Kielder Camping Weekend - Day 1

It was a sunny Friday morning in September. I was feeling excited, the weather forecast for the weekend was apparently looking good. Although, I must make a note to myself to actually check my own weather forecast next time. I had just climbed onto my bike in denim jeans and engineer boots, I would find out later that for some reason, everybody else decided to go with a more waterproof option.

For a change, and in an attempt to have a more pragmatic approach to riding apparel I, for the first time ever, was about to embark on a multi-day trip without any waterproof gear. I was suffering nervous trepidation in the days leading up to the event. But once I closed the garage door and set off, there was no turning back, I had what I had; which was not very much, and there was now no point worrying about it any further. I would have to deal with the consequences myself as they arose.

I had planned this bike trip to make use of a rescheduled campsite booking at Drybeck Farm. Drybeck was supposed to be the base camp for the Lakes 6 Passes Weekend that I ran earlier in the year. On that trip the venue was changed at the last minute due to a double-booking error by the site at Drybeck Farm - to Haggs Bank campsite and bunkhouse, just down the road.

You can ride from Preston to Kielder and back in a day. However, by starting out in the morning as far North as Penrith this would allow us time on the Saturday to explore some areas of the country that would otherwise require hours on a motorway or main A roads to get to the right area, and then still not allow much more than a fleeting visit before becoming time-expired and needing to turn around and start heading straight back home.

There had also been some particular interest in the slightly more adventurous rides, having recently completed the ambitious - 6 lakes passes in-a-day trip, and the Dacre Rally camping weekend. However a more civilised introduction, suitable for road orientated bikes was in order.

The outline objective I set myself for organising the trip was to avoid all motorways, use interesting and less-travelled roads and to make use of the Drybeck Farm campsite and try to push to envelope of an adventure, but perhaps not to the extreme of a full on Dakar Rally this time. This led to the title of the trip  – The Kielder Camping Weekend, which would tick all those boxes and allow the use of the Kielder Forest Drive gravel-toll-road to add the edge-of-the-comfort-zone adventurous element that helps to keep us on our toes and to expand our riding capabilities.

So that was it, the route was planned, the campsite was booked and all we had to do was turn up and follow the sat-nav… If only it was that easy!

The meeting point on the Friday morning was the petrol station at Broughton, which for once, went without a hitch.

There were 3 of us in total at the start. This made the choice of drop-off systems to be used a simple one.

Tracey was on her trusty Tiger 800, proudly displaying the battle scars from the recent Dacre Rally event. I think she had even cleaned it, she really does like that bike more than she will willingly admit.

Alex was on a Yamaha FJR. Proving, at least by the time the weekend was out, that you don’t need an adventure bike to have an adventure. Whatever bike you have got is already good enough to join in.

Through the course of the weekend we would eventually be joined by 2 others that were unable to attend right from the start.

Paul would be on his shiny red Ducati with multiple-stradas and when Ashley arrived, he was sporting a fully upgraded Tiger 900, fresh from the suspension shop.

For a change only one of these bikes would be on its side at any point over the course of the weekend. But, as usual, if there is no photographic evidence; then, did it really happen? No resale value will be affected by this write-up. “One careful owner - never raced or rallied.”

First thing first, mostly to keep Tracy quiet, we headed to the Applestore Cafe for breakfast cake. The last time I was here for breakfast it was the day after my wedding. After the food, all I needed to do then was ride the sidecar back home to my wife as a newly married man, but this time I needed to lead a full SLAM group on a 3 day multi-county bike tour. I don’t know which was more nerve wracking.

After breakfast we checked the map and headed out the car park and down to the nearest river to cross through the ford. Everybody* likes a good ford.

*not everybody

We hacked a fairly familiar route across ‘the trough’, Bowland AONB, whizzed past Dunsop bridge and made use of the facilities at the Slaidburn carpark. Thermal liners were removed and summer gloves made an appearance, for by now, 11am, the sun was high in the sky and packed quite a punch. I was now feeling pretty smug in my lightweight gear.

We continued our journey through Ingleton and onto a gated road where we played logic games involving a goat, a fox and a cabbage as we leapfrogged each other to get the gates open and closed.

Thankfully relieved when we hit a main road and could all stop wobbling about so much. Balancing our tall, heavy, tent-laden bikes on the steep scenery to get on and off for gatemonkey duty, was beginning to lose it novelty.

To relax we then set about doing a billion U-turns in an attempt to use a more interesting route to avoid riding directly through the centre of Sedbergh. However, surprise vehicle access restrictions and a slight discrepancy between the definition that the sat-nav uses for ‘road’ and what everyone else uses for a ‘field’, forced us to consider taking a more conventional route. At least we would all be now well practiced ahead of the next SLAM cones course, perhaps we should throw some gravel and potholes into the carpark to make the training more real-worldly.

Fed up of U-turns and slowly admitting defeat at the need to actually ride through, rather than around, the centre of Sedbergh, we stopped for lunch at the Farfield Mill, a former textile mill that had been converted into a museum and art gallery. The mill was a fascinating place, with exhibits of old machinery, textiles, paintings, sculptures, and crafts. I had a delicious bread roll for lunch at the mill’s cafe.

After lunch we rode over the tops from Brough to Middleton in Teasdale. I can only imagine the look on the faces inside the helmets that were following me as we passed the sign saying “welcome to Northumberland,” when deep down they all know we are supposed to be heading for a campsite in Cumbria!

