A gentle Ryton Lane bike ride (From Gazette & Herald)

A gentle Ryton Lane bike ride

THERE must be hundreds, nay thousands, of different insects in our gardens. For during the last few days, on my knees cleaning out borders, I could see them all scurrying about, as their world collapses around them, and they sought safety elsewhere.

It's about all over lads, you can settle down to your own little lives again. I shan't be turning that border over again for another year. Meanwhile...Hurrying in to sample the nectar from some of my wild flowers, a flyer I've never seen before. About twice the size of a bumble bee, but brown in colour, with a large dash of orange on its back. Wings which beat at a thousand times a minute, so fast you couldn't really see them, so it could hover. The unusual part, to me, was a long 'pipette' - at least an inch long - which it used to probe into its chosen flower, which it could do without the need, like a bee, of actually going inside the flower head. I even had time to get my camera and take several pics. So, duly printed, a visit to our local library might tell me what I had seen.

On a gentle bike ride this week, down towards Habton, I stopped on Ryton Lane to look at butterflies. More varieties, and of many colours, mostly seen before, but some pretty grey ones caught my eye which I haven't yet identified from the many illustrations in my reference book. A delicate grey, on both sides of the wings, and at the top, an orange flash. Within the flash, a round black dot. Not that I need to know the Latin name, but I'd just like to 'identify' it. Just a bit of curiosity you know.

Black beetles, on suicide missions, scurried across the path of my front wheel. Forever in a rush, they've always been a fascination. They miss my wheel, usually by about two inches, and don't know how lucky they are, although any nearer and I'd try and dodge them anyway. I counted 12 in all in eight miles, each and every one anxious to be to the opposite side of the road. Four were going left, eight were going right. Wonder if they know anything?

Lonely farm dogs, locked in empty buildings, have been a cause for concern all my cycling life. I ask lots of questions of myself. Why do the owners have dogs which they lock up all day? Do they ever let them out? Or are they only allowed out when there's work to be done? Do they get fed with regularity? Do they ever get a friendly stroke or a few kind words? One fine sheepdog lived on the end of a chain for years. He barked when I rode by, and ran to the end of his chain. He had a wooden shed, and lived there winter and summer. He must have had a frustrating life, and as I never saw him, other than on his chain, I wondered, again, is he ever allowed off it? I think he must have died. Did he get extra bedding during winter, and was it the cold which killed him? He was quickly replaced with a German shepherd. I haven't seen him of late, but then I don't get out as often as I used to.

Nevertheless, the countryside is a wonderful place. You just have to go slow enough to take it all in. Tractor drivers usually give a wave, even if in the fields. Yesterday, the bus driver didn't even give a nod. Reckon he must be a city chap and doesn't know the ways of the countryside. Even some of the young females, flashing by, always in a mad rush, foot hard down, and hoping they aren't going to meet someone likewise round the next bend, find time to lift a hand in greeting.

Saturday morning saw a treat of a different nature. Radio York said the Red Arrows were coming to Brompton, as well as a Boeing 747. Where could we quickly go to see them, there wasn't much time. Try Malton bypass, we thought, and we stopped near the bridge over the Derwent where there is a wide-open view. However, the Arrows beat us to it, and I gather made a very quick pass-over. But there was an hour before the 747 came, reputedly at low altitude, so to Sherburn and along the Brompton Road by Sherburn Carr to Brompton Ings, where a suitable stopping place was found, as others had done. Then, from the east this beautiful aircraft, like a huge sailing ship almost, came silently towards us. Manifestly flying between the trees, and going so slowly it seemed it must surely fall out of the sky. Not for this jumbo the mad flight of the Tornado or F15, this was sheer majesty. Its passengers must have had the ride of their lives, for it made several circuits, at no more than 500ft over our heads as we waved our greeting, and just wondered at this huge beauty, of over 300 tons, banking and turning with such ease and grace and near silence, until the final run, when with a demure waggle of the wings to mark its departure, throttles pushed open, and yoke pulled back, it said its goodbye to the home of flying, and disappeared through the cloud base into that other element. Thank you, Sir George, for making all this possible. Thank you, Sir Richard, for allowing this wonderful re-enactment, and for what must have been a most unique aviation celebration. If only Sir George could have been there. Perhaps he was!

Just a thought: "To me, old age is always 15 years older than I am". Bernard Baruch (1870-1965), US financier.

Updated: 11:30 Wednesday, July 23, 2003