A bimble up and down the Cinder Path

 Mighty steeds mounted and lycra clad we knights of Boggle Hole ventured out in early sunshine to hit the trail that had beckoned us.  The Cinder Path is part of Sustrans route 1 and runs along the old railway line that ran from Scarborough to Whitby from 1885 until its closure in 1965.  Imagination runs wild as one imagines the sight of steam trains puffing up to the heights of Ravenscar 190 feet above the sea with the wild moors on t' other.

There is a heritage railway nearby running to Whitby across the North York Moors but this route had the sea and the destinations.  Locals can still remember the white smoke and whistles and the area would be so much richer with this backdrop. Maybe one day when England is a post Brexit theme park and the beaten pound encourages rich tourists from the colonies they will re-instate these lost jewels but for now we had the track to ourselves.  Each turn of the pedal afforded a view and the coconut aroma of gorse filled the fresh morning air.  Filled with spring we sprang up the incline to Ravenscar passing aluminium pits and brickworks which hinted at the history of a  town that never was.  Perched on the edge of the cliffs of Cleveland a town had been laid out by prospectors eager to match the grandeur of Scarborough. Streets and sewers were laid out but the idea was abandoned before the war as the pure folly became clear.  This spot was known to be cut off by snow for months at a time and you would have to make a concerted effort to get there now that the rail line has gone.  It is a tidy little village with a majestic hotel dominating the hillside.  The remnants of a station are a reminder of the Victorian vision and the high point of the trail.

 It was, worryingly, all downhill from here to Scarborough. As much as we delighted in freewheeling for several miles, defying the laws of topography, we sensed the pleasure may not be recquited on the return journey.

Scarborough was vast and it seemed like all of Yorkshire had run to the sun. We ducked and weaved from the imposing mansions on its escarpment to the faded splendour of its backstreets; Regency terraces to the teeming harbour we whizzed along passing the hordes on the heaving promenade.  It was all a bit overwhelming and too much to take in on this visit. We had to stop though and the promise of an afternoon tea to allay the calorific bonk drew us into an ubiquitous tea shop.  We were not prepared for the sweet feast presented but Rob stoically assisted in demolishing the cream tea, cake, sandwich and crisp combo.

With fire and sugar in the belly we hit an A road out of town glad to be back on the secluded route.  It was odd how the sudden crowds had suddenly drawn a pall over these seaside destinations. Neither of us felt a desire to dwell amongst the hugger mugger for once and I wondered if this was a coming of age event.

It was all uphill from here and the calorific intake was timely as we rose and rose. Puffing Billy must have burned some coal going up this incline. It was at least 8 miles to Ravenscar and sometimes as much as one in 39 gradient.  My plan to cycle back to fitness the easy way along disused railways was fatally flawed as they are by no means flat.

With abandoned joy we hurled our rattling bones down the slope to Boggle Hole revelling in the virtuous exhaustion of a day well spent.

A Bimble round Boggle Hole

April fools, as ever, we planned a hopeful hiking/biking trip to the North East and our luck was in as we beat the snowfall by a day.  Bathed in sunshine with only a nip in the air we struck gold on the Eastern frontier.  Riding our luck and our iron horses, Lord Robert of Whitley and I reconvened our mounted, quixotic adventures upon the Cleveland Way.

Our castle was the jewel in the YHA crown, intriguingly entitled Boggle Hole, a magnificently converted corn mill, refuge for shipwrecked sailors and hostel since the 1930's. Recently upgraded for modern yoots, peddling food and fun for families, this venue is haven for beachcombers and sand artists. All generations mingled and idled in the snug of the bar with a bit of something for all ages.  Grandad sat with his map and a sprained ankle while kids tucked into mounds of spag bol.

We wilted by the fiery blast of the wood stove and got stuck into the range of cakes; gluten free carrot for me and a lime and zucchini for Rob.

