Lancashire Hotpot

Bowland or bust, from back in the day..

“ More tea sir?” Oh what a rather splendid idea I thought to myself. But I really should stop talking to myself in public; it tends to attract a few odd looks. Either way I was right, it was a great idea, and my ride buddy Lincoln was in full agreement.  In fact he seconded the motion by ordering himself a huge plate of lasagne, just the kind of thing you do before setting off to climb the Trough of Bowland, one of the Wicked Witch of The North’s most evil concoctions.

We were already heading well towards early afternoon, and our avoidance ploys were combining well to drive away the vague possibility of a monster ride and making the shorter option look a whole lot more and more appetising by the sip. It was mid summer you see, and true to form it was howling outside, not to mention raining in with it. The prospect of battling across a wind swept moor on a bike in this weather was not too appealing. Safely tucked in behind the café windows we concluded that it was probably a long way to drive just to sample the local tea and cakes. Eventually the food was gone and teapot had run dry, forcing us out of the café and in to action.

Thankfully the sun had also popped up to offer us encouragement, though it gave up about three miles later, by which time we were well underway. We’d actually started our ride from the very centre of Great Britain. Yes, believe it or not Dunsop Bridge is the official centre of the British Isles! In fact to be precise the public phone box in the village is officially the centre, honest!

For many years we’d mused over the prospect of tackling the myth of Bowland. Both of us had taken it on by one route or other on mountain bikes. But the great grey slither of Tarmac that climbs steeply and openly across the high fells had eluded us both, until today that was.

The shelter of a peaceful and pretty valley gave us a false sense of security as we pedalled on towards the foot of the climb. Then gradually it came in to sight, the valley head. The only problem was that this valley head has a thin grey ladder at one end, and that was what we were about to climb. Reality strikes.

Turning in to the wind gravity struck hard, forcing us down the gears and out of the saddle. The damn thing is all spread neatly and oh so clearly, out before you. And the more you grunt at it the longer and steeper it seems to become. It was a case of heads down and grind onwards and upwards. Approaching the summit the wind grew stronger, hurling in a dose of rain just for good effect.

There wasn’t much in the way of conversation passing between us as we ground over the summit, though thankfully it had been a whole lot shorter than I’d imagined. A quite spectacular road winds and twists its way across Blaze Moss before taking a sharp dip to climb upwards again. The wind was still firmly in our faces, but by now so was the sun. Ahead of us we could see the distant glitter of the coastline, crowned by the imposing silhouette of Blackpool tower it’s self, which from this distance at least is quite impressive.

Gradually we climbed our way around the side of the fell, then climbed some more. This was seemingly one long endless climb of a ride. So far the flat had eluded us, and all be it just an hour in to the day, we were both feeling the effects of the continual head wind grovel. But at least we were now cresting the apex of our oval route, which meant that we should soon be turning tale on the wind, and respite would be ours, or so we figured. But as we all know things just never seem to pan out that way do they. No, the wind somehow managed to swirl it’s cruel way around the side of the fell to slap us around some more, and as for the flat roads, huh!

Up and down, then up again. The narrow road dipped and dived like the Big Dipper it’s self. The downs were so steep and fat that you hardly had any chance to recover before being faced with yet another short sharp climb. The ride really was beginning to take it’s toll on the pair of us, and the Dunsop Bridge signs seemed to grow infuriatingly further and further apart in that way they do when you least want them too.

All sweaty and wind brushed we rolled back into the village just in time for last orders at the café, with the Trough firmly bagged and logged. Grunting over to Lincoln I questioned the mileage for the day “ About 40 or so?” Looking back in shame he mumbled “Er, no, 29 miles.” Surely we hadn’t gone that slow, over 2.15 hours of grovelling and sorely heavy legs to go with it. How hard can 29 miles be? If you want to find out for yourself give this ride a go!