Up betimes, in order to be at Harrogate Hospital by 7.30 a.m. Yesterday was a day of white-coat-syndrome-induced high blood pressure, insensibility whilst under the knife, and not a little discomfort for Malcolm. He’s been waiting for months for some minor surgery, and now he’s had it, his life should get a lot more comfortable.
I, meanwhile, had to spend the day in Harrogate waiting for the call to go and collect him. I had quite a few errands to run in any case, and after that it wouldn’t have been worth traipsing back and forth from North Stainley.
So I did my jobs, and then had plenty of chance to loaf about. I’m not the world’s keenest shopper, but I do have a favourite charity shop in Cold Bath Road. Our friend Jonet volunteers there, sifting through and sorting donated books. I love the serendipity of looking along the shelves crowded with fiction old, new, English and foreign, next to an eclectic collection of non-fiction. As usual I left the shop with a satisfyingly large pile of reading, and this time, a new-to-me summer dress.
Then I headed for green space. What makes Harrogate a special town is its area of open parkland in the centre of the town – the Stray. It was created from common pastureland in 1778 to link most of Harrogate’s springs (it’s a spa town after all) and an Act of Parliament preserved its size at 200 acres. Even now, if part of its area is lost due to, for example, road widening, it must be replaced elsewhere. It’s pretty unique to be able to step directly from busy shopping streets straight onto a vast green area unbounded by railings or fences. Paths and roads will lead you through this green space to other parts of town. Like me, you could walk across the Stray to get to the hospital, or to reach the community round Cold Bath Road with its neighbourhood shops and Victorian housing. And yesterday, you could enjoy, as I did, the crocuses which have burst forth in their hundreds and thousands in glorious lakes of colour – purple, mauve, sunshine yellow and white. They’ll be followed in a week or so by an equal multitude of daffodils, and then avenues of cherries will blossom in all their pink finery. Here’s a few shots of Harrogate Stray on the warmest day of the year so far.
Walking on the Stray
Easter eggs on display at Betty’s, Harrogate’s Top Caff.
View from the Stray to Harrogate.
I know grey squirrels are no better than rats with tails, but they still cheer me up as they scurry up and down trees.
A sunny morning on the River Ure, just before we reached the Canal.
We went for a walk along the Ripon Canal the other day, starting from the point where it meets the River Ure. Back in its heyday during the Industrial Revolution, busy as it was then, the rural towpath we walked along might not have looked so very different. Back in its heyday, keels would have hauled coal northwards from the Yorkshire coalfields, and lead and agricultural products southwards. The canals were the freight-haulage routes of their age, and even though they were busy thoroughfares, the whole business of passing vessels through the three locks in one direction at a time limited the flow traffic to levels well below what those of us who’ve ever been stuck in a bad-tempered rush hour traffic jam on the M1 have experienced.
Ripon Canal is not one of the country’s great canals. There are water super-highways such as the Grand Union Canal linking London with Birmingham. That’s 137 miles long. There’s the Leeds-Liverpool Canal. That’s 127 miles long. The Ripon Canal runs for just two miles, from Ripon to Oxclose Lock, where it links with the River Ure. Like many of the country’s canals, it was built in the latter part of the 18th century, between 1767 and 1783, opening up water traffic between Ripon and York, and it eventually put the products of the Durham coalfields within Ripon’s reach.
The railways proved to be the death of canals all over England. Ripon’s withstood the opening of the Darlington to York railway in 1841, but the Leeds and Thirsk Railway finished it off. The railway company actually bought the waterway, to ensure local support , but they then neglected it, failing to dredge it, so that it became less and less useable. The canal was abandoned as a waterway in 1906.
But its fortunes have changed again. No longer a tool of the industrial revolution, the canal has become a playground for people who like ‘messing about in boats‘*. The Ripon Canal Trust spearheaded its restoration from the 1960s, and now the whole thing is managed by the Canal and River Trust. So whether you like boats, barges, or a stroll along a quiet backwater near town, Ripon Canal’s worth a visit.