The beach was a sight to behold after months of land locked winter and that first blast of ozone and salt unlocked the spirit as the German Sea unleashed its secrets.   A lower layer of mudstone is being constantly worn away on this coast and the gritty sandstone and shale falls away revealing fossils and Whitby jet treasures.  Limestone caulks stretch into the bay at low tide creating rock pools for miniature bimblers to explore. Oystercatchers needled the seaweed as fear of the Boggle who lives in a cave by the tideline kept naughty children in check.

Upsetting this sea sprite was a bad omen and I reminded a few young sprites of this at breakfast after a few belts in the pubs in Robin Hood Bay caused morning fragility.  The sight of a frantic parent tearing around shouting, 'where are the kids?' and racing down to the beach suggested the Boggle was causing mischief.  We could stem a sigh of relief as we had left such responsibilities inland for the weekend. The hard work of the hostelleers allowed communality and afforded hospitality that would be hard to match in more upscale accommodation.

My something was a library of books on the adult wing which they tucked us away on.  Leather sofas and wooden floors and walls of readable books bequeathed by visitors imbued with the ethos of brotherly love, wanting to leaving something behind for fellow bogglers. The twin room was a bit bleak but functional as we were consigned to the snoring section but that was all we needed and at such a bargain price we almost felt guilty for the riches on offer.

Always prepared I was now shamefaced as Rob arrived. I had a triple whammy of a puncture, the wrong inner tube and no spanner! Determined to be positive we set off, after more cake, to scale the cliffs to the Cleveland Way toward Whitby. We would return to the micro climate of Robin Hood Bay, nestled in the lee of the North East winds and pushed on upward as the cliffs rose and the wind keened on the heights.  We came across an unfathomable device for removing sailors from stranded boats by winching a barrel along a wire to the top of the cliff. We imagined the sailor who was chosen to dangle perilously would have preferred to have taken his chances in the German Sea than undergo this vertiginous journey.  The local engineers must have longed for the chance to rescue stricken sailors to try out their experiment in defying physics.

We pushed on, knees creaking in a walk to beat any stepmaster and came across a fine art deco horn and light house warning boats off these barren cliffs and away from the dangerous waters hundreds of feet below.

Now gentrified into spectacular accommodation this would make a great spot for a weekend away, rather than billeted in the rows of green mobile homes nearby that resembled an internment camp rather than a holiday park.  The isolation of the wild cliffs jarred with the multitude of metal boxes that resembled shipping containers.This was no place to linger in a fret or sea fog and luckily we had an azure sky and a sea I remembered as brown looked almost blue.   This juxtaposition of splendid isolation in nature and the hustle of humanity was to hit us full square as we descended the 199 steps from Dracula's dramatic and iconic perches on the headland into the town.

 Unprepared for the late afternoon revellers we got discombobulated. Another time, we would be in the midst of the revelry but the sight of stumbling stag and hen do's on the cobbled streets caught us unawares.

Funland would have to wait for another visit as we settled for an obligatory fish supper on the harbour wall, warily protecting our chips from beady eyed seagulls and Captain Jack Sparrow having a crafty fag.

Inner tube and spanner procured we decided only losers take the bus and indulged ourselves in a ride with Bob's taxi looking for some local knowledge.  Tales of Larpool viaduct and its 5 million bricks which awaited us on the Cinder Path tomorrow segued into a tale of a mine in the distance that bore unheralded riches in some kind of magic fertiliser. There's gold in them thar hills. No locals were employed in this venture according to Bob and the potash found a mile underground was being surreptitiously smuggled away to Middlesborough along a 20 mile tunnel. Top secret information with a suggestion that it was a German company behind it led to the inevitable B word. Google revealed it was actually a spectacularly ambitious and expensive project organised by a spirited entrepreneur backed by an Australian mining billionairess to extract the finest fertiliser in the world with an expectation that China and the sons of the steppes of Russia will pay a fortune for it in the future as soils weaken.  This sounded like the most ambitious project the UK had posited for a long while with Europe's deepest mine and billions in investment.  I thought this Klondike spirit had disappeared and I wished the visionaries of Sirius well in such a risky venture.  Someone must know that this spice from the world of the worms will allow them to control the universe in the future.

