Tales from the spectacular Horseshoe Pass

THE internet phenomenon Facebook has created a worldwide social network allowing us to keep in touch with friends at the touch of button.

To share experiences and memories and information at the drop of a hat.

The bad news is that YOUR data may be used for political and marketing purposes. So the contents of that meal – or that political statement you “shared” in a post - will have been noted! (That’s enough! Ed)

OK. Quite right. Because I’m off down memory lane. I’m going up the Horseshoe. You coming?

The view towards Llangollen, from the top of the Horseshoe Pass

For the good news is that a Facebook post got me thinking about the Horseshoe Pass in North Wales, my old stomping ground.

It was Tony Bell  who put this idea into my head. Tony is a former pro who posts so much stuff he has surely worn out the keyboard and now transmits  his thoughts directly to the screen.

Almost always funny, by turn wonderfully or horribly rude about people when venting his feelings but always on the button.  And he came up with this great idea.

He wanted to drag us all out of our misery, he said – be it the political situation, the VIRUS or whatever that was getting us down. And he would do this by calling upon us all to cheer the fuck up by recalling happy times, the first big cycling ride we did, the one which got us hooked.

It was a brilliant suggestion. And he kicked it off with a story about  his big moment, of how he and his dad and I think his brothers, all went on a ride into North Wales, returning over the very high plateau of  World’s End, high above the beautiful Vale of Llangollen,  higher even than the nearby Horseshoe Pass.

There was a good response and many others shared their stories.


It inspired me to recall my many rides  into North Wales in the 1960s. For I am Liverpool lad who learned his cycling with the Merseyside Wheelers. I made  second category - my competitive high point.


I rode all over the North West with the club and also solo, before I moved to the South of England.

It’s a lovely spot where I live now, views of the wooded slopes of the North Downs from my front door, all very beautiful. I scan the skies for Red Kites and the occasional buzzard.


But I do miss the wide open spaces of the big mountains up north, the huge rolling expanse of the empty moors, and the wildness of those spaces, where you truly felt you had escaped the crowd.

If time travel was possible, I’d back to that period like a shot, cycling on Sunday mornings down to the boat at Liverpool’s Pier Head.  Across the water to Wirral, off to the North Wales mountains seen in the distance, or into Cheshire and Shropshire.

Or escaping north to the Lancashire Fells, east to the Derbyshire Peak District.


The Horseshoe Pass in North Wales was one of my most popular rides, an 80-mile round trip, taking you up to just under 1,400 feet above sea level.

Approached from Llangollen the Horseshoe presents a four mile climb with an average gradient of 1-12, says the sign at the beginning of the pass proper. And it rises to a max of 1- 8 or 10 at the apex of the “shoe”.  From a distance this steep slope looks impossible to ride as it clings to the mountain wall.
The other approach, from the Llandegla Moors, is less steep, about two miles of climbing.

One particular moment sticks in the mind. I was alone. It was a cold cloudy but dry November Sunday.

At the summit – I’d come up from Llandegla – I stopped to survey the scene. My laboured breathing was the only sound in the eerie heavy silence.  No one about. Not a soul. Bare mountainside.  

Well, there was one thing.

Dead level and a few hundred yards away, a massive, solid looking black cloud hung menacingly. It looked so heavy it might at any minute slowly and silently sink down to crush the roof of the Pondarosa café closed for the winter.  Misty fingers stroked the roof, sought to make a damp embrace.

The rest of this creature hovered above a drop which fell away behind the cafe.  I felt goose bumps.   It was quite scary to be so close, up there, a trespasser in the domain of clouds.


So I was off, taking the spectacular descent on my Harry Quinn Bill Bradley model.

 You would easily touch 50 mph down there, thrilling to the rush of wind in your hair. (An experience denied most cyclists today).

I recall a motorcyclist coming alongside, throttling back and holding up five gloved fingers to me, before accelerating away.

Fifty was quite fast enough on 10-ounce tubs.

If you felt frisky, you would go home the same way, grovel back up the steep side. If you felt really fit, there was always a far crueller route to take out of Llangollen which was equally spectacular.
 This was up the single track narrow twisting ascent to aptly named World’s End, where a  flat plateau stretched as far as the eye could see. And the road becomes a shallow trench cut between banks of purple heather, zig-zagging towards the horizon.
You are as high as the surrounding mountain tops up there, higher than the Horseshoe.

Otherwise you would stay in the valley, leave Llangollen by taking the easier road to Ruabon and Wrexham, skirting the mountains and heading back along the Cheshire border.

I was a junior when I first cycled to Llangollen, via Ruabon. I wanted to save my legs for my first ever ascent!  That first ride up there had me on my knees, especially on that short bit of 1-in-7 past the spectacular ruins of the medieval Valle Crucis Abbey, in the vale below the road and before the pass proper.


