Ever since the chattering classes invaded Hebden Bridge
And priced the likes of me and mine
To the pots of the Pennine Ridge
Lord Hereford’s Knob
With our squad strengthened by summer signings David Davies and Richard Clarke, we’re off again. Daringly, we’re temporarily combining the HMHB place-name project with the dawn of a new challenge – to eat at every restaurant visited by Steve Coogan and Rob Brydon in ‘The Trip’.
The plan is to get the train to Preston, and stop off there to inspect a painting of interest to Nick, David and me because it features on the cover of St Etienne’s Tiger Bay (it’s of no interest to Richard who – without any shame – loves Keane) before cycling to Whitewell for an expensive dinner and probably some port, ponces that we are. We’ll revert to our HMHB agenda on Sunday.
So, by lunchtime on Saturday, we’re wheeling our bikes self-consciously through Preston town centre, looking for the Harris museum (AKA the Fred Harris / Keith Harris / Rolf Harris museum). Leaving Richard to mind the bikes and listen to some dreary piano-based ballads on his I-pod, we discover James Clark Hook’s ‘Welcome Bonny Boat’, and try to remember which members of the group play the different characters in the painting. We also wander round and have a look at the other assorted modernist and pre-Raphaelite works, commenting expertly as we go.
I grew up near Barrow-in-Furness, so a day trip to Preston, which had proper record shops used to be a bit of a treat. But as we cycle through its outskirts, David notes its resemblance to a “grim northern town straight out of Central Casting”, and I have to admit, his description hits the N. on the H. We stop off for lunch at the Derby Arms in Longridge, where conversation topics range from the number of dead animals we’ve seen (hedgehogs come out on top) to who’ll win the different prizes on the trip (I’m nailed on for the prestigious Gayest Shorts accolade). We also watch a ruddy-faced Oliver Reed character shouting and staggering around, and all agree that it would be good to be like him in our dotage.
After lunch, we encounter a fellow cyclist, sporting an AC Milan top. He’s following a route recommended by the Times and is sadly non-plussed when Nick enthusiastically explains the HMHB challenge. Arriving at Whitewell early, we decide to make a detour through the Trough of Bowland, which is very hard, and involves varying amounts of dismounting and cursing, but is successfully negotiated. On our way back, Nick gets an early pre-dinner amuse-bouche, swallowing some liquid cow-shit as I briefly overtake him, and then a fly. The progression to our evening’s accommodation is then punctuated by a brief pause while David excitedly photographs a spiral radio aerial which will apparently be of considerable interest to his father, and by the fact that we get lost. When we find ourselves down a muddy track that is clearly some distance from civilisation, Richard rings the B & B owner Heather, to be met with the confusing assertion that “You’re not where you say you are, then.” On our eventual arrival (after I’ve emerged relatively unscathed from a hedge I managed to fall into) Heather greets us warmly, and proves to be a very hospitable host, albeit one who likes to disagree with absolutely everything anyone says to her. She seems to take particular pleasure in contradicting Richard, refusing to accept that Surrey, where he lives, is not in the South-west of England, or that it could have been raining there, because he saw some cows in a field. However, she kindly arranges transportation to the Inn at Whitewell where we dine like the Kings of the Mountains we unquestionably are, with two of our number considering it the best meal they’ve ever had.
Gorged on venison and sticky toffee pudding, then Heather’s cooked breakfast, we speed towards the Lancashire / Yorkshire border on Sunday morning, laughing in the face of the hills in our path, although not in the face of the wild-eyed man who gets off his bike to tell us a long, rambling joke which is utterly incomprehensible. Things get a bit more daunting when we arrive at the foot of Widdop Moor, which turns out to be the Bastard Hill Nick has been darkly warning about all weekend. On the scale of climbs we’ve encountered, it’s certainly a winner in the bastard stakes, thoroughly deserving its status as a full Piers Morgan. As we contemplate the scale of the task ahead of us, a walker watches us with apparent amusement, informing us that his Range Rover had trouble getting up the hill, then throwing back his head and laughing cruelly.
We do ok though, particularly Nick, who’s well on his way to winning the King of the Mountains competition. The marked improvement in his performance is the subject of controversy, although the consensus is that it’s the result of several pints of Black Sheep – not exogenous erythropoietin. As I toil up a particularly difficult stretch, I’m inspired by the strains of Richard’s heart-rending version of Kate Bush and Peter Gabriel’s ‘Don’t Give Up’ behind me. Although I do promptly give up.
