A truly Classic day out with big views, plenty of miles, and legendary Scotch eggs.
Words & Photography Barney Marsh
The Yorkshire Dales have been, of course, extensively covered in the Singletrack Worlds of yore, but Nidderdale has largely been left off the list. Sure, there are mentions here and there, but, for the most part, dropping Nidderdale into the deep black pool of Singletrackian knowledge yields only the barest ripple – followed perhaps by a slight sigh.
Why could this be? Perhaps it’s insufficiently northern sounding, compared to Garsdale, or the magnificently Yorkshire Skegdale? Perhaps, to some ears, the name sounds fairly ridiculous when compared to the infinitely more macho ‘Swaledale’, or the presumably ’80s hard rock obsessed ‘Coverdale’? Nidderdale is so named as a dale (or valley, etymology fans) of the River Nidd. Wikipedia (yes, I’ve researched this article extensively) suggests that Nidd is actually likely a Celtic word for ‘shiny’. It’s also home to Stif, a damn fine bike shop in Summerbridge – not to mention its sister company, Jungle, which imports a couple of brands you might have heard of…
Whither Nidd
But where’s best to go? I spoke to Al Atkinson from Stif, who offered Adam Nolan to be our guide. All sorts of insinuations as to Adam’s physical prowess were given, enough make me slightly nervous. I was busy thinking of the usual excuses as to why I’d be slow: heavier bike, heavier camera gear, post-cold lungs the size of hamsters’ (place the apostrophe where you like, reader; it still applies), all that jazz.
The sun was emphatically Nidding its hardest as trusty sidekick Rick and I rolled into the car park next to Adam’s van, and I could only wonder as to the specimen of manhood that lay within. As he jumped out to greet us, I whispered sotto voce to Rick. “He’s got shaved legs! We are SO screwed.”
Adam put my fears to rest by being a thoroughly nice chap, however, although I still eyed his chiselled calves with suspicion. He chatted about the route and fettled bikes, as Rick wandered about proffering his tub of flapjack heaven (chorus of angels singing included… OOOAAAAAHH).
Previous outings with Rick suggested a fantastic ability to bring the boys to the yard (so to speak) with cake, flapjack or peanut butter squares, but a somewhat – uh – relaxed attitude to bike maintenance. This last reached the point where, before every outing, I’d email to enquire as to which part of his bike was likely to blow up. For the Nidderdale ride, Rick assured me that everything was in fine fettle, a point which was admirably disproved as he bestrode his Orange and set off to a chorus of creaks, rattles and groans that sounded like someone pushing a biscuit tin full of nails through a threshing machine. Right then. Tool kit present and correct? Check.
The Wath of Man
We set off from Wath, and headed briefly upwards through some woods to join the Nidderdale Way that runs along Gouthwaite Reservoir. While I was assured that most of the route would be rideable in all weathers, recent rain meant that there were still quite substantial puddles here and there. Even so, and despite the lure of the camera, Adam began to slowly pull away, with Rick blithely keeping pace. My wheezings were, at least, kept to myself, as I enjoyed the sunshine.
As I caught up we passed Lofthouse, and Adam cheerfully called out: “This next bit gets a bit steep!” I squinted to see Middlesmoor in the distance with its chapel, some houses and a hill seemingly a ‘very’ long way up. “But at least it’s on road!”
Dear God, reader. Living as I do in Yorkshire, I am well accustomed to unpleasant hills, but there was something about this one. Was it the unfamiliarly warm temperature? Perhaps. The unrelenting sun? Possibly. The three layers I was wearing? Ah yes. That won’t help. I was hoping for perhaps a picturesque stop at the old chapel, maybe some flapjack (OOOAAAH) and a bit of a rest. But no. The chapel is someone’s house. The road turned into another track, and on we soldiered. “Nearly there!” lied Adam as he and Rick sped off to leave me to my dark mutterings.
At least the view was good. In fact, scratch that, the view was bloody amazing. Wide open moorland, blue skies, good going on ancient byways. All very bucolic. A tree offered a little shade as I divested myself of my raiments (well, two layers anyway), while unidentified birds parped/cooed/squawked prettily. NB: I know nothing about birds, and I am not really interested in them either. If you want bird info, you’d have to ask Rick. If you can catch him.
Eventually the trail headed downwards, but not before we stopped at the top for a rest where I avenged what remained of my tattered, but still colossal, ego by making Adam and Rick ride the same strip of track over and over again, while I pretended to take photos of them.
