A walk with added history

This was a fine day for a walk, and a fine day to have a few history lessons thrown in

This is what we did.  Here’s our starting point at East Witton, about 15 miles from home. It’s a lovely small village of about 250 people, where most of the houses were built in the early 19th century round the extensive village green.

East Witton
East Witton

We passed through fields with views across the Dales.  We walked along a green lane, through woods, and eventually reached a wooded gorge through which the River Cover runs, and where we crossed over the charming stone bridge known as the Hullo Bridge.  It was quite a climb up the hill on the other side, and we were hoping for glimpses of Braithwaite Hall.  Too many trees in full leaf. We hardly glimpsed it.

It’s built on the site of a grange belonging to Jervaulx Abbey.  After the Dissolution of the Monasteries it continued as a sheep farm, as it had been under the monks.  This is an area where the monks of both Jervaulx and Fountains Abbey extended their influence widely: enormous numbers of sheepall over the region were managed from local granges where the lay brothers who cared for them lived.

The ruins of Middleham Castle.
The ruins of Middleham Castle.

We were nearly in Middleham now.  This is above all a horsey town.  The monks of Jervaulx bred horses, and brought them to the Moor to exercise them.  When the monks eventually went, the horses remained, as did the training tradition .  Middleham these days is home to around 15 racehorse trainers and 500 horses, yet it’s a small town of hardly more than 820 people.  It was too late for us to see the horses out on the Gallops this morning, so instead the first thing we saw was the castle, which dates back to 1190 and was the stronghold of the powerful Neville family from the 14th century.  Richard Plantagenet, later Richard III was sent here as a young man to be trained in arms by Richard Neville, Earl of Warwick, his cousin.

The earliest known portrait of Richard III (Wikimedia Commons)
The earliest known portrait of Richard III (Wikimedia Commons)

Warwick had the bad habit of changing sides throughout the Wars of the Roses (1455-1485) depending on whether the Yorkists or Lancastrians had the upper hand.  Eventually he came to a bad end when he was killed by the Yorkist King Edward IV and his younger brother Richard.  Edward gave Middleham Castle, and much else to Richard who lived there with his wife, virtually ruling the North of England, for 11 years.  When Edward died, Richard seized the throne and reigned for only 2 years before dying in August 1485 in the final battle of the Wars of the Roses, the Battle of Bosworth in Leicestershire.  And there his body remained for 517 years, before being exhumed from a car park in Leicester in 2012.

For us, Middleham was the site for a rather good picnic, followed by a visit to a teashop for an indifferent cup of tea, and even more indifferent cake.  But the calories were useful.  There were stiles to cross into fields deep in cut grass, waiting to dry off into hay:  a fine walled track Straight Lane – to walk along before reaching the River Cover, languidly passing over bleached white stones on its way to meet the River Ure.  We briefly touched the road once more as we passed Coverbridge Inn.  This dates from 1684, and was owned by the same family – the Towlers – till 1930.  Local legend has it that when the monks of Jervaulx were forced to disband in 1537 at the Dissolution of the Monasteries, they shared their secret recipe for Wensleydale cheese with the Towlers.  We shall never know.

A final walk along woodland paths, open farmland, fields enclosed by characterful drystone walling and we were back in East Witton.  A grand day.

The Greasy Spoon

As you travel Britain’s main roads, every few miles or so you’ll pass a convenient lay-by with a caravan, a shack, a portakabin – some less-than-permanent structure which has actually been there as long as anyone can remember.  Parked outside it are lorries, vans, cars – all empty, because their drivers are in the Greasy Spoon – that’s what these huts and caravans are affectionately called.

The unchanging menu at the greasy spoon.
The unchanging menu at the Greasy Spoon.

These truckers and travellers have gone in for an all-day breakfast.  The menu’s limited.  All that’s on offer are various combinations of bacon, sausage, eggs – with baked beans, grilled tomatoes, grilled mushrooms or bread on the side.  This is not Fine Dining.  The bread served here is not artisan-crafted from some small bakery using speciality organic stone-ground flour from the mill down the road.  It’s industrial strength pre-sliced pap.  I doubt if the pigs used for the sausages and bacon have truffled around in the woods looking for acorns, or been fed wholesome scraps from the farm. The baked beans come in catering-size cans.

One bacon sarnie.
One bacon sarnie.

But we’ve got into the habit, when the boys stay with us, of having lunch at a particular greasy spoon near Skipton.  What it lacks in finesse it makes up for by offering a really friendly welcome and rock-bottom prices.  We make our order, plonk ourselves down at one of the formica tables, and relish a rib-sticking calorie-fest which will keep our stomachs lined for an afternoon of fresh air and fun at nearby Brimham Rocks.  It comes under the heading of ‘Naughty but Nice.’*

Here we are.  Open dining at the Dalesway caff.  Only it was way too cold.  Everyone was inside that day in the fuggy warmth.
Here’s Alex showing off the open dining area at the Dalesway caff. Only it was way too cold. Everyone was inside that day in the fuggy warmth.