Walking the towpath
One of the canal bridges.
Barges on the canal.
The towpath again.
*That’s what Ratty used to like to do in Kenneth Grahame’s ‘The Wind in the Willows’
There’s a rainbow on the walk to the gravel ponds – before the lurgie set in.
We’d been looking forward to this Christmas, our first in England, and in our own home here, for some years. Son and daughter-in-law planned to come from London, and Emily was arriving from Barcelona, bringing her boyfriend so he could enjoy his first English Christmas. The Bolton Posse were also booked in for parts of the time. We’d spent time making things ready for a real family Christmas …. and then the day before Christmas Eve, I got a cold.
Only it wasn’t a cold. I kept on giving myself severe talkings to, and pointing out to myself that a hacking cough and a swimmy head could all be kept firmly under control. Then, at a neighbour’s Christmas Eve party, I passed out. And had to be helped home and put to bed by the family.
The next day, I wasn’t up to anything. Everyone had to turn to and cook and prepare – which actually they didn’t mind at all. I somehow got up for Christmas dinner, which I couldn’t bring myself to eat. I was going to bow out before I put too much of a damper on things when Malcolm too succumbed and retired to bed …. where he has remained, and has refused food for several days.
It’s been such a disappointment. I don’t think we were guilty of setting the bar too high, of wanting an unattainable Christmas ideal. We just wanted time together, having fun in a low-key kind of way. In fact, the rest of the family has. And I too have been able to join them for some of the time. So long as I don’t move around too much, I can join in the games we’re all so fond of. ‘Bananagram’ has been the all-out winner: at most times of the day, you could find at least a couple of people hunched over alphabet tiles, competing to construct their grid of connected words. But we’re keen on ‘Scattergories’ too, and ‘Balderdash‘, which involves writing definitions for words nobody’s heard of, alternative plots for long-forgotten films, and unlikely explanations for various acronyms.
Bananagram game in full swing.
None of this would do while Catalan Miquel was still here of course, so there were plenty of card games, and, for those with steady hands, the chance to construct increasingly wobbly wooden towers in games of ‘Jenga’. But I don’t know what the poor bloke made of our Christmas -in-the-sanitorium.
The family pronounced themselves satisfied with this low-key celebration. But for both Malcolm and me, still nowhere near to feeling healthy again, it’s been a bit of a let down. And it’s not just because of Christmas. Today, we should have been setting off to drive to Laroque, to spend New Year with our friends there. We’re simply too ill to consider driving the 1000 mile journey at the moment. Let’s hope we can delay our journey by only a few days.
I’ve never been one for an evening down at the pub. When I was younger, I hated going out to meet friends there, for all it was a rite of passage and part of growing up. The smell of cigarette smoke, mixed with that of alcohol and under-ventilated space was the first downer, and then there was the problem that I didn’t – and still don’t – like beer. If weaker, to me it tastes of soap, and if stronger, of iron filings. What, really, was the point?
Over the last few years, pubs have had to re-invent themselves. Now that beer is cheap(ish) and cheerful at the supermarket, and now that people can relax at home in front of ever larger TV screens, fewer and fewer people want to dig themselves out of their cosy homes simply to go to their ‘local’ and have a drink with friends. So some offer Quiz Nights, or the chance to watch the Big Match on the Big Screen. Many many more have given up the unequal struggle and simply closed for ever.
Some though are doing well because they’ve chosen to offer good food, and those are the ones we like these days. The area we’ve chosen to live has more great pubs than seems entirely necessary. There are at least four within very easy reach. Get talking about matters of food when you’re out with your friends, and everyone will have yet another favourite haunt which they’ll insist you should try. What all these pubs have in common is cosiness. They’re warm and welcoming: muted colours and old oak furnishings, and often a slightly idiosyncratic lay-out which guarantees you a degree of privacy whilst also enabling you to people-watch . At this time of year, there’s sure to be a log fire flickering in the corner. Cheerful young staff will whisk you to a table as you arrive and summarise the ‘daily specials’. These pubs tend to have a limited range of dishes on offer, but that’s because the menu is designed round what’s available on the day, for that day.
