Half a Day in the saddle

It is quite easy to take for granted the wonders of Yorkshire.

The aerial shots of the county accompanying the TV coverage of some bike race or other at the weekend were striking and certainly showcased the great variety of terrain from the open expanses of the Vale of York to the rocky outcrops of the gritstone Pennines.

My work schedule this day took me on a similar grand tour albeit at driver seat level but no less dramatic and awe inspiring.

It all started with a drive out of the regional city of Hull. Heading north-easterly took me through the large inter and post war built suburbs on the flood plain before the road rises gently to skirt the commuter areas of Willerby and Cottingham. There is a sweeping view from this ridge, back towards the tower blocks and the thin and tall Infirmary but with the overwhelming impression being of a very, very green and fertile land.

A newly widened trunk road quickly dissipates the traffic northwards past the towering sails of Skidby Windmill and after a few undulations it is a matter of skirting the market town of Beverley on the bypass.

In a matter of minutes you are into open and unspoiled countryside. This time of year the fields are beginning to turn a golden tone and in a few more weeks it will be harvest time. There is little in the way of traffic and no villages to creep through under an agonisingly slow speed limit until the right turn onto the coast road at Bainton, At the roundabout at the edge of the dispersed settlement any traffic is further thinned out dependant on whether heading to the Moors or the seaside. I take the latter and soon make out the dull blue sheen of the North Sea in the misty distance.

I have a call to make in Bridlington to pick up a set of keys. Known fondly as Bradford or Leeds on Sea it is difficult finding even a short term parking space because of the influx of seasonal visitors and day trippers to the popular resort from those sprawling conurbations. I have to risk a parking ticket by pulling up on double yellow lines  and making one of those funny half run/half swift walking forays to the estate agents.

The key is for a tiny one up and one down cottage on the main through street  of Hunmanby Village about 6 miles north. It is a longish job inspite of the compact nature of the property because of an interesting trail of problems and defects including the construction of the kitchen into a hillside at the rear. I seriously think about finding a Post Office amongst the small cluster of shops and posting back the keys to save 30 minutes of driving back to Bridlington. I find the place but it is closed for a major refurbishment. The nearest alternative is about as far away in the opposite direction as could possibly be.

Reluctantly I trace my steps over what is now a very familiar route. As anticipated it is a good half hour before I am heading for my next job. It was a late additon to my work sheet but involved a 100 mile deviation from what had been a reasonable looping route anyway.

I knew instinctively which road to take but foolishly fell under the spell of the seductive female voice on the Sat-Nav. I humoured the lady for the next 34 miles as she seemed to be taking me farther and farther away from my destination. It is hard, being a stubborn man to do this but I did have a two hour window until my run of afternoon appointments in York and so time was not a pressing issue, for once.

I forgave the smooth, silky toned temptress as soon as her recommended route took me on an approach to Thompson's Fish and Chip Restaurant on the A64. Perhaps she was just keeping me sweet for whatever she had planned for me.

The outdoor seating area was bathed in sunshine and not too busy although the main establishment was heaving with elderly customers on a jolly day out. I really savoured the haddock and crispy chips more so for the rare occasion of not eating on the move and avoiding my usual stance of sitting with the polystyrene tray wedged between belly and steering wheel.

I made the decision to ignore the sat nav woman and freelanced away from her forceful invitation to stay on the road "for a very long time".

My idea was to venture diagonally across a large part of North Yorkshire to get to what appeared to be a very tiny hamlet known as Thirkleby, just below the market town of Thirsk. This took in the striking castle ruin at Sheriff Hutton and the rolling Howardian Hills with thickly wooded slopes, walled pastures and stone built farmsteads. The road was quiet and the looping bends, sweeping ascents and fast downhill slopes made for some challenging but fun driving.

I thought that I had missed a vital turn at a 'T' junction but emerged in the pictureque estate village of Hovingham. Many of the warm hued cottages are holiday lets and there are multiple brown tourist information signs for Lavender Farms, Craft Centres and other rural interests.

I was now climbing again through Stonegrave along a west facing ridge which gave a wide ranging view of shallow valleys and distant settlements. There was an increase in road traffic the nearer I got to historic Helmsley which straddles the main A170 coast road as well as being a visitor destination for Rievaulx Abbey and good walking country.

Large warning signs gave alternative choices for HGV's and Caravans as I approached the dramatic and precipitous Sutton Bank which at an average gradient of 1 in 4 poses a problem to such vehicles. The sharp left turn at the top starts the low gear descent. Drivers face a dilemna of concentrating solely on the negotiation of the downhill twists and turns or sneaking a look at the broad vista that the huge rocky outcrop overlooks ,well into the far reaches of the county. It is a magnificent sight and I did feel genuine uplift and emotion only tempered by reaching the very ordinary valley floor.

Thirkleby was close to the foot of the hill comprising a small group of agricultural workers dwellings from the early 19th century but long since sold off by the landowner to private occupiers. My destination was a traditional gate house style house and I snapped off a quick photograph of the front elevation which was all that my epic detour was for.

I hoped to pick up some time on the A19 trunk road to get to three appointments in York , the first at 3.30pm. It was a case of just keeping up with the traffic flow and everyone seemed keen to maintain a good 70mph and the 23 miles passed very quickly.

York however presents its own unique set of impositions on the driver. The 3 miles from the orbital road to the centre took 20 minutes or more through congestion not assisted by the fact that there was a meeting at the Knavesmire Racecourse. Still, the sight of hordes of women well or somewhat over dressed in their race-going finery made for a change of outlook.

Three jobs took a further two hours before I could make for home on my least favourite road of all time, the tedious A1079. As I reached the outskirts of Hull, my original starting point I calculated that out of the 11 hours of the day I had actually been driving for close to 7 of them.

Out of interest I pushed the trip computer button on the steering column. It showed that I had covered a total distance of 220 miles which averaged out at a mere 20 miles per hour. I thought back to the previous weekend of the Tour de France in Yorkshire. They had done a not dissimilar distance at an average velocity far in excess of my motorised adventure. Perhaps I may have been better off just ditching the car and going by pedal cycle instead.