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The other day, while trying out a moorland walking route for TGO magazine, I found myself rounding the relatively remote dale end called Fryup Head, about four miles south of Danby village as the crow flies. It’s a fine spot – sparse, open moorland with the remnants of old mine workings pocking the heather on one side, and on the other a curious jumble of scrubby hummocks called the Hills, tumbling steeply into the deep, green trough of Fryup Dale (which itself is divided into Great and Little Fryup Dales by a great, flat-topped island rising lengthways down its middle).
My mate Canon Atkinson (1814-1900) had plenty to say about the ‘wild solitudes’ of this little corner of the North York Moors. He called it ‘one of the most picturesque of all the picturesque dale-heads in this district’, and enjoyed strolling there ‘whether with my gun or with only my walking-stick for my companion’. He was fascinated by the geological origins of the Hills, and by the grinding graft of the miners, who would strip off their clothes and crawl into cramped, four-foot high pits to scratch out pitifully thin seams of ‘inferior and impure’ coal.
Most interestingly, though, in Forty Years in a Moorland Parish (1891) he tells a story recounted by a friend of his who, in his younger years, was once working in the fields up near the head of the dale. From a distance, this farmer spotted a woman called Hannah – with a bit of an oddball reputation – wandering around that remote place clutching a ‘gully’ or kitchen knife. To start with, he was concerned she might be planning to do away with herself, but having convinced himself that probably wasn’t the case, he put her out of mind and went on with his work. Later in the day, he encountered her once more, in the process of taking a very circuitous route back to her cottage. When pressed, she explained shyly that she’d been looking for ‘witch-wood’ to protect her household against the local crones*. Even back then, this was a bit quaint, and she went on to explain the particulars of the ritual, recounted here in Atkinson’s own words:
‘To be effectual, the requisite pieces of rowan tree […] must not only be cut on St. Helen’s day, but, in order to be quite fully efficacious, they must be cut with a household knife : they must be cut, moreover, from a tree which not only the cutter had never seen before, but of the very existence of which he must have had no previous knowledge or suspicion ; and that, on the tree having been found in this blindfold sort of way, and the requisite bough or boughs having been severed and secured, they must be carried home by any way save that by which the obtainer of them had gone forth on his quest.’
While the superstitions might have died out, I was intrigued to see that the descendants of those rowan trees are still there in Fryup Head more than 150 years later, clinging to the moor as it falls away into the dale. In fact there are loads of them, some quite gnarly, and I fancy old Hannah might have had at least some previous knowledge of the valuable resources hidden away in such an out-of-the-way spot, whatever she claimed. I daresay no-one has cut witch-wood there for well over a century, but if you ever find yourself suspecting that the old dear next door is transforming herself into a hare and suckling the milk out of your dairy cows after dark… well, you know what to do.
*What she actually said was ‘Wheea, I was nobbut lating my witch-wood’, which I think you’ll agree is much better than the translation.
To my shame, it’s over a month since my brother and I slithered down off Hardangervidda, in south-central Norway, and I’m only just getting down to writing about it. Our four-day walk was a sort of warm-down after a week crossing Jotunheimen (which I’ve blogged about elsewhere), and Hardangervidda provided a fine counterpoint to its flashier cousin.
Officially, the boundaries of Norway’s biggest national park enclose three and a half thousand square kilometres of the vast Hardangervidda mountain plateau, but the area itself is much bigger. If you’ve ever been to Norway, chances are you’ve probably seen Hardangervidda without realising it. The famous Bergen-Oslo train line* slides along its northern edge (there’s a distinct musk of sweat and woodsmoke emanating from the windswept outdoorsy types boarding in Finse and Geilo), as does the gorgeous Highway 7.
As with our Jotunheimen trip, Christian and I followed a route from Connie Roos’s Cicerone guide to Walking in Norway. Roos rates the western part of Hardangervidda much more highly than its centre (which she describes as having ‘a certain monotony of character’), so we took her at her word. Starting out at Fossli, we headed almost directly south then looped back up to the north west, eventually descending steeply past a string of spectacular waterfalls along the river Kinso to finish up in Kinsarvik. For much of the journey we had tantalising views of Harteigen – a celebrated mountain allegedly shaped like a stovepipe hat – even if the clouds never cleared enough for us to see the top. Along the way we passed the DNT huts of Hadlaskard, Torehytten and Stavali (along with independent Hedlo), though in the event we ended up camping out each night. According to my GPS, the route came in at 79km, and took us four days including travel time.