There’s beer to drink – of course there is, it’s a pub after all – but these days there’s a decent wine list too, although the mark-up’s way beyond what we got used to in France.
So we’ve traded treating ourselves to a ‘formule’ at some local French restaurant, sitting outside and relaxing under the welcome shade of a large umbrella in favour of a cosy hour or two over a meal in front of the fire in an English pub. And do you know – they both have their special charms.
Here we are today at the Freemasons Arms in Nosterfield. Not a bad way to spend a Sunday.
A quiet drink, watching others having …. a quiet drink
We’ve been back in the UK from France six months now, so this seems a good moment to take stock.
Did we do the right thing in coming back to England to live? Absolutely no question: we’re so happy to be here, and nearer to most of the family. There are things we miss about our lives in France though: of course there are. It was tough to leave friends behind, and we continue to miss them. Still, three have visited already, and there are more scheduled to come and see us here. And it’s sad no longer having the Pyrenees as the backdrop to our lives. Though North Yorkshire’s scenery brings its own pleasures.
Still, it’s wonderful not to have to tussle with language on a day-to-day basis. Our French was pretty good, but it was generally a bit of a challenge to talk in any kind of nuanced way about the more serious things in life. Now I feel I’ve freed up enough head-space to revise my very rusty Italian, and to learn enough Spanish to get by when we visit Emily in Spain.
Many of our regrets or rediscovered delights centre on food. This summer, we’ve gorged ourselves on the soft fruits that the British Isles grow so well: particularly raspberries, gooseberries and blackberries. Oh, they exist in southern France, but they’re wretched, puny little things, with no lively acidic tang like those of their British cousins. In a straight choice between raspberries and peaches, raspberries win every time (though of course, it’s even better not to have to choose).
Blackberrying near Harewood.
I miss, though, the choice we used to have in France of four or five different kinds of fresh, dewy whole lettuce available on market stalls every single week of the year. It’s flat, cos or little gem here, or those depressing bags of washed mixed leaves, and I find myself longing for the choices I used to have of crunchy, curly, bitter, blanched or soft leaves in various shades of green or even red. On the other hand, we do have tangy watercress here. And crisp crunchy apples, and Bramley cooking apples…..
And whereas in France there were always French cheeses on offer, and jolly good too, that was all there was, apart from the odd bit of shrink-wrapped Cheddar or waxy Edam. Here we can have English AND French (and Dutch and so on): decent French cheese too, unpasteurised, from small suppliers.
And what about eating out? Surely that’s better in France? Those copious home-cooked midday ‘formules’ – often a starter, main course, pudding AND wine, preferably eaten in the open air shaded by some nearby plane trees bring back such happy memories. But, but…. the menus were entirely predictable, and were dishes that had stood the test of time over the decades. After a few years, we wouldn’t have objected to a few surprises. Whereas back in Britain, most places seem to have upped their game considerably over the last few years. Local restaurants, pubs and cafés offer interesting menus, often based on what’s available that day, at fair prices. We’ve had some great meals since our return, and we’ve hardly started to get to know the area’s food map yet. And for Malcolm, there’s the constant possibility of slipping into a tea room to assess the quality of their coffee and walnut cake. This may be the main reason why he’s come back.
All the same, we can’t eat outside quite so often, particularly in the evening. And our fellow walkers have yet to be convinced of the pleasures of the shared picnic with home-made cakes and a bottle of wine: we’re working on them. Nor have we yet had a community meal, with long tables set out in the square as old friends and new share fun together over a leisurely meal.
Like most people who return from France, we find the crowded motorways unpleasant. But it is nice not to be followed at a distance of only a few inches by the cars behind us.
