Wars of The Poseurs

They left the back door wide open and we just waltzed on in.

There cannot be many of the worlds great Cities that could be so complacent but we found ourselves in the very centre of York, a walled city and fortress from Roman times and over the millenia a cultural centre and seat of power for marauding Scandinavians, Archbishops and Kings.

There is precedent of course in the annals of history for subterfuge and deception in the hostile entry into cities what with concealment in the belly of a hollow wooden horse or with treacherous guides leading armies through subterranean tunnels to pop out and surprise the inhabitants.

Fortunately for the citizens of York we were not an army intent on pillaging or ransacking but just a chubby man and The Boy with a singleminded purpose of covering the 30 mile or so round trip from Selby to the footbridge over the River Ouse just by York Railway Station. Yes, another day- another bike ride.

This one had been much talked about and I had heard good things about the route from other cyclists. It was held in high esteem being mostly traffic free, direct, flat and level, north to south to avoid most troublesome headwinds, well serviced by local shops and services and of some general and historic interest.

I like a bit of general and historic interest on a route. The Boy does not but tolerates my impromptu lectures on such things with a weariness well practised.

The start point was outside a row of terraced houses with the residents casually observing our preparations. Bikes were lifted off the roof rack. Clothing was put on or adjusted. Seating positions fidgeted with. Helmets tightened. Then the critical ritual of catching a reflection of ourselves in the windows of parked cars. We looked the part or at least like a part.

First creak of the pedals and cranks up the loosely gravelled slope from the street to the flood wall. A moment to catch that first breath and then onwards. We were riding along, well elevated above the road on our right and the river to the left. Houses were passed at first floor bedroom window level but we kept eyes front in case anyone was naked, stretching and scratching as would be a regular sunday morning activity.

The more utilitarian buildings of the Rank Hovis Flour Mill were well on the way to being reduced to rubble although activity had ceased for the duration of the Bank Holiday Weekend. The path dipped down through a muddy copse before spilling us out onto the main road through Barlby Village. The road, bypassed for some years from the A19, was quiet. I explained to The Boy that, being a linear settlement, it would be a long village and after 3 miles the term linear was pretty well demonstrated.

The path resumed paralell to the busy trunk road leading to York. Smooth tarmac with only a few ructions from tree roots and a necessary swerve or two to avoid wrappings and plastic drinks cups bearing the McDonalds logo.

Riccall village next. My lectures became a bit political as I explained to The Boy that what now gave the impression of an affluent middle class dormitory village had up until recently been in the thick of the once mighty Selby Coalfield. Forward movement and breathelessness on my part is likely to have provided The Boy with a rather disjointed series of names, words and phrases. National Coal Board, blah, blah, Scargill, blah, blah, Thatcher, blah, blah, Strike Action, blah, blah, Privatisation, blah, blah, shut down and regeneration, blah, blah, blah. Sadly and poignantly , there are no real remaining hints of the hazardous industry that provided the livelihoods and income for the local population and the wealth of a Nation, well not on the superficial surface of things.

At the northern end of Riccall the route directed us onto a former railway line. This would be the main artery into York, a joyous 7 miles of tarmac strip through open countryside, arched tree cover, a few stranded bridges and with a scaled representation of the Solar System. It was a clever illustration with waymarkers representing the planets and giving some realisation of how much void of space separated them. Of course we laughed at Uranus and being a bit saddle sore from our accumulated weekly mileage made jokes about our own.

The Selby to York axis was evidently very well patronised by bikes, walkers, dogs and baby buggies and, elbows in, we passed large family groups, focused individuals and the downright dour and unfriendly. Naburn Railway Station, devoid of a railway, was busy serving snacks and providing a rest stop with an option to play with an oversized chess set. A little further on was a large crowd on the grey metal bridge overlooking the river and marina. A cavalcade of boats, postponed because of flooding on its scheduled date, was now taking place. We threaded our way through the onlookers.

The southern suburbs of York were now ahead and a detour took us down a cul de sac of square, featureless houses and under the A63 dual carriageway that travels the 19 mile circumference of York as its orbital road. Litter and mud impeded our ride across York Racecourse which was recovering from the previous days attendance . Our tyres dragged through the thick grass of the gallops whilst the groundskeepers replaced hoof indented divots.

It was therefore a welcome change to ride on a road, a downhill one at that and our aching joints had some respite. Swinging right we entered Joseph Rowntree Park and being paralell to the festivities on the river it was again crowded and busy. The Park, a philanthropical gift from the Rowntree Family occupies a prime riverfront position. Expensive apartments and town houses have been thwarted from being even more expensive by virtue of a direct river frontage  by the green strip of the public open space and hover about, enviously in the background.

We are now on the last section of our inward journey. More crowds, a few tourists on an open topped bus, patrons of pubs and restaurants sat out in the open enjoying the weather and atmosphere. We are now very central.

Eight quite muscley and brawny women block our way as they lift and carry their boat into the rowing club. On the water the small red painted motor boats that can be hired on an hourly basis chug along with the parade which includes some large and impressive yachts and cruisers all bedecked in bunting and red duster flags. Against the flow are small fleets of canoes quite close to the terraced embankment  struggling to hold their position on the choppy wash. We had reached our target, the footbridge, with a sense of acheivement and satisfaction.

In history, those like ourselves who had penetrated a fortified city will no doubt have gone on a rampage, bloody and merciless. We settled for a plate of homemade lemon drizzle cake and two milky coffees at a  streetside cafe. To the victors - the spoils.