We got to the trail via an early train from Bergen to Geilo then a bus to Fossli, where we had a bit of trouble finding the trailhead – forgivable since it involved slinking down the hard shoulder of a busy highway then clambering over a barrier by a smear of red paint. As for getting out at the end, it was a slightly convoluted (but actually very conveniently joined-up) chain of two ferries (Kinsarvik-Utne-Kvanndal), a bus to Voss and a train to Oslo. We hit Kinsarvik mid-afternoon and by half midnight we were showered and tucked up in a hotel in central Oslo, which isn’t bad going really.
As Christian observed at the time, Hardangervidda feels somehow more familiar than Jotunheimen, perhaps because in places there are visual echoes of Scotland or North Wales. For me there were other reasons it felt familiar too, since the self-service huts, the open spaces, and the occasional cameos from cheery young German drifters or stately Norwegian pensioners with knives on their belts were all much more akin to my previous experiences of rough Scandi tramping than the Alpinist bustle of Jotunheimen. Despite its more modest gradients and more understated nature (‘understated’ being a VERY relative term in this context), Hardangervidda felt somehow wilder. The terrain was characterful and varied, with rushing rivers, occasional snow fields, and sweet berries growing abundantly by the paths.
It was also rather wet and surprisingly cold, and watching my brother wading barefoot across a perishingly icy stream first thing in the morning was a pleasure that almost compensated for having to do it myself. The soft, springy ground was sometimes only just dry enough to pitch a tent on, and one night at a high camp we sipped hot coffee in our damp clothes, watching the ever-present cloud swirling silkily through the valleys below. Rain can become a bit demoralising if you get too much of it, but luck was on our side, and the only evening we got a real soaking was followed by a morning of bright sunshine that dried our gear out again. In fact, during the whole fortnight – both in Hardangervidda and Jotunheimen – weather and circumstance treated us pretty kindly, and it was somehow inevitable that calamity should catch up with us sooner or later.
Which it did as we descended over steep, slimy rock towards the Kinso river and our road out. Christian slipped, and we reckoned afterwards that the way his bag shifted on his back must have made him go down hard on his hand. There was a nice audible crack, and though he didn’t make much of a fuss about it, there was no doubt it was the sort of injury that, had it occurred earlier in the trip, would have sent us home. As it was, we were a few hours from journey’s end anyway, and later that night, sitting in the buffet car on the 17.45 train to Oslo, filthy and cheerful, we poured out a couple of anaesthetising beers and toasted our guidebook writer and our adventure of two strikingly different but equally wonderful halves. Norway never disappoints.
*I was delighted to learn recently that Netflix is now streaming the full 7.5-hour video of this pretty journey, along with several other Norwegian ‘slow-TV’ classics, including 12 hours cruising the Telemark Canal, 24 hours of a salmon river, and a lot of knitting.
In 1847, When Essex-born John Christopher Atkinson put it about that he’d been asked to become vicar of the remote North Yorkshire village of Danby, one wag declared: ‘Why, Danby was not found out when they sent Bonaparte to St Helena; or else they never would have taken the trouble to send him all the way there!’
The auspices were not favourable. The church was said to be at least a mile from the nearest villagers, and the local landowner, Viscount Downe, expressed some reservations about the incumbent clergyman, noting that the man was not ‘famed for strength of body, nor energy of mind and purpose’. This turned out to be something of an understatement. On arrival, the 33-year-old Atkinson found the church rotting from the inside out. The woodworm-pocked altar doubled up as a picnic table for the Sunday school teachers, the font was a ‘paltry slop-basin’, and the place reeked of baccy since the parish clerk liked to perch in the alcove by the west window and smoke his pipe. As for the minister, his attendance at church was rather poorer than that of his meagre flock, and he confided peevishly in Atkinson that his parishioners had ‘not been very thoughtful or considerate about me’, on account of their incessant requests for him to baptize and christen their children.