We’re struggling to shake off French bureaucracy too. Tax offices and banks over there continue to ignore our letters pointing out we no longer live there, continue to demand paperwork they’ve already seen, continue to ignore requests. And as we can no longer pop into the local office to sort things out, the problems just go on and on.
Something we’re enjoying here too is the possibility of being involved in volunteering. It’s something that exists in France of course: Secours Populaire and similar organisations couldn’t function without local help. But the French in general believe the state should provide, and the enriching possibilities for everyone concerned that volunteering in England can offer simply don’t exist. We already help at a community bakery, but I’m currently mulling over whether I should find out more about the local sheltered gardening scheme for people with learning disabilities, or about working with groups of children at Ripon Museums, or simply go into the local Council for Voluntary Service and find out what other opportunities exist.
Six months in, we’ve spent more time with our families, re-established old friendships, begun to make new ones. We’re happy in our new village home, and the slightly different centre-of-gravity we now have. Poor Malcolm’s waiting longer than he would have had to in France for a minor but necessary operation, but despite that, life’s good. We’re back in England to stay.
On Saturday we called in, far too briefly, at the annual Masham Sheep Fair. This is the place to go if you believe a sheep looks just like this.
Saturday was the day a whole lot of sheep judging was going on in the market square. Here are a few of the not-at-all identical candidates. And yet they are only a few of the many breeds in England, and in the world. There are 32 distinct breeds commonly seen in different parts of the UK, and many more half-breeds. I was going to identify the ones I’m showing you, but have decided that with one or two exceptions (I know a Swaledale, a Blue-faced Leicester or a Jacobs when I see one), I’d get them wrong. So this is simply a Beauty Pageant for Masham and District sheep.
And if you thought wool was just wool, these pictures may be even more surprising. Who knew that sheep are not simply…. just sheep?
It was all a bit competitive being a landowner in 18th and 19th century North Yorkshire. You wanted the fine house. You wanted the spacious and gracious gardens, landscaped to be ‘picturesque’: nature celebrated but tamed, rather than strictly-organised and geometric, as in much of the rest of Europe. And you wanted the Folly. You were looking for an extravagant yet decorative building, that displayed to the world your appreciation of classical, Egyptian or Gothic architecture. It was without purpose, it was eccentric, and it was a fake.
But that was entirely the point. A folly was for fun. It might complement the view. It might make a destination for a stroll for your family and guests. It might even be a picnic spot for a wider public looking then, as now, for something nice to do on a sunny Sunday afternoon.
Today, the ‘wider public’ was the Ripon U3A (University of the Third Age) walking group. It was not however, a sunny Sunday, but a dank and drizzly Friday. Our path took us through Colsterdale up the now dismantled track of the narrow-gauge railway built in 1902 to transport materials used in the construction of nearby Leighton reservoir. During WW1, the railway’s destination, Breary Banks, became a training ground for the volunteer soldiers of Leeds Pals. We tramped up the hill as those soldiers-in-training must have done: more suitably clad, certainly, and just as capable of sending the sheep running for cover in the bracken.
Sheep inspecting the troops.
Then we were into woods, and along another path, and found ourselves…… in a clearing, with an oval of standing stones, some of them fashioned into doorways or caves, but all of them contributing to a sort of over-furnished Stonehenge. It’s not North Yorkshire’s answer to Stonehenge however, but William Danby’s folly. William Danby was the owner of the Swinton Estate, on whose lands we were standing. That is, both William Senior, who lived in the latter half of the 18th century, and William Junior, his son. Which of them built the folly is a bit of a mystery. Both of them were probably intrigued by the Druids. Poets and antiquarians at the time saw them as England’s earliest men of learning, the guardians of early belief-systems, and the first English patriots. Some say too that this ‘ancient temple’ was devised as a means of providing employment for men returning from soldiering in the Napoleonic Wars. There’s a story that there was a seven-year job on offer to anyone who would live as a hermit on the site. It’s thought that nobody stayed the course.