A mile or two later, as the road swung to the left, and into the “shoe”, I recall looking up to my right, across the valley, and seeing the sunlight glinting off cars far above.

Blimey. How do I get to get up there?

In fact, on that first occasion I stalled on the 1-in-8 wall at the centre of the horseshoe, the really steep bit. Unclipping my feet from the clips I sat down at a parking space, my chest heaving.

I kicked myself for giving up, for I didn’t know then of the “secret” assistance waiting just around the corner.


For had I struggled another few hundred yards to where the road swung right for the final assault,

I would have been picked up by a strong gust of wind sweeping off the mountain. It was amazing and not uncommon to engage the big chain ring up the final slope.


My brother Ian has his own Horseshoe Pass story. He and club mate Dave Davis, returning from a hostelling weekend one winter, were on the ascent when it began snowing on the mountain. At the top the snow was evenly spread two inches deep on the road.  Theirs were the only wheel marks. A car had come up from the other side. The driver thought better of chancing that descent and turned round.


The pair descended safely. They took some respite in a hotel bar on the road towards Coed Talen, thawing out in front of a roaring fire.

Resuming their ride, the weather cleared up and the roads dried out. By the time they reached the Eureka café on the Wirral eager to share their snow story, the sun was out, the sky was clear, spring was in the air and no one believed them.


A day out to the ‘shoe invariably began from Liverpool’s Pier Head where the club would meet up to take the “Ferry ‘cross the Mersey” for Birkenhead Woodside. Then we’d ride along the A41 Chester road, forking right in seven miles to stop at the Eureka for elevenses.

Then on, via the Twin Sisters – two short roller coaster hills - and a couple of miles later, across the bridge spanning the River Dee and into Wales.
That's where  the climbing began, the gradual haul of some 1.5 miles to Hawarden, down and then up through Fairy Dell, and in a few more miles the five mile drag via Coed Talen to the Llandegla Moors. This was the most direct route.

It was a shallow straight climb to the moors. If memory serves me well, it was only five per cent.  Low gears, not much conversation, up and up to the top, then a short descent before rising onto the barren moor topping out at, 1000 feet above sea level.

On a clear day you could see Merseyside 30 miles away, a dark brown stain smudging the sky line, the smoke from all those coal fires.

Off the moors and across the Ruthin to Wrexham main road a steep descent takes you to the foot of the winding climb rising up across the bare flanks of the mountain, to the summit of the Horseshoe Pass.

This was the easier side, about two miles of climbing, low gears but not very steep.

Your reward upon reaching the summit was a breath-taking view of the pass curving away to the right, dropping down the mountain side. It swung left into the apex and steepest section of the shoe, and then left again for the long, long straight down the opposite flank far below, the road gradually curving to the right – no need to touch the brakes. The fast descent continued, offering more speed on the sudden steeper drop past the ancient abbey ruins, falling spectacularly until finally levelling out to enter Llangollen, the beautiful town on the River Dee where another spectacle awaited, the Horseshoe Falls. And a café stop for dinner, of course.

Cael diwrnod braf – which is Welsh for Have a Nice Day.

The Micro Ride

Fed up with reading about those long, long cycle tours indulged in by those with all the time in the bleeding world? Thought so.  Welcome to the micro training ride which as it so happens is now especially suited to the current plague restrictions.


In  fact the Micro predates this and is designed for those of us who, for one reason or many several, simply ain’t got the time for those 5 hour bashes – or even a two-hour thrash…

Not that I’m resentful of those able to go out all day or for weeks on end.  No, no, no, no.  Not me.  No, I’m certainly not envious of those lucky bastards.


Try this for size. Kicks off at 8am and I’ll be back indoors before I know it, calves and ham strings stretched and having a coffee by 9.


Here we go. Leave the house to quickly join the High Street  to exit the town a mile further on at the Big Cock – the quirky silver cockerel statue on the roundabout.

Hardly any traffic because of the lock down. It’s all so quiet.

I hear the soft beat of a Jay’s wings overhead. Normally it’s thundering motoring hell.

All quiet these day.


Straight on here, heading east on the A25, following the line of the lovely Downs rising to 600 feet on the left. On the left also note the town cemetery hard by the road, last resting place of former acquaintance Pete Allen. Pete, author of the Malcolm Birdseed Blog, an eccentric character with a weird and risqué view of market town life,  turning real local news inside out. Ribald comments a plenty.

He introduced us to electric sheep pants, much sought after by farmers for their flocks in winter.

