37. Grassington

CC Site
June 24th-25^th

A strange thing. AA Routefinder said it was a twenty-two mile journey, but when I reached about half-way and the turn-off out of Wensleydale, the road sign showed twenty-two still to go. I think I must have given it the wrong destination postcode.

Never mind, because the drive itself was stupendous, over the top from Wensleydale to Wharfedale, over Buckden Pike, 702 metres high. This road, the B6160, is on the Tour route and this is a real climb. I descended in third gear most of the way at 30mph and I wonder which gear the riders will use to ascend it. How do they do it? Every village on the way was decked-out in bunting and banners and decorated bikes. One bright spark had completely covered a racing bike in yellow tape. Difficult to find polka-dot tape in even the best stationers.

I had never noticed how many really impressive limestone escarpments there are in the Dales.

Pretty standard CC site, £13-30 a night. Listened to the Test match, had a nap then watched England's last game in the 2014 World Cup. Why does Jack Wilshere fall over so much? Rather a grey day. Tomorrow a cycle ride into Grassington, I think. The cricket is so depressing. Cook doesn't look like resigning or being sacked and I can't see any hope for the future. I'm joined by the cricket writers in The Times and The Daily Telegraph. We may have to lose the series against India before someone sees sense. Please God we don't have to lose the Ashes next year as well. There was a small crowd throughout the match and hardly anyone there on the last day. Disappearing income may make the ECB act, since they care only about money.

Why would anyone want to pay £70 a day to see such an abject, hapless, directionless display as Monday's? The trouble is, shrinking test match income will mean less for the county game and will surely hasten its demise once the current generation of OAP's pass on. I hope I don't live to see cricket in this country consisting wholly of one-day bashes.

The bird-feeder is very popular here. I think there may have been a tree-creeper on it. I must swat-up and improve my recognition. To-day there was a hen pheasant, several pigeons and, apparently, a grey squirrel on it. I'm awaiting the flying pig. Luckily, the small birds also got a look in. A nice old gent with two lovely whippets in a small motorhome opposite me told me about the squirrel. He said one of his dogs had “got three of the buggers yesterday”.

Opposite me is a Team Sky van with a large motorhome and an amazing streamlined trailer. Could it be one of the riders? Chris Froome? Nah, saw the bloke tonight and he looks like a mechanic. Oh well, never mind.

Well I cycled in to Grassington, only a couple of miles. Oh calamity! Twelve days since I rode the bike, and twelve days ago I was a well-honed racing machine. To-day, my knees had seized-up and I had no puff at all. I was exhausted after half a mile. It was terrible. There is a steep hill up into the village and I just had to walk up it. Two proper cyclists overtook me and my paranoia fancied it heard them sneering when I saw them sitting outside the cafė in the square when I arrived. On the way back I discovered my derailleur was on the middle ring at the front, so that I had been starting-off in 8^th gear instead of first and operating seven gears higher than I had thought. So, I'm not a complete weakling after all. Just an incompetent cyclist.

Sitting reading my newspaper in the square, I was the object of much interest. Country people in the North do stare a good deal more than normal people, but this was exceptional and made me check my flies. I think my fundamentalist beard was causing the trouble. I may have to trim it a bit, because I like to pass unnoticed through society, like a neutrino through butter. One man spotted my Bradford Park Avenue 1951 replica football shirt and came over for a chat. The village could be unkindly described as “God's Waiting Room”; I did see two young people, but they looked out of place.

Well, it's farewell then Peter Matthiessen, author of one of my few very favourite books “The Snow Leopard”, a book which had a tremendous influence on me at a difficult time. Matthiessen was described in his obituary in the Daily Telegraph as “an author and naturalist whose personal landscape was as wild, dangerous and eclectic as that he detailed in prose; he was, variously, a novelist, travel writer, deep sea fisherman, environmentalist, peace protester, Zen Buddhist and CIA agent”. The book was published in 1979 and is a strange mystical and inspirational read. “What began as a practical search for the rare snow leopard,” said one reviewer, “developed into a quest for the meaning of Being.”