Annoyingly, we’re harassed by proper cyclists, who wear lycra and ride bikes made from super-light metals from other planets. As they speed past us, they offer condescending words of encouragement, which particularly infuriates the usually unflappable David, whose general tolerance levels have already been worn down by the lack of padding in his shorts.
Nick, now assured the Yellow Jersey, gets a measure of revenge by overtaking them on the fantastic descent past Widdop reservoir. After a drink and sausage sandwich at the Packhorse Inn, there’s more descending all the way into a very sunny Hebden Bridge, which still has sandbags everywhere, having been flooded two days ago. We join the Chattering Class invasion and celebrate by drinking real ale and sneering at the poor sound quality of the busker’s P.A. system. The only shadow on proceedings is cast when my ill-considered toast to the lesbians of Hebden Bridge is a bit too audible, resulting in pained silence all round.
On the train journey back, our reflection on what a good time we’ve all had is disrupted by a tiresome gentleman who talks loudly on his mobile to his family then keeps intervening in our conversation. While he’s chuntering on about the Olympics and what a brilliant film Avatar (or something) is, I have a sneaky look over at his laptop and note that he appears to be involved in some kind of industrial tribunal. The uncharitable thought crosses my mind that I hope he loses, even if his dismissal was unfair.
Mid table there’s nothing much on my fork
It’s alright though ‘cos I can go for my walk
Around Cartmel, mathematically safe
Mathematically Safe
Walking up Orrest Head in the morning, I’m visited by the troubling thought of Nigel Blackwell hearing what we’re doing, taking a dim view, and recording a new double album consisting entirely songs made up of British place names. In order to fling off this curse, we aim to spend the day drinking in diverse taverns in Cartmel.
This initially involves a stop in Bowness, where, while locking up our bikes, we have large scones pressed upon us by enthusiastic volunteers from the Christian Centre. I can’t finish mine, and have to sneak off down a back street so the Christians can’t see me throw it away. We then visit Action Replay records where Nick explains what we’re doing to his old boss David, who’s bemused but encouraging, and gives us some tips on local roads.
Despite the first drizzle of the weekend, and the melodrama of Nick’s first puncture (worryingly, we realise neither of us are still entirely sure how to re-attach a wheel after replacing an inner tube) there’s some fantastic cycling, with the sort of hills that make me wonder how fast your heart has to beat before something bad happens to it.
At the top of Height Road, we’re rewarded with views over Grange-over-Sands, and then a descent into Cartmel. As we turn right to cross the bridge over the M6, Nick remarks that my hand signals “look really gay” and that I’m “the John Inman of hands signals”. Rising above his casual homophobia I race on ahead, but find myself trying to indicate my direction in a more heterosexual manner at the next junction.
We do enough wandering to satisfy the Judging Panel that we’ve undertaken a “walk / Around Cartmel” then look for somewhere to leave our bikes. I attempt to lock mine to an ideally sized railing, before Nick points out that we’re on the racecourse, and that it may not be the best place to lock a bicycle.
At the Royal Oak we celebrate ticking off our final destination of the weekend, although Nick is strangely gloomy – the puncture seems to have cast a shadow over the final stage of our trip. He perks up considerably at the Engine Inn in Cark, where they have one of those internet jukeboxes onto which we download the Editor’s Recommendation EP and play it in its entirety, belting out a particularly fine ‘Vatican Broadside’, to celebrate the conclusion of a successful first stage.
CSI Ambleside
“If I were you I’d get away from all that relates/ Week in the Lakes/Reasonable rates early September” ‘Dead Men Don’t Need Season Tickets’
After a browse round Sedbergh’s bookshops, and stopping to gawp at a drive-by shouting, we push on into darkest Cumbria, through Kendal and into Stavely, stopping for lunch at the Eagle and Child where our friend Lorna works, and then to Nick’s parents’ house in Windermere. By now we can safely tick off ‘The Lakes’. Next stop is Ambleside – the first album title on our list.
Getting there involves cycling along the short but unpleasant stretch of road alongside Lake Windermere, on a bank holiday. Progress is severely restricted by hire cars carrying tourists wearing novelty t-shirts on their way to sit in lay-bys next to the lake. They probably all go ten-pin bowling after work and deserve to be dealt with under Operation Less Pricks.