Druids Temple
We explored the stones and caves, standing atmospherically on this slightly misty day at the edge of a suitably gloomy forest.
Another view from the temple.
And then we went for coffee and cake at the Bivouac, a marvellously isolated and quirky cafe on a site -with-yurts for serious glampers. Definitely worth a detour. Suitably fortified, we finished our circular walk, and were back at home in time for a late lunch. A healthy walk, a couple of history lessons, a great coffee-stop. What better way to start the weekend?
Here be druids.
I should mention that these photos give quite the wrong impression of our not-at-all miserable day. They were actually taken earlier this week, when the weather was really gloomy, and our French friends were still here.
We’ve just had good friends from Laroque staying for the week. We’ve been obliged to polish up our French, which turned out not to be as hard as we’d feared. And we’ve been doing our best to show-case Yorkshire. We didn’t expect that to be hard, and it wasn’t. But we had fun exploring links between our two home areas, something I’ve talked about before here. Easy enough when you’re walking in the hilly limestone scenery of the Dales, or discussing breeds of sheep, or our former textile and mining industries, or bumbling along single-track roads in the country, with no villages in sight.
But it would be stretching a point to find a meeting point between the land-locked Ariège, and the East Yorkshire coast, surely? Well, as it happens, no. We had a day exploring the coast near Whitby: and I remembered that during the 1800s, Whitby and parts of the Ariège, Laroque d’Olmes included, had a thriving industry in common. Jet.
19th century mourning jewellery. Wikimedia Commons.
Back in the mid 19th century, the fashionable French and English alike couldn’t get enough of the gleaming, richly black fossilised wood that came out of local cliffs (Whitby) and river beds (Ariège) to be transformed by local workers into brooches, earrings and lockets. In its hey-day, the industry employed thousands of people engaged in finding and extracting the mineral, carving and polishing it. Queen Victoria ensured its continued popularity in England by wearing jet as mourning jewellery when her beloved Prince Albert died.
We found no jet. So Wikimedia Commons had to help me out.
Its decline as a fashion item matched the decline of readily available sources of the material. Somehow, by 1900, jet had lost its allure, and both areas lost an important source of employment. Jet in the Ariège is consigned to history books and museums. In Whitby, however, there’s something of a revival, and there are once more a few shops selling costume jewellery and other items made of jet.
We never found a single piece, but not for want of trying. Instead, we had a more traditional day at the sea. We ate large plates of fish and chips. We seagull-watched. We paddled on the beach and investigated rock pools. And we ended the day at the higgledy-piggledy and charming settlement of Runswick Bay, clambering up and down the cobbled streets and admiring the quaint cottages with their views across the bay.
Whitby Old Town seen from a ginnel.
The harbour at Whitby.
Fish and chips at the Quayside Fish and Chip Restaurant.
Dog at play on the beach at Whitby.
A young herring gull.
Beach huts at Whitby.
Cottages at Runswick Bay. It’s not raining. The flowers have just been watered.
Here’s the Old Grange, as it was in May, with the wisteria out.
As we’ve been four months back in England, it’s perhaps time to introduce our home, which answers to the name of ‘The Old Grange’. I’ve already mentioned that it’s in part of an older building which forms part of a large, mainly Georgian house. To understand how it came to be built, we’ll have to pay a quick visit to UNESCO World Heritage site, Fountains Abbey and Studley Royal, some 5 miles from us as the crow flies.
The nave of the now ruined Fountains Abbey
Back in 1132, there was no Abbey. But there were 13 monks anxious to build one. These particular men had joined holy orders in order to live a simple, strict and holy life, and were dismayed by the lax conditions they found in the Benedictine order they had joined. The Archbishop of York offered them his protection, and the gift of some land near Ripon on the banks of the River Skell. This area now is a fertile place, with pastureland, woods, stone for quarrying, and the waters of the Skell. Back then, it was a hostile, overgrown and thoroughly unpromising environment. The monks joined the Cistercian order which they felt offered the structure and discipline they sought, and strove to emulate the lifestyle promoted by its founder Bernard of Clairvaux. A tough life of manual labour, self-sufficiency, and prayerful spirituality was the order of the day.
