# Long Mynd to Bradford, 1976



## 661-Pete (9 Feb 2011)

This is purely from memory: I kept no diary and took no photos.

Anyone who saw my mention "34 years ago" on the thread in _Support and Feedback_, sorry! I counted the years wrong, must have been thinking this was still 2010! Should be "35 years ago".

This was the final day of a 5-day tour of England, when I was in my mid-20s. The idea was, set off from Bradford (where I was a student), two days to get down to my Mum's house in Surrey, then a longer 3-day loop to get back to Bradford. 

Overnights were at Youth Hostels, to save on money and baggage. I was on my cherished Pennine, 531 road/tourer (its first year out), frameset hand built by none other than Johnny Mapplebeck (of Whitaker and Mapplebeck in Bradford) himself! Anyone else remember him? Splendid frame, though he was past his prime and not in the best of health, when he built mine.

I'll leave out the first 4 days for the very good reason that I can't remember much about them! All I know was, the first leg was Bradford to Copt Oak (near Leicester), second: Copt Oak to Redhill, third Redhill to Stow-on-the-Wold, fourth Stowe-on-the-Wold to Ratlinghope. So we come to Day 5.

What's memorable about summer 1976? Why, the famous drought of course: the hottest and driest summer on record. My tour was just at the beginning of the long dry spell, the first three days were rather drizzly but then it all got scorching hot for the last two days.

So I had some misgivings as I peered out of the Ratlinghope YH, in the grey morning, at the cloudless sky. A long way to go (subsequent calculations make it 130 miles, my longest ever day)!

The evening before, not having anything better to do, I'd joined up with some of the other people staying at the YH, gone down to the pub in the nearby village. I remember, as we were sitting outside the pub on that warm balmy evening, hearing the swifts wheeling and screaming overhead. So loud we could barely hear ourselves speak. Never heard swifts making so much noise, before or since. Were they on to something, perhaps?

Anyway, my first task in the morning was to get some milk. The hostel didn't have any, and had told me there were no shops nearby, but my best bet was to go a couple of miles up the road to a nearby farm, if I turned up just after milking they were sure to sell me some milk. So off I went at a leisurely pace, taking care to have my empty water-bottle to in the cage. Sure enough, they were willing to fill it with milk, still warm, straight from the cow, all untreated of course (probably that would be illegal nowadays?). This farm, it may very well have been.

Coming back up the farm drive and turning sharp right into the lane back to the YH, the gods mysteriously conspired to prevent me from taking the turn properly, and off I came . First fall of the day. And I wasn't even under way!

Anyway, back at the YH, breakfast wolfed down, I was ready and pannier'd up to set off in earnest. Now my first task was the Long Mynd itself. Seeing it loom ahead was rather daunting, but in the cool early morning, it seemed to go remarkably smoothly and easily. I was quite impressed with my steady cruise to the top! Of course, anyone who knows the Long Mynd will tell you, the climb from Ratlinghope isn't the toughest one, but still I had a lot of metres to gain! So I was pleased to feel still perfectly fresh as I surveyed the view from the summit. There was I thinking, if all today's climbs go like this one, I'll be fairly swinging along!

How wrong can one be...

A delightful swooping descent into Church Stretton, and then I made my way onto the long straight B road that follows Wenlock Edge. I remember, as I rolled along this road, trying to recall some sort of poem I'd heard of _"On Wenlock Edge, di dum di dum dum..."_, but I ain't no poetry buff! So I had to make do with the road, and a leisurely ride towards the Severn at Ironbridge.

I spent a long time there, inspecting the celebrated Iron Bridge itself (all put together with wedges and dovetails, not a single screw or bolt used), crossing and re-crossing it a few times, there was also a museum somewhere up the road, I had a quick look in there too. I was feeling pretty relaxed. Meanwhile, morning was passing....

Eventually I realised I had to get moving, so back in the saddle and goodby to the Severn, up a modest climb to Coalbrookdale. 'Modest', I called the climb, climbs were going well for me that day...

*How wrong can one be...*

So wending my way through a series of towns and villages, avoinding the conurbation of Telford as best I could, until I lighted upon a village with the delightful name of Preston-upon-the-Weald-Moors. That, I recall, was my lunch stop. Taken, sitting on the verge leaning back against a stone or brick wall. May have been this very wall, in fact.

Lunch eaten, I made my way up the villages to a place called Howle (I remember that name! ) where I had to join the busy A41 for a mile or so. Here I encountered trouble! The road had melted and was a morass of liquid tar! Nightmare to get through, I think I got off and walked in the end, was I glad to get off it onto quieter roads again! At least the traffic wasn't moving fast or furious.

