The Trough of Bowland
Discussion
One of the problems with suffering residence about the major connurbations of the North West in Albion, aside that is, from the wretched ranks of the closely shaven, seething simiansapian, is the dearth of sufficiently twisty, pleb free, B road zonedom.
Sure, there are randomnly scattered ribbons of smoothish, blackened salvation but the Orwellian tendancies of the local puritan vegetable folk invariably dictate that spirited progress be curtailed by the ever present threat of a tiny willied man in a French tin van with a big lens and scrunched copy of Razzle.
But for the soul willing to venture just beyond the west of wonder, a small oasis of the realm still exists, quietly going about it's business as if the electoral follies since 1997 were but fearful, scarcely conceivable nightmares...
Heading out past the delightful castled town of Clitheroe, a cheeky shimmy to your right, a hedgerow here and a hobbit there leads the lucky pilot to a roadscape straight from the mind of a Barker or Sutcliffe outing.
Not far removed from miniature Lake District, the joyous abscence of cluttering , chugging flotsam enables the kind of line making and vehicle positioning that Westfield usually reserve for their dreamscapey advertising pictorials: and yet here you most certainly are.
I drove for 20 minutes and was unblighted by man or machine; instead, imbibing the soft fragrances of a perfect spring morn and gulping down the blend of smooth, unabated progress that such massively rare moments confer, revelling in the rolling landscape and treating the engine like some velocitous musical device whilst all the time enjoying the decelerations as much as the other motion forward.
This is very much an EVO place, a workout and a playground, not necessarily that fast but somehow utterly involving, intensely compelling and as the road rolls you back into the morass of miserable, life-sapping, nodding dogular DIY dronelanery, the memory alone is enough...
...until the next fix.
{Alas, like many of these great wee drives, the onus is increasingly on the active PHer to drive out at what are frankly disagreeable times: I was an 0700 starting merchant, myself which in high summer probably isn't too bad but at other times can engender a slightly laborious slant to the adventure. Hey ho.}
Sure, there are randomnly scattered ribbons of smoothish, blackened salvation but the Orwellian tendancies of the local puritan vegetable folk invariably dictate that spirited progress be curtailed by the ever present threat of a tiny willied man in a French tin van with a big lens and scrunched copy of Razzle.
But for the soul willing to venture just beyond the west of wonder, a small oasis of the realm still exists, quietly going about it's business as if the electoral follies since 1997 were but fearful, scarcely conceivable nightmares...
Heading out past the delightful castled town of Clitheroe, a cheeky shimmy to your right, a hedgerow here and a hobbit there leads the lucky pilot to a roadscape straight from the mind of a Barker or Sutcliffe outing.
Not far removed from miniature Lake District, the joyous abscence of cluttering , chugging flotsam enables the kind of line making and vehicle positioning that Westfield usually reserve for their dreamscapey advertising pictorials: and yet here you most certainly are.
I drove for 20 minutes and was unblighted by man or machine; instead, imbibing the soft fragrances of a perfect spring morn and gulping down the blend of smooth, unabated progress that such massively rare moments confer, revelling in the rolling landscape and treating the engine like some velocitous musical device whilst all the time enjoying the decelerations as much as the other motion forward.
This is very much an EVO place, a workout and a playground, not necessarily that fast but somehow utterly involving, intensely compelling and as the road rolls you back into the morass of miserable, life-sapping, nodding dogular DIY dronelanery, the memory alone is enough...
...until the next fix.
{Alas, like many of these great wee drives, the onus is increasingly on the active PHer to drive out at what are frankly disagreeable times: I was an 0700 starting merchant, myself which in high summer probably isn't too bad but at other times can engender a slightly laborious slant to the adventure. Hey ho.}
derestrictor said:
Sure, there are randomnly scattered ribbons of smoothish, blackened salvation but the Orwellian tendancies of the local puritan vegetable folk invariably dictate that spirited progress be curtailed by the ever present threat of a tiny willied man in a French tin van with a big lens and scrunched copy of Razzle.
Superb. An absolute classic.
Good to hear the Caterham is getting a bit of action.
DAZ
>> Edited by dazren on Thursday 31st March 23:49
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