Pointing out that in the event of an air raid, cyclists would be able to negotiate bomb-shattered roads which were impassable to vehicular traffic, the Chief Constable of Burnley (Mr. A. E. Edwards) spoke of the need for cyclist volunteers in connection with A.R.P. when, as the principal guest, he attended the annual dinner of the North Lancashire District Association (North Eastern Section) of the Cyclists’ Touring Club, held on Saturday in the James Nelson's Sports Club, Nelson.

During the evening Mr. Edwards distributed awards among the members, including certificates gained by veteran riders between the ages of 50 and 70 in a 100-miles-in-ten-hours ride, which was accomplished on August 21st, the route from Higherford being via Fence, Whalley, Preston, Barton, Garstang, Lancaster, Melling, Kirkby Lonsdale, Ingleton, Settle, Hellifield, to the finishing point at Earby. The riders were:— D. Jackson (aged 70), J. Greenwood (64), J. Atkinson (62), E. Whitehead (60), W. Lord (58), A. Holden (53), F. Atkinson (52), A. Garstang (52), T. Hargreaves (52), and H. Nutter (50). Some of the riders completed the course with an hour to spare.

Mr. Edwards was in reminiscent mood, recalling the early days when, as a member of Manchester Wheelers and of the cycling section of the Marchester Athletic Club, he did a good deal of track riding in competition with some of the "stars" of the day. He had never lost interest in cycling, and it had remained one of his favourite pastimes throughout his career in the police force.

In an appeal for A.R.P. volunteers, Mr. Edwards referred to the useful work which cyclists could perform in maintaining communications in the event of telephonic and telegraphic services being broken. They could also be of great service, he said, where streets were damaged by bombs and made impassable to four-wheeled vehicles.

Mr. Edwards went on to speak appreciatively of the standardisation of attire worn hy cyclists. There was nothing he liked to see better than a healthy, athletic young lady riding along in her present-day rational dress. It was a great change from the time when, if the wind happened to be blowing, lady cyciists had trouble with their skirts about every 100 yards. Girls in their now popular shorts were healthier and better able to enjoy the exercise.

The chair was taken by Mr. Leaver, hon. secretary of the North Eastern Section, who expressed the view that the Chief Constable’s love of cycling was reflected in healthy appearance and obvious fitness. No doubt he could still give g good account of himself on two wheels.

Awards in the photographic section were made as follows:— 1, L. Nutter; 2, 3, and 5, J. Guthrie; 4, P. Jackson.

The following also received certificates in the 100 miles tourist trials, 100 miles in six hours:— L. Blades, R. Edmondson, R. Hartley, Willilam Nuttall, L. Parry, E. Quinn, and J. Riley.

100 miles in seven hours:— Elsie Hey, J. Barraciough, A. Bennett, W. Bracewell, S. Burnett, J. Dean, D. Francis, S. Cockcroft, J. Gllthldle R. Harrison, J. Nuttall, S. Leach J. Leeming, E. Kendall J. Proctor, C. Rawhnson‘ E. Richardson, J. Richardson, L. Roper, and N. Waterworth.

100 miles in eight hours:— C. Davidson, G. A. Hudson, John S, Hudson, R. Holden, and C. Sutcliffe.

There was a beautiful display of photographic records of places of interest visited in different districts.

A programme of dancing brought to a close a happy and memorable occasion.

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Published: 19 November 2022

On Sunday the local section of the Cyclists'  Touring Club  held a very successful 100 miles tourist trial for cyclists over fifty years of age — the first event of this nature ever to be held in the locality.

Eleven cyclists arrived at the starting point, and after receiving the good wishes of the bystanders, they rode away under the leadership of the organiser, Mr. George Hudson.  Despite a  delay of twenty minutes, due to three of the riders dismounting more hurriedly than gracefully, due to a greasy patch of road, good going was made with the result that the twenty minutes was made up and all arrived on scheduled time at the first stop at Barton, five miles past Preston.

After the compulsory stop of forty minutes had elapsed, the party entered on the second stage of the journey, passing through Lancaster and Hornby to Melling for another stay of forty minutes.