After there I don't exactly remember the route I followed, but it probably took in places like Market Drayton, Woore, Madeley, Alsager Bank, the idea being to skirt the Western outskirts of the Potteries. Eventually, and by now it was getting pretty late in the afternoon, I made it to Congleton.

In a layby just outside the town, I got off the bike, sat on the grass, and wept. I knew now, I was over-running, badly, I was dead tired and dehydrated, the heat was killing me, and I still had at least two formidable climbs to do!  I had plenty of food still, but I'd run out of drink. 

Ah well, I decided to skip the 'cat and Fiddle' climb to Buxton, and carry on the main road to Macclesfield, then up the hills to Whaley Bridge. This totally sapped all that was left in my legs. On the way up I stopped at a pub (I'm not normally a solitary drinker), bought a pint and gulped it straight down. At least it was Real Ale - of some sort. A few miles further - I did exactly the same thing. I remember the barmaid looking a bit askance at me, asking how many pints I wanted, was I alright, was I stopping for a meal, that sort of thing. I assured her, I had to press on. I also remember filling my bottle at a stream - probably most unwisely but there wasn't a house or shop in sight. I went on - somehow.

The charms of New Mills, Hayfield, passed me by in a daze, but eventually I found myself descending at indecent pace into Glossop. At the traffic lights in the town centre, I stopped - somehow. I couldn't unstrap my feet. Over I went.  My second fall of the day. Much to the alarm (or was it amusement?) of the many passers-by who ran to my aid, but I was all right. It took me an age to get back into the saddle, though. By now I was parched with thirst again but evening was drawing in.

So: yet another climb, to Woodhead. I knew this road well, often having paused to watch the occasional goods train (no passenger trains) which still made its way through the celebrated Woodhead Tunnel. Line long since gone, I think: the LC used to be here IIRC. But that night I was in no mood for train-spotting.

So we come to the dreaded Holme Moss. I ought to have avoided it somehow, but I had no map, only some rough route notes. At least I knew the Holme Moss climb for all its worth. I honestly don't know how I made it. I remember passing the 'escape road' for descending runaway cars. I remember stopping many many times. I couldn't begin to say how many. I remember my legs simply refusing to turn, I couldn't unstrap, down I went for the third time. Something tells me I didn't get off and walk - don't know but I just _feel_ I did it all in the saddle. Anyway a zombie emerged at the top. By now it was fully dark. I had lights, but in those days lights were nowhere near as good as nowadays. Let's just say, I had lights, and I contemplated the descent to Holme. Gradually I picked up speed. And speed, and speed. The north descent from Holme Moss is narrow and winding. Somehow I caught sight of this dry-stone wall bearing up at me, somehow I wrenched the handlebar round with inches to spare. If I hadn't, there would have been no 661-Pete to trouble this forum in these latter days ! Somehow that manoeuvre wasn't an 'off', somehow I was still aboard as my brakes screamed to temper my pace. Somehow I reached Holme village.

I can't remember the rest of it, through Holmfirth, then Huddersfield, then Brighouse, in almost deserted streets, then the outskirts of Bradford. I can't remember stumbling into the flat about 2am, not even sure I put the bike away, flung myself fully-dressed on the bed. Half an hour later I was convulsed with a deadly tremor and shuddering coupled with nausea. I went to the loo. I was violently sick. I dragged myself back to the bed. Then I slept. I couldn't rise from the bed all of next day. Nor the day after. On the third day I was more or less OK.

Motto: if anyone wants to do a latter-day version of this, make sure you plan it *properly!*


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## Banjo (10 Feb 2011)

Nice read Pete but have to disagree, if you planned it properly it wouldnt have been half as memorable.


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## 661-Pete (10 Feb 2011)

Banjo said:


> Nice read Pete but have to disagree, if you planned it properly it wouldnt have been half as memorable.


You're probably right, there. Which is why I have no recollection of the first four days....


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## theclaud (10 Feb 2011)

Holme Moss on two pints and a bottle of ditchwater in the blazing heat! That's pretty hardcore. I too have a rather hazy recollection of most of the cycling I did in the Summer of '76...


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## ColinJ (10 Feb 2011)

I remember the roads melting that 1976 summer. I wasn't cycling then, but getting stuck just walking across the road remains in the memory a long time. Yikes - what a time to do that ride!

_'What doesn't kill me, makes mes stronger'_, eh? 

Funny, I've never noticed an escape road off Holme Moss and when I Googled for details of it, the only mention is in your post. I can see why one would be a good idea though - it's not a descent that you'd want dodgy brakes on! 

