If you drive through Kirkby Malzeard and take signs to Dallowgill, you’ll find yourself leaving rolling green Nidderdale countryside for a more open and bleaker moorland landscape. There’s a place called Tom Corner where you can park, and that’s where you can start the Crackpot Trail.
The view at the start.
The Crackpot Trail? Well, back in 1996, Rural Arts worked with a group of villagers in Kirkby Malzeard to devise and make a series of 22 mosaic plaques to distribute over the route of this circular walk. They chose subjects to celebrate what the walker might see en route: animals, birds and flowers such as sheep, curlews, fungi: local features such as the Potato House, where potatoes used to be stored: and there right at the beginning of the walk, a Roman centurion, to commemorate the fact that many years ago, Roman bones were excavated at this rather wild and windy spot.
Our moorland path.
It’s a wonderful walk to see the varied landscape of this part of the Dales. From the moorland, where at this time of year heather is just beginning to burst into bloom….
Early heather.
…. the path takes you back to gentler, farmed countryside, with views of stone-built farms and hamlets across the hillsides.
The landscape opens out.
You’ll cross peaty streams…….
A stream to cross.
….. and walk though ancient oak woods which at the right time of year are carpeted in bluebells. There’s a bit of everything, even a lunch spot about half way round, at a former pub, the Drover’s Arms, which sadly burnt down in 2013. But the fire didn’t get the picnic tables: they’re still there for you to sit and eat your sandwiches.
Our drama for the day. This poor sheep was well and truly trapped. Somehow, we extricated her…..….while her companions looked on.And this is their daily view.
A perfect, easy and enjoyable day, because this varied, pretty and scenic walk is a mere six and a half miles. You’ll be home in time for tea.
That’s Ripon over there. We’ve just finished our walk, and it’s about to rain.
It was 4.30. We were not pleased. The rain – no, the downpour – had started, and was battering at the windows. That evening we had tickets for an outdoor performance of A Midsummer Night’s Dream at nearby Ripley Castle. The idea was to get there early, with all the rest of the audience, picnic in the grounds of the castle and then stroll from scene to scene in the woodlands as the play’s plot unfolded and night descended. By 5.00 this seemed an unlikely possibility.
On the net, we found a single forecast that suggested the rain might blow away, leaving a clear evening. We decided to believe it.
We passed one of the ‘sets’ on the way in.
By 6.30, we’d got to Ripley, joined our friends, and the sun was shining. By 7.00, the sun was still shining, our picnic was spread out, and the lawns were crowded with a waiting public enjoying an early supper. And at 7.30, costumed figures started to roam the grounds, some beating noisy rhythms on a whole variety of instruments.
Our picnic 10/10 for flavour. Nul points for presentation.
The audience enjoys its picnic.
Oyez! The play’s about to start….
What an evening. This Midsummer Night’s Dream sets the standard by which I’ll judge all others. We spent the evening eavesdropping on the fairies who inhabited the woods we wandered through, watching enraptured as they manipulated the lives of the four lovers – or would-be lovers – Hermia, Lysander, Helena and Demetrius, involving as they did so Bottom, one of a company of ‘rude mechanicals’ – tradesmen – who are rehearsing a play which they hope to perform at the wedding of yet another noble pair, Theseus and Hippolyta.
Following the action.
I can’t now imagine the play in any other setting. The woods provide an eerie, threatening backdrop for lovers fleeing from planned marriages they don’t want, or would-be lovers they don’t love. The ancient and characterful trees of the forest are, on the other hand, also home to the King and Queen of the fairies, Oberon and Titania, and their ‘knavish sprite’ Puck. Here, disappearing into the hiding places the forest provides, hanging from branches, concealed by leaves, Oberon and Puck watch their plot unfold with all its unintended consequences, as pools of coloured light illuminate their very own version of fairyland .
One of the sets, as night falls and we all set off home.
Surrounded by so much space, the characters can give true vent to their feelings. Brawling Helena and Hermia scratch and claw, get grass in their hair and mud on their dresses, whilst the men pursue each other wielding sticks and branches, tumbling in leaves and soil. The ‘rude mechanicals’ are in danger of stealing the show as they rehearse in the forest, particularly the arch-clown Bottom. Puck though, is the real fairy. She truly makes the woods her home, cackling from high branches, drumming wildly on a succession of instruments which even include tin plant pots and a bath, energetically making gleeful mischief wherever she lands.