In Northumberland we headed North to Westgate, where we encountered another minor setback. One of us (I won’t say who) wanted to stop and wash their bike in the river while we were trying to cross the ford, however, they didn’t know they wanted to do that until they were half way across. Luckily, no one was hurt, and we managed to pull the bike out of the water with the helpful oversight from a friendly local, who’s dog was cooling off in the river and was wondering what all the fuss was about with a sleepy motorcycle wanting to join in the swimming. Not wearing waterproof boots, I bravely stood on the shore and shouted motivational words of advice from dry land. The bike was wet but still working fine, pride dampened but not dented. Once the bike was upright we laughed it off as a development opportunity and moved on.

For some reason the rest of the group were unwilling to take their precious motorcycle through the raging torrent and instead elected to take the road based alternative bridge route.

It was relief all round that it was now a comparatively straightforward ride down a triple figure A road to get to Alston where we would have an afternoon rest stop.

The tearooms were located in Alston heritage railway station that had been restored to its original glory. The station had a vintage charm, with wooden benches, lights and signals, clocks, signs, and posters. The tearooms served a variety of teas, coffees, cakes, scones, biscuits, and sandwiches, however not when you rock up 10 minutes before closing as they are wiping down tables and packing everything away. Luckily we managed to buy coffee and cake but were forced to sit outside. The sun still had some heat in it and all evidence of the infamous river crossing easily evaporated as the fateful rider regaled the tale of how they had recognised the ford as being one they have previously ridden through. I had previously led a group of bikes up this end of the country for the Lake District Passes weekend. 9 of us rode through the ford on that day without any hint of a drama. Armed with much confidence at this, the second ford of the day and the second time in recent history that they had encountered this particular ford. The riders youthful enthusiasm exceeded the grip levels on the base of the algae coloured, slimy concrete bottomed river crossing, I am sure the excited smile that was warn into, and halfway across, the river; turned a funny shape as the bike and rider slid themselves in tandem all the way to the far bank.

We left the tearooms and rode down Hartside Pass to reach our final destination: Drybeck Farm Campsite. After a 0900h start, we arrived at the campsite at 1630h. Just as many bikes arrived than had started out, so I am claiming that as a victory.

Paul was already waiting for us at the campsite, having set off after work at lunchtime, he couldn’t be with us right from the start. He headed directly to the site, arriving 30 seconds before us, he only had time to take his helmet off and the three of us turned up next to him. He was happy and smiling, and knew nothing of the ordeal we had all just been through to get here.

We all pitched the tents after carefully considering the trifecta of; proximity to the toilet block, distance from the river, and the range of the sparks from the fire pit. Tents pitched, with only minor tent-pole-rage ahead of an evening involving a swim in the river, shower and changed, a walk down the road to the pub for an evening meal. Back to the campsite for a stargazing, campfire and marshmallow toasting session. 

The campsite was a lovely place on the bank of the river Eden, surrounded by trees and small hills. After pitching the tents and changing into our swimming costumes, we jumped into the river for a refreshing swim after a long day of riding. Ok what actually happened was, Alex, the river rat dived in first, this now being the second river he had been in for the day, and the rest of us, eventually, slowly and cautiously, and with much complaining about the temperature, joined in for a float around while trying not to imagine too vividly what it was that might be touching our feet.

The cold but invigorating water was perfect for making the sites lukewarm shower facilities feel 5-star.

We changed into our finest dining attire and walked, what felt like 10 miles, down the road to the pub for our evening meal. “Are we nearly there yet?”

There are two pubs to choose from in Armathwaite, however the second one was at least 50 yards further away than the first. Since it had now been a couple of hours since our last cake stop we piled in to the closest one and crossed our fingers that they would be able to find a table that could squeeze us all in.

The pub was a cosy place with a specials board above the fireplace, wooden beams, period pictures on the wall and a friendly atmosphere. We ordered some drinks and most of us ordered food from the menu. We thought that we had all ordered food from the menu, but something must have got lost in translation. When it arrived, the chilli beef pizza looked a lot like crispy shredded beef and rice.

We ate our meal while talking about our day: what we saw; what we did; what we liked; what we didn’t like. Alex proclaimed that the chilli beef was the best he had ever had.

After some head-torch-envy on the way back to the site from those that didn’t bring a torch, we sat around the camp fire where we learned some interesting new things and we shared some laughs. Some of the laughs were at some of the interesting new things; it turns out that there are some people amongst us that think the moon gets bigger and smaller!

We played top-trumps with our camp chairs to determine who had the best one. None of us were prepared for the lightest, lowest, flattest, widest, most orange entry from Paul. Some games are just not worth winning. (Paul didn’t have a chair so was sat/lying by the fire on a emergency bivvy bag)

The wood was bought from the site, 3 bags in total, what we didn’t know was; each bag contained enough wood to fire a small power station. We lit the fire near our tents and preceded to scoot our chairs further and further away as the night went on to prevent our skin from melting. The heat, smoke and bad jokes kept the insects away as we toasted some marshmallows on sticks; ate them while they were hot and gooey, all while looking up at the sky. The site is within a Cumbria dark skies designated area and night sky was clear and, well, dark. We could see thousands of stars twinkling above us. With the aid of technology we pointed out some constellations and planets, making some wishes on shooting stars weather satellites and stayed up late, enjoying the fire and the stars. We eventually got tired and crawled into our tents, zipped up our sleeping bags and closed our eyes. We fell asleep to the sound of the river flowing and the fire crackling, and some unknown animal that had been making a relentless call all evening long, if I could get my hands on it, it would be stuffed and mounted on the porch wall of my tent as a warning to anything else making a noise all night long, including the, presumably, bear, that was sleeping in the tent next to mine. If only I could remember which pocket had my ear plugs…