On the third stage, the party began to spread out, the sprightly youngsters of fifty and fifty-two leaving the older riders to maintain a more sedate pace (with the exception of seventy-years-old Dan Jackson, who twiddled his small gear to such a tune that he left many younger riders far behind and was never very far behind the first bunch). Proceeding over Greta Bridge and on the Kirkby Lonsdale Road until the Ingleton road was reached, the riders turned sharp right in the homeward direction, through Ingleton, Clapham and to Settle for the last compulsory stop.

Here the first rider had gained over one hour on schedule time, though some complained  of slight attacks of cramp. It was at this stage that word came through that the last rider had cried "Enough," and was making direct for home. He happened to be one of the three who had had the mishap early on in the ride, and no doubt this had its effect. From Settle the remaining ten proceeded to put the miles behind, passing through Hellifield and Skipton to the finishing point at Earby, the first man m with an hour to spare, and the last with fifteen minutes in hand.

The organiser had rather a hectic time on the last two stages in attempting to see the last man off and overtaking the first before they arrived at the next stop and he was well content to tuck in behind when he had caught them.

One rider of fifty-eight started out to do the ride without a dismount except at stops, and the last enquiry at Ingleton proved him successful up to that point. The combined ages of the eleven riders was 635 years which averages out at 57 years.

The successfull competitors were - D.Jackson (70), J.Greenwood (64), J. Atkinson (62), E. Whitehead (60), W. Lord
(58), A. Holden (53), F. Atkinson (52), A. Garstang (52), T. Hargreaves (52), and H. Nutter (50).

GEORGUD

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Published: 19 November 2022

It was a cheerful crowd that left Higherford on the Saturday before Whitsun, and everything seemed to point to them having a glorious holiday. The route was through Gisburn and Settle, where we stopped to refresh ourselves, and then on to Horton-in-Ribblesdale, which is, by the way, the last tea place before Hawes; but as Horton had been voted too early, we had no option but to ride to Hawes for tea.

The sun was blazing outside whilst inside we had tea, and exchanged a few gentle ironies on various events of the day. The most surprised person in the house was the hostess, who confessed that she thought we were as bad as old women for drinking tea.

Seven-thirty found us at the foot of the Buttertubs. This is often called a pass, but it is a mistake; as the Buttertubs track goes right over the top. Very little was known of this region a century ago, and though now one of the wildest districts in England, its heights and wildness are often traversed by the hiker and cyclist. As it saves a great distance. by road, and because of its wild grandeur, modern travellers use this road in passing from  Wensleydale into Swaledale. The pedlars of olden days often thought on similar lines, and many are the records found in different parts of the dales today of pedlar merchants who were murdered for their goods whilst crossing this lonely stretch.

We found Keld, our rendezvous fer the holidays, about two miles up the Swale from the bottom of the Buttertubs. It appeared to be ready for bed, so after pitching our tents and eating our meal, we went also.

The best of arriving at camp in the dark is that on the following morning you awake, look out of vour tent and find the surroundings rather a surprise. Having spent the morning  exploring the waterfalls in the immediate vicinity we returned for dinner and we felt the first few drops of rain, which was to last, off and on, all day.

Donning capes and sou’westers, two of the party went over the road known as Tan Hill, the top of which commands good views of the Swale and Tee valleys, but on this particular day nothing was seen or heard outside a radius of fifty yards in high places. From there they turned down the valley of Arkendale, which meets Swaledale at Reeth, and from there, they followed the Swale to Richmond for tea, a repelling place on the whole, but possessing some fine ruins, and an illusive history.

Having ridden ten miles up the valley with capes on after tea it was decided to doff them, as no rain had been experienced so far; but after five minutes it started again, and was still coming down as we passed through Gunnerside, Muker and Keld again for supper and bed.

The following morning gave promise of a fine day, and the club split up into three parties, each taking a different way home. Our number had  been about thirty, so we said good-bye to Keld, the largest party going over Aysgarth Pass, and home via Kettlewell; the second going baeck over the Buttertubs to Hawes, and from there over Fleet: Moss to Buckden and home; whilst the third and smallest party traced the infant Swale to its peaty birth on the heights of Birkdale Common. From  here they dropped down to Kirkby Stephen and passed over Ravenstonedale to Sedbergh for dinner. Thence by Bettle and Gisburn to home; All three parties had, glorious weather, except for mist in high places, and all voted the holiday as another of those never to be forgotten.

