A Day that Changed My Life
It was a day that had a profound influence on my life, although I did not realise it at the time.
Group of young hostellers enjoying the sun on the lawn of Westerdale Hall, early 1960s.
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Westerdale Hall when it was a Youth Hostel.
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Looking back on that day in 1956, the full significance of what I was then about to undertake is now manifest. However, hindsight is a subjective thing and can involve some exaggerated views and perceptions, twisted memories and perhaps more than a few inaccuracies. Nevertheless, rightly or wrongly, I attribute a great deal to that formative experience that began on a warm summer’s day some 57 years ago. It seems like another age, which indeed it was.
In the spring of that year I had bought, on the Never-Never, a brand new Coventry Eagle road bike. It had dropped bars, 27-inch wheels, a Brooks English leather racing saddle and eight gears – a four-sprocket set on the rear wheel and a twin crank with double-clanger mechanism. I was thrilled with my new acquisition and eagerly rode it every day with youthful enthusiasm, swiftly covering mile upon mile upon mile. I was extremely fit and had that seemingly boundless energy store that comes with youth.
As the summer approached I had an idea to take an extended cycling trip and joined the Youth Hostel Association in anticipation of my forthcoming adventure. I had hoped that a few of my friends, who were also keen cyclists, would accompany me on my holiday, but disappointingly, for one reason or another, no one took up my offer. So, with just essentials packed in my saddlebag, such as a spare change of clothes, the indispensable waterproof cycling cape and puncture repair outfit, a map (woefully inadequate as it turned out!) and my, as yet, unstamped and pristine YHA membership card – plus a few pounds – I set off on my first ever solo cycling trip. Despite my youthful trepidation I was excited and determined to go it alone.
I had decided to head south from the Durham mining village in which I then lived. My vague plan was to cycle down the A19 highway – something that was possible in those days – and then turn off east along the foot of the Cleveland Hills escarpment before turning at some point into and across the high area that I later learned was called the North York Moors National Park. My ultimate aim was to meander diagonally across the high moors, going on to the coast and down as far as Bridlington, the brassy and breezy seaside resort lying on the east coast just south of Scarborough and Filey. I planned to stop at whatever youth hostels I could find en route. I had nothing booked in advance and the territory to be covered was all unknown to me. The whole venture, in fact, was a step (or should that be ride?) into the unknown for me.
On reaching the village of Great Ayton, the one-time school-place of the great global navigator, Captain James Cook, I headed for the high moors, which were now tantalisingly in my view. Passing through Kildale, I turned right at Percy Rigg towards Westerdale, a quiet moorland hamlet. My intention was to stay overnight at the rather dilapidated old shooting lodge that in recent years had been converted into a basic youth hostel. The minor road became narrower as I made my way over the small bridge spanning the Esk Valley railway line. After passing between the stone dwelling house and outbuildings of a typical North Yorkshire moorland farm, a steep incline confronted me. I automatically lifted from my saddle, stood up on the pedals and began strenuously honking up the massive hill. It was late August and the road was abundantly fringed with sweet-smelling purple heather, a strong purple made even more intense by the bright sunshine of that lovely summer day. When I breathlessly reached the crest of the huge hill, I stopped to take a cool drink and rest awhile.
Distractedly, I looked about me and nonchalantly peered down the winding road I was to take, curling away ahead of me like a sinuous snake into the far distance. I leisurely scanned the expansive view.
A magnificent panorama stretched out in front of me. Purple heather moors in full bloom rolled away to a distant horizon. The hills were topped by an enormous wide-open blue sky peppered with cotton-wool clouds. Unexpectedly, I was overwhelmed by the glorious sight of this ancient landscape. I was entranced and smitten by the powerful beauty of the wild moorland scenery that I was seeing at its best and for the very first time. I lingered there alone taking in the views and soaking up the absolute tranquillity. A few sheep silently foraged at the side of the road. The plaintive and evocative cry of a distant moor bird was the only sound I heard. The peacefulness was almost palpable. An unbidden feeling of elation and acute sense of freedom gripped me. My eyes were wide and watery and my heart beat wildly. I was nonplussed and surprised at my spontaneous emotional spate caused by these magical new surroundings.
