York, Cycling City: Skipwith Challenge

As someone who needs to meet people, learn the area and maybe shift a few pounds, I could do worse than join a guided group cycle through the countryside. I've been on a few group rides organised by the city council with support from Sustrans. Many of these are shorter rides aimed at less experienced riders. Saturday was a longer day out, the "Skipwith Challenge".

The total distance was about 30 miles. I even got Geoboy to go with me, although the pace was very slow for him and his skinny-tyred racing bike that weighs about two ounces. It's more of a steady social ride than a training session. It was very friendly, and it was refreshing to spend a day in the open air.

The first place to receive funding under the Cycling City project was Bristol. On the one hand, they didn't meet their target of doubling the number of regular cyclists. On the other hand, they have increased it by a third. Is this really failure? (Read the BBC article here, and marvel at the density of the logic-challenged Tory councillor quoted at the end.) Mostly, the schemes seem to make people who already cycle happier and encourage them to cycle more. Reaching non-cyclers is more difficult.

I certainly have been doing more cycling in my short time here. There are good places to do it, and drivers are much better about sharing the road here than in Manchester. This may be further confirmation of the research suggesting that places where more people cycle tend to be safer for cyclists. Or it may be evidence supporting the idea that, as another cyclist put it, "York is a very civilised place". (He then went on to ask if I'd been to Evensong at the Minster.)

There were nine of us altogether including our two stalwart guides, Colin and Jenny. We had mounts of many species and riders of all ages. Colin gets a lot of miles in, and is apparently in his seventies, although you'd never guess it by his fresh face and sinewy calves.

The original plan, as the name suggests, was to stop in Skipwith at the Drovers Arms. It was temporarily closed for reburfishment, though, so we went on to the Jefferson Arms at Thorganby. The address is Main Street, to which I can only say, "Main Street? It's the ONLY street!"

It was a bit posh, but, as this is Yorkshire, also relaxed. On the wall next to the fireplace in the bar area hangs an autographed photograph of the cast of Coronation Street. (I guess Emmerdale hasn't made it in yet.) The staff didn't seem to mind having a group of grotty cyclists slouch over their linen tablecloths. The food was a little pricey. I had a mozzarella sandwich and fries while Geoboy ordered a plate of meat. Er, breakfast. The Golden Pippin was in fine form.

The route took us through a sizable nature reserve called Skipwith Common. Unfortunately, the road surface was terrible, so instead of admiring the scenery I was busy watching the ground and listening to my brains rattle around my skull. I will have to go back and take a walk there. But that is another post for another day.

Castle, prison, law court, tourist attraction: Clifford's Tower

Over the river from my neighbourhood, Bishophill, rest the remains of York Castle. There was a small motte and bailey castle on the corner of Bishophill as well, Baile Hill. It's an odd feeling passing a mound of earth erected by William the Conqueror on your way to buy potatoes. Such is life in York.

Postcards of Clifford's Tower tend to leave out the street. Not only have I included the street, I have gone one better and captured a park 'n' ride bendy bus for you. A nice photographic reminder that bringing your car into York is an  utterly stupid thing to do.

Fortunately, I was not wearing high heels this day.

After coughing up £3.50, I am admitted to the interior.

The discolouration on parts of the walls happened after the tower accidently-on-purpose went on fire in 1684, which is why it has no longer has certain homely amenities such as a roof.

On to the main reason to visit Clifford's Tower: the view.

Looking towards the Minster.

Unless you're a gargoyle on a certain local landmark, the views of the city from here are hard to top. I can (almost) see my flat!

Looking towards Bishophill. You can see a bit of the River Ouse on the left.

After the wordiness of the Mickelgate Bar Museum, it was refreshing to visit a place that keeps signage to a minimum. Unfortunately, this also meant that a placard recounting the horrific suicide/massacre of 150 Jews in 1190 failed to include much of the context of the event (you can read more about it here). I remember it every time I pass the tower, and experience a melancholic dissonance when the ramparts are plastered with tourists lazing amongst the buttercups. I wonder if they know what happened there.

A walk from Malton to Malton

On Saturday, Geoboy and I took a walk out of Malton. I have a soft spot for Malton because it is the home of Clear Spot organic tofu, the one with the picture of Captain Bean Curd on the box. He navigated (Geoboy, that is, not Captain Bean Curd, although considering the way things went, we might have been better off with the seafaring soya product in charge).

We began by taking part of the Centenary Way , "a route devised to celebrate the 100th anniversary of Yorkshire County Council" in 1989. An odd thing to commemorate if you ask me, but at least it's not yet another gruesome blood-soaked battle, plus it gives ramblers another walking path.

Between the railway and the River Derwent.

The weather was pretty good most of the time, giving us views of the Yorkshire Yorkshire-people like to think of when they think of Yorkshire.

Ee, by gum

The route took us through a small nature reserve called Jeffry Bog, a designated Site of Scientifc Interest.

The plan was to be in the pub by the time a predicted afternoon shower arrived. Alas, everything seemed to be a bit further away than our navigator thought, and we got rained on good and hard. We did eventually make it to the Stone Trough Inn for a rest and a couple of pints. I can heartily recommend the cheesy chips.

Just down the hill from the pub is the spectacular, ominous ruin of Kirkham Priory.

We crossed this suspension footbridge on the way back. It bounces! (Time to lay off the cheesy chips? Nah.)

Near the end of our walk, we found a new form of life. 

Either that or an old discarded hoover.

Back where we started, we hobbled into The New Malton, a recently refurbished pub and restaurant on the marketplace. I may have mentioned that our navvy kept understimating distances. Part of our route was on one side of the map, and t'other on t'other. Apparently this caused a few miles to fall out of his head. In the end, our six to seven mile route had become twelve and a half miles. Whoopsie! We made it back in one piece, though. More or less.

Where are the heads? A visit to the Micklegate Bar Museum

My flat is about five minutes away from Micklegate Bar.

They don't display the heads of traitors on it anymore (although I know a few people who wouldn't mind seeing Tony Blair's bonce up there). People used to live in the rooms in the barbican above the gate. This was also where they housed condemned criminals before they were carted off to Knavesmire and hanged. I imagine that made for some awkward moments as far as neighbour relations go.

Micklegate Bar now houses a museum. I got in free with my York Card, which does all sorts of wonderful things, including keeping milk from going sour, warding off spectres in snickleways and freshening one's breath. After crossing a room full of museumy tat, the staff acknowledged my card and suggested I start at the top and work my way down.

The top room is largely devoted to the Battle of Towton, a big bloody messy battle fought during the Wars of the Roses in a village southwest of York. A large screen plays a movie of historians talking about how awful it was over images of Towton today, a bucolic piece of quiet Yorkshire countryside.

It's quite a wordy museum on the whole, with lots of placards and not many artifacts, although there are hats you can try on. There are also a few items of fake food, in order to, I don't know, make the place looked lived in or something. Maybe in the past they gave prisoners phony bread just to taunt them.

There are probably several ghosts that haunt Micklegate Bar and its surrounding environs, but the one I read about was Sarah Brocklebank. Her father was keeper of the keys, a very high position for a commoner. He was in charge of locking the gate up at night and unlocking it in the morning. One day his kids were playing with the keys -- you can probably see where this is heading -- and lost them. I guess Sarah felt bad enough about it to haunt the place after her death. My favourite part of the story is that after the keys were lost, they just didn't bother to lock the gate anymore.

Of course, these days, things are made even simpler by just not having a gate at all. Micklegate can be a wild place after dark, though. I haven't seen any ghosts yet, but it isn't rare to see the living dead of the pissed-up variety.