H. H.

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Published: 19 November 2022

There are cyclists who profess to dislike gatherings such as that held by the North Lancashire District Association of the Cyclists’ Touring Club at grey little Bolton-by-Bowland last week-end. They hold rallies to be a sorry waste of time. They are mostly folk who, in search of the label "hard-rider," prefer to spend most of their cycling lives gazing at their clubmates backs for upwards of a hundred miles. To them their own little club, or their tiny clique, or their insignificant selves, is the be-all and end-all of the cycling movement.

Now I, by reason of my continually blundering into and out of all manner of cycling adventure, have found myself the possessor of a reputation for toughness, a reputation which is quite undeserved, but nevertheless, not really unacceptable to me. I be]ieve I glean far greater pleasure from my solo jaunts than from those taken in company; I believe, like every other cyclist, that I am the embodiment of all that’s good and excellent in the modern wheelman. But I do realise that the game is bigger than the player and, for the fifth year in succession, I hied me to the Boltun-by-Bowland meet and enjoyed it.

At Bolton-by-Bowland.

How could I do otherwise when I saw the Bedouins of the Bicycle come along three hundred strong and pitch a couple of hundred little tents with me? When a May snowfall spread royal ermine upon the broad shoulders of nearby Pendla? When, a bare half-hour later, May sunshine beat down on me whilst I, in company with about fifty others, chased a football about and was assaulted by fellow cyclists with joyous brutality? When, even though Jack Frost sent his chilly breath into my tent at night, I awoke to find the world a-shimmer with his silver? When there were so many merry meetings with cycling friends from all over the broad North of England? When a certain pillar of the Northern Cavern and Fell Club, in merry jest, tossed my soap into my stewing steak and was roundly chided for taking such liberties with a fellow’s soap? When the Big Fellow’s beans sturdily withstood hours of boiling and his pancakes were an unexpected success ?

At two p.m., on the village green, the usual speechmaking began. It must be confessed that the speeches ran, for the most part, along familiar lines. "Petronella" and "Hodites" told us that cycling is the best of games, that the Cyclists’ Touring Club was the best of all clubs,. and that cyclists, principally because they are cyclists, are the best, noblest, and most lofty in spirit of all humans. We were rather inclined to grant that that was so.

Backbone of the Club & the Game.

G. H. Stancer, Secretary to the C. T. C., and alias "Robin Hood," told us that Lancashire and Yorkshire riders were the backbone of the club and the game. And not one of the thousand of Lancashire and Yorkshire riders about him dared to contradict.

All three, of charming personallty, all holdmg speakers, but — alas — all preaching to the already converted.

C. W. Harvey, the young schoolmaster from Manchester, who is working like a tribe of negroes for the Youth Hostels Association, broke new ground by telling us of the origin, growth, and working of the youth hostels movement in this country. Then W. T. Palmer, a F.R.G.S., a prolific and (rare bird among our flock of present-day ont-of-doors scribes!) constructive and instructive writer upon wayfaring, made his way to the stone cross in mid-green, and as he gave his opening words I hugged my mischief-loving self! Here was one who was about to sound a note of challenge, to propound a much-needed gospel to heathen !

He chided his predecessors in the speechmaking for speaking overmuch of matters of the road, told us to get off the road, even off the by-lanes, into the mountains, on to the crag, to the camp far off the beaten track. His speech was the shortest of the afternoon, and much too short, since his subject was as big as the entire world. There may have been those present who liked not the message of W. T. Palmer. Some would doubtless take it as a boosting of walking, camping, and rock-climbing at the expense of cycling; possibly hold that his words were, if not hostile, distinctly discordant. Lots of cyclists are that way inclined; heathens who, in their blindness, bow down to the wood and stone of road-riding, and believe themselves to be worshipping cycling.

Mastering Mountain Heights.