Lights in the starlight.
And we, the audience, are cheerfully cajoled from place to place, lugging our blankets and picnic chairs, lured by the frenetically drumming, calling and singing company : from fine lawns in a walled garden fit for nobility, to welcoming woodland glades, to threatening forest – onwards, onwards, see the plot unfold!
Another woodland glade.
I’m only sorry not to have seen one of these wonderful Sprite productions before. Every year they take over Ripley Castle grounds for several weeks to offer us their production of a Shakespeare play. Rarely has the Bard seemed so accessible, so rumbustuous, so much fun. And after this year, the company’s taking a year out, to re-group and consider the always knotty problem of funding. Please, Sprite, let it only be a year. We’ve only just found you.
The end of a perfect evening.
Understandably, photography wasn’t permitted during the show. These then, are a few ‘before’ and ‘after’ shots.
North Lees, the hamlet after North Stainley, welcomes the Tour.
The final post about le Tour de France. I promise. Because it’s actually over, as far as Yorkshire’s concerned. And as far as poor old Mark Cavendish is concerned too.
But Saturday was all about Stage One of the Tour. Up early, I dashed over to the next village, West Tanfield, to buy a paper before the road closed for the day. Six mini buses were disgorging security guards who immediately took up positions round the streets. What could be going on? Later, I found out. ‘Wills and Kate’ ( the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge to you, please), due to open the Tour at Harewood House between Leeds and Harrogate, were to be helicoptered into West Tanfield at 1.00 o’clock. Later still, we discovered that my friend Penny was among those who had been presented to the Royal couple – and to Prince Harry too – since her husband’s Chair of the Parish Council there.
West Tanfield would have been a good place to be for other reasons. The riders swoop down a hill into the village and make a sharp turn over a narrow stone bridge before the long straight run into North Stainley. So there were vans from radio stations, cranes ready to hoist TV cameras aloft, and would-be spectators galore, already taking their places at prime spots and keeping the local pub and shop busy.
The busy streets of West Tanfield, 8.00 a.m. , Tour Stage One.
But we’d decided to stay put. Daughter and family had come over from Bolton and we decided that we should profit from the fact that the Tour actually passed the end of the drive. We sauntered down to the village to the stalls on the cricket pitch, and watched a little of the early action on the big screen in the village hall. Back home, we spent a happy quarter of an hour chalking ‘Ey up, Laroque’ on the road to greet all our friends in France when the TV cameras passed over. It worked, as my camera shot of the TV screen proves. But it only lasted a second and nobody but us saw it. Ah well.
If you’d watched the TV attentively, you’d have seen our greeting.
What we saw though were billboard adverts that appeared for the duration all along the roadside for companies that don’t exist in England – PMU, Carrefour – and which had already disappeared an hour after the racers had passed through.
Ellie, Phil, Ben and Alex welcome the publicity caravan.
Then, finally …. tour officials in their Skodas…. British police on motorbikes….. French gendarmes on motorbikes….. support vehicles… and the publicity caravan. It wasn’t as extensive as it had been in France, but there WERE vehicles advertising French companies we don’t have in the UK, as well as British ones too. The total haul of freebies my grandchildren had thrown towards them consisted of two Skoda sunhats and a key ring. And then …….. the riders. Amazingly, after five hours up hill and down dale they were still riding in a solid phalanx, whirring towards us as a purposeful army. And then…. they were gone. Team vehicles loaded up with spare bikes aloft, more police and ambulance support followed…. and it was over. For us. Time to switch on the television and follow the action into Harrogate.
Rabbits on Tour.My shockingly bad – and only – photo of the riders passing our gate.
Disappointingly, my crop of Tour photos is exceptionally poor. So I’ll focus on a final look at North Stainley, which took the Tour to its heart, and delivered a very special homage to France and the Tour de France.
An early rider on the Tour
Here’s a close-up.
Another contender.
And another
A decorated wheel.
A garden decorated for the occasion
The Brownies decorate the cricket pavilion.
Bunting and yellow bikes.
A French lawn.
Another yellow bike.
Frank Bailey’s extremely clever revolving sculpture.
The village symbol, constructed from bicycle parts.
All the school children re-interpreted French Impressionist paintings.
The village had to have a few knitted Tour jerseys too.
A re-interpretation of Monet’s ‘Waterlilies’ on the village pond.
The church gets in on the act. ‘Le Moulin Jaune’.