Scar House
Apparently this is something of a classic in the area. Yes, it’s doubletrack, but there are some fine corners, the odd slabby bit to negotiate, and the whole thing is rendered rather more spicy because it is just absolutely unutterably pretty, so you can’t help but take your eyes off the trail to stare at the view.
The two upper reservoirs in this valley were apparently built to supply the thirsty denizens of Bradford with top quality drinking water; this one was the last reservoir to be built in the Dale, in the 1920s. On the southern slope at the head of the reservoir you can still see the concrete platforms where the workers’ village used to stand – it’s quite an odd sight.
“There’s not much climbing now,” said Adam. “Just up to there.” He gesticulated to a point a few metres above us. Buoyed by these comments, we danced (them) and trudged slowly (me) up the incline, and were rewarded with, yes, more of the Nidderdale Way, but this time on the more northern slopes, and some amazing views looking south towards Pateley Bridge.
However, Adam’s idea of ‘now’ and mine work in vastly different ways. He uses ‘now’ to mean ‘right at this very moment; instantaneously, but watch the hell out in – ooh, ten seconds’, whereas mine is essentially ‘from this point until a distant future point yet to be identified’. For shortly the track took a precipitous dive to drive hard around the head of a valley before a frankly preposterous slab of near-vertical concrete took it back up again. Adam, of course, blithely scampered up; Rick and I pushed. Perhaps I’d been too hard on Rick at the previous repeated photo-sessioning? Nah.
More of Adam’s ‘vertical contouring’ took us to a shooting hut, whereupon more flapjack (OOOAAAH) was inhaled, and we diagnosed Rick’s creaking bike as suffering from a loose cassette. An unusual, but hopefully not fatal affliction. We watched bemused as a variety of those 4x4s favoured by shootery types with large dog cages in the back hove into view along the very tracks we were aiming to shred*. By the time we reached them, however, they were simply stopped in a great line, dog cages empty, with nary a driver (or a dog) to be seen. All very mysterious. I don’t think there are any errant mine workings in the area for them to fall down**.
*determinedly potter along **Actually, I’ve just consulted a map. And there ‘are’ old mine workings. I hope they didn’t… no, surely… oh dear.
An appointment with Scott Chegg
At this juncture Rick was getting hungry for something other than flapjack (OOOAAAH) and was muttering something about Scotch eggs. This was troubling behaviour, even for Rick, so we thought we’d better hoof it along Dale Edge, past more shooting houses. Rick was delighted that one of them was emblazoned with the letter ‘R’, which he roundly proclaimed was for ‘Rick’ and that, therefore, the lodge was his. He made me take a photo of him outside it; I was sufficiently unnerved by his deranged staring that I obliged. I can only assume that at least some of his unusual behaviour was brought about by a Scotch egg deficiency, so with a sense of relief the route began to blessedly drift downwards once more towards lunch.
Crossing the road, an enormously long, straight doubletrack was a lot more fun than it sounds before the trail kicked down steeper, and Adam regaled us with all-gates-open, white-knuckle, warp factor nine exploits. All the gates were closed on this occasion, so I didn’t have to explain why my warp factor operated at about 1.5 on a good day with a tail wind as we fell further towards Gouthwaite.
Once back at the vans we diverted to Pateley Bridge for a spot of lunch – not least because every other word that Rick had uttered for the previous half hour was either ‘Scotch’ or ‘Egg’, and Adam and I were becoming ever more concerned, as well as peckish. Pateley Bridge Scotch eggs are sufficiently famous that Rick took a photo of his prize, with the caption: ‘Guess where I am?’ He messaged this to a variety of people around the country and they all knew where he was. Madness.
Reader, an admission. I am not vastly keen on Scotch eggs. So I had a pork pie. It was very nice. Adam, of course, being healthy, had a tin of tuna dropped into a salad he’d brought from home.
Lead jettison
After our repast, Rick had reacquired his extensive vocabulary and so it was time to continue. We rode up through a caravan park and up a long climb, eventually arriving at the old Providence lead mine workings. The bridlepath grinds up and through them, but there are plenty of alternative routes to spice things up so we stopped for a play. Given that the predominant mood of the rest of the ride is one of relaxed view-appreciation, this section is comfortably the most potentially technical aspect of the route – and as the sun was just so, and we had a little time, I exhorted Adam and Rick to style it up for some photos.
