Category: UK 2022 – Yorkshire

With the 90 day EU travel rule now in place, a welcome English Autumn mini-break has been forced upon us. While the option of flying off into the southern sun appeals, we head north to Yorkshire. Vainly hoping for a summer extention.

The last time we toured any part of Yorkshire was during the spring of 1988. A holiday cottage week spent with my mum and dad. Highlighted by Mary-Ann’s feelings of sickness every time dad took the wheel of our shared car. His so called ‘jerky’ driving the cause. It was only later, when morning nausea persisted back home, did we realise Laura was on her way.

Organising stopovers for our nine-night tour of the Yorkshire Moors and Dales proves trickier than imagined. Now we understand why our EU travels have been generally devoid of Brits. They are 99% camp-at-homers. Hence the unavailability of pitches on many sites, large or small. We take what and where we can.

Today’s uneventful journey of four hours thirty-five minutes brings us onto Grafham Water Campsite. A short surf from the water’s edge, via the pretty little village. We stretch the day off with a wooded lakeside walk.

Today is the day Queen Elizabeth II died.

R.I.P.

Without history, where would we be? It’s what makes and defines a country. It can sometimes make and define us too. If we let it. Today we make our own bit of history.

Today’s destination – Milestone Caravan Park, a short 144K squirt further north, gives us time to stop off. Go explore Newark. Go find out how the head of Charles I got to be sewn back on. And by order of whom.

Newark old town centre is an unexpected gem. A huge market square greets us. Almost a la continent. All stalls, bar two, respectfully closed for the day. Ninety minutes in the brilliant Civil War Museum brings the events from those dark days into our present. A national conflict, that will run and run.

The Town Hall’s Museum and Art Gallery are closed, but that doesn’t deter the bike riding Lord Mayor from insisting we enter and take a look inside the old police cells. It seems stealing a bunch of copper pots and pans in those days could get you extradited to Australia; but GBH or worse, brought you a small fine.

Lunch, rather than high tea, at the Mad Hatters café, is walked off with a Trent-side amble.

Pretty Milestone site houses Beastie with a view overlooking the small fishing lake.

There are degrees to being alive. Some prefer the same old same old; living a calm day to day existence. Either out of choice, or necessity. Some, unable to contemplate a no-change status, constantly search for excitement and the next adrenalin rush. Most, like us, I imagine, prefer a bit of both.

Today, sees us pull up short of Cayton Village Campsite. Beastie is left to nestle kerb-side, like a discarded coca-cola tin. Left to have an afternoon snooze, while we take the coastal path – Cleveland Way – and tread our way towards our goal of Scarborough. 7K north.

Deep below us on spectacular Cayton Beach, word has leaked out. The incoming surf is a mass of black water-suits. Like patient fishermen, vying to catch a bigger than average, they constantly test the water, in wait for that perfect ‘rush’.

Eighty minutes later, our sea level approach into town necessitates a different type of rush. The incoming tide creates a dramatic entrance that needs to be negotiated with care and attention. Like hopping in and out of a looping skipping rope, choosing just the right moment is key to success. In our case, it’s key to keeping dry.

With the afternoon all but gone, the number 12 drops us back at Beastie. We step down feeling like a couple of extras in Peter Kay’s latest sit-com “Bus Share”. A bunch of red roses from across the border are on holiday. Their constant Bolton chatter emulates his comedic incredulous style to a tee.

When you get to squeeze past three score years and ten, you tend not to have retained many wishes from earlier years. Now, all that concerns, is the present. Keeping in good health; good humour; good company.

It’s mid-evening. Dinner downed. Washed-up. Showered. Time to settle down for another episode of Fauda with a coffee and our new discovery – Yorkshire Curd tartlet. Outside, Beastie’s roof is being hammered into submission by the open heavens. The rat-a-tat-tat, a comforting end to today’s three peeks itinerary.

Peek one, Pickering Castle, a barely good excuse to squander twelve quid. A scattering of ‘WIKI’ notice boards fail to enlighten or ignite any real interest. Our brief wander around another National Heritage ruin is over before we can say William the Conqueror. This sign prevents us from making a wish . . .

Peek two – a little further west along the A170, glorious Helmsley village awaits. A must go-to recommended by Sue, our neighbour from across the road. She has rellies buried at the 12th century All Saints Church.

We are fast discovering that pasties, pastries & pie shops lie at the heart of every market square we stumble upon. Cornerstones for lunchtime with an array of irresistible Yorkshire delicacies. It’s lunchtime – we don’t resist.

It’s hard to believe that over forty years have sneeked by since the first showing of All Creatures Great & Small. So peek three, in Thirsk, provides a visit to the James Herriott Museum. A quite superb magical reminder of the craziness of what being a country vet in the 30s was like. Ardent fan, Mrs S is in her element. There is even one room replicating the original Pebble Mill set.

Sometimes you can be so close to something and not see it. Even when it’s staring you in the face. I’m particularly good at that. Mrs S can vouch for the many times I start a sentence with “Cheese? Have you seen my . . . “

Conversely, to see something, you have to at least look in the right direction. For five years our eyes and intentions having been aiming south. Backs turned away from these chillier northern delights. Blindly shunning. Preferring the attraction of southern suns.