Younger children at the school decorated pennants.
One of the banners at the school
Another wheely good decorated wheel.
North Stainley’s own ‘Man of the Mountains’ house.
Bill? Ben? Or a TdF cyclist?
Ooops. Someone just crashed.
The garage, now closed, has a special display of 2CVs
Off to Harrogate today, via Knaresborough, which has just been voted Best Dressed Town ahead of the Tour de France. It’s done a fine job. The whole town is festooned with bunting: not the signature knitted-yellow-jersey bunting favoured all over the rest of the district, but hundreds upon hundreds of white T-shirts, decorated by the schoolchildren of the town. It all looks very festive, and combined with a yellow bike trail to send you bike-spotting down every street and in every shop window, it’s made for a fine community effort. I still have a soft spot for red-spotted Hawes however, which we visited last week. But Knaresborough’s Mayor has tricked out his house in red spots too.
Knaresborough’s spotted house on a busy corner.
Harrogate though. What a shock. We were diverted away from West Park Stray, and once we’d parked up, we discovered why. This usually car-filled thoroughfare was a pedestrian-only zone. No, that’s not true. There were no cars, but instead, huge articulated lorries, buses, media vehicles from all over Europe, Tour de France vehicles so large that no ordinary parking place could accommodate them. There was even an immense lorry whose purpose was to offer, at just the right moment, 3 rows of tiered seats for about 3 dozen spectators. All this circus came from the Netherlands, Belgium, Italy, Germany…. but above all, from France.
All around us, busy teams of workmen and women, technicians, electricians, craftspeople, media types rushed busily around, talking in the main in French. We spotted registration plates from Val-de-Marne; le Nord; Pas-de-Calais; even the Haute Garonne, the next door département to the Ariège. And suddenly, I was assailed by homesickness. It was just like being back in France. There was even a marquee filled with one particular team of workers sitting down together and sharing a midday meal. That really whisked us back. We wandered about, listening in, and engineering conversations with any French type taking a breather. England’s nice, we’re given to understand, but our motorways are a nightmare. We know.
But this immense team is only one of several. There are others in Leeds, in York, in Sheffield, Cambridge and London, the other five towns where the three English stages begin or end. I’d never previously understood quite what an industry the Tour de France really is.
Local teams from Harrogate itself had already uprooted many of the town’s pride and joy, its colourful flower-beds, in favour of providing viewing platforms for spectators who want to see the Race finish there on Day One. I expect it was the right decision. No self-respecting flowers could survive the expected onslaught, and the beds that remain look particularly magnificent.
Decking and emptied flower beds await the crowds.
Another delivery of crowd barriers,
Then they have to be distributed….
Temporary seating goes up.
More seating solutions.
Tour de France vehicle.
And another. This is just one vehicle.
And another…
Some of our new French friends!
Everything stops for lunch. C’est la France.
A more homely sight at the church on the opposite side of the road.
And as we leave, mobile traffic signs.
When we’d looked around for a while, we nipped into a supermarket for some odds and ends we’d forgotten. This is what the fresh produce department looked like……….
One more shopping day before le Tour…..
Normal life has been suspended, for one weekend only.
Back in the shopping quarter, Duttons for Buttons celebrates le Tour … entirely in buttons.
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.
Malham: a place that sums up Yorkshire scenery and countryside, and a geology lesson in a landscape.
We – the Ripon Ramblers – had come to walk from Malham to the cove which shares its name, then on to the Tarn and then make a circuit of the way back to the village. It’s a longish car trip for us to get there, but we thought it was worth it to enjoy the wild and rocky scenery with views far across dry-stone wall enclosed fields to the Dales beyond.
Once cultivated fields are now given over to grass and sheep.
Malham Cove is a large curved limestone cliff at the head of a valley across which water used to tumble as a glacier melted above it. The stream that once cascaded over the cliff now disappears, like so many others in this land of porous limestone, into Water Sinks about a mile away.
The cove looks rather like an imposing and curtained castle wall or amphitheatre from which vegetation clings precariously. It’s immense, and however often you visit, it never loses its power to impress. We approached it walking along Malham Beck, a pretty stream which jostles and bubbles out of the cove, before we slogged up the 400 irregular rough-hewn stone steps alongside the cove which are part of the Pennine Way. It’s a tough climb, but rewarded every step of the way by seeing the Cove from ever-different viewpoints.