As I start to pine for the serene roads of London with its considerate motorists, Nick informs me that we’re making a detour to Loughrigg Tarn for some freshwater swimming. This involves more climbing, and wheeling the bikes on treacherous paths, but is far preferable to negotiating pavements teeming with overweight Iowans buying overpriced tartans. After a dip in the tarn, drip-drying in the sun, and picking off bits of pond slime, we return to Ambleside, and locate the Priest Hole restaurant. While we meticulously recreate the front cover of CSI Ambleside, hoping the Judging Panel will award bonus points for accuracy, we’re approached by a man in a denim jacket at a Bobby Moore t-shirt, who’s impressed by my ageing roadbike, and its frame-mounted gear shift, and duly awed when he learns of our undertaking. Over a beer it turns out that he’s called Vince and is in fact a former customer at Action Replay records in Bowness, where, 17 years ago, Nick used to order him records by acts such as Freak of Nature and Twisted Sister, in his view, the greatest live act of all time. He’s a man with an unjaded world view, who seems to get passionate about most things he talks about, including the variety of music on Radio 2: “It’s just amazing. They can be playing Paul Simon one minute, then Emeli Sande the next!” We’d like to chat longer, but don’t fancy the trek back to Windermere after too many pints, so bid our goodbyes, pledging that we’ll write about him in our forthcoming bestselling account of our travels, and wondering if we should give Radio 2 a go some time.
Nick’s parents very kindly put us up for the night and we’re joined by David, who’s walked 18 miles from Sedbergh, carrying his laptop. After dinner, he and Nick’s mum walk up Orrest Head to watch Windermere’s most committed nationalists light a Jubilee Beacon. Apparently, one of them kicks off a half-hearted rendition of God Save the Queen, which peters out quickly. Nick, his dad and I opt to stay in and watch the patently awful Jubilee concert, sneering at Paul McCartney et al, and speculating that Prince Philip has faked his urinary infection to avoid spending more time than he has to with Gary Barlow.
I’m going to spend my next half day with a girl called Joyce
Going to possibly stop at Tebay with a girl called Joyce
Ode to Joyce
We head into Dent, which although not referred to in any HMHB songs, carries special significance because it shares its name with Countdown’s beautiful lexicographer Susie, and meet up with our friend David, who’s on a walking trip. Over breakfast, he’s had a lecture from the manager of the George and Dragon about the importance of the Jubilee, and a confusing warning about “Gypsies with Botox”. On the way out of town, we pass a long train of gypsies in Bowtop caravans on their way to the Appleby Horse Fair, and realise what he meant.
Arriving in Sedbergh, we decide to leave our bags at the hotel and make the 24 mile round trip to Tebay to tick off our second destination. Nick insists that it’s not enough to visit the village of Tebay, and that we have to go the extra two miles to the motorway services, on the basis that it’s clear that the song’s protagonist is stopping there, with Joyce. This sparks the first real debate about the details of our challenge – is it enough to just bag the placename, or do we have to re-enact the events in the song? We decide to draw up some clearly defined terms of reference on our return. The route to Tebay goes through the Howgill hills, which don’t seem to attract many walkers, probably because the M6 passes next to them.
Unsurprisingly we appear to be the only customers at Westmorland Motorway Services to have arrived by bicycle, but despite the appalling lack of cycle storage facilities, we’re well catered for. After taking the obligatory photos for the sake of the Judging Panel, we have a gourmet lunch (apparently they have a Michelin Star), and leave very satisfied, especially after extra tiffin. Later on we wonder if we should have gone to the shop and bought ten kit kats and a motoring atlas, and a Blues CD on the Hallmark label.
There’s another long slag on the way back, and morale and blood sugar start to drop again, but once we get to what appears to be a weather station above Sedbergh it’s pretty much downhill all the way back. Over drinks at the hotel, we get talking to an American gentleman about Obama, road trips, the poor quality of food at American diners in the early 60s, and John Steinbeck. When I mention that I once studied literature in Kansas he sadly misjudges me as a Literary Man and urgently seeks my advice on eighteenth century English essayists: “So I’ve read all of Carlyle, Ruskin, and Arnold – who else should I be getting into?” I come up very short, muttering something about not being much of a fan of eighteenth century literature, and he returns to his burger, disappointed.
We meet up with David for dinner and end up at one of the less touristy pubs in Sedbergh. I’m informed that the jukebox hasn’t worked for five years, but the regulars are delighted with our a capella version of Lord Hereford’s Knob.
