A Very British Summer: Bikepacking the Peak District

Paint me a picture of summer days. Rose-tinted Oakleys. Heat haze. Sun-bleached, thigh-high grass. Bracken jungles. The first ripe blackberries. Cracked peat and cast tyre tracks. Sun-burnt knees. Pub beer gardens. Lazy afternoons and long evenings.

Paint me a picture of summer days. Thunderstorms. Bramble kisses tearing at forearms. Nettle stings. Every season in one day. Tugging on layers before removing them a few minutes later. “I think it’s brightening up.” 

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I got my first mountain bike when I was thirteen. Christmas Day 1993. My first rides that winter are ingrained in my memory: black ice on cobblestones and frozen water bottles. Most of my riding memories of those mid-teen years are of the summer months, though. And in particular, my first solo forays further and further from home, exploring the Pennine moors above my home. Sandwiches stashed in either a bumbag or one of those triangular frame bags that were popular then. It’s funny how some things go full circle, isn’t it? Summer meant riding with friends. Summer meant endless potential. Summer meant all the time in the world. 

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Thirty years later, time feels a little more hurried. Rides are squeezed in when life allows. They have more purpose. That’s fine, but sometimes I have a yearning to go somewhere, not very fast, not very far, and to embrace the optimism that those first rides brought. Riding has always represented a discovery of self and the discovery of a world that has brought me so much joy in the intervening decades. 

We load up at my buddy Stef’s Peak Bunkhouse, just outside of Castleton, tucked into one of the tighter folds of land that make up the central Peak District. It’s a short journey south to reach here for Alex and me and a long journey north for Claire, Jo, and Seun. But the promise of some proper hills and a weekend of casual riding is enough to tempt them north of the M25. 

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I’ve proposed a gravel loop of sorts. The exact sort is one that is probably better described as a mountain bike route, and if I were to flick through the pages of my ’90s guidebooks, each section of it would be covered by one of the classic off-road rides. But bikes have evolved a long way since then. It all goes on drop bars, depending on your appetite for sketch. Anyway, we aren’t in a hurry. There are no booby prizes for walking, and as time goes on, this lazy, hazy summer ride becomes as much about the moments off the bike as it is about the ones on it. 

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In fact this became a ride that represented a reconnection to what riding means to me. After a summer of personal upheaval, bikes have not been high on the agenda when they would normally be marked high-priority, urgent and take up the first few slots of my schedule. Worryingly, I wasn’t even missing riding bikes. I was missing everything that went alongside that, though. Missing laughing with friends. Missing the sky. Missing the earth. Missing the space between the two; the line where we interact with our world. Missing feeling like myself. 

It was Seun who suggested we take the two-minute detour to buy an ice cream. Never mind that we’d had a second breakfast an hour ago or were planning on making a brew once the climb was out of the way. Never mind that it wasn’t exactly ice cream weather. Never mind that the planned pub stop was two downhill kilometres from our windblown coffee location. One tub of mint chocolate chip later (who knew ice cream tastes better when eaten with a purple titanium spork?), we were back on our way, weaving between weekend hikers. There was no rhythm to our riding. Hold open a gate. Stop for a photo. Chat to the dog walker. Scan the horizon until new patterns start emerging. 

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Several ups and downs and one final up later, we close in on our camp spot. The changeable weather of the day has blown through, leaving an evening of gold and bronze, flecked with silver grass. There’s time to take off shoes, wriggle toes, and crack open a beer. Time to tell stories. Time to unhurriedly pitch camp as the sun gradually begins to tickle the horizon. Time to boil water for packet couscous (me) or crack into a gourmet Coop discount-sticker feast hauled up the hill in a musette (Jo). Time to sip from a hip flask. Time to breathe. Time to climb into my hammock and drift off to lazy chatter and the unzipping of tents and sleeping bags. Time to rest my eyes as I sway in the softest breeze. 

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Sunlight creeps up the fell. I use the last of my water to make a coffee. The temperature drops overnight. It doesn’t take long for the heat of the day to build, though. I unzip my insulated jacket and swat at the few midges that have been woken by the warming air.  

The promise of reservoir-side champagne gravel awaits. The only slight stumbling block is the definitely-not-champagne-anything The Beast. Joyously rocky, it’s the kind of mountain bike descent that you never seem to pick quite the same line on twice. What was once a technical challenge is now relatively straightforward on a modern bike, but it will still punish a moment of inattention. It’s a trials-y espresso-strength wake-up on the gravel bikes, and no easier for those who choose to walk, cleats clacking over loose rock. 

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Riding shoulder-to-shoulder, we spin along in the intensifying sun. There’s still time for one last stop before the ride is done. The shores of Ladybower are too enticing not to recline by in the sun for a little while. Two men fish from a small boat. Once again, time stands still. Slow conversation lingers in the air. The pendulum of momentum has swung towards rest. My bike lies on the grass beside me as I recline back. Maybe I have missed riding bikes. Maybe I need to do more of this after all.

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The Route

This route is best thought of as an old-school mountain biking route. If you were to dig out a mountain biking guide book from the 1990s, you’d find all the tracks in there. While you absolutely can ride it on a gravel bike, it is much more enjoyable on something with a little more tyre volume than a standard 40mm. The rest just depends on your appetite for rocks. We rode it as a purposefully slow adventure, with much more time off the bike than on it, but if you wanted to extend your time on the bike, there are myriad trails in pretty much every direction.

It’s actually probably harder to avoid refreshments than go hungry. Castleton, Hope, and Edale all have cafes and pubs. Hope is your best bet for stocking up on camp food. Particular highlights are Cafe Adventure (Hope) for the best breakfasts going, and 18Bikes (Hope) for any last-minute mechanical issues. We stayed at the Peak Bunkhouse the night before riding, and it’s the perfect option if the weather forecast isn’t looking healthy. We also wild camped, which isn’t strictly legal in the Peak District, but we waited until sunset to pitch tents, left early and I’m a believer in leaving a positive trace.

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