Globalti
Legendary Member
(I wrote this in early 2004 and it was published in Singletrack magazine. I hope Chipps the Editor doesn't mind me reproducing it here for the benefit of CC readers as it's quite relevant to the floods discussion going on in General Cycling at the moment)
The Packhorse Trail.
Thanks to a lucky collaboration of history and geography we Pennine mountain bikers have inherited one of the finest networks of trails in the world, perfectly suited to our bikes. We owe them to the packhorse ponies, which carried the freight before the roads, railways and canals.
By a row of weavers’ cottages I take a narrow bridge over the river and push my thumbshifters into low first. With a groan I tackle a cobbled track that leads steeply out of the narrow river gorge to the wider pastures six hundred feet above. The cobbles make it difficult to keep a rhythm but at least the slope is consistent. I plod upwards, a faint clatter from the jockey wheels, mind drifting in unstructured thought, shutting out the pain and boredom. At the top, pausing to rest, I look across the wide valley at the gentle glaciated shape of the hills opposite. Down in the gorge, out of sight, lie the river, the canal, the road and the railway, competing for the flattest route. Opposite I can see dry stone walls and the line of an old packhorse trail running up the hillside, ignoring the slope and heading straight over to the next valley. For five hundred years it was the equivalent of a motorway; now it is deserted.
Before the Industrial Revolution people in this part of northern England lived by farming sheep. Wool was collected in the fields then spun and woven into cloth in nearby weavers’ cottages, their long mullioned windows designed to admit the precious daylight. There were no roads in the valleys and in this hilly country it was impossible to use heavy wagons so long packhorse trains of thirty to forty tough, agile Galloway ponies carried the cloth and general goods. Parts of their routes were so well used that they wore into the deep grooves called hollow ways that we see in the landscape. Some trains went as far as London; the suburb of Holloway owes its name to the packhorse trains that brought the goods to the hungry city. Rivers and deep peat hampered the heavily laden ponies so the owners laid down permanent stone ways for their pack animals and a complex network of causeways and bridges grew up between the settlements, capable of carrying huge tonnages of freight. Surviving routes have names that point to their original use: Limer’s Gate, Salt Road, Long Causeway. These routes were the distillation of hundreds of years of accumulated wisdom as they sought out the driest land and the easiest crossing points. Packhorse ponies had no need for flat roads; they were strong enough simply to head up the hill in the right direction. I imagine the silence of the countryside then the sound of forty ponies approaching fast, the warning bells of the leading mare then the thud and grind of hooves on stone, the creak of tack, the smell of sweat and dung, steaming breath. Each pony hurries, desperate to keep its place in the hierarchy. Trotting ponies widely loaded with freight would not stop for a walker, so bridges on main trunk routes had refuges built into the cutwaters. At their head rides the driver, calculating times and distances, loads and payments, places to rest and pasture his ponies; his only limitation is their endurance. He carries a heavy cudgel as insurance in case he meets another train head on.
This ancient network could not satisfy the growing demand for cloth. Cotton became King as investors brought cloth production down from the cottages and into manufactories, where they installed new machines powered by the rivers that could do the work of a hundred weavers. Men and women drifted down from the hills and packhorse trade began to fade away.
After the Second World War, redundant military lorries began carrying goods and their greater speed and unlimited endurance took the remaining business away from the packhorses. Six thousand horses were slaughtered in 1946 and 1947. From 1949 most of the trails were quietly relegated on the new definitive maps to the status of footpath as highways authorities sought to avoid the cost of maintenance. Much of the network sank into the peat or was overtaken by turf and has been lost; we only see the parts that are on firm ground. Governments invested in roads, which grew in importance and became as complex and intricate a transport network as the packhorse trails had once been, but too dangerous for leisure cyclists.
I bend and pick up my hardtail, pass through a gate and climb again up a quarry track, skirting the abandoned quarry and on to the top of the hill. At the summit I shoulder the bike and pick my way across a hundred yards of tussocked moor before reaching a col, across which runs my objective, the packhorse trail.
