It’s a Monday morning, a time when friends coming into your company for work or whatever ask … “did you have a good weekend..” Of course you did, and especially when you’ve met and chatted with new friends. Seen new faces and the places too that have smiled back. They are memories for ever, from mere moments.

This May a day was incredibly light toned, a green palette varied and changing, telling where sun had laid more often on some branches and lane-sides than others. White atop wild garlic matching the hawthorn twigs’ cloaks which tell you still: pass not a clout. And as a flock farmer told me, tugging his coat to show layers of wool, “it was cold enough for hoar frost yesterday, only now is it warming a little. This was at 3pm.

Those tall pointy poplars that caught my eye: a stand of almost gold sheened spears pointing to a pocked with white, sky. No, not shell bursts, that brought though to mind reason for this Sunday visit, more about shortly. It was startingly pronounced, that, those trees spearing upwards against the darker wold escarpment of this well watered valley. Abandoned, battered abbeys show well here how monks once threaded lives and worship on a fertile wash filtering through from higher places.

What starkly reminds is seeing the work of what the earlier Cromwell did for his king. Then a later one would do similar in national a war making pose. No, not so much reference to Marie Lloyd’s wittiness in that song number connecting to what Thomas and Oliver did for their party performances; yet abbeys do stand out for their being ruined! All quite knocked about a bit.

There is everything to like in this part of Yorkshire where roads and paths wriggle, fan out coast-wards in direction from the cobble streets of Thirsk, where Ryedale beckons to give you quietness: where you may hear that steam train whistle.  I came to here, heard a choir, saw a flag flutter, the voices of people paying tribute, I’d meet friends a first time, know the way not just of the language but the ride and those destinations. No reasons, just understanding that sometimes a spoke will ping, a link part: punctures are easier and for the good, seeing how some roads lie. Not at all paved well, just whole, lumps, bumps to a rim. Intentionally I didn’t write hole.

Earlier, I’d been prompted to say hello to Ann, in Coxworth Village Hall where was talk and the sharing of a Centenary, in years, about Service and about Community. Of cycling probably centuries too with a CTC that was, now differs some ways yet still very much companionship with wheels attached.

Ann’s party of ladys did our tea and cakes, that special home-made brand of their own kitchens. I’d guess the chutney with the cheese, the bread bun too, was the real home-made food by one from the team.

This was in parts a serious yet joyous day, in box pews under that flat ceiling of St Michael’s Church. It’s an all cycling happening of ages, people bicycling garbed, suited too, the choir, prayer, song and them listening with happiness and heart to the Archbishop of York. It’s the very special ocassion.

This hundredth annual Coxworth Cyclists’ Memorial Service has wheel form, no pun intended, a time fof wreath laying as with the floral tribute to Canon Gibson Black, who established this celebratory gathering in 1927. The Archbishop then unveiled the new plaque which commemorates the open road, all cyclists, particularly those who served in conflicts. This stone, the Winged Wheel and words by North Yorkshire and Teesside Cyclists’ Touring Club, is placed at the lych gate.

What stirs this Monday of May is a mind turning to other times in these parts. I’ll find time to be at Driffield come June, at another cycling celebration that’s lasted generations, it was first staged on the York Racecourse. We’ll rally new again, have same friendships, meet new friends, do cycling as it’s intended. Miles of smiles.

Photo: Centenary Tribute at Coxwold, and what a smile!