*Salman Rushdie coined this advertising slogan for Fresh Cream Cakes when he was working as a copywriter back in the 1970s.  Warning: Don’t Google this phrase unless you are on the look-out for sex toys or ‘adult-themed materials’.  You have been warned.

A stroll, a garden at Old Sleningford, a sunny day……

… at last.  I wrote about the Open Gardens day at Old Sleningford this time last year.  But if an open day’s worth visiting twice, it’s worth blogging about twice too.

Let’s just have a picture story this time.  It was an utterly gorgeous, sunny and hot day, and about time too.  I chose to walk there, Malcolm favoured his bike.  Here’s the walk, here’s the garden.  And as last year, I neglected to take pictures of the tea and cakes.  Next year?

The walk to Sleningford. Shadows on the road.
The walk to Old Sleningford. Shadows on the road.

 

Still on the road to Sleningford.
Still on the road to Old Sleningford.

 

Nearly there.
Nearly there….

And finally …. there.

This pig is called Dennis Healey. Hands up if you understand the allusion.
This pig is called Dennis Healey. Hands up if you understand the allusion.

And here, as last year, are a few shots of the edible forest garden.

 

And finally …. Old Sleningford Hall

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The 36 bus

The 36 bus leaving Leeds for Ripon (Wikimedia Commons)
The 36 bus leaving Leeds for Ripon (Wikimedia Commons)

Everyone loves the 36 bus.  It’s the one that takes us from out in the sticks of Ripon, via Harrogate to Leeds.  It’s the one with plush leather seats, 4G wi-fi, USB points at every seat.  It’s the one with a book-swap shelf where I always hope to find a new title to enjoy, while bringing in one of my own to swap.  And best of all, we old fogeys travel for free on the 66 mile round trip.

The book-swap shelf wasn't very exciting today. But I found a Fred Vargas to read.
The book-swap shelf wasn’t very exciting today. But I found a Fred Vargas to read.

Best get to the terminus early though.  Everyone’s jockeying for the best seats, the ones at the front of the top deck, where you can watch as the bus drives through the gentle countryside separating Ripon from Harrogate, via Ripley, a village which the 19th century Ingleby family remodelled in the style of an Alsatian village, complete with hôtel de ville.  After the elegance of Harrogate and its Stray, there’s Harewood House – shall we spot any deer today? Then shortly after, the suburbs of The Big City, which gradually give way to the mixture of Victorian and super-modern which characterises 21st century Leeds.

We had lots to do in Leeds today (more of that later, much later) and had a very good time being busy there.  But much of our fun for the day came from sitting high up in that 36 bus, watching the world go by.  For free.

The back end of a bus.
The back end of a bus.

Project Exhaust-a-twin at Easter

Easter holidays.  Time to have those ten-years-old grandsons over.  Time to keep them so busy they don’t have a chance to realise that ours is not a home stuffed with devices.  Not a smart phone in sight.

Let’s get them back to the past straight away, even before we get them back to our house.  Are they too old for an Easter Bunny hunt at Fountains Abbey?  Apparently not.  Not when there’s a chocolate bunny to eat at the end.  Are they too cool for egg and spoon races and egg-rolling down the hill?  Apparently not.

 

 

Would they like to visit ‘Forbidden Corner’?  They agreed they would, even though we failed to provide a description of what to expect.  We couldn’t.  It’s been described as ‘The Strangest Place in the World’.  Perhaps it is.  It’s a folly.  It’s a fantastical collection of follies.  It’s woodlands, walled gardens, mazes, tunnels, grottoes, built in the manner of a topsy-turvy collection of fairy tale castles in enchanted grounds.   Every stone putto is liable to pee on you as you walk past.  Every passage is too narrow, too low, too dark, and may lead nowhere.  You just want to try to get along it anyway, because at the end there may be another secret door, with halls of mirrors, or ever-changing fountains, or grotesque stone gremlins, or stepping-stones ….  And beyond, in every direction, the glorious countryside of North Yorkshire.

 

 

Next day, off to Brimham Rocks.  No child can resist the opportunity to climb and jump among these extraordinary tottering towers of balanced rock formations.  A visit there is a regular fixture for Alex and Ben.

 

 

And finally – yet more rocks.  Underground this time.  Stump Cross Caverns: limestone caves set about with stalactites and stalagmites, tinted in all kinds of shades from the iron and lead seams that also penetrate the area.  Gloomy, dark and mysterious, and guaranteed to fire the imagination.  Photographs courtesy of Ben.