The gritty stones lie deeply embedded in the earth; carefully cut and fitting together like corn on the cob, each stone worn smooth to its neighbour by iron-shod hooves. Despite its age the trail is in perfect condition; the stones were laid across the path so that the concentrated weight of the loaded ponies bore down in the middle. Had they been laid end-on, more economically, the traversing weight of pony and load would have caused rocking, which would have un-nerved and slowed the ponies. This hard-wearing ribbon of solid rock has become part of the ground itself, following the contours as it leads me back into the gorge, increasing in steepness until I am riding with arms and legs stretched out, standing in the pedals and enjoying the feeling of exposure. I have ridden it before and know it is possible; the slope never exceeds what a pony could manage. The stones lie close for most of the way but have separated and broken up in places where there is water or land heave. My wheels burst through a patch of gritty black mud but the disc brakes continue to work silently. I am riding at my limit; despite the water running down the trail my tyres grip, only skidding occasionally down a particularly steep or displaced stone as I vary the braking according to the feel and sound. Without changing course I swerve my wheels to avoid a black slug tracking across a stone, then steer the other way to regain balance sacrificed. Nettles brush my legs but I feel nothing, their pungent smell fills the air. Where hooves once scrabbled for grip, my tyres patter pleasingly from stone to stone, air forks and curved titanium stays soaking up the impact. The open causeway becomes a shelfway, sharing a narrow valley with a stream. To my left water is crashing in the deep streambed, I am aware of the drop but ignore it, knowing I need to keep my nerve. The trail takes a sharp turn to the right; the sweat of tension chills my neck as I brake almost to a standstill then feathering the front brake, steer and balance the bike carefully around, feeling the rear wheel slipping as I complete the turn. The frame, designed here in Lancashire handles the difficult manoeuvre perfectly. Next comes a section where the gritstone setts have subsided and taken on a slope towards the stream. A loaded pony could fall here and be killed. I don’t want to side-load the last remaining friction in my tyres so I release the brakes and blast over the bad patch until I reach a flatter area where I can scrub off speed again.
The trail reaches a bridge. It is only two feet wide, it has been given an iron handrail but this would have hampered a loaded pack pony, which would have trotted across the unguarded slabs without hesitating. A short climb, a burst of effort, then the trail widens and enters a beech wood. I stand on the pedals enjoying the undulating surface and the sound of tyres crackling through dried beechnuts. The wind rushes through my helmet. Here a beech tree has grown on the trail, tall and smooth with a network of slippery roots to catch the unwary. I brake hard, hearing the buzz of pads on discs. Releasing the brakes I straighten up and wheelie over the roots, which I mistrust. Feeling my tyres thumping onto compacted mud I relax and enjoy the easy acceleration. Next comes a steep and broken section, down which I pick my way carefully, arms and legs beginning to ache with the effort of absorbing the movement. For fifty yards my techniques of avoidance steering, weight transfer and braking sensitivity are tested to the limit. I savour the feeling of the bike moving beneath me as it finds its way over the rocks. Two more sharp bends and the end of the trail approaches, I bang down stone steps and suddenly find myself in a flat car park.
I circle, reluctant to stop moving. A car edges past, I glimpse children staring at me through steamed-up windows and smell the exhaust. I look back up the trail, leading away into the dark wood. I think about the smooth grippy stones and I’m glad they will still be there for as long as I can ride.
The Packhorse Trail.
Thanks to a lucky collaboration of history and geography we Pennine mountain bikers have inherited one of the finest networks of trails in the world, perfectly suited to our bikes. We owe them to the packhorse ponies, which carried the freight before the roads, railways and canals.
By a row of weavers’ cottages I take a narrow bridge over the river and push my thumbshifters into low first. With a groan I tackle a cobbled track that leads steeply out of the narrow river gorge to the wider pastures six hundred feet above. The cobbles make it difficult to keep a rhythm but at least the slope is consistent. I plod upwards, a faint clatter from the jockey wheels, mind drifting in unstructured thought, shutting out the pain and boredom. At the top, pausing to rest, I look across the wide valley at the gentle glaciated shape of the hills opposite. Down in the gorge, out of sight, lie the river, the canal, the road and the railway, competing for the flattest route. Opposite I can see dry stone walls and the line of an old packhorse trail running up the hillside, ignoring the slope and heading straight over to the next valley. For five hundred years it was the equivalent of a motorway; now it is deserted.
Before the Industrial Revolution people in this part of northern England lived by farming sheep. Wool was collected in the fields then spun and woven into cloth in nearby weavers’ cottages, their long mullioned windows designed to admit the precious daylight. There were no roads in the valleys and in this hilly country it was impossible to use heavy wagons so long packhorse trains of thirty to forty tough, agile Galloway ponies carried the cloth and general goods. Parts of their routes were so well used that they wore into the deep grooves called hollow ways that we see in the landscape. Some trains went as far as London; the suburb of Holloway owes its name to the packhorse trains that brought the goods to the hungry city. Rivers and deep peat hampered the heavily laden ponies so the owners laid down permanent stone ways for their pack animals and a complex network of causeways and bridges grew up between the settlements, capable of carrying huge tonnages of freight. Surviving routes have names that point to their original use: Limer’s Gate, Salt Road, Long Causeway. These routes were the distillation of hundreds of years of accumulated wisdom as they sought out the driest land and the easiest crossing points. Packhorse ponies had no need for flat roads; they were strong enough simply to head up the hill in the right direction. I imagine the silence of the countryside then the sound of forty ponies approaching fast, the warning bells of the leading mare then the thud and grind of hooves on stone, the creak of tack, the smell of sweat and dung, steaming breath. Each pony hurries, desperate to keep its place in the hierarchy. Trotting ponies widely loaded with freight would not stop for a walker, so bridges on main trunk routes had refuges built into the cutwaters. At their head rides the driver, calculating times and distances, loads and payments, places to rest and pasture his ponies; his only limitation is their endurance. He carries a heavy cudgel as insurance in case he meets another train head on.