The air was flower-fresh and I breathed deeply filling my lungs, as though for the very first time. I had never felt so alive. I relaxed there in the warm summer sun enjoying the solitude and quiet of the day. I lingered as long as I could before remounting my bike. I pedalled off towards Westerdale youth hostel, my first overnight stopping place, grinding up the steep inclines, but exhilarating in the gravity-assisted downhill runs on the way.
I went on to achieve my planned tour of the North York Moors and beyond, enjoying many of the beautiful features that the area had, and still has, to offer. The place had taken hold of me. From then on I returned to the moors time and time again, eventually collecting on my now dog-eared membership card all the differing stamps of the youth hostels in the area. In the course of my travels I rubbed shoulders with a diverse group of interesting young hostellers who had likewise fallen under the spell of the area and the freedom that it offered. We would cycle, hike or rock climb together and I enjoyed their boisterous camaraderie. Many of them became lifelong friends.
On one particularly fateful moors foray in those early days, I met my wife-to-be and we are now, after all these years, blessed to find ourselves living at the heart of this lovely area.
Nowadays I often walk along, or drive by car, that same stretch of quiet moorland road I covered for the first time by bicycle over half a century ago. I purposely stop and stand alone, as I did then, taking in virtually the same magnificent views. Thankfully, there has been little discernible change over the years and the moorland area, at least, remains much as it was then and just as beautiful.
I never fail to remember that day and ponder on the callow young man, energetically toiling up the fragrant heather-clad hills in the hot summer sun, delighting in his new-found freedom and subconsciously soaking up the timeless beauty and solitude of the moors that had so unexpectedly engulfed and gripped him. I ask myself what would have been the outcome if he had chosen instead to ride north or west, or some other direction, some other location, or even deciding against setting off on his fateful solo trip? The question, of course, cannot be answered. But one thing I know is certain: I count myself fortunate that as a diffident young man I took the bold decision I did on that far-off summer’s day that was ultimately to change my life. ◼
Ainsley (published in Mar 2013 issue, Valley News)
In the spring of that year I had bought, on the Never-Never, a brand new Coventry Eagle road bike. It had dropped bars, 27-inch wheels, a Brooks English leather racing saddle and eight gears – a four-sprocket set on the rear wheel and a twin crank with double-clanger mechanism. I was thrilled with my new acquisition and eagerly rode it every day with youthful enthusiasm, swiftly covering mile upon mile upon mile. I was extremely fit and had that seemingly boundless energy store that comes with youth.
As the summer approached I had an idea to take an extended cycling trip and joined the Youth Hostel Association in anticipation of my forthcoming adventure. I had hoped that a few of my friends, who were also keen cyclists, would accompany me on my holiday, but disappointingly, for one reason or another, no one took up my offer. So, with just essentials packed in my saddlebag, such as a spare change of clothes, the indispensable waterproof cycling cape and puncture repair outfit, a map (woefully inadequate as it turned out!) and my, as yet, unstamped and pristine YHA membership card – plus a few pounds – I set off on my first ever solo cycling trip. Despite my youthful trepidation I was excited and determined to go it alone.
I had decided to head south from the Durham mining village in which I then lived. My vague plan was to cycle down the A19 highway – something that was possible in those days – and then turn off east along the foot of the Cleveland Hills escarpment before turning at some point into and across the high area that I later learned was called the North York Moors National Park. My ultimate aim was to meander diagonally across the high moors, going on to the coast and down as far as Bridlington, the brassy and breezy seaside resort lying on the east coast just south of Scarborough and Filey. I planned to stop at whatever youth hostels I could find en route. I had nothing booked in advance and the territory to be covered was all unknown to me. The whole venture, in fact, was a step (or should that be ride?) into the unknown for me.