We wondered how many minutes it would take for Brexit to rear its head and sure enough Bob had a view, informed by a variety of sources with a bent toward leave.  As a fisherman and now a taxi driver he made an articulate case and who were we to argue on this fine day, even if we could have gotten a word in. Entertained and armed with new facts we wrestled with our consciences back to the safety of Boggle Hole where the smugglers rest with my fisherman's friend.

A bimble around Turville

A Kite’s eye view of the Chilterns would be a magnificent sight, soaring above the beechwoods, top of the food chain.  Hughes 'Hawk Roosting', no sophistry in this body, ‘I kill where I please because it's all mine.’ I settle for a quick spin to get the skull cinema going. Endorphins rush as I imagine the earth’s face upward for my inspection.  The plaintive cries of the circling Kite’s are rejoindered by the inimitable squawks of the countless pheasantry in the fields.  Bursting from hedges and strutting in fields with their feathered harem they are a sight to behold. Cocks proud in their plumage crow their guttural pride. Bred to be shot in the local estates this is the new economy of the area and they are lords of the manor. Their cocksure manner is ill found though as they are more akin to sitting ducks. There cannot be much sport in bagging such a tame bird.  They make for pleasant company though and enliven the combes and valleys of the Chilterns which always seem a bit empty and desolate in winter despite the apparent wealth of the area. There is a sense of isolation and hilly miles can be passed as if there is one secret, unknowable world within these charming valleys, guarded by hedges and security cameras. Or perhaps I am bonking and reaching maudlin capacity in need of a power bar. 

I was slightly concerned about my descending skills as I freewheeled from Ibstone. The valleys are steep and unforgiving and I didn't fancy the ride back. Beyond lay the Thames and this secret area was slowly offering up its jewels.  Someone knew something and Turville was a good place to begin.  A postcard village that can boast of more celebrity references than Love Island.  The Bull and Butcher was my primary research haven, finding a focus group over a pint of Brakspears.  I  had taken a few photos and wondered why they were familiar.  Ten minutes in the bar revealed a treasure trove of information that would keep the squirrels in beech nuts for a year.  

That'll be the Vicar of Dibley's cottage by the church... and another Midsomer Murder happened there.

Then the big reveal! 

Of course, the windmill ! I had just staggered up a ridiculous incline to this Cobstone Mill, home of Hayley Mills no less. Sure enough, Chitty Chitty Bang Bang.  

Keep going... Day of the Triffids?

There was something else though, and they kept me guessing... I was thinking 'Went the Day Well' ...They didn't know what I was on about. 

You'm joking I bellowed in my mother's favourite Black Country drawl. Not really. She visibly recoils at this utterance. 

Goodnight Mr Tom ! I'd just been forced to watch it three times. I had to go and have a look at the village green to get my bearings and sure enough there it was with the flint walls of the Oxon cottages dressed wth wisteria and manicured to a tee. The epitome of rural safety, a safe haven for young Willie from the horror of the war and a vicious mother. I had to get the details from Isla, who is a mine of information about Little Werewold and William Beech. She could contest mastermind about the book and film. Isla even knew the name of the dog, Sammy if you are testing.  A Year 6 staple, the village is burnt into the retina of our youth of today, much like Lennie suffocating dogs in Californian sunshine is for the previous generation. There are no snakes swimming across ponds in the garden of Eden here though, only a picturesque spot drawing the crowds.  Rust coloured rooves and box hedges draw the eye toward the windmill on the horizon.  Hawthorn blossom and daffodils  in the churchyard suggested sheltered climes. Blackened creosote on barns signified the uniform style that is so quintessentially Chiltern.