One cycling-hiking scribe has recently heard from one of this type of cyclist that he ought to pay more attention to track racing, road time trials, cyclists’ rallies, stop mooning around mountain and moorland, and be a real cyclist. I have been similarly castigated time and again, and have taken the criticisms so much to heart that I have offered to swap my mount for a set of knitting needles.

The cyclist - pure - and - simple often shakes his head over the cycle-adventurer. He does not understand our desire to make the cycle and cycling a means to the end of a more fuller exploration of the out-of-doors. He sees nothing else in our backsliding from the one-day Sunday run, from the company of a club of fellow cyclists, our forsaking of the inn or boarding-house for the light-weight tent, our mastering of mountain heights our clawing up crags, our probing in potholes, except a desire to be dubbed "tough".  He is, I sometimes fear, rather inclined to regard our sun-burned, swaggering, and somewhat scruffy selves as being a distinct disgrace to a most dignified pastime. And he would certainly not approve of W. T. Palmer’s encouraging us in these sorry carryings on!

The Lakes and Snowdonia.

Seriously, though, there are many cyclists of the type I have twitted who would profit by following the advice of W. T, P. Many there are, I know, who could not if they would, those who have domestic ties or who lack time for intensive cycling, and have but one day per week or a Bank Holiday, but there are hundreds of other riders who can, if they will, find a fuller and longer cycling life, greater knowledge and strength of character, by leaving the road and the cycle occasionally. If they will but once loosen their grip on the handlebar and fix it upon the staff of the banner with a strange device they will find, on the summit of their first big mountain a far greater pleasure, feel in the caress of the big winds a bigger benison than ever was theirs when, on their cycles, they first made Blaclcpool, Boundary Hill, or Windermere; realise that this conquest pales into insignificance those of the first passing of the century or the double century in a day awheel.

There are, too, cycling clubs who would be wise to encourage their members to get away from the beaten track. Some, I know, have their camping sections, and others have occasional ramble runs, but these, admirable though they are, do not quite fill the need since they mostly toy with walking and ignore serious fell walking and climbing. The clubs should make a genuine effort and stand aside while the cyclists fall victims to the spell of the mountains. That they will fall is assured. I know of at least four parties from what is officially my local club who will be mountaineering in the Lakes and Snowdonia this Whitsun. Some of them will be tackling some fairly stiff pieces of rock-climbing. And all because, a few vears ago, I wheedled a dozen clubmates up to the crest of Helvellyn.

ROTA

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Published: 18 November 2022

At last it had arrived — Good Friday — the first day of the first holiday of the year, a day looked forward to with consummate eagerness by cyclists all over the country, and not in the least by the campers of the Nelson section of the C.T.C., for were we not going to Brough-under-Stainmoor in Westmorland for our Easter headquarters?! We were, and we knew that Brough was set on the edge of the wildest country in England, yes, if anything, wilder than the Lake District, because it has no ways between its mountains and the traveller must perforce either go round or go over them. As a result it is less known and less travelled than most parts of England which have not half the beauty or the wild grandeur of the Westmorland Pennines.

We met at Higherford, and about eight of us were soon speeding down Coldweather Hill. Some had already gone, and others would follow later, but the thing that mattered to us, we were off, off for three glorious days of camping. Gisburn and Long Preston soon dropped behind us, and in Settle we stopped for a constitutional and a chat with the Bradford section, who were bound for Langdale. From here we sped with a good back wind to Hawes and dinner, and it was very welcome.

After dinner our friend, "Backwind" travelled again with wus up past Hawes Junction and also when we took the turn to Kirkby Stephen, It was from this road that many of our campers, leaving their machines, walked as far as "Hell Gill," a well known spot to eyclists. From here we sped down to Mallerstang, mile after mile without turning a pedal. It is a glorious dale, rich and verdant in the lower reaches, but near the head wild and desolate except for the railway which runs to Kirkby Stephen. The mountains on both sides were still flecked with the winter snow, and the bright sunshine and shadows of late afternoon all helped to increase the impression of grim solhitude. We did not stop long in Kirkby Stephen, Brough and the camp were only five miles away, and we were once again hungry, so we pushed forward, and as we proceeded we had many glimpses of hills of black moorland all along the horizon in front of us.

