Getting the Lowdown
By Jim Gregson
Submission for Loose Scree, by Jim Gregson.
At the beginning of March 2001 (just 10 years ago Ed.), in a feat of astonishing political myopia, the government closed down public access to the countryside as foot and mouth disease spread on British farms. Climbers and hillwalkers were deprived of the main venues for their leisure time activities. The young, weaned on a diet of plywood and fibreglass, retreated to their sweaty dungeons. The rest of us, craving fresh air and daylight, had to divert our energies elsewhere.
For three weeks I escaped to the white wilds of a Norway winter to ski over the Hardanger icecap and the dramatic Hallingskarvet mountains, but on returning home was a little dismayed to find access restrictions still in place. Those of us with bikes began to rack up the mileage in order to stay sane and fit, until we could resume our uphill progress.
It was possible to make use of the cross-country routes opened up along the former railway routes traversing the limestone areas of the White Peak, thus on one day I found myself linking the High Peak and Tissington Trails. Pedalling along the ballast surfaces it was at least outdoors.
Every so often these trails cross a minor road where there is an entry and exit point. Each of these intersections had been furnished with an anti-foot and mouth device, in the form of a timber-built trough affair three or four metres long, lined with plastic sheeting then filled with a disinfectant-soaked layer of woodchips, sawdust and straw. The trail users, on foot, horseback, or bicycle were sternly warned and enjoined to pass through these troughs to hopefully decontaminate their boots, their hooves or their wheels before proceeding on their way.
At first these obstacles had a certain novelty value - not enough to totally dispel cynicism about their efficacy, but sufficient to require a degree of attention. On a bike it only needed a little bunnyhop to get ones wheels into and out of the troughs, with not too great a loss of momentum. In between them there was ample time to ride along and admire the view, thinking about the times when the hills and crags would be available again. When would that be?, we thought, as news bulletins continued to broadcast a gloomy outlook. At least we were outside taking healthy exercise.
The reverie was not to last. At one of these troughs, a moment's loss of concentration ran up against an anomaly of carpentry. I had successfully bounced my wheels over the entry board at one end of the trough but inexplicably slowed while passing through. Perhaps the exit board was set a little high for at the speed I was going my front wheel rebounded off it, leaving me failing in the fight to retain balance. Before I had managed to free my feet from the pedals I keeled over sideways and measured my length into the evil slurry of DEFRA-approved timberyard waste and powerful disinfectant.
As I lay there temporarily disorientated, literally soaking up my surroundings, I swore for a while, cursing the authorities whoever they were, until I became calm enough to form this more welcoming thought - "I will lift up mine eyes to the hills... and the sooner the bloody better!"
