Post: This long ride, without a single mention of saddles, seems to have pleased all on the run today. And I am reminded of how we used to communicate on those long runs, when we somehow missed each other, many of us carried a stick of chalk and we would leave messages at likely stopping points for those missing, that they could catch us up. Try telling stories like that to the ‘Youff’ of today !
Sunday, June 21 Nant-y-Ffrith CTC run leader
The fine spell of weather is still continuing, and I expect great possibilities of my run today. At 6.15am, I started for Four Lane Ends, arriving to find that I was not the first. Whilst trying to open the display case at the cross-roads, we nearly pulled the hut down and succeeded in breaking the glass, but for all our struggling, we did not open it. At 6.45am, there were nine of us, so, not having much time to throw away, we made a start. Once clear of the industrial areas to Glazebury, it did not take long to get into our stride, with the result that we went hurtling along, covering the 18 miles to Warrington in one hour and eight minutes. Without delay, we got the sordid streets behind us, and gained the cleaner Chester road. We were in form, it was clear, and we had a vivacious girl of sixteen years leading, and so well did we do that in two hours and twenty minutes, we were in Chester. We stopped at the Castle to watch the troops drilling in the yard and hear the band, which was very impressive. ‘Billy’, our humorist, made light of the officers’ bawls and soon had everyone around grinning. Meanwhile, I left a chalk mark near the road edge to let Tom know our time of passing.
Wrexham road accommodated us now; we swung along at a fine pace, by the grounds of Eaton Hall to Rossett, where we turned left into the pretty Vale of Gresford, climbing to a higher plane where we could look down upon the rich plains of Cheshire. A level run brought us past the Llay Main Pit, the scene of a recent disaster, then a switchback to Cefn-y-Bedd, ‘the Ridge of the Grave’. The little valley to Ffrwd was admired by all, and the subsequent climb on shanks started to open views out that were blocked by mist in the distance. I did not mistake the Ffrith turn this time, and we dropped down cautiously past a notice which glared out in bold lettering ‘Danger, Landslide’. However, the obstruction had been removed, and only the rotten surface and the clay hillside told us where the problem had been. At Ffrith I enquired for the footpath to Nant, for it was a long time since I was along there, and soon we were walking up a rough little lane under a railway viaduct. Several barred gates and stiles had to be negotiated, causing much amusement, and it was getting hot too. Then past a farmyard and we entered Nant-y-Ffrith, by a very narrow walk between high, thick hedges that we had to brush past.
The walk then lay through the most beautiful woods, and by bushes ablaze with bloom, with a glimpse here and there of the stream where,
‘The young river gods in maddest play,
Come laughing silvery laughter, lightly leaping adown the cliffs’.
And here and there the dense growth on the opposite side of the valley would give way to a sheer white crag, not unlike those in the Derbyshire Dales. Sometimes we would be running through the wood, where the roots of trees spread across the paths, then a little open space where we would walk on deliciously springy grass which made it just like the carpet of some Eastern mosque, then we would wind round a tumbled mass of rocks all covered with creepers and moss and set amidst the everlasting trees. For about two miles this continued until we found ourselves climbing steeply, a gate got in the way, and lifting the bikes over iron railings, we found ourselves on a drive, each side of which was a riot of rhododendrons. From this drive, which is private, leading to Nant-y-Ffrith Hall, we got a bird’s eye view of the steep valley. Everyone was absolutely carried away with this beautiful valley, some said they had never seen anything like it before.
The drive climbed for about a quarter of a mile, winding round all the time between the rhododendron bushes, and higher up, the trees form a leafy canopy overhead. Then we joined the Pass road, and in a moment stood at the shelf at Bwlch Gwyn. Much of the Cheshire plains were visible, but it cannot be said that the views were in any way good – at least to what they might be. All the time a wordy warfare had been raging as to what constitutes a Pass. One said that a pass is a way over the hills, I contended that it was either over or through the hills, to which the reply came that a way through was a valley, it finally ended by the remark that every road is a pass! The run across the moors was fast and furious, whilst good views could be had towards the Clwyds, Moel Famau standing out especially clearly. Soon the moors gave way to rippling, verdant country, and then the lunch place, the far-famed ‘The Crown at Llandegla’ was reached. A wash, then lunch, and an hour in the cool parlour. The sun was blazing down now, and a high wind was sweeping away the last vestige of mist which clung to the hillsides. I asked which road they would like to take, the Horseshoe Pass or Nant-y-Garth, and they settled on the former.
The strong wind helped us along the Corwen road, and swept us along from the Ruthin-Llangollen turn, downhill, with fine views of the beautiful country around, chequered fields and shady lanes and brown moors. Except for a short bit near the Travellers Rest Inn, the majority rode to the summit of Bwlch Rhiwfelin, but two or three of us preferred to walk because of the views around. The whole club run was surprised when the clustered peaks of Caernarfon came into sight. Clear and grey and well defined, they rose sublime behind the green and brown country that stretched away towards them. There were the Carneddiau and their satellites, and as we reached the summit at 1,353 ft, the whole range of them appeared, and, with the poet, I said: “Behold Cryri !”
There was Snowdon and the Glyders, Cynicht and the bold Ffestiniog peaks, the Merioneth Moels, Arran and Arenig, Rhobell Fawr, Pen Llithrig – a host of them. Turning about, we looked down the Horseshoe to the Valley of the Cross, and Llangollen in the Vale of Dee, backed by the brown Berwyns. Dinas Bran on its conical peak, the Eglwyseg Rocks and the winding roads. We spent half an hour here, then one went off to take the direct road, and the rest of us slid cautiously down the Pass. In one place a motor car had come to grief and was hanging over the precipice. So well was it balanced that it seemed as if a touch would send it rolling down the steep scree to a certain smash up at the bottom.
Then came pretty woods, and passing Eliseg’s Pillar and Valle Crucis Abbey, we made good headway until a puncture occurred on the canal bridge near Llangollen. Whilst it was being repaired three of us paddled in the canal regardless of passers-by. A moment on the Dee Bridge, then along the Vale to Trevor and Acrefair, from where we had a headwind and an awful, industrialised, run to Wrexham. Then the Farndon road, in the ‘Part of Flint’ to Holt, and another halt on the old Dee Bridge there. A winding lane now led us to Aldford, and the beautiful grounds of Eaton with still another halt on that Dee Bridge, and at the Hall.
A swinging run to Chester, and Mickle Trafford for tea which proved unsatisfactory. As six of the ten of us on the run today were training for the Lancashire Road Club ‘12’, the pace home was furious. The run has been an absolute success – some of them have had their eyes opened as to what Wales really is. 135 miles
