedge in the grounds, is the grave of his war horse, which accompanied him to Flanders. This has a poem on it for his horse containing the lines: “Ypres, the Somme, Cambrai, He knew them all and now lies here.”

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Seeing this prompted Philip to tell us about his father, born in 1890, who had been in the trenches. He’d had gastric flu the day before the disastrous Bois des Bouttes battle where the rest of the 2nd Devons were wiped out.

When we got to the Wetlands, I passed around my bins so people could look at the crowd of avocets on the lake, while the group stuffed themselves with butties from the Wild Bird cafe van. We used the composting toilets then were off but not before I’d overheard a conversation between Steve and Alan J who’d invited us to take part in longer rides, which he was prepared to organise. Steve has already joined the longer distance Hull group known as “Last of the Summer Whiners” who go on “Geriatric Jaunts”. Don’t we all.

From North Cave we followed another new route down a bridleway along the limpid stream, Mires Beck. This comes from two springs emerging from beneath the chalk at North Newbald (the Becksies) and Drewton, before flowing into the Humber opposite Whitton Sands. It was beautiful, its banks home to cowslips, primroses, celandines and butterburs, those odd plants of early spring where the flowers emerge before the leaves. They’re a recognised cure for migraine, and relatives

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of the coltsfoot, another early plant with healing properties, whose flowers bloom first, their stems covered in wooliness as protection against spring frosts.

Butterbur

Lesser Celandine

Wood Anemone

We were soon passing through Ellerker, another first for me, and picturesque. Soon we were at the bottom of Brantingham Dale, preparing ourselves for the climb up “Spout Hill”, one of the steepest we’ve tackled, with a very tough bit at the top just when you’re already nicely sweaty and worn out. Before we tackled it, Alan J made a cryptic comment, “I’ve never known a hill I can’t walk up.”

I soon realised what he implied, as I crawled to walking pace near the top, but refused to give up and get off, although quite of few of our group did. At times like this I always regret my heavyweight bike and all its unnecessary trappings, my “camping gear” as Alan cuttingly described it.

We were so ready for the Folly Lake Café, where we sat in glorious sunshine while Steve mended yet another puncture. He’s getting so nifty at changing his tyres we hardly notice. Derek realised he’d left his helmet at the top of Spout Hill (he later retrieved it) and Dave indulged in his greatest pudding ever: four scoops of ice cream with chocolate buttons, sprinklings and marshmallows. “Just what the doctor ordered,” said Dave. I’ll have whatever GP he has.

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As today was national Day of Kindness, I must say he deserved his treat. We are getting bigger, faster, stroppier and more unmanageable by the week. He may not know his Catwick from his Catfoss or his Ellerker from his Elloughton, but Dave certainly makes sure we have lots of fun. We’re certainly more Dad’s Army than the CTC but hey, who but our very own Captain Mannering would come up with the excuse for dismounting on Spout Hill with the line, “I like to shepherd my flock.” Alan asked who might want to join his group for longer rides: fast, further, few stops (no photos I presume). “Sounds like “Misery Group” muttered Barbara. We shall see.

I can’t wait for the next ride to Sledmere where I shall put into practice my new philosophy of cycling, “Welcome to the hills!”

HK

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