A view of Fountains Abbey: Wikimedia Commons
To cut a very long story short – one which I will tell in a future post, because it’s a fascinating one – the Abbey the monks built prospered, to the extent that it became one of the largest, most successful and wealthy monasteries in the whole of Europe. When Henry VIII dissolved the monasteries in the 1530s, the buildings and lands belonging to Fountains Abbey sold for over £1,000,000 – unimaginable wealth at the time: the monastery had acquired land over much of Yorkshire and Lancashire. The simple life of those early monks had changed over the years. The monks themselves devoted more of their time to their spiritual life, with prayerful ritual being an important part of their routine. The day-to-day work, mainly with sheep and cattle and all the other work associated with farming, both at Fountains itself and at all the other sites, was done by the so-called ‘lay brothers’. Less educated, they had far fewer spiritual obligations. And they lived communally in ‘granges’.
All those older buildings you’ll see as you travel around this part of the world, which include ‘grange’ as part of their name owe their existence to the fact that once they housed those lay brothers, mainly from Fountains Abbey. The room where we sleep once formed part of the dormitory where the men working at our ‘old grange’ once slept.
In truth, it’s hard to believe. We live in a stone building of traditional design, but with all mod cons. One of the few signs of the building’s age is the huge fireplace on the ground floor which is now simply an alcove, though we gather it wouldn’t take much to reveal the old spit mechanism. We have only one room downstairs. The other spaces, which we have no access to, are now, as then, workspaces and storage areas.
Upstairs, where the bulk of our living space is, was once a single room, as long as the building itself. In Victorian times, the owners of the larger property which had been built onto the original Old Grange in Georgian times, decided to break up the space into a number of rooms, to make it convenient to use as servants’ quarters. And this is where we now live.
We find all this thoroughly exciting. We enjoy noticing other granges as we explore Yorkshire, and we appreciate the connection that we now know we have with Fountains Abbey, a wonderfully beautiful site, whose history has touched the area for so many many miles around.
The Old Grange – the top floor dormitory – seen from the walled garden which most certainly was unknown to those lay brothers.
Even isolated houses in the country get in on the act.
Cheerful bunting in Addingham
Little knitted jersey bunting in Ripley
Red white and blue bunting; yellow, green, white and spotted bunting; multi-coloured bunting: that’s what you’ll see as you pass through the Tour de France communities of West Yorkshire, and Craven and Richmondshire in North Yorkshire. Here in Harrogate District, and in Hambleton too, it’s those jolly little knitted jumpers in all the Tour-jersey colours that are festooned round town.
Follow the signs to follow the route.
We know, because yesterday we got up betimes, had a healthy breakfast, packed maps and drinking water and set forth to Ride the Route for Day One of the Tour de France. On our bikes? Not likely, though many people are doing exactly that. We took the car, because the whole circuit is 195 km. long. The Tour riders will get that done in not much more than 5 hours. We were out of the house for 9 hours.
Leeds celebrates the Tour de France with a series of cheerful banners.
We didn’t quite do the lot. From Leeds, the riders will take it steadily till they get to Harewood House, between Leeds and Harrogate, and that’s where the race will begin in earnest. So that’s where we began too, though unlike the competitors, we couldn’t ride through Harewood’s grounds. So join us as we begin our own Tour, not far from Pool-in-Wharfedale.
A cheerful bike at Pool-in-Wharfedale
A butcher’s window in Otley.
On the route in Wharfedale.
Skipton Castle sports a yellow jersey.
The route near Skipton, warning the road will be closed on the day.
The road near Rylstone.
An easy stretch of the route.
Climbing towards Kettlewell ….
….. and descending again.
