May 19, 2022 to May 22, 2022
Worksop to Scunthorpe
after a few days of R & R in Lincoln
The first pub I ever went in was just a few minutes' walk from home. At the time it was The Crown, but it's fairly recently had its name changed to The Birdcage. I was about 15 years old and can clearly recall getting drunk on port after winning a bottle in a raffle. I've never had port since.
I ride past the place on my way into town and set up the tripod and take a self-timed shot - from a similar angle as an old photo taken when there was a deadly typhoid epidemic in Lincoln. Back then, in 1905, there was an ornamental water conduit in the middle of the road, just outside the pub, but it must have got removed not long after.
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I assume the problem with my sluggish steering is the wide, front tyre. My thinking is: it's been a flat a couple of times and perhaps it's just slowly deflating, making the fat thing squish on the road surface. Not the case. After pumping it up to a high pressure it becomes clear the problem is something else and after dismantling the fork and headset, it's alarming to find just bone dry rust where grease should be.
Sorting it out is one of the little jobs that gets done in between resting, having a beer and watching the boys play football.
On Sunday, I decide to get a train back to Worksop. It'll be quiet, with a better chance of finding a hotel room when I cycle into Scunthorpe - or Sunny Scunny as it's known locally.
For what it's worth, the forecast is good and the 5km ride to the train station is done on auto pilot and I get there early for the 10:14 departure, with enough time to sit and have a cappuccino in the cafe on Platform 1.
A bottle of water is priced at £1.90, so I skip that and tell myself to buy one in a regular shop once off the train.
There's another passenger with a bike and his is a pricey Pinarello. He's clad in Rapha clothing and ignores me.
When the guard asks to see my ticket, I show him my return and tell him: "Worksop - where the action is' and he quips, "Yea - the centre of the universe."
It's 11 o'clock when the train pulls into the long, empty platform and I leave the roadie to his smartphone.
With it being Sunday, the streets of Worksop are empty and I don't bother looking around town. The Sun/Carlton bicycle factory was the one place I thought about looking at, but it burned down years ago.
That's sad, as my first proper bike was a yellow, 10-speed Sun Sirocco racer that my mother got me when I was about 12. I must have still had it when I got drunk on port in The Crown.
I find a shop on the street near the train station and buy a cheap bottle of water and some chocolate that gets scoffed there and then.
My plan is to ride on a track that goes east from Worksop. It's not far from the station and I make my way there through a housing estate, but must miss a turning, so decide to ask a woman carrying a bag of shopping where Rayton Road is.
She knows it well and points me in the right direction and asks where I'm actually going and I tell her my goal is to get lost, because I usually do and therefore it won't be an error. She looks confused and says it's a strange thing to say and it obviously triggers something, as she tells me she recently lost her husband of 49 years and life is a daily struggle - coping with the grief and an acute sense of loss. It's hard to know what to say. Platitudes won't do and I leave wishing her life becomes less painful, but doubt it will.
Rayton Road is just a gravel track. I pause along it and set up the tripod for a self-timed shot and notice a man on a beefy mountain bike coming along behind me. He stops and we chat and he's actually riding an ebike - a Cannondale - which he says cost him £5,500. His wife also got one after they decided they didn't want a car.
He's now retired and is toying with the idea of moving to Spain and he tells me he's now on his way to the village of Ranby, just south of my route. We both start riding and he must activate his power source after a minute as after bidding me farewell he zips off at about 30km an hour.
I pass by Osberton Hall, which is a good distance away across some fields, and I take a snap. It's then that I realise I must have dropped the plastic lens cap, but it seems too much bother to go back and look for it.
This area belongs to the estate and I make my way along the track to the few buildings that constitute Rayton. It's a public right of way, but I have to use Google Maps on my Mickey Mouse phone to confirm that I'm riding in the right direction. There are no signs to follow.
The track takes me to the A1. This is a frenetic strip of highway and crossing is fraught with danger. Thankfully there's a central island to help get over the lanes of speeding traffic without becoming two-dimensional. My route continues just on the other side - a straight lane that leads to a village called Barnby Moor.
It's one when I get to the village and time to eat. Barnby Moor boasts two dining options and I choose The White Horse Inn.
I opt for a Sunday roast and follow that with sticky toffee pudding with custard. A beer would zonk me out so it's just a pot of tea. There are not many customers and the waitress has time to chat and tells me they used to have rooms, but COVID seriously hurt business and she's doubtful they'll reopen them.
I make my way to Lound, where I make a right after taking a snap of The Hall and head down what soon becomes a bumpy track that's called Chainbridge Lane. There are lakes on either side.
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It's all quiet cycling and the road takes me north to Clayworth, where my plan is to visit the church that has some murals painted in 1904-05 by an artist from Scotland named Phoebe Traquair.
I also want to recreate a wonderful image on an old postcard. The photographer looked toward the church that's obscured by trees and there appears to be a postman on a bicycle looking at the camera. It's hard to say why a postcard would have been printed for dinky Clayworth.
The church is open, but there's no service on and I have it all to myself. The painted murals are in the Arts and Crafts style and very beautiful, and I set up my tripod in the low light and do my best to snap them before setting off along Church lane, heading northeast out of the village.
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Church lanes meets Gringley Road. There's a footpath on the other side and I follow it, but it ends at a fence that has a sign saying beware of a bull. I turn back and ride north on the B1403 to Gringley on the Hill and it's not as bad as I thought it would be.
I ride through Misterton and feel guilty for not stopping at a place called The Cycle Bard that does food, but the Sunday roast and sticky toffee pudding are still in my gut.
The route north takes me to a waterside road that follows the River Trent. There are houses here and there in small clusters, but it all has a remote vibe to it, with the landscape being flat. I just stop a few times to take snaps of old farm buildings that catch my eye. I don't see any people except for a group of men drinking outside The White Hart pub in the village of Owston Ferry.
There are few bridges across the river. Keadby Bridge is one of them. It is near a place called Althorpe and is a rolling lift bridge that dates back to about 1912. It has a rail line as well as two lanes for traffic, but no longer lifts up and down.
I ride along a side section and once across spot a sign for a bicycle path that I didn't know existed. It takes me to the western edge of Scunthorpe, where I use my phone to access Google Maps which shows there's a Travelodge a minute away at a adjacent junction. That's where I head.
It's nice to find there's no hassle booking in and it's cheap at 38 quid. There are places to eat nearby including a pub called the Old Farmhouse where I have a pint of IPA and enchiladas.
Today's ride: 50 km (31 miles)
Total: 579 km (360 miles)
| Rate this entry's writing | Heart | 6 |
| Comment on this entry | Comment | 2 |
I love the murals. Great photos, too. As you might have guessed I am a fan of the arts and crafts movement and it’s older brother, the Gothic Revival. It was at the same time as Art Nouveau, but confined almost exclusively to Britain and North America. It’s nice to see that it penetrated into Sunny Scunny, even if only peripherally.
I’m still salivating at the sight of those beer bottles. If only….
Cheers,
Keith
1 year ago
I also like that period of design and art and have done since I was a teenager. I'd read about the murals, but hadn't seen any photos.
1 year ago