Unfortunately, at this point Adam over-cooked an off-camber Scandi flick, washed out the front wheel, and sent himself and the bike flying. I was aiming for a nice silhouetted shot at the time, and shooting on burst (I am so sorry, photographer friends) so I got a good ten frames of progressively more squirrely bike-crash action before I had to duck and scurry for safety, as Adam took himself and his bike for a bit of a tumble past me. He managed to keep his, admittedly almost dignified, slide to just a few metres, but his bike was having none of that. Long after Adam stood up, his bike was still inelegantly pinwheeling its way down the slope to the bottom.
I think we all assumed it was done for, but upon retrieval (a little while later) all that was completely knackered was the dropper post lever – so any subsequent photos of Adam were taken with his seat post indiscreetly aloft – it was all very retro.
We were lucky, in so many ways. From the frankly ridiculously sunny March weather through to Adam’s nearly-serious-but-not-quite crash, and Rick’s noisy but not actually exploding (this time) bike. But truly, it’s a route to savour. When the weather’s good, the views are amazing, but when it’s poor, the nature of the trails means that it’s rideable all year round, with a few detours. It’s well worth doing so. A genuine Classic.
Why Bother?
Nidderdale is a spectacular place. Part of the Yorkshire Dales – as you might expect given the name – it’s nevertheless not part of the Dales National Park. I know, baffling. Especially as it’s an Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty all on its own – although even that appellation actually includes plenty of places that aren’t actually in Nidderdale, too. I mean, could they make it any more confusing?
It’s an AONB (or at least, part of one) for good reason. And, as a result, the valley with its three reservoirs and many other sights, sees a large number of tourists each year. It’s a strikingly pretty place, although one that is perhaps not as well served by bridleways as some of the others.
Don’t let that put you off, though – this is a genuine Classic loop, and it’s one for a reason. The riding here, granted, isn’t the most technical. But it’s absolutely perfect hardtail material; it’s still plenty fun enough, the views are spectacular – and, for the most part, it’s absolutely great going in winter as well as summer. The trails are hardpack, and they drain well. I’d suggest taking care with the trail that runs along the eastern side of Gouthwaite Reservoir in the winter, though – it’s prone to substantial puddles even in summertime. Moreover, there are enough cut-throughs and shortcuts, especially on the east side of the valley, that you could explore up and down the Dale Edge all day. It’s great for pounding out to get the heart rate up, or for a more gently paced all-day loop.
Alternatively, to make a proper day of it as we did, add in the extra loop that runs west of Pateley Bridge for a play around the old mine workings. Again, good solid tracks are the order of the day for the most part, apart from the singletrack that threads through and around the lead mines themselves – which contain a few fun little diversions for the curious mind.
Nidderdale also entertains if you’re not of a mind to ride bikes, too. I suggest Brimham Rocks at a minimum (a finer pile of Millstone Grit you’ll not find in all of Yorkshire – or even THE WORLD – and the walking is without peer). There are also caverns, Fountain’s Abbey (where they filmed bits of The Witcher, fantasy fans! And – er – Omen III) and all sorts of other stuff to do. And if I haven’t made enough of a noise about them, the Scotch eggs and pork pies at H Weatherhead & Sons butchers are all-time classics.
Gallery Extra
Gallery Extra – Available to Full Members OnlyThe Knowledge
- Distance: 46km
- Total Ascent: 1,048m
- Time: 3–5hrs
- Map: OS Explorer 298 – Nidderdale
Accommodation
As an AONB – and hence relying heavily on tourism – there are plenty of options. Airbnb places abound, of course. Try Talbot House in Pateley Bridge or Harefield Hall. Studfold Caravan, Camping & Glamping Park is practically on the route, with caravan and tent pitches and clamping pods, with a cafe on site.
Bike shops
Stif Cycles in Summerbridge, obviously, will see you right for bikes, bits, advice and pointers.
Travel information
From a mountain biking perspective, you’re stuck with a car. If you’re feeling spry, then you could conceivably get the train to Harrogate, and ride from there, but it’s 15 miles or so of on-road hoofing before you’ve even started the fun stuff.
Food and drink
Crumbs, where to begin? The Sportsman’s Arms, perhaps? Also has accommodation. The superlative H Weatherhead & Son’s butchers next to the Spar has peerlessly palatable porcine products crafted by fifth generation family butchers.
There are loads and loads of good pubs in the area, as well as plenty of little places to buy pop, chocolate and whatever else. It’s worth bearing in mind though, that once you get north of Middlemoor, there isn’t much available until you loop back around again on the ride – so snack and water yourself appropriately.
Thanks hugely to Adam Nolan and Al and all at Stif for ride advice and guiding. Heal up soon, Adam!
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