 

 

In the evenings we sat round the kitchen table and played board games.  The London Game brought out everybody’s inner mean streak as we blocked other players in, or despatched them to the end of the line at Wembley Central.  Stone Soup gave us the opportunity to lie and lie again in an effort to get rid of all our cards.  All very satisfactory. A good time was had by all.

But Granny and Grandad would quite like a rest now.  Please.

 

A history mystery

Acting the facts (Pad Dawson)
Acting the facts (Pad Dawson)

When teachers bring parties of children to Fountains Abbey, we often tog them all up in monastic robes, and explore the site with them .We want them to get a feel of the day-to-day life of a mediaeval monk. What? Prayers eight times a day? No underclothes? No talking? No heating? They’re impressed, in a horrified kind of way.

Then they go away, with only brief notions of the story the Abbey itself has to tell. Or why the place is a roofless ruin.

Until this year. Now they can come with their teachers and ‘Act the Facts’. They’re given props – perhaps a simple cape, a feathered cap, a woollen robe, a crown . These turn them into an early monk, a master mason, an Italian wool merchant, a dastardly baron, or even Henry VIII.

They have a script. It’s a melodramatic pastiche telling the Abbey’s turbulent history. Simple God-fearing beginnings, then powerful prosperity, then war, plague and corruption all leading to the final action. Henry VIII dissolves the monasteries.

The question at the beginning of the play is –

Who destroyed the Abbey?’

Acting it out, the children lose their places, stumble over words like ‘Cistercian’ and ‘lavatorium’, and forget which character they’re playing.

Honestly, what’s the point? It’s too complicated. They’re learning nothing.

Then they reach the end. We ask them to line themselves up. Twelfth century characters first, then thirteenth… and so on, through to those who bring the story to an end in 1540. We ask them which century was best.

And that’s when we realise how much they’ve learnt. They talk passionately about the simple piety of the early days set against the laxity of later centuries. They discuss austerity versus comfort. They talk feelingly about the plague, and the reasons for the Dissolution of the Monasteries.

And in telling the story of the Dissolution, they’ve solved the mystery of why Fountains Abbey is a roofless ruin.

Back at school, there’s so much for their teachers to build on. The ruin has brought history to life.

Come and see it for yourselves.  We can’t promise you a feathered cap, or a cardboard crown, but you could join one of the regular tours.  You’ll get a real taste of history as you soak up the special atmosphere of this special site.

(Pad Dawson)
(Pad Dawson)

 

Planning my planting for 2017

AllotmentsBoroughbridgeMarch2016 013

I love allotments.  I love those productive shanty towns that you often see at the side of housing estates, edging railway lines, or just beyond the local sewage works.  I relish the make-do-and-mend of gardeners’ huts fashioned from lengths-of-wood-and-bits-and-bobs, set alongside neat little cabins bought from B&Q.  I enjoy contrasting planting styles.  Here – neat meticulous rows of cabbages, beets, carrots and potatoes: there – less organised plots with discarded tyres serving as planters for courgettes and beans set among a hotchpotch of gooseberry and redcurrant bushes.  I love the camaraderie of the allotment community – the willingness to share hard-earned knowledge, tips, seeds, cuttings, and even muscle-power.  So much more fun that a solitary afternoon battling with weeds.

In Harrogate, I had an allotment.  I was the disorganised type, always running from behind, because work and family life got in the way.  In France, our vegetable garden was too far away to get the attention it deserved.  Here in North Stainley, there are no allotments …..

….. until now.

A few years ago, some villagers decided to initiate an allotment project.  They worked hard, but progress was slow.  Surrounded by countryside, even identifying a suitable site proved difficult.

I heard about the plans and asked to become involved just as the group reached a turning point.  The local landowner has offered to rent out a plot large enough for ten full-sized allotments.  An allotment is ten poles (or rods or perches) large.  That’s the size of a doubles tennis court.  We reckon most people will be happy with a half plot.  Twenty allotments then.

Our allotments-to-be.
Our allotments-to-be.

So last Saturday we went to look at the land.  It’s a large chunk at the end of a productive field, and it’s currently rather wet, like just about every other field in England.  Promising though.

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Then we went along to neighbouring Boroughbridge, where they’ve had an Allotments Society for the last 6 years or so.  They were friendly and generous with their time.  So much to think about though.  Paying for water to be piped to the site.  Thinking about car-parking and access to individual plots.  Keeping pesky rabbits at bay.  What to do with allotment tenants who grow only weeds.  Establishing a fair rent and knowing what that rent has to pay for.  We’ll be lucky to be up and running for next winter.  There’ll certainly be no planting before 2017…

Six years ago, this was a field as unpromising as ours. There's hope, then.
Six years ago, this was a field as unpromising as ours. There’s hope, then.