WITH the Grand Depart of the Tour de France almost on the horizon in the Dales, I can recall my youthful cycling expeditions. As my parents did not own a car and buses were far and few between in our remote moorland village, I decided the only way to see what lay beyond the surrounding hills was to build myself a pedal cycle. The railway ran to Whitby in one direction and Middlesbrough in the other but I had no wish to visit either of those places.

I preferred the countryside.

Some people said I was daft because the only way to leave our village by road was via several very steep hills with narrow lanes and so cycling was hazardous and tiring, even impossible in places. But armed with the determination of the young, I managed to find all the necessary parts to build a pedal cycle. Village tips were useful commodities in those days! And grandad’s farm buildings were a rich source of parts from some of my uncles’ cast-offs.

The thing I really wanted were racing-style drop handlebars but the nearest I got was a set of half drop handlebars. I painted my pride and joy a distinctive leaf green colour, made sure the chain would allow the derailleur gears to work, checked the brakes and tyre pressures, set the saddle at the correct height and set off one Sunday morning after mass.

As I was leaving the house, my mother called: “If you’re going anywhere near a shop, can you get a loaf of bread for Aunty Kath?” I replied I would do my best – I did have a saddlebag and it was large enough to carry a bread loaf along with my own sandwich, apple and vacuum flask of milkless tea.

One thing I learned early in my cycling career was never to carry a bag on one’s back when cycling – it is extremely tiring. Let the bike carry the load in a saddlebag or panniers.

I had no pre-set ideas about my route or destination but with mother’s command that I obtain a loaf of bread for Aunty Kath, it was vital I passed through villages that boasted shops.

Some in our part of the moors did not have shops but some that did were reluctant to open on Sundays. There were various rules and regulations about trading on Sundays of which, as a child, I was unaware; the rules had been imposed during the Second World War and not then repealed.

The first part of my grand tour was a climb through our village, Glaisdale, but as the hills were too steep to cycle up, I pushed my bike ever onwards and upwards, knowing I would pass the village shop. But it was shut.

Once at the top of the village there was a fairly level road towards Lealholm but its shop was shut and so I headed for Danby via Ainthorpe – which had no shop. Danby’s shop was open but was out of bread and the shopkeeper suggested Castleton’s shop might be open. It was, but it had also run out of bread. The man behind the counter said either Loftus or Guisborough might be worth a visit.

I decided Loftus was rather off the beaten track so far as my tour was concerned but I could go to Guisborough and then head south to Stokesley to return home either via Kildale and Commondale, or alternatively, if time allowed, head down Bilsdale to Helmsley and Kirkbymoorside, calling at bread shops on the way, then return home over the moors via Rosedale.

It was an almighty climb up to Three Howes Rigg from Castleton, which meant yet another pushing of the bike, but I halted on top, found a boulder to sit upon to eat my lunch with marvellous views across to Lockwood Beck and the coast.

The ride from the heights of those moors via Lockwood Beck and along the main road to Guisborough was exhilarating, especially the long downward sweep of Birk Brow but I had no luck in Guisborough.

“Sorry, son,” said a friendly shopkeeper, “but if you’d wanted some fodder for your horse or if Guisborough was classed as a resort, I might have been able to fix you up with something, except fish and chips.

We can’t sell fish and chips on Sundays but I could arrange a funeral, sell you some oil for your bike and, if you are infirm, I might be able to give you a haircut. I suggest you try Stokesley.”

The ride to Stokesley was along a main road, almost level and it was such an easy ride after coping with the ascents out of Eskdale. I must admit I was tempted to climb Roseberry Topping, but felt time was passing far too rapidly, and Aunty Kath would be waiting for her bread loaf. I did not find any shops open in Great Ayton and only one in Stokesley high street whose helpful lady apologised for not having any bread for sale, but suggested Helmsley, which was classed as a resort, might have some.

The climb from Stokesley towards Bilsdale via Clay Bank and Urra Moor was leg-aching, to say the least, but the joy of swooping down Bilsdale with its long curves between the moorland heights was wonderful. I was too tired to attempt the cycle up Newgate Bank and so I pushed my trusty old bike up that hill, then swept down towards Helmsley with its castle rising above the trees.

The market place was not a car park as it is today, although vehicles did rest there in a haphazard sort of way, and so I leaned my bike against the steps of the Feversham Memorial and went hunting a loaf for Aunty Kath.

“I can let you have a sandwich but not 66 FRIDAY, JUNE 13, 2014 WEEKEND dst.co.uk DARLINGTON & STOCKTON TIMES a full loaf,” apologised one shopkeeper.

“Or some tobacco for your pipe if you need it.” I left, now very tired.

I did not stop in Kirkbymoorside but battled on and decided upon one last stop in Rosedale before heading down the notorious Chimney Bank with the huge chimney then near the top, then up the steep climb out of Rosedale which led past the famous Hamer Inn and eventually down Glaisdale Dale and home. But first, I needed a pit shop in Rosedale with its meagre remains of the former priory.

I found a tea-room that was allowed to sell refreshments and, as I had enough money for a sandwich and glass of lemonade, went in and ordered myself a small but wonderful meal. The lady of the house fussed over me and asked where I had been and where I was heading, and so I explained, adding that I was hunting a bread loaf for Aunty Kath.

“Well,” she said, “We’re not allowed to sell bread loaves on Sundays but I have one left over from the sandwiches. Here, take it – I can’t take money but I can give it away, so take it home for your Aunty Kath.”

As I swept across the moors and down Glaisdale Dale with the bread loaf in my saddle bag, I whistled all the way home. I felt strong enough to tackle the Tour de France. Maybe another time!