Into The Peaks

The turning into The Peaks introduced one of the hardest physical and mental challenges I have faced cycle touring. As the hills continued, albeit none quite so steep as this first, I began to question everything. Why was I doing this? This is the Peak District, named as such for a reason. Why did I think I would be able to cycle to the centre? And why did my load feel so god damn heavy?

After travelling via train to Huddersfield I was now moving south, having battled rush hour traffic and strong side winds, before entering the more sheltered, undulating Peaks. The following day would see me reaching Derby to stay with a friend, but for now, it was just me, my bike and the open road.

Hardships of the journey were interspersed with moments of utter joy. Greeted with panoramic vistas as I reached the top of an incline, a million shades of green rolling away below a baby blue sky. Utter peace spread around me, animals grazing, woodland flora decorating the road ahead with animated leaflike shadows.

Then came the most mentally challenging period, where I began to analyse every ditch, every dense growth of green, for its camping potential. Beginning to consider the option of taking the next possible road back out of the Peaks before I was in too deep, suddenly being caught vulnerable and shelterless under a dark sky.

I decided to assess my situation at Wigtwizzle, the next noticeable area on the map and with an undoubtedly fabulous name. A good 15 minutes down the road however, and there was no sign of the village. Stopping to check, desperate and hopeful of its proximity, the little blue location dot on my phone showed that the village was already around ten minutes ride behind me.

My questioning ceased from this point. I would make my destination before nightfall, I knew this now. It might not be easy, but let’s face it, cycle touring scarcely is and that’s not why I do it. And so, remembering the earphones in my luggage, I plugged one ear into motivating sounds, put my foot to the peddle and set off once more.

The plan was to camp on the outskirts of Hope, a town in the centre of the hills. Many hours had passed since leaving Huddersfield, mostly spent cycling through serene hills, and so I was a little taken aback to discover this remote country town was in actual fact a hub of tourist activity.

My determination to be away from civilisation powered me on through the town, road rising towards the outskirts. Passing B&Bs and farmhouses, I rounded on one final hill that, if not so set on my end goal, would most definitely have seen me turning back to a campsite in town. Instead I set my mind for one final climb, the gravel splashed dirt road so steep it required all my body weight at the front of the bike to prevent the wheel leaving the ground.

The end of the road was marked by a metal gate, closed to avoid any wandering sheep. With the bike balanced against me I pushed it open, the whole load nearly crashing to the floor as I edged my way through! Ceasing to pedal had allowed my body to become aware just how exhausted it was, having barely eaten since the morning, worried any lingering would have wasted valuable daylight.

Gate closed, two paths now lay before me. To the right, a steep, rocky footpath that would have been a challenge for my tired legs even without the bike laden with gear. Straight ahead was a wider, more gradual incline, the ground a mixture of mud and rock, split into two tyre track grooves. This track was lined either side by grassy embankments littered with rock and hedgerow, the hill to the left falling away to reveal a long valley, mostly segmented into squares of farmland. The calm air was interrupted from time to time only by a distant train or car engine.

The route was too rough to consider cycling, so after around ten minutes dragging my bike up the track, constantly pushing the brakes to stop it rolling backward, I took out my phone to view my progress. This was the moment it emerged that the track which led to the place I had hoped to rest my head for the night, was the impassable one to the right.

I didn’t know what to do. There had been such wonderful visions of camping among the hills, the thought of going to back town, to pitch for the night amid a sea of other tents evoked a pressing feeling of disappointment. Stood on a small level green clearing to the side of the path, I enjoyed one final look at the sprawling valley view, then turned to head back to town.

But after two steps I stopped. I had come so far and here was an isolated spot, this distance from the town it was unlikely that anyone would be passing at this hour. Here was a flat clearing, with nothing but clean air, a beautiful landscape and a few sheep for company. In that moment I decided to spend the night right there.

In a short space of time my bike was upended, resting on its saddle and handlebars, wheels looking skyward. The tarp and bivi sack were unpacked, and a makeshift tent/shelter created. This essentially gave me one small triangle of space as my home for the night.

I wriggled into the small space and began to eat for the first time in hours, feeling immensely satisfied with my current lot in life. After crawling back out to appreciate the burning orange glow filling the sky, the silence suddenly split with the crunching sounds of bike tyres on pebbled ground, moving fast. In a moment of panic I looked around and then dived back under my shelter.

Three cycles zoomed by. Then all was silent once more.

Breathing a sigh of relief I continued with my meal under cover, a little more on edge. What felt like mere moments later, an engine roar burst through the sky as yellow lights created a glow through the tarp. A four by four, I presumed, making its way back home after a day’s work. The vehicle just passed right by, down and out of earshot in a short time.

By now I had finished my food, mustered the courage to change and was inside my bivi sack. Layered up with several tops, a fleece, jacket and my fleece woollen hat, the last of which was necessary due to the lack of tent walls, meaning a breeze blew directly onto my face. As my eyes closed, mind beginning to relax, my senses were pricked once again at the sound of voices and footsteps…

What now? Why were there so many people on this hill at this time of night?! Just a little reminder of the difficulties of finding a truly remote spot in England. A bobbing torch light hit the tarp, accompanied by “Look, there’s a tent!”.

The footsteps faded, and finally, I had peace. The wind the only remaining sound. Unfortunately, a noise which created suspicion to a mind working in survival mode, constantly half alert. I drifted in and out of sleep that night, dreaming of sheep coming to nibble at me through the bicycle wheels, feeling that every rustle of the ferns was something creeping up on me. Despite the lack of sleep, this was without doubt, an experience I would not hesitate to repeat, immensely proud to have pushed so forcefully against the boundaries of my comfort zone.