Storm Freya approached so I set off uphill past a burst water main that had me wading knee deep. There was a ten mile detour on offer but I was on my last, very wet legs.  I hoped the pheasants were finding some shelter. Undefeated I wanted to eke the day out and there was just enough  time for a short walk from Ibstone, diving into the woods and the Worsley Estate looking for Paul Getty’s cricket pitch.  He has created a duplicate of the Oval and I was determined to find it. Even in Storm Freya it was quite an amazing apparition, a manicured lawn of international quality in the middle of the woods. I bet he hosts great celebrity ding dongs with this fine centrepiece ringing with the summer clink of Pimms on the lawn and the crunch of cucumber sandwiches. I could almost hear the crack of willow on leather above the approaching gale.

A bimble along the Phoenix Trail

Bumbling through red kite country again just off the M40 drag-strip to London, probably the dullest road in the land, I extricate myself and land in Thame.  I had been reading about disused railways and in my post hibernation bid to regain a modicum of fitness I was drawn to the flat straight paths which I could whizz my wizened limbs along.

Thame is a good stop off when heading South for a breakfast butty and a bimble round the bookshops. You know you have hit the home counties when you price up the charity offerings. £3 a book but they have some good titles in good nick and I picked up some nature writing which tend toward the confessional and morose but often enlighten.  I also found my favourite 501 jeans here which are now being patched so they can live again.  This time I ended up with more books about cycling in the Chilterns as a means of procrastinating about actually cycling in the hilly Chilterns and packed my panniers full of Scotch Eggs.  I snacked amongst the pollarded oaks looking for the ghosts of Laurence Olivier and Vivien Leigh in the stunning churchyard and rolled around the timbered houses on the side streets, a lazy warm up as the sun broke through and took the edge off the wind, and I don't mean the eggs. 

Further procrastination in a small museum brought some insight into the history of the town with its usual civil war struggle between factions leading to misery and ruin for feuding nobs.  I found these local crafty artworks which have inspired me to copy them wholesale at a later date and pass them off as my own ingenuity.

I could wait no longer and having risen at the crack of dawn to beat the traffic I realised I was wasting the day. Atrophying muscles sparked to life as I hit the trail out of quaint Thame. I love a straight track riding through history. This was part of the Wycombe railway and an extension built in 1862 took the line to Thame and eventually through to Oxford, enabling a languid route from Paddington to Oxford purpose made for bimblers looking for the slow train.  It later became a key part of the route to Birmingham but lost out to roads and a faster route via Princes Risborough after World War Two. It managed to survive until a few months before Beeching when they knew the game was up with annual losses of £35,000.  In 1991 Sustrans re-surfaced the track and commissioned furniture students to make 30 sculptures to mark the route.  

He gets a nice view of the Chiltern Hills. He does have a pole stuck up his arras though. 

Not sure about Eeyore though. He smelled a bit after playing with Pooh!

There is still steam to be seen on the route as the Chinnor and Princes Risborough railway runs across the trail as you leave Princes Risborough behind. Heritage trains run during summer months along one of the quaintest lines in England from the meticulously restored Chinnor station. A testament to the industry of retired middle England in the lee of the Chiltern ridge.  Everything manicured and kempt. Wot ho, Toot toot!

www.chinnorrailway.co.uk

The sculptures livened up the trail in the bleakness of Winter as I passed barren fields with an occasional Kite for company.  

It is a popular route and well used by runners and families with the odd windswept stockbroker puffing away looking for a personal Strava best. I don't think I was winning any awards but it got the wind back in my sails.

The scarp of the Chilterns was a constant companion looming ominously beyond my flat bed. I resolved to conquer the ridge another time and bent my wend back to Thame. It turned out to be just enough as the headwinds kicked in and a pint in the Spread Eagle beckoned, former roost of Evelyn Waugh and, like most places round here, site of a Midsomer Murder. I unsaddled with grace to cogitate upon writing my misery lit memoirs and planning some bad pebble based art.