The George and Dragon in Dent is the best pub in the world and that is official. We awarded it this accolade by dint of it being open when we got there and having an open fire roaring in the grate within five minutes of our arrival. The barmaid seemed somewhat bemused by her first customers, focused as they were on having the fire lit before anything else. We rearranged the furniture around the hearth and dripped water everywhere as we traipsed from the fire to the toilets to wring out first gloves and then socks as we peeled off layer after layer and turned the pub lounge into a drying room. We started with tea and followed that with sausage baguettes followed immediately by more tea and scones with jam. Other customers came in and kept a safe distance from us at first but gradually the atmosphere changed and soon it was all camaraderie and tales of weather based bravado flowed freely. A couple of mountain bikers paddled in and we rearranged our various sodden items so that they could share the fire. We talked of backpacking, cycling and climbing and near death experiences in heavy showers. The food and drink came and went and the tales grew taller but nothing got much drier unfortunately. The conditions outside were improving and before long we had to face the fact that we would have to leave this haven of warmth and comfort. We entertained the crowd as we pulled on wet socks and gloves and demonstrated how to put on our weird looking ‘Rainlegs’; half chaps, half waterproofs. We said our goodbyes to our new found soggy friends and stepped out into a freshly laundered landscape. Seven more cyclists were preparing to take a few more gallons of water into the pub as we set off back the way we had come.
Our route now would take us back up Dentdale to Cowgill, over Gayle Moor and Blea Moor to Ribblehead and the famous twenty four arch viaduct before finally descending gently down the dale to Ingleton. (Well that’s how I pictured it in my imagination)
We would be crossing the Settle railway once more on Wold Fell but first there was the little matter of regaining the 600 feet we had descended from it earlier. We wouldn’t be directly into the wind for a while now and with the rain gone and the occasional break in the cloud we were enjoying ourselves. First hands, then feet and finally backsides dried out and after a few miles the discomfort of the morning was almost forgotten. We grunted and pushed up some steep sections as we climbed back up the valley and under the railway and then for a few blissful minutes we had the gale on our backs and we were gently nudged up the last slopes to join the B road to Ribblehead. As we waited at the T junction to turn right I commented to Gill that although we would be turning directly into the wind, which must now have been gusting fifty to sixty miles an hour, we would be generally descending so it should be an easy ten miles to Ingleton.
How wrong could I be? We dropped for about half a mile with the wind not quite in our faces and then as the gradient eased and we veered south west we just ground to a halt. Or we would have done had we not pushed hard in our lowest gears to maintain any forward momentum at all. The valley was acting like a super funnel, squeezing the mass of air into a narrowing space. It seemed as if the elements had decided they didn’t want us in Ingleton and they were mustering all their strength to push us back the way we had come. As we passed through Ribblehead we stopped to admire the viaduct and I tried to imagine what it must have been like to perform the back breaking work, day after day and often in conditions as bad or worse than today’s. Surrounded as we were by Ingleborough and Wernside, the situation was spectacular but it would have to wait for a return trip for us to appreciate it as all our concentration was needed just to stay upright on the bikes. Nearly two hours later we finally arrived at Ingleton with all our original plans in tatters. It was already late afternoon, Gill was shattered and I was more than happy to capitulate and look for a campsite. It would mean a longish day to get home tomorrow but the chances of having winds that strong for a second day were remote and we could always opt for another early start if necessary.
We had covered a miserly thirty two miles since setting off at 8.15am and it was 5pm when we arrived at the camp site. We do cycle slowly when touring but this had to be some kind of record, even for us. After showers and a quick change we strolled to the pub and sat in a kind of stupor over beer and a fabulous lamb tagine dinner. We reflected on one of the most interesting days on our bikes we had ever experienced and one that wouldn’t be forgotten for a long time. On the plus side, we weren’t showing any symptoms of small pox.
Next time you are doing the ironing, hedge trimming, etc. just remember, it will end.