While I go up to Yorkshire, and there avenge your plight
Soon reports were filtering through to me
The pair were drowning in bliss
I can’t recall having ever been cuckolded quite like this
I gave up hope ironically for Lent
Come see me living in a bivvie
If you’re ever up Pen-y-Ghent
Lord Hereford’s Knob,
We meet up at King’s Cross. We’ve been waiting in different places and part of my pannier has already fallen off on the ride in to town. A fittingly less than slick start but spirits are high as our train departs from Platform 0.
Fuelled by Stella Artois and sandwiches from the buffet car, the ride from Skipton station in the evening light goes very well if we do say so ourselves. However, the welcome we receive at Miresfield Farm is a tad on the frosty side. The message hasn’t got through to the owner’s son, Chris, that we were going to arrive after ten, and he’s sceptical, bordering on the confrontational:. “We’d given up on you…If you’d arrived any later, you couldn’t have got in…You couldn’t have ridden from Skipton at this time of night….No you can’t have a pint here.” We choose the shabbier looking of the two pubs on offer, and listen to a group of Yorkshiremen ranting: “Having children? Not worth it. I look at the people I know who’ve got kids, and none of them have got anything in return for it. No offence, Sheila.”
Highlight of breakfast is the home-made plum jam (who needs Sylvia Plath?). As I faff around getting ready, Nick gets another earful from Chris, whose state of mind we’re starting to worry about: “Still waiting for him, are you? I know people like that. Last! Last! Always last!” Nick charitably points out that I run the odd marathon, and don’t always finish last.
We have a look round Malham, which has been livened up by the ‘Jubilee Safari’. At every turn, we’re greeted by fibreglass animals, constructed by BTEC students, many displaying their support for the monarchy. Highlights include a panda, apparently displaying his war medals to two young cubs, a zebra in a straw hat and stripey stockings, a worried looking tiger keeping guard outside Traitor’s Gate, dolphins wearing sunglasses, and best of all the Queen and Prince Philip – as a fox and a badger respectively.
We walk up to Janet’s Foss – or Janet Jackson’s Dental Floss as we hilariously call it – have a quick dip in the pool by the waterfall, and then on to Malham Cove, where the RSPB have set up a bird watching station. We look through their binoculars and get to see a peregrine falcon roosting above the cove. Despite the best efforts of the RSPB recruiting sergeant – a genial type who resembles John Peel – we callously avoid signing direct debits to maintain the existence of Peregrine Falcons, and return to Malham for some tea and cake served by friendly waitresses in union jack T-shirts.
The route out of Malham is hillier than anticipated and involves dismounting quite a lot. However, by lunchtime we’re at the foot of Pen y Ghent, and about to achieve our first HMHB place name. Locking our bikes to a signpost to protect them from gangs of delinquent sheep, we begin the ascent. Attired in cycling gear and trainers, we attract disapproving glances from real walkers, all of whom have sensible footwear, facial hair, and those walking poles that seem to be compulsory these days. They may have a point – the fog is gathering. We decide that we’re far enough up Pen Y Ghent to satisfy the Judging Panel’s criteria, and turn round, erring on the side of not breaking our ankles. One down, several hundred to go.
The next stage of the journey involves a short cut down a rocky track impassable by bicycle. While I drop behind, grumbling as I wheel my bike, Nick chats with a group of walkers, who turn out to be HMHB enthusiasts, and are naturally impressed by our endeavours. “Are those Joy Division oven gloves then?” one of them quips appropriately.
Eventually reaching Ribble Head we stop at the Station Inn for pork pies and beer. We decide to leave before having to sit through England’s friendly against Belgium, and emerge from the pub to discover that it’s suddenly freezing and a fierce wind has arrived from nowhere. The ride into Dentdale is an unpleasant slog (or an unpleasant slag as Nick reads it in my notes) but we stagger on, spindrift stinging our remaining eyes.
Our stop for the night, the Sportsman in Cowgill, is excellent. They proudly proclaim that they have “No jukebox, no Sky TV, no mobile phones, no binge drinking and no trouble.” and describe themselves as “A traditional country Inn where the art of conversation is still practised.” [their bold]. Unfortunately, the topic of conversation appears almost entirely to be motorcycle repair. We amuse ourselves in puerile fashion, purchasing a copy of the Upper Wensleydale Newsletter (recommended donation, 20p) and defacing it in the manner of 13-year old schoolboys.
Steve Harman and Nick Dawes are two amateurish cyclists. We can’t remember why now, but in 2012 we resolved to cycle to every UK place-name mentioned in songs and albums by Half Man Half Biscuit.
Half Man Half Bike Kit 