Malham Cove
Another view
The limestone pavement at the top
Wild thyme – and a few buttercups – thrive here.
Gillian – our leader for the day – surveys the view.
The path we tackled after our break
At the top, you’ll want to rest. We had our coffee-stop on the limestone pavement which carpets the area. That glacier all those years ago scraped and polished the limestone, and over the centuries, rain has niggled away at the soluble rock to divide the pavement into large irregular slabs called ‘clints’ and ‘grykes’. It sounds grey and sombre. But in fact there’s a rich diversity of tiny lime-loving plants such as wild thyme, limestone bedstraw, common rock-rose and bloody crane’s-bill – don’t you love those traditional names for these colourful flowers? . Above us, skylarks trilled, and the landscape before us rewarded our efforts.
A view from the path
After our pause, we continued along narrow rough and rocky pathways before hitting more open ground on our path to Malham Tarn. This is the highest lake in England, a shallow lake which, though surrounded by limestone, is itself on a bed of slate. It’s rather boggy round here. Pick your picnic spot, which you’ll be sharing with quite a lot of cows, with care or you’ll stand up after you’ve eaten, as I did, feeling distinctly damp.
Malham Tarn
Much more open landscape after that. We continued to climb… and descend, climb… and descend, always with those open views, and sheep or sturdy Belted Galloway cattle for company. Suddenly, the climbing was over. Before us was a landscape of ancient stone barns, of sheep enclosed in equally ancient narrow and irregular fields bounded by dry stone walls, and an unremittingly steep grassy path leading down to the valley and Malham, with its welcome tea shops. There’s so much more to explore here. But that will be for another day
The climb continues
Looking back towards Malham Tarn.
More limestone pavement.
Belted Galloway calves survey the scene.
It’s all downhill from here.
Still rocky here, but softer Daleside landscape over there.
Ancient barns, ancient walls.
A Swaledale sheep as gate-keeper.
A final glance at the hills and ancient field systems.
A stained glass window in Harrogate by Caryl Hallett celebrates the TdF
After seven years of living in France, we reckoned we were old hands at le Tour de France. It had gone past our house twice – once west-east, once east-west, and jolly exciting too, for roughly 30 seconds, which is all it takes for the competitors to go whizzing past… though there’s the no-small-matter of the caravan, and all its extraordinary vehicles full of excitable young women (only gorgeous young females and the occasional hunk need apply) flinging forth key rings, baseball caps, sweets and so on to the crowds scrabbling around for these souvenirs of the day.
And this year, for the third time in our lives, the Tour is going past our house again: because in 2014, for one year only, the Tour de France begins in Yorkshire, aka God’s Own Country. It’s quite a coup for Yorkshire tourism, as it’s an opportunity to showcase this wonderfully scenic area as a tourist destination to a world glued to its TV sets for the duration of the Tour.
Even letting agents are getting Tour de France fever.
Yorkshire has been going Tour mad for weeks – no, months. One of the earliest signs was last November, when the Harrogate Advertiser asked readers to knit little TdF jerseys to be strung as bunting in local streets. 3,000 jerseys should cover it, they reckoned. We now known that there are well over 10, 000 of them – yellow, green, white-with-red-spots, in Harrogate District alone, and who knows how many in the county as a whole, or down south when the riders complete the Cambridge to London stage? You can see them strung in shop windows, along house railings, swagged along churches, between public buildings or threaded through the branches of trees.
Outside a church in Killinghall
House railings in Killinghall.
… and a Ripon shop.
Then there are the yellow bikes. There are town trails to discover the dozens of yellow-painted bikes deposited round towns, in gardens, along country roads, in shop windows…. I’m sure many will be around months after the event, but many more will have been cleaned up and shipped off to various projects in Africa.
Yellow bikes: suspended from a pub…
…along railings….
… or simply along the roadside.
Our own community, North Stainley, has had Rural Arts working with the children at the Primary School to produce their own interpretations of impressionist paintings, and these are now on display round the village. The pond has got its own Monet style bridge with LED waterlilies for the duration. There are two new sculptures inspired by the Tour, and there’s a whole programme of social events. Every village and town along the route is involved in providing fun for residents and visitors alike on the weekend of the Tour. The description of choice seems to be ‘Le Grand Départy’. Please groan if you want to….
A splendid feat of engineering at North Stainley: Frank Bailey’s ‘Rotation Franco’ The wheels revolve in different directions.