This ancient network could not satisfy the growing demand for cloth. Cotton became King as investors brought cloth production down from the cottages and into manufactories, where they installed new machines powered by the rivers that could do the work of a hundred weavers. Men and women drifted down from the hills and packhorse trade began to fade away.
After the Second World War, redundant military lorries began carrying goods and their greater speed and unlimited endurance took the remaining business away from the packhorses. Six thousand horses were slaughtered in 1946 and 1947. From 1949 most of the trails were quietly relegated on the new definitive maps to the status of footpath as highways authorities sought to avoid the cost of maintenance. Much of the network sank into the peat or was overtaken by turf and has been lost; we only see the parts that are on firm ground. Governments invested in roads, which grew in importance and became as complex and intricate a transport network as the packhorse trails had once been, but too dangerous for leisure cyclists.
I bend and pick up my hardtail, pass through a gate and climb again up a quarry track, skirting the abandoned quarry and on to the top of the hill. At the summit I shoulder the bike and pick my way across a hundred yards of tussocked moor before reaching a col, across which runs my objective, the packhorse trail.
The gritty stones lie deeply embedded in the earth; carefully cut and fitting together like corn on the cob, each stone worn smooth to its neighbour by iron-shod hooves. Despite its age the trail is in perfect condition; the stones were laid across the path so that the concentrated weight of the loaded ponies bore down in the middle. Had they been laid end-on, more economically, the traversing weight of pony and load would have caused rocking, which would have un-nerved and slowed the ponies. This hard-wearing ribbon of solid rock has become part of the ground itself, following the contours as it leads me back into the gorge, increasing in steepness until I am riding with arms and legs stretched out, standing in the pedals and enjoying the feeling of exposure. I have ridden it before and know it is possible; the slope never exceeds what a pony could manage. The stones lie close for most of the way but have separated and broken up in places where there is water or land heave. My wheels burst through a patch of gritty black mud but the disc brakes continue to work silently. I am riding at my limit; despite the water running down the trail my tyres grip, only skidding occasionally down a particularly steep or displaced stone as I vary the braking according to the feel and sound. Without changing course I swerve my wheels to avoid a black slug tracking across a stone, then steer the other way to regain balance sacrificed. Nettles brush my legs but I feel nothing, their pungent smell fills the air. Where hooves once scrabbled for grip, my tyres patter pleasingly from stone to stone, air forks and curved titanium stays soaking up the impact. The open causeway becomes a shelfway, sharing a narrow valley with a stream. To my left water is crashing in the deep streambed, I am aware of the drop but ignore it, knowing I need to keep my nerve. The trail takes a sharp turn to the right; the sweat of tension chills my neck as I brake almost to a standstill then feathering the front brake, steer and balance the bike carefully around, feeling the rear wheel slipping as I complete the turn. The frame, designed here in Lancashire handles the difficult manoeuvre perfectly. Next comes a section where the gritstone setts have subsided and taken on a slope towards the stream. A loaded pony could fall here and be killed. I don’t want to side-load the last remaining friction in my tyres so I release the brakes and blast over the bad patch until I reach a flatter area where I can scrub off speed again.
The trail reaches a bridge. It is only two feet wide, it has been given an iron handrail but this would have hampered a loaded pack pony, which would have trotted across the unguarded slabs without hesitating. A short climb, a burst of effort, then the trail widens and enters a beech wood. I stand on the pedals enjoying the undulating surface and the sound of tyres crackling through dried beechnuts. The wind rushes through my helmet. Here a beech tree has grown on the trail, tall and smooth with a network of slippery roots to catch the unwary. I brake hard, hearing the buzz of pads on discs. Releasing the brakes I straighten up and wheelie over the roots, which I mistrust. Feeling my tyres thumping onto compacted mud I relax and enjoy the easy acceleration. Next comes a steep and broken section, down which I pick my way carefully, arms and legs beginning to ache with the effort of absorbing the movement. For fifty yards my techniques of avoidance steering, weight transfer and braking sensitivity are tested to the limit. I savour the feeling of the bike moving beneath me as it finds its way over the rocks. Two more sharp bends and the end of the trail approaches, I bang down stone steps and suddenly find myself in a flat car park.
I circle, reluctant to stop moving. A car edges past, I glimpse children staring at me through steamed-up windows and smell the exhaust. I look back up the trail, leading away into the dark wood. I think about the smooth grippy stones and I’m glad they will still be there for as long as I can ride.
Great piece - could swear I was there with you!