We must come back to the Dales – our new mantra.

We’re currently two-nighting at Knaresborough Camp Site. Scoot is with us, but with ample large spaces in York Place car park, Beastie becomes our warmer and more comfortable travel-mode for today.

Knaresborough centre, sits high above the River Nidd. A stone’s throw from its ruined castle we’re facing this iconic view.

We drop down to riverside. Negotiate the millions of steps (I exaggerate slightly), like a couple of Slinkies. Head downstream along the waterside Abbey Road and drool over the salubrious properties that edge both banks like adorning jewels.

With ninety minutes left of the afternoon we Beastie into the spa town of Harrogate. Search out Montpellier Quarter and the Pump Rooms. Only to discover they are now occupied by an upmarket Chinese restaurant!

We all like to take a holiday. Escape. Remove ourselves from the humdrum. Release ourselves from responsibilities. If only for a short time. Living life as a religious, must feel like one long holiday. Surely?

A thousand years ago acceptance into a religious order granted security. Of one sort. For some, it was within the family order of what was expected. Or even demanded. With the pressures of our current everyday existence, I wonder if this alternative life journey might make a resurgence.

We’re on our way over to Ingleton, in search of the Waterfalls Trail. But before that, we stop off at Bolton Abbey in Wharfedale. There can be few finer places to take up residence. Even under vows. However, sun and location can easily skew the true nature of monastic life.

A little further on I improve (or just prove) my spontaneity skills. An impromptu about turn on a narrow bend causes some consternation behind, as Beastie swivels his hips one way and dramatically veers the other to prepare for a U-turn. The reason? Mrs S has spotted The Courtyard Dairy and its cheese exhibition. 2 Cheeses could hardly roll by now – could we?

Cheesemonger Jen tempts us with mouthwatering slivers. We savour each melt in the mouth unique flavour. Her vast knowledge extends to the type of cow, or goat, the pasture in which it was raised, and even the type of grass it grazed on. We put our back-pocket plastic to good use. We load up with three cheeses, honey, pineapple chutney, a heart cheese board and a Sicilian red.

Beauty can be recognised a mile away. Even though it takes on many different forms. A sunrise. Birdsong. Crashing waves. A loving deed. A sympathetic smile. Holding hands. In fact, it’s constantly all around us and easy to spot.

Forty minutes from site and we’ve paid our £8 each and entered through the turnstile that marks the beginning of the privately owned Ingleton Waterfalls Trail. Its 8km have been providing scenes of beauty since it opened on Good Friday, 11 April 1885.

Scott and Ram are on a break from a Channel 4 shoot for Omaze. We swap photo duties. Ram (in blue) has a towel wrapped around his waist. Intent on taking a dip.

The trail leaves the River Twiss and leads us east across country in search of our route down from our not too giddy climb of 554 feet. It’s after 4pm. This ice-cream man is just about to leave. His captive customer queue dwindled. Until us. Perfect timing.

The uphill climb takes more effort. The downhill puts more strain. Old thighs and knees take it in turns to moan, groan and creak. The downhill views take it in turn to rub balm into muscles and joints. The eyes and mind have more beautiful scenes to consider.

Scott and Ram catch up. Neither dipped. Far too cold. Their numb feet and ankles lasted a couple of minutes. “It was very refreshing though” they lie!

6.50pm and we’re back at camp with more of today’s beauty shining through on Beastie’s door-step.

Sink holes have a bad reputation nowadays. Threatening life and property. Huge whale like mouths gape and swallow up vehicles, houses, people, like a hungry Bowhead. Their sudden ugly unwanted appearance, a sign that unknowingly to us, something is going on beneath our very feet. Occasionally, they reveal their more beautiful nature.

Before pitching up at Castleton Camp, we make a detour. Turn left. Not right. Hoping that the narrowing country lanes don’t decide to squeeze the living daylights out of Beastie and force an embarrassing reverse.

The find of Blue John Cavern a result of a couple of walkers stumbling upon a sink hole and not into it. Though it’s thought the Romans may have got here first. No surprise there then. By the time we climb down there’s no need to carry candles, or make use of thin spindly ladders. A lit concrete staircase of 245 steps, with the help of a handrail, and guide, transports us into Blue John’s dingy wet bowels.

Three hundred years on from that lucky stumble, Blue John is still mined for its decorative qualities.

If you can pick up exactly where you left off. If you can feel comfortable in the silences. If you can listen. If you can share. Have no fear of being judged. Then you’re in the company of very special friends.

Today we meet up with Paul & Kath. Friends of over fifty years. They live ‘just up the road’ on the outskirts of Sheffield. Paul has planned a ‘short’ (by his standards) hike. It’s a wonderful way to celebrate Mary-Ann’s birthday.

We round off our time together with a pub meal in Castleton, vowing not to leave it too long before meeting up again.

Well. Did we blink? Before we could say “Eeh, I’ll go t’foot of stairs!” we’ve gone full circle and only gone and found ourselves right back where we started – promising not to wait another thirty odd years before returning to Yorkshire.