North Stainley’s symbol, a stag, this time made of bicycle parts.
North Stainley’s take on Monet’s waterlilies.
Tour de France banner at the Primary School, North Stainley
The Folies-Bergere meets Betty’s. One of North Stainley’s impressionist pictures.
..and another ‘Impressionist’ picture
Roads along the route have been repaired and revamped, presumably to the detriment of the road maintenance programme of all highways not on the TdF course. Traffic islands in towns have been replaced by moveable versions, so they can be shifted from the road for The Big Day. Anyone with open land and the means to provide sanitary and other arrangements, from farmers to schools with big playgrounds, is offering camping or parking facilities for the duration. The French may well look askance at this degree of organisation, because over there it’s fine to turn up and park your camper van on any spare bit of mountainside that you can find. Here however thousands and thousands of would-be spectators all have to cram themselves along some 400 km. of route, as opposed to the 3,500 km available in France. Our village alone has been told to expect up to 7,000 spectators, the next village along, 10,000. The logistics are a nightmare, and forward planning essential.
These signs suddenly appeared at the end of last week.
I’m not fully adapted to country life yet. Forward planning – or lack of it – is my failing. I haven’t yet learned to anticipate whether we’ll need more milk, potatoes or whatever before the next planned trip to The Great Metropolis (aka Ripon), and quite often find myself grubbing around at the back of the cupboard for acceptable substitutes.
Saturday, though, is the day we treat ourselves and buy the paper. There’s enough reading material there to get us through several days, and the sports section, discarded immediately, is perfect for any number of little jobs such as lining the rubbish bin. And yet today we had no excuse to visit Ripon, so would we have to go without our newspaper?
Well, no, there is another solution, but we have to reckon on leaving the house for well over an hour to complete the three and a half mile walk. The round trip to the paper shop involves leaving home along the path through the woods, walking along the riverside path to Sleningford Mill caravan site, dallying by the weir for a few minutes, battling along the narrow path now surrounded by chest-high spring flowers, and finally reaching the bridge at West Tanfield.
The shop in the village is where you’ll find most things. There’s food, drink, first aid and stationery – and a Post Office. There’s a community board where today I found news of someone selling chilli plants – I’ll be buying some of those . And there are newspapers. I bought our weekly fix. Then I set off home by a different route. Out of the village on the road, up the hill, turn right at a farm gate. The path here’s been slightly diverted, because the farmer’s made wide beetle banks to boost the number of farmer-friendly insects and spiders on his land. Through several fields of sheep, who come to inspect me, and along the drive of Sleningford Park, a country house. A final yomp along paths running alongside fields of wheat and barley, and I’m home once more.
It wasn’t quick. But I came home refreshed by the birdsong I’d heard; the sight of birds, rabbits, squirrels and sheep I’d passed; the flowers I’d spotted on the paths, different already from the ones I’d spotted only a few days ago; and all those country smells, from wild garlic to sheep dung to spring flowers. I’d had a better morning, I reckoned, than if I’d either gone without, or jumped in the car to grab a newspaper at the petrol station four miles away.
A man walks in to the bakery with a tray of eggs, newly laid by his hens. He’s ‘paid’ in bread. A woman comes with a bag of rosemary from her garden: she too receives bread, still warm from the oven. Over there, at the back, another woman is steadily getting an enormous batch of scones ready for the oven, while in another corner, someone else is weighing out the ingredients to make biscuits.
Margaret Number 3 makes scones
We’re in the market town of Bedale (population four and a half thousand). More specifically, we’re at Bedale Community Bakery (or ‘Bread Actually’), tucked away behind the railway bridge next to the Big Cow Little Sheep educational farm. This is no ordinary baker’s shop. For a start, though there’s a busy team at work throughout the day, there are few paid staff. This is a not-for-profit community venture.
The generously-seeded multi-seed bread has just gone into the oven.
The sourdough moulds have finished their work for the day.
And here are rolls, ready to buy.
The bakers are paid – they’re the ‘bread and butter’ of the organisation after all. Then there’s hands-on Chairman Carol, and Sarah who seems to be involved in everything. But all the biscuits, cakes, scones – the non-bread items – are made by a willing team of volunteers managed by retired baker Alan. From today, Malcolm and I are part of that team.
Focaccia in waiting.
