Bollards, barbecues and bikes

Whixley Crossroads.

The sort of junction that you could easily tootle-on by in a car without a sidewards glance up the intersecting roads.

The A59 trunk road is a fast exit from the City of York in a north westerly direction and takes a constant stream of traffic out towards the well to do towns of Knaresborough and Harrogate. A good proportion of the users do not make it into the leafy market and Spa towns but take the respective slip roads to the A1 motorway which is the great old route from London to Edinburgh up the spine of the country and swinging out to the north east.

The upper road of the crossroads is a steepish hill between a tree lined verge with only the horizon visible to the eye. Just beyond the crest is the village from which the junction takes its name. It is one of those typical North Yorkshire places with a core of older stone built properties but with the largest part of the housing stock being on cul de sac or crescent estates and of a non-descript and boxy 3 bed or 4 bed type.

The lower section has a directional sign for a railway station and in sight just on a sweeping bend is a local public house. Just above the distinctive station logo is a list of villages, all evidently quite close together as the mileage resembles a group of low scoring football matches between them. The bisecting A59 is an accident blackspot on this particular stretch due to a combination of speed and the sporadic ,hesitant emergence of cars from the side roads.

Safety measures have been introduced in a bid to cut down on injuries and fatalities. These consist of two strategically placed bollards equidistant to the crossroads with posts and chevrons giving the impression of a narrow bottle neck and encouraging a slowing down in the normal hazard zone. Smaller illuminated bollards sat in the mouths of the side roads giving a strange illumination in the twilight and nightime hours.

I arrived at this point by shuttle bus as the main road had been closed to all unofficial users at 6am, some 50 minutes prior. There were already a few hardy souls in position on the deep, coarse grass verges or sat on the kerbstones and leaning back onto the plastic street furniture. Small encampments had set up at first dawn light in a bid to claim a prime spot giving an unfettered view of the whole roadway. These included a couple of garden gazebo's in dark green canvas and blue and white piping lashed down with guy ropes and tent pegs against the early morning breeze which funnelled through giving a chill feeling. Under this sparse shelter were folding chairs, picnic tables and even a wheelbarrow piled high with barbecue briquettes in preparation for that ceremonial lighting up. Two adults struggled down from Whixley village with a heavy wrought iron bench, straining and perspiring with the effort.

A group of lads brought along a wooden pallet and a few off-cut blocks and fashioned a precarious, ankle snapping viewing platform which made everyone else wince in anticipation of an accident in the making.

One lone motorist braved a police caution by careering in a haphazard and bumping action down the verge and swinging around so that his vantage point would not involve any movement from the drivers seat. This could have been his routine every sunday morning in this spot as far as I knew.

A steady flow of people arrived over the next couple of hours. Spirits were high, assisted by the production of large amounts of tinned beer and cheap wine. Cups of coffee were poured from flasks or purchased from an entrepreneur who had set up a catering caravan in a sheltered wooded copse in the south east quadrant of the crossroads. Most people were obviously acquainted by the fond and familiar greetings and jokings and it gave the impression that many of the villages within walking distance had depopulated and relocated to this place as though drawn by a strange mutual calling.

The roadway was soon hidden due to the sheer volume of pedestrians and cyclists. A few individuals were on their hands and knees with lumps of chalk scratching out names and encouraging words but had to be aware of a few swift vehicles carrying barriers and fluorescent clad workmen on official business.

By 11am there must have been close to three thousand people within a 200 metre linear space. Local police were a bit on edge and were regretting not putting up crowd barriers given the unprecedented level of attendance. Security personnel, mostly young kids in high-viz blousons tried to appeal to the heaving masses to stand back behind the faint white lines in the junction or retreat to the kerb but as soon as they had turned their backs the populus returned to where they had previously been. More vehicles sped through and perilously close to the spectators but with no actual bone crunching impact. Voices and anticipation rose with the appearance of a cluster of five helicopters in the sky east of the junction.

Motorcycle outriders and brightly coloured liveried cars announced the imminent arrival of the spectacle for which the crowds had come for. Sirens and flashing lights cleared a wider path and then a small group of six cyclists rode through to cheers and cries of "Allez, Allez". There must have been a three minute gap until the large group of some 190 or so riders swept down into the shallow depression of the crossroads. A flag waving marshall alerted them, many unsighted, to the presence of the first bollard and as if repelled by opposing magnets the colourful field split either side of the obstacle. The noise from the crowd was amplified to fever pitch and in a matter of twenty seconds the Tour de France had passed through the second bollard island to disappear around the far bend on its continuation of Stage 2.

The buzz of excitement reverberated for a long time afterwards. The welling of emotions at having seen the race and its entourage was intensely moving being perhaps for the first ever and last time in anyone's life cycle.

The party continued under the canvas in a hickory wood haze and amongst the clusters of friends and families there was much re-enacting of the brief race action. Those with a portable radio conveyed information on the progress of the Stage to willing listeners and I could make out the unmistakable North Yorkshire names of Blubberhouses, Skipton and the like.

A small boy, up on his father's shoulders found it all too much and vomited, showering everyone in close proximity. An even smaller child on a tiny,tiny wheeled bike was cheered as he rode in the shadow of his cycling mother along the route.

Slowly but surely the crowds made their way south and north and with the sun at its highest point I found myself alone in the junction. It had been a momentous experience at Whixley Crossroads and one that I will cherish forever.