Over Tailbrigg Forty Years Ago

By S. W. Cuttriss

One spring morning in 1891 I turned my back on the interesting town of Richmond and started for a journey up the beautiful valley of the Swale, which was then new ground to me. I am mounted on my ” trusty steed of wiry sinew,” which has already carried me for many thousands of miles over the length and breadth of England’s major county. I anticipate a hard day’s work as a stiff breeze of arctic temperature blows in my teeth, accompanied by a heavy shower of fine snow, but ultimately the snow gives place to bright sunshine. Despite the unseasonable cold, vegetation is coming to life and the banks and woods are sprinkled with brightly coloured flowers.

A steady and pleasant ride of about ten miles brings me to the village of Grinton about twelve o’clock. Enquiry at the village inn elicits the information that bread and cheese is the only refreshment available, a not uncommon occurrence then up the Dales. On leaving, mine host advises me to keep to the north side of the river, as the road on that side is much the better of the two. Acting on his advice I pass through the mining village of Reeth. About two and a half miles up a narrow valley, a little further up Swaledale, are the Auld Gang lead mines. These mines date back to the ninth century and it is said they are still worked in the same primitive fashion as by the Romans.

The road now becomes very hilly, but with a fairly good surface ; still I have to dismount repeatedly and push the machine up the short but steep inclines. When I hear the wheels of a trap grinding over the loose stones on the road on the south side of the river, I feel grateful to my late host for having advised me to take the north side. I arrive at Muker, twenty one miles from Richmond, just in time to shelter from a more than usually heavy fall of snow, which speedily covers the hills with a white mantle. The church bell is calling the villagers to their devotions, but the church itself being under repair, the service is held in the village school and I form one of a congregation of thirteen, seated round a cheerful fire burning in the capacious grate. Service over and the snowstorm having ceased, I start again and presently fall in with a gentleman on horseback who enters into a pleasant conversation with me, a rather unusual circumstance, as horse riders as a rule have no love for cyclists.

The road presently divides, one branch leading to Hawes and the other continuing on to Kirkby Stephen, in Westmore­land. This divergence is caused by Great Shunnor Fell (2,329 feet), one of the highest hills in Yorkshire, and its outlying spurs. Being desirous of ascending this hill, I turn up the Hawes road. About two miles up the road are several pot-holes, known as the Buttertubs. Steep gradients and very bad surface induce me to leave the bicycle and continue the journey on foot over the open moorland, now covered with snow.

Continuing to the top of one of the hills I am reluctantly compelled to turn back as the country is again obscured by snow clouds. Although I had taken my bearings with the compass, when I again struck the road it was some con­siderable distance from the point where I had left it. Kirkby Stephen being my proposed rendezvous for the night I descend to the junction and continue on the Swaledale road a few miles further, to Keld, when I refresh myself once more at the Cat Hole Inn on the advice of the rider previously referred to. I visit Keld Force, but what more particularly attracts my attention is the broken character of the rock, in places large isolated pillars of rock standing on the edge of the gorge.

Somewhat after seven o’clock I start on the last stage of the journey, with eleven miles of unknown moorland to cross before reaching Kirkby Stephen. I had been riding and walking with little intermission since ten o’clock in the morning, mostly over rough ground, but I start with a light heart for what I know will be the hardest part of the journey. For about a mile the road is easy until the Swale is crossed— then I dismount and commence the climb uphill. Rising above the limestone the track is made with sandstone, the broken stones being merely scattered on the surface and cart-wheels having to do the rest. A few miles of uphill work over this sort of ground becomes decidedly tedious.

A s I steadily rise up the banks the sun sinks into obscurity, and the sky is suffused with a bright glow, against which the snow-clad hills are cut in sharp outline. The wind has died away and not a sound reaches the ear except the occasional twitter of a bird. Neither tree, shrub, building, or living animal is in sight as far as the eye can sec. The feeling produced on the mind is one of undefinable pleasure.

The keen frost reminds me I have left my gloves at home.  As a substitute I use a pair of stockings, drawing them well up to the shoulders. The sun having set, a silvery moon is an effective substitute in lighting my path. At last I espy a low building a short distance away from the path, evidently a shepherd’s shelter, and unfastening the door, I enter a small room, on the floor of which a little hay is strewn and at one side is a crude fireplace. Had there been any wood about I was strongly tempted to make a lire and stay for the night, as the hour is late and I should not be able to reach Kirkby before bedtime. Fortunately I was not able to find any fuel, as otherwise I should have missed a most glorious sight. About half-an-hour after leaving the hut I reach the top of the hill and a turn in the road reveals an enchanting picture. To the right and left, clad in their wintry garments, rises the ring of the rugged hills, while to the north-west lies the broad expanse of the Eden valley. Above, the sky is cloudless, but in the valley far below and between the hills arc isolated masses of cloud like huge billows of pure snow. Beyond the valley, here and there, hilltops show above the clouds like islands in a snowy sea.

Descending the steep incline of Tailbrigg, I look about for some shelter, where I can remain until the morning. After some time I see a more pretentious building than the last, and close beside it the first tree I have seen for many miles. The lower floor is tenanted by a cow and the loft above is filled with hay. Making myself comfortable in the hay I endeavour to go to sleep but my efforts arc not a success. The cow underneath persistently refused to settle down and could not bring the ruminating process to a conclusion. Then I felt my couch tremble as she rubbed her hide against a post. Interspersed with these diversions, she would heave a sigh of astonishing volume.    After more than two hours of patient endurance I give up the attempt to sleep, although I am quite comfortable and warm. After eating a few frag­ments of chocolate, I light a pipe and stroll down the hill for about a mile to see what the road looks like ahead. Returning for the bicycle I bid an anything but fond farewell to my late companion.

Another couple of miles downhill I turn to the right over a small stream and enter a narrow lane lined with bushes on both sides. Suddenly my way is blocked by a horse, which turns round and trots off in front. I then find there are a number of horses which, however, scamper out of my way. As the lane does not improve, I begin to have doubts as to it being the right road, especially as it gets rapidly worse, being cut deeply in the ground with a stream of water trickling down the centre. Leaving the machine in the hedge bottom I travel on for a good half-mile further, often over the shoe tops in mud. At last, being convinced I am off the right track, I return to the point where I entered the lane and find I should have turned to the left, and so eventually reach a good road (at Nateby). This little divergence cost me nearly an hour’s hard tramp.

After chopping the frozen mud from the fork of the back wheel, I mount for the first time in the last seven hours and soon arrive at Kirkby. Knowing a comfortable hotel at Brough, I decide to ride on to that village, a good four miles further. Daylight is well advanced as I pull up at the ” Castle.” Judging by my appearance, it might have been the depth of winter, my beard and moustache being frozen hard with the moisture from my breath.

Do I hear someone murmur : ” And you called cycling a pleasure ” ?

[This article is printed much as it appeared in the Leeds Mercury, May, 1891.—Ed.]