It was a wonderful experience. From the first moment, we were expected to roll our sleeves up and turn to. But the friendly welcome, the team spirit, the willingness to share and help each other, the generosity of spirit shown by everyone there made for an unforgettable first morning. Malcolm washed up and sliced cakes into even portions, and I helped Margaret ( ‘Not another Margaret, there’s three of you now’) make an entire batch of about 210 Anzac biscuits, bake them, cool them, and package them for sale in cellophane sacks of 6, closed with yellow ribbon. There was focaccia to part-prepare for the just-about-to-start Bedale BAMfest. There was more washing up, and sweeping and cleaning. And time for a coffee-stop of course.
Two Margarets make Anzac biscuits.
Anzac biscuits partly packaged…..
…. and ready for sale.
They’re seeking to build up the customer base. There’s a country house, a high-end hotel or so, and various other outlets who like the quality and range that the bakery offers. There are locals of course, who know a good thing when they find it, because there are always samples of the bread to taste, people around to discuss ingredients and recipes, and a constantly changing repertoire. Today there was multi-seeded bread; cheese, chilli and – oh, crumbs, I’ve forgotten what else – sourdough; rosemary and black pepper; cheese, chive and onion bread; harvester loaves….. and so on and so on. This is Slow Food at its best, made with locally sourced flour from Crakehall Watermill with not a single flour improver, and proved gently over several hours to develop the flavour. Recipes are carefully tested and recorded, and every opportunity is taken to use seasonal flavours and ingredients offered from the community: a glut of fruits or herbs, as well as those eggs and that rosemary.
Off-duty loaf tins.
I hope there’s plenty more to tell about this place. We think it’s worth the 16 mile round trip to volunteer here (and be ‘paid’ in bread), but others come from much further afield: Redcar, the home of one of the team, is nearly 40 miles away, and Saltburn, where another lives, 50 miles. We all appreciate good bread, and recognise a worthwhile project which offers the chance to learn new skills in a supportive and ‘can-do’ environment.
The way to Camberwick Green? Sadly not. This road sign was made by Countryways and stands by the Bluebell Railway in Sussex
Hands up if you remember Trumptonshire! If you were a child in the 1960s or 70s, or if you were the parent of such a child, chances are that you do remember your weekly visits to Trumpton or the smaller communities of Camberwick Green or Chigley. For a blessed quarter of an hour after lunch you’d all sink yourselves in front of the TV to catch up with news from Trumpton fire station (‘Pugh, Pugh, Barney McGrew, Cuthbert, Dibble and Grub’), or Windy Miller’s windmill, or Lord Belborough and his steam engine of Winkstead Hall near Chigley.
Trumptonshire was a quiet and ordered little county. And one of its communities, Camberwick Green, was the picturesque village that embodied all that rural life is supposed to be about: the sense of community, the dramas that enliven everyday life and bring everyone together, the charming mixture of contemporary technology and Edwardian costume, the idiosyncratic mix of characters from every walk of life.
Reader, we’ve just moved to Camberwick Green. Well, in fact our village is called North Stainley, but we’ve heard plenty of people who don’t live here refer to it disparagingly as ‘toy town’. I can see why. The traditionally designed houses clustered round the village green (home of the cricket club) are not old cottages, but have all been developed and built over the last few years. The original village consisted of a very few houses near the main road, a small church and (now ex-) chapel, a tiny village school at risk of closure, and three duck ponds.
The local landowner, however, saw the potential of the community and gradually sold off land to developers, who built houses. These developers however, didn’t throw up standard estates. They grouped the new homes round existing open space and those duck ponds. There’s a large, well-appointed and well-used village hall. There’s an adventure playground for the children: because the village has plenty of children now and that tiny school is bursting at the seams: some classes take place in the village hall. And the families who moved in all bought into the idea of village life at its best.
This community has a regionally important cricket club, training the young players of the future. There are women’s groups, a book group, a WI (obviously), a drama group, a social group which fundraises for the benefit of the young people in the community…. and so on. Perhaps because most people can remember what it’s like to move to a community and know not a soul, they’re unusually welcoming to newcomers. We’ve been made to feel at home amongst them, and encouraged to join in.
This morning, for instance, a large group of us were painting the walls of the long-closed village shop and garage, to smarten it up before the Tour de France passes through the village next month. Tonight it’s the second and final night of the Arts Society’s production of Blood Brothers. The village website demonstrates that this is a busy, sociable and purposeful community. We’re very happy to be here.
From Pyrenees to Pennines 
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