The scenery here is the gently rolling countryside of lush fields and woodlands that characterise Lower Wharfedale: it’ll break the riders in gently. Through Otley and Ilkley, our winding road took us through quiet pretty villages on into Skipton. Now we approach the Yorkshire of soaring fells and dramatic limestone scenery whose fields are bounded by dry stone walls. The area round Kettlewell used to be important for lead mining. These days sheep and tourists – walkers and cyclists – provide the village’s income. Unlike the cyclists, we paused for a leisurely lunch at the King’s Head. Fabulous food, with friendly service. Very highly recommended, but perhaps not if you have to ride ever upwards over the fells after you’ve eaten.
Kettlewell. Look for that Tour jersey up there on the hillside.
As you travel northwards, then westwards from Kettlewell to Hawes, via Buckden, Thoralby, Aysgarth and Bainbridge, you’ll be climbing through increasingly dour and empty hillsides. I love their severe beauty, and relish too the occasional descent into the valleys where once again the road passes through glades of trees leading to picture-postcard villages.
The road near Buckden.
Only sheep for several miles.
The climb continues.
A novel way of advertising cheese: on the side of a hay bale.
Bainbridge welcomes the Tour.
A house outside Bainbridge welcomes the Tour.
Then Hawes. Hawes has taken its duties as Gatekeeper to Buttertubs pass, where the King of the Mountains will gain his crown, very seriously. The King of the Mountains gains a red-spotted jersey for his efforts, and Hawes has become a red-spotted town for the duration. Bunting, shop fronts and decorations, even whole houses have been painted white with large red spots. The effect is very jolly and festive, and Hawes, it’s clear, plans to have a great Tour.
A friendly French welcome at Hawes.
The Mulberry Bush welcomes the Tour….
… selling a right Yorkshire T shirt….
… and King of the Mountain mugs.
A house in Hawes.
Bunting in Hawes market.
But then it’s Buttertubs. There are few more dramatic roads in England. It climbs sharply, but there are sudden descents, unlooked-for tight corners and mile after mile of uninterrupted moorland view. If I were a Tour Groupie, this is where I’d want to be to watch on 5th July. At its highest point, the road can be seen as it swings right, left, up and down for many a mile. This is where those riders will be put to the test. But it’s not over at the bottom. Because here, the road chases round unexpected corners, bounces over small ancient bridges, darts in and out of woodland, narrows rapidly as it skirts past hamlets…. they won’t be able to relax for a second.
The road towards Buttertubs.
Welcome to the King of the Mountains!
Another fine welcome on the road from Hawes to Buttertubs.
Buttertubs.
The road at the top.
A cyclist rides the route.
By the time the riders reach Reeth, they’d feel entitled to a bit of down-time. But no. There’s another long moorland slog before, at Leyburn, civilisation kicks in once more. The villages become more frequent, the countryside softer and sweeter. We trundled in our car back home to North Stainley, having done the home-to-Harrogate stretch first thing in the morning on the way to Harewood.
A challenging descent in the village of Reeth …..
…. not over yet. Another moorland climb before Leyburn.
And at Leyburn, even the Parish Church joins in the fun.
We were left with an impression of how the Tour has fired the imagination of many communities through which it will pass. Not all of course, but many have seized the opportunity to build on the opportunity the Tour provides. They’ve involved everyone from the youngest to the oldest in generating understanding of aspects of French life, or of sport and cycling, of promoting the Arts in the widest sense, and in bringing the whole community together quite simply to have fun together, both in the period leading up to the Tour and on the day itself. Our own village is a case in point: more of that later. The once-in-a-lifetime opportunity the Tour presents means that it’s more eagerly anticipated here even than in France, where for years it’s been an important part of the summer calendar. Those people who’ve shuddered with dislike and arranged to go away for the duration may come to think they’ve missed out on something quite special, and uniquely enjoyable.
A cheerful corner in the next village along, West Tanfield.
From Pyrenees to Pennines 
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