On reaching the village of Great Ayton, the one-time school-place of the great global navigator, Captain James Cook, I headed for the high moors, which were now tantalisingly in my view. Passing through Kildale, I turned right at Percy Rigg towards Westerdale, a quiet moorland hamlet. My intention was to stay overnight at the rather dilapidated old shooting lodge that in recent years had been converted into a basic youth hostel. The minor road became narrower as I made my way over the small bridge spanning the Esk Valley railway line. After passing between the stone dwelling house and outbuildings of a typical North Yorkshire moorland farm, a steep incline confronted me. I automatically lifted from my saddle, stood up on the pedals and began strenuously honking up the massive hill. It was late August and the road was abundantly fringed with sweet-smelling purple heather, a strong purple made even more intense by the bright sunshine of that lovely summer day. When I breathlessly reached the crest of the huge hill, I stopped to take a cool drink and rest awhile.
Distractedly, I looked about me and nonchalantly peered down the winding road I was to take, curling away ahead of me like a sinuous snake into the far distance. I leisurely scanned the expansive view.
A magnificent panorama stretched out in front of me. Purple heather moors in full bloom rolled away to a distant horizon. The hills were topped by an enormous wide-open blue sky peppered with cotton-wool clouds. Unexpectedly, I was overwhelmed by the glorious sight of this ancient landscape. I was entranced and smitten by the powerful beauty of the wild moorland scenery that I was seeing at its best and for the very first time. I lingered there alone taking in the views and soaking up the absolute tranquillity. A few sheep silently foraged at the side of the road. The plaintive and evocative cry of a distant moor bird was the only sound I heard. The peacefulness was almost palpable. An unbidden feeling of elation and acute sense of freedom gripped me. My eyes were wide and watery and my heart beat wildly. I was nonplussed and surprised at my spontaneous emotional spate caused by these magical new surroundings.
The air was flower-fresh and I breathed deeply filling my lungs, as though for the very first time. I had never felt so alive. I relaxed there in the warm summer sun enjoying the solitude and quiet of the day. I lingered as long as I could before remounting my bike. I pedalled off towards Westerdale youth hostel, my first overnight stopping place, grinding up the steep inclines, but exhilarating in the gravity-assisted downhill runs on the way.
I went on to achieve my planned tour of the North York Moors and beyond, enjoying many of the beautiful features that the area had, and still has, to offer. The place had taken hold of me. From then on I returned to the moors time and time again, eventually collecting on my now dog-eared membership card all the differing stamps of the youth hostels in the area. In the course of my travels I rubbed shoulders with a diverse group of interesting young hostellers who had likewise fallen under the spell of the area and the freedom that it offered. We would cycle, hike or rock climb together and I enjoyed their boisterous camaraderie. Many of them became lifelong friends.
On one particularly fateful moors foray in those early days, I met my wife-to-be and we are now, after all these years, blessed to find ourselves living at the heart of this lovely area.
Nowadays I often walk along, or drive by car, that same stretch of quiet moorland road I covered for the first time by bicycle over half a century ago. I purposely stop and stand alone, as I did then, taking in virtually the same magnificent views. Thankfully, there has been little discernible change over the years and the moorland area, at least, remains much as it was then and just as beautiful.
I never fail to remember that day and ponder on the callow young man, energetically toiling up the fragrant heather-clad hills in the hot summer sun, delighting in his new-found freedom and subconsciously soaking up the timeless beauty and solitude of the moors that had so unexpectedly engulfed and gripped him. I ask myself what would have been the outcome if he had chosen instead to ride north or west, or some other direction, some other location, or even deciding against setting off on his fateful solo trip? The question, of course, cannot be answered. But one thing I know is certain: I count myself fortunate that as a diffident young man I took the bold decision I did on that far-off summer’s day that was ultimately to change my life. ◼
Ainsley (published in Mar 2013 issue, Valley News)
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