After having made two vain attempts to deter us on Sunday morning, the weather clerk retired in disgust and we started on our ride to Skipton. At the capital of Craven we were joined by a few, more of our clubmates, and we rode again in the direction of Upper Wharfedale. The sun shone brilliantly giving the last remaining autumn tints a renewed blaze of colour made more glorious by Saturday’s rain. The surrounding hills vose ridge upon ridge until they reached their climax in Cracoe Fell, then descended again till they dipped down to the River Wharfe. Going easily through Cracoe we went down the hill and past the“Sauce Bottle Row,” with a rush, and then after a slight climb we dropped into Wharfedale. After much discussion we crossed the river at Coniston, then leaving Kilnsey's famous crag away to our left, we went merrily down into Kettlewell, dreaming the dream of all hungry cyclists. We pictured in our imagination, riding into the village, standing our machines against the neavest wall, then walking into "our inn" to find the best chairs waiting for us before a blazing fire and a smiling landlord waiting with a tray full of cups of steaming tea. However, something had gone wrong; there were already about sixty bicycles in the square, and, as we guessed, their owners had occupied all the easy chairs round the fire. We were made as comfortable as possible upstairs, and felt quite satisfied.

After dinner we started to go over the amoor or fell to Hawkswick; it sounded simple and quite easy. Directly we left Kettlewell we cut off the road and took a track which would eventually lead us to the top of the moor. This limestone track, boulder-strewn and with several water splashes, rose very steeply for about three quartevs of a mile. Here the party straggled out, some were very eager to reach the top, while others took it easily. Once on the top the leading party promptly took the wrong way and were Just returning when the others came up. Which was the right way? There was only one track and that one obviously not ours, so we decided to go straight across the moors and hope to find one. Then things began to get really rough; it became, almost impossible to wheel our machines, so we had perforce to carry them. On we went; "Excelsior" became our motto; along the side of a wall, through a water-logged gateway, over another wall, sometimes wheeling our "bikes,” sometimes carrving them. until we looked over into Littondale, and saw the viver far below us. The moor began to slope very stecply, and we again shouldered our machines. Throueh a gateway; then we found ourselves in a wood and the fun began. The trees clutched at our machines like giant fingers and good footholds were few and far between. We got through at last, and came to a road. Here, while we waited for the last party and the girls to come down, someone asked "Why do we come over places like that when there is a perfectly good road round?” No one had a ready answer, but all agreed that it was worth while. Riding down to Kilnsey for tea, I pondered over the question, and the answer seemed to say with Ceesar, "I came, I saw. I conquered”; once again I had achieved what I set out to do, and the world seemed a very good place to live in.