(Birdseed is still accessible on the web. Check him out, for Pete)


We’d laugh fit to burst. Anything could start us off.  

RIP, Pete.


Over the railway bridge and sharp left, down Pixham Lane, parallel now with the railway where last year I was thrilled to see the Royal Scot loco steaming through on a special.


It was on this stretch of track in 1901, railway history recalls,  that the driver of Queen Victoria’s funeral train caused a stir by taking the curve far too fast – to the consternation of all aboard.
Her Majesty may have stirred but was  not shaken.


Houses on the left. Ease off for the traffic lights controlling a narrow section under an arched railway bridge. Not the same track, this one goes east - west, the other one north - south.

Playing fields on the left.  We’re approaching another roundabout, this one graced with the magnificent steel sculpture of two racing cyclists. Sculptor Heather Burrell has captured beautifully the athletic image of riders going full out.  This classic work was  erected in honour of the 2012 Olympic road races which rocketed through here. Sight of this always stirs my heart.


Left turn onto  a dual carriageway and  up a slight rise to cross over the railway bridge (the north-south track) followed by the corresponding drop to pass under another railway bridge (the east-west track).

Then up a gradual rise of some 300 metres which would make for an excellent road race finish, past houses with driveways, thence to the Big Cock and the completion of the first lap.


Where left again. On that first circuit we checked out places  on the left. Now we focus on the right.

First up is Tesco Express, dead opposite the cemetery (Hi, Pete, me again).

I ride down to Tesco Express now and again, whenever we suddenly find ourselves short of some vital thing, like mustard, or small bottle of brandy. It’s open till late.

I imagine most people using the shop are doing so for the same reason – not necessarily for mustard or brandy of course; but you never know.

 Because everyone is always moving at express speed, hurrying in there and hurrying out.  They’ve been out all day and suddenly realised they’ve nothing in.


On we go, over taking the young woman in bright yellow top running along the pavement.  Forgot to mention her on the first lap.

Left down Pixham Lane, through the traffic lights which give me the green for a change.  On the right the gates to the sewage farm. I imagine on warm sunny days people of no fixed awareness  enjoying a picnic, sitting out along the grassy banks of the filter beds.

Just ahead, another cyclist. Stay well back, mindful of the two metre rule.


Two metre rule? Clearly invented by Remainers. Leavers would prefer it to be 6 foot six.

On we go, saluting the Olympic Games sculpture now radiant in the low morning sunlight, up and over the bridge, under the next one.

And up to the Cock.
Two laps done.

Time for a third. 


Nothing has changed: all quiet in the cemetery. The rushers at Tesco have been brought up short...they’re in the queue outside, Remainers observing the two metre, Leavers the six foot six.

Eight minutes later, we’re back at The Cock, where right turn to retrace through the town for two laps of the one-way system.


West along the High Street now. Notable places of interest: all the empty coffee shops and bordered up shops, plus Sainsbury’s is open;  into the one-way system along South Street and passed posh Waitrose; further along we pass a new funeral parlour advertising money back if not satisfied. Past Antonio’s sandwich shop (Chow, Antonio – he’s a lovely chap, from Naples).

Past another funeral home, then hard right back into town. Wickes on the left, then Lidl – always think of the Quickstep team.


Then past the wonderfully named “Sliding Door Warehouse”!  I swear it hasn’t moved an inch during the 30 years I’ve lived in this town.

Traffic lights. Turn right into lovely narrow West Street featuring 15^th and 16^th century buildings.

We just need a coach and four to complete the scene, riders on Old Ordinaries.

This is now known as the “Antiques and Museum Quarter” and is on the Olympic road race route.

Nice windows for checking position.


Three pubs:

The Star (Green King) - no television - a tiny pub with a big heart, famous for introducing  pub panto such as Jack and the Beanstalk and film nights;  

The Old House (Youngs) – no Sky sports here, thank you.  But there is a wardrobe in the corner. If you push the coats aside there is a door in the panelling which leads to Narnia. So they tell customers, probably after eight pints of best;

The 14^th century King’s Arms (Shepherd Neame) - Sky Sports here thank you.

And not forgetting Head for the Hills bike shop and Mike’s Models.


In 300 metres pass Victoria’s Little Bra Shop window display (pulse quickens) making a right turn at Pump Corner to complete the first lap. Round we go again to complete a second lap. We start the third lap but time marches on and so in 200 metres right turn then left into the car park backing on to cottages. That’s it. Dismount, unlock the secret gate in the fence.

Home.

I an rejuvenated. It proves the saying, however little time you may have, ride the bike, ride the bike, ride the bike.

8.4 miles; 36 minutes;  calories 291; altitude 15.5m; average speed 14mph; Max 25mph.

Allez.