Arriving in Brough we turned along a little track up the riverside until a few tents suddenly appeared, and we were "home" at last. As we were finishing tea a loud hail announced the arrival of the rest of our party supplemented by five of the Bolton section. They had had tea and we quickly pitched their tents, and then went in the gathering gloom to "buy in,". and also to explore the village, or, as I believe it, the town. By the time we had finished it was quite dark and a cold wind blowing, when suddenly someone spotted the local reading room, and we spent a cheerful hour and a half playing billiards, chess, and reading and chatting. Feeling rather tired after our first day we returned to camp and bed.

Next morning I was awakened with a hail of "Who wants eggs and milk," so adding my voice to the rest, who were still in bed, I gave my order, and the early risers brought milk and eggs for everyone. Afterwards the main crowd walked to Fix Tower, an old watch tower set high on the hills, from one side of which drops a sheer precipice. A narrow winding staircase inside the tower led to the top from which the watchers in the "good old days" scanned the bleak moors for the invading Scots.

Too other members again taking their machines went by highroads and byroads, field paths and open moorland to the famous High Cup Nick. Leaving their machines in a field, they walked up the riverside for about two miles, the hills on either side gradually closing in until at the head of the valley they came together in a sweeping semicircle. The sides of the valley rise very steeply, and finish up in crags which continue all around the top of the basin, It was vast, grand and awe inspiring - beyond the power of human pen to describe. About three parts of the way up. the valley, the explorers took to the right slope of the hillside, hoping thus to be able to get out at the head of the gill. Reaching the top they attempted to carry on just under the crags, but a short distanee convinced them that this was impossible, so they were forced to scale a nick in the rocks and climb out altogether. There was a strong wind blowing, and it needed a lot of nerve to go to the edge again and look straight down into the Cup. It was a good thousand feet deep and about quarter of a mile across, so they did it on their stomachs. They found High Cup Nick right at the head of the Gill, a nick between the crags about six foot wide. I do not know if it is possible to climb out of the basin here or not.

Regaining  their cycles they went from here to Appleby, a really beautiful place, the most beautiful town seen all the tour. Back in Brough about 14 campers finished a perfect day by attending one of the occasional dances held in that town.

It was already Easter Sunday morning and the Burnley members realised to their sorrow that it was the time to pack and commence the homeward journey. The peculiar thing about good holidays is that as soon as one begins to enjoy oneself the time for returning home arrives. So, with a cheery "So-long" to the remaining campers, we turned our wheels towards Kirkby Stephen and home. At Kirkby Stephen a threat of rain became a reality, so donning our oilskins, we carried on to the Cross Keys Inn, nestling under the frowning fells of Cautley. How the wind howled oyer those wild moors, adding to their desolation.

After partaking of a satisfying lunch we dropped from the high bleak regions to the beautiful pastures of the Lune at Sedbergh. From here we followed the river down as far as the, Devil’s Bridge at Kirkby Lonsdale. This is one of the most delightful stretches of river scenery to be found anywhere; the river with its rocky bed, well wooded on its banks, and backed with the hills of the Barbondale district makes a most delightful picture.

We were now on our own touring ground, the Ingleton district, and with steady persistent riding we soon arrived at Settle, thence to Long Preston to enjoy a substantial repast. Our hunger satisfied we again took to the road, our lights stabbing the blackness of the night, revealing everything in a different aspect, adding fresh charms to the joys of cycling.

Home was drawing nearer. Already, Gisburn with its host of vehicles parked outside the garages lay behind, and before us was Coldweather Hill. Soon it will be all over and another holiday will drift into the land of happy memories.  The lights of Nelson and Burnley now gleam in the valley, and soon we are amongst them and home.