_(Which reminds me - I think I pretty much wore out my front brake blocks on last Sunday's forum ride - I must go and __check them!)_


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## 661-Pete (10 Feb 2011)

ColinJ said:


> Funny, I've never noticed an escape road off Holme Moss and when I Googled for details of it, the only mention is in your post. I can see why one would be a good idea though - it's not a descent that you'd want dodgy brakes on!


Well I may be mixing up with some other place, but possibly it was here: the trackway off to the left was covered for some distance with loose deep gravel the idea being to bring runaway cars etc. to a controlled stop. If I'm right, there definitely used to be an advance sign. It's difficult to judge gradients on Google maps, but I think you can see why!

On that occasion, of course, I was going the other way.


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## fimm (10 Feb 2011)

Thank you for the story, 661-Pete. 
I was in a similar stage to theClaud in my cycling career in 1976. (That was the year they appointed a "minister for drought" - whereupon it started raining, wasn't it?)


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## 661-Pete (10 Feb 2011)

Yep Denis Howell - who had the distinction of being both "Minister for Drought" and "Minister for Floods" in the same year .

Lovely piccy, TheClaud - ah bless!


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## theclaud (10 Feb 2011)

661-Pete said:


> Yep Denis Howell - who had the distinction of being both "Minister for Drought" and "Minister for Floods" in the same year .



I see he worked at the Hercules bicycle factory!


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## 661-Pete (10 Feb 2011)

...and my first-ever (two-wheeled) bike was a Hercules!


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## Crackle (10 Feb 2011)

theclaud said:


> [attachment=2336:ClaudAge3.jpg]



I had something very similar to that but in 1966, in fact I had my first cycling accident on it. I cycled backwards down the cellar steps and then whilst being comforted by my mum, threw up on a favourite toy.

Nice story Pete. I think this section should be re-labelled cycling misadventures.


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## Crackle (10 Feb 2011)

661-Pete said:


> ...and my first-ever (two-wheeled) bike was a Hercules!



Just noticed that. I learnt to ride a bike on a friends Hercules that was too big for me.


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## theclaud (10 Feb 2011)

Crackle said:


> I had something very similar to that but in 1966, in fact I had my first cycling accident on it. *I cycled backwards down the cellar steps* and then whilst being comforted by my mum, threw up on a favourite toy.
> 
> Nice story Pete. I think this section should be re-labelled cycling misadventures.



Are you Danny MacAskill?


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## Crackle (10 Feb 2011)

I didn't land on my wheels, so I don't think I am. He's a bit younger than me too.


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## ColinJ (10 Feb 2011)

661-Pete said:


> Well I may be mixing up with some other place, but possibly it was here: the trackway off to the left was covered for some distance with loose deep gravel the idea being to bring runaway cars etc. to a controlled stop. If I'm right, there definitely used to be an advance sign. It's difficult to judge gradients on Google maps, but I think you can see why!
> 
> On that occasion, of course, I was going the other way.


Hmm. it looks more like a farm track to me! If you tried escaping up that at speed you'd be in danger of going through the dry stone wall and rolling your vehicle over down the hillside.

This is what I'd call a proper escape road, off Waddingon Fell.


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## lowerstill (17 Feb 2011)

Good tale, I know that parched feeling very well and the joys of a Pennine. My first bike was a converted penning track bike that was more than a little skitty for a novice cyclist at the time!

On a slightly sad note the pub next to the youth hostel has just closed. Yet another rural real ale/live music pub gone. 

However on a slightly older trip down someone else's memory the youth hostel itself is the reason I now live in Shropshire. My father stayed there in 1956 as a last stop off before heading back to Bedford on an easter cycle tour. I seem to remember he also used to stop there when commuting between Leeds and his in-laws in Cardiff about the same time you were going the other way... so you probably passed each other ;-). Anyway cut to many years later we ended up moving down from Leeds to follow his love of cycling in Shropshire, either that or he got fed up of all those Yorkshire climbs!


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## biggs682 (20 Feb 2011)

i have not been to long mynd for over 20years


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## pubrunner (22 Feb 2011)

lowerstill said:


> On a slightly sad note *the pub next to the youth hostel has just closed.* Yet another rural real ale/live music pub gone.



Is that the Horseshoe Inn ? Shame if that's gone.

I went in there about 15 years ago, after a Fell Race which started very close to another pub (Yew Tree) in All Stretton.

Do you live close to there, lowerstill ? it is a beautiful part of Shropshire. I live West of Oswestry, in another hilly region - very close to the Berwyns.


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## Headgardener (13 Apr 2011)

Been on the Long Mynd in snow so deep that it was above the car in places when I was about seven or eight. Only turned back because my grandad was worried that he couldn't walk anywhere whith his thrombosis and he didn't fancy getting stuck. Always a favorite part of the country for me.


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