Pat and Fred's Final Crossing - Wednesday 29 March
/We met at ten o’clock in the Bridge House Café at Wray; Simeon, myself and Ian; in our sixth, seventh and eighth decades respectively. There was something inexplicably furtive about our tryst, as if it were somehow naughty, as if we were playing truant. Of course, that just increased our excitement. The coffee and scones tasted better, our conversation more animated and the anticipation sharp and visceral. We’d got together to do an early Spring crossing of Salter Fell.
From the café, it’s a four mile climb up to the start of the old Roman road and then nine miles of rough track, crossing over high and remote moorland to eventually drop down to the Bowland village of Slaidburn. After the Romans, it became the main route for transporting salt from Morecambe Bay over to East Lancashire by pack-horse. On the return journey, the ponies would bring back wool from the mills. It’s good to think that those arduous full-day journeys may well have ended in convivial evenings in the coaching inns at either end.
The climb is steady and relentless, but we have low gears, sturdy bikes and good company and on all but the steepest sections, conversation is possible. It’s a good mix of moving freely between easy conversation and your own private thoughts – a peaceful progress perhaps unique to cycling. There’s no pressure to engage with anything but the pedals. We cross the rickety wooden bridge over the prettily-named river Roeburn and turn right, up past the old Methodist chapel, yellowing lace curtains and a silver tea-urn briefly visible in the window as we grind past – small and valuable comforts in a harsh landscape.
There are three farms on this road, surprisingly named ‘Low Salter’ ‘Middle Salter’ and ‘High Salter’ and the last of these is the gateway to the track. I get a couple of minutes to huddle here in the lee of a cosy wall-corner. There’s a fresh sea-breeze from Morecambe Bay and the rain is holding off as yet, but it’ll come, as it always does on Salter Fell. A fascinating place, this; the grey, dripping walls of the old farmhouse encircled by gnarled medieval trees, cowed by the wind and writhing up against a gunmetal sky. Moss covers everything and the subterranean layers of peat ooze up to meet it – they say it’s sixty feet deep in some places. It reeks of spectral damp and you get to thinking strange things up here.
Through the farm’s five-bar gate and we leave the metalled road to joggle and bump over the fist-sized stones that make up most of the passage. These little boulders have an uncanny ability to roll away in unison and leave you instantly lying on your back looking up at the sky, still clipped-in and embracing your bike as if you were in bed together. I’m pampered on 2.2” rubber and Ian’s running 2” Schwalbes that are apparently unpuncturable – club rumour has it that he scoots around Lancaster looking for broken glass to ride over. Simeon, true cyclist, rides on skinny 38mm’s and very rarely has to dismount and I’m once again reminded of the simplicity of our sport, if left unmolested by graduate marketeers wearing cuben fibre socks. Sorry.
The shadows of the past hang heavy in the mists of Salter fell. Here by the side of the track, is the shivering ghost of a Roman legionnaire, ankle-deep in sodden peat, half-frozen and clinging for his sanity to thoughts of home and sun-drenched vineyards. Now we overtake the pack ponies, on steep, staggering descent to Slaidburn, lantern-led and eager to outpace the gathering dusk to make stable and straw before nightfall. We have an uncomfortable awareness of those true denizens of Wolfhole Crag; shimmering skyline shapes in the mist with watchful yellow eyes and lolling red tongues. Bowland was wolf-country. Some say it still is.
We move steadily together now towards the high point of the ride which is roughly half-way across the moor, where a wooden sign fingerpoints down the footpath to Whitendale and Dunsop Bridge. Here we stop, as Simeon had told us we would. There’s another reason we’ve come here today. Pat and Fred, Simeon’s Mum and step Dad, both lifelong club cyclists, recently passed away and he’s decided to scatter their ashes in this wild and lovely place. I never knew them, but local legend has it that they were the original hardy cyclists, who’d think nothing of disappearing into the wilds for a weekend on 72” fixed-gear ‘Pass stormers’ with a cheese sandwich, a bottle of Mackeson and twenty Woodbines.
He kneels to access his saddlebag, takes out two containers and stands up. He takes off the lids, moves his arms and in a very short time the wind takes them both up and away across the Bowland Fells. I get the odd feeling that it’s a beginning rather than an end and I’m reminded of a line from a Ted Hughes poem:
“Now you are strong as the earth you have entered”
Having passed the apex of our journey, we get welcome assistance from gravity and it’s a bit easier to trickle through the ruts and rocks down towards Croasdale. There’s a small stone shooting hut just off the track and we gather there behind the North wall to eat our sandwiches and drink from our flasks. It’s raining now. That fine drizzle that slowly soaks through all your clothes until it reaches down into your bones and settles there to suck the warmth out of them. We put on overtrousers and recommence the rocky descent. Ian confides that, after the short break, he’s lost his nerve for negotiating the loose surface as he gingerly wobbles down, legs out like stabilizers. About ten minutes later, he’s riding stuff where I walk, so he got his mojo back pretty quick.
Through the gate and onto the lane – there’s always a sense of relief after a crossing. We haven’t seen anyone on the fell at all, not even a farmer or a solitary walker. Even in these days of rampant and pervasive technology, there’s still an element of objective danger in remote places and inclement weather. I read once that the English climate is almost designed to inflict hypothermia – it’s the combination of open terrain, rain and wind. Apparently, the temperature doesn’t even have to be particularly low, it’s mainly the damp and the wind that steal your body heat. We’re all three seasoned and sensible cyclists and I even brought a proper old-fashioned bivi bag. But still, I wouldn’t want to make this crossing alone in Winter. I mean, who knows when the next living person will be along the track? Could be days.
Free from the natural impediments of the moorland, we whizz down to the riverside café - all big gears and disc brakes, steel-frame flex, carbon compliance and centrifugal cornering forces, we’re kids in the summer holidays again. Into the tuck- shop for a steaming pot of Earl Grey tea (No milk, Dahhling) and egg custard tart. We’re tired now, it’s quite an effort for us senior cyclists, but that’s a big part of it and we’ll all sleep deep for the next few days and enjoy contented reverie when we’re awake.
It's been a wonderful day, on many different levels and will continue to be a genuine source of remembered delight probably until I die. If you’re ever up this way with your bike, treat yourself to the essence of Rough-Stuffing, preferably with a few fellows and do ‘The crossing’ – I promise, you’ll never regret it. I hope I didn’t put you off with all that silly stuff about ghosts and wolves. There probably aren’t many left and besides, Pat and Fred will be watching over you.