TWO CAMPERS

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Published: 18 November 2022

Sunday morning again found me astride my trusty steed, rattling and bumping over the setts towards Colne, under a dull grey sky, with just a nip of frost in the air. Just in front of me I spied "Non-stop and Co.," so, putting a spurt on, I caught up to them, and we jogged along together until we arrived at the top of Primet Hill at Colne, where "Non-stop and Co." elected to go straight up Albert Road, but our runs secretary and I, the hand of time up us, decided to go via North Valley Road to Laneshawbridge, our meeting place. Arriving there, we found that as usual the club had left. (I shall have to start taking lessons on punctuality). We kept on up the hill, and presently we caught up to the stragglers, but, not wishing to loiter, we did our best to catch up to the leaders, leaving several groups behind us in so doing. We were not to catch them, as it turned out, and considering that "Derailleur" was with them, we were not surprised, because this poor lad has been going mad lately.

Going by way of Cowling and Crosshills, we soon came to Keighley, which we left behind, going via the Bradford road as far as Riddlesden. When we arrived here we found that none of us knew the right road to take, no one had been on this run before except myself, and that only once. I elected to take my companions the way I had been before; of course, our runs secretary was a little bit dubious about it, but in the end I had my way. Crossing the canal by the swing bridge, we climbed steeply upwards until we came to West Morton; keeping straight on, we came presently to a wayside cafe, where we slaked our terrible thirst, caused by the hard climb.

Taking the right-hand road, here, we dropped quickly down to East Morton, and then climbed steeply again on to the road that passes "Dick Hudson’s," our lunch-time destination. But it was on this road that the trouble started. We caught up to some of our members, whom we had left behind before; they had come further along the main road before turning off and had thus saved that terrible climb to West Morton. Well, our runs secretary didn’t seem to like it at all, and he called me all the unpleasant things he could think of. By and by, however, after he had got it all off his chest, we managed to pacify him and proceed on our way. Arriving at the "Cragside Cafe," we found it crowded out with hikers and clubs, but after a little gentle persuasion, we were accommodated in the best room, and therein did full justice to our lunch.

After lunch was over, we adjourned to the field behind, where some of our more childish members passed the time away see sawing, others playing a mixture of soccer and rugger, and also a game invented by the hikers of "touch and pass.”

Leaving here, we proceeded by way of Gaping Goose, Menston and Highfield, to the Cow and Calf Rocks, overlooking Ilkley. Here our members made the rocks look untidy by swarming all over them. There are great possibilities about these rocks for anyone wishing to do away with oneself and a like remark was handed to me, perhaps in the hope that I would thus experiment. From the top of these rocks we had a magnificent view of Wharfedale, Ilkley to our left, Burley in front of us, and Otley just visible away to our right; in the slight mist it almost looked like a map spread out before our eyes.  After spending nearly an hour basking in the warm sunshine, sheltered from the cold breeze, we again began our journey. A downward swish of about a mile and a half brought us to Ilkley, where we paused whilst our lady members sampled the famous cream ices. From here we proceeded by the road, which keeps close to the Wharfe, to Bolton Bridge, and the parting of the ways, some electing to go to Halton East for tea, the rest of us staying at our usual tea house. Leaving our bikes against a wall, we wended our way down to a  nearby stream, and removed the dust and grime of our wanderings, whilst tea was being prepared.

After having done justice to this meal, we decided to have a walk as far as the Abbey, so, setting forth, we went there by various paths, through fields and woods, and eventually came out on top of the cliff opposite the Abbey. On a convenient form we sat gazing at the scene before us. Just try to picture, if you can, what our view was like. At the foot of the cliff before us lazily wound the Wharfe like a huge serpent, whilst just across, on the other bank, the ruins of the Abbey, and behind it all the sunset sky, slowly deepening from gold to orange. Nothing broke the silence of this beautiful scene, save the tolling of the Abbey bell, calling all to come and worship. I myself would have liked to have gone, but we had yet many miles to cover.

With the encircling gloom came the chill of the evening, and so, after a long gaze at this rural setting, we made our way back to our machines. Taking the main Skipton Road, we rode on until we came to a by-lane, which, amongst the club members rejoices under the name of "Donkey, Neddy’s"; how it got this queer name I have yet to learn. This, however, brought us on to the Skipton  Addingham road at Draughton, and to the strains of "For You" and "Home," we swept down to Skipton. After our usual pause here, we began our homeward stretch under a crescent moon, and soon were passing through Thornton and Earby to Colne, and so on home, after another glorious day awheel.

Double S

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Published: 18 November 2022