More than half a century later, Canon Atkinson died at Danby vicarage, having carved out a remarkable life for himself in his unpromising moorland patch. A renaissance man to his core, he was an archaeologist, a philologist, a naturalist, a geologist, a historian and a folklorist. Most significantly, he assiduously documented the customs, rituals, language and mythology of a folk culture which was even then in terminal decline, and wrote several books, of which Forty Years in a Moorland Parish (1891) is the most famous.
It’s out of print, but the text is available online, and a while back I tracked down a handsome and dilapidated old leather-bound copy, once the property of Liverpool College*. It’s a July 1891 special edition with maps and photo plates by Frank Meadow Sutcliffe, and the colour of the leather stains your hands as you read. As an object, it is most pleasing, but the text itself is even more enjoyable. It’s written with an endearing lightness, humour and enthusiasm, and Atkinson’s affection for rural Yorkshire and its people is infectious. What’s more, his geographical descriptions and maps are very precise, to such an extent that I’ve already been able to plot some Atkinson walks out on the moors.
One of his great passions was language (back in 1868 he’d published A Glossary of the Cleveland Dialect), and Forty Years in a Moorland Parish contains all kinds of delicious old words that have long since fallen out of use. Indeed, many of them had disappeared by the time the book was published, so Atkinson helpfully provides translations. Here are some of my favourites:
Arvel – an adjective referring to a specific celebration (much like the word ‘bridal’). In this case it relates to a celebration of inheritance. ‘At arvel … feasts … when heirs drank themselves into their fathers’ lands, there was great mirth and jollity, and much eating and hard drinking of mead and fresh-brewed ale.’
Backbearaways – bats
Gabble-ratchet – a yelping sound at night, like the baying of hounds. Probably just caused by flocks of geese flying overhead, but generally interpreted as an omen of impending death.
Gam’some – frolicsome, often used of ‘kitlins’ (kittens).
Gorpins – fledglings
Moudiwarps – moles
Pricky-back otchins – hedgehogs
Swipple – a lovely onomatopoeic word for the striking part of a flail, used for threshing.
Warsle – wrestle
Yabble – well-to-do
There are undoubtedly more blog posts to be had out of Canon Atkinson, and in the next couple of weeks I’m hoping to have a snoop around some of the places mentioned in his book. It’s been over a century, but North Yorkshire hasn’t changed all that much, as you can see from this side-by-side comparison of Atkinson’s map and my modern Harvey one. The Ship Inn may have disappeared, but the Fairy Cross Plain where children used to run round the fairy rings (though never nine times, so as not to give the fairies the power to steal them away) is still there, awaiting my inspection.
Sadly, when I pass Danby Beacon I’m unlikely to marvel at the sight of a white-tailed eagle, as he did, since they’ve been extinct in England for a century.
*Some former – presumably long-dead – student at this institution has folded over the page corner to mark a passage detailing an old wedding ritual, in which drunken male wedding guests competed in a race from the churchyard to the bride’s front door. The winner was awarded not only the bride’s garter, but also the privilege of removing it. I’d love to know why this was of interest.
It’s becoming apparent that I am something of a Jonah when it comes to mountain trips. For the second summer in a row, my hiking companion has brought home a broken bone as a souvenir. Admittedly my brother’s paggered hand this time round was not nearly as catastrophic as Gustav’s arm last year, and you can’t fault his timing, breaking it as he did on our last morning of walking, but all the same, I shouldn’t imagine there’ll be many volunteers sticking their heads over the parapet next time I ask for some company on the trail.
Calamity aside, Christian and I have just got back from a thoroughly wonderful trip to Norway, visiting areas that were equally new to both of us, with a sneaky bit of R&R in Bergen in the middle. For this first blog, I’ll focus on the initial week in Jotunheimen, before tackling our time in Hardangervidda in a separate post.
Jotunheimen has a reputation as Norway’s flagship mountain realm, with a concentration of high peaks and glaciers pretty much unrivalled in northern Europe. It feels old, and grand, and powerful, and a little bit desolate. It’s not actually all that large, but the steepness of the terrain means you get good value out of your miles.
Christian and I tramped the classic east-west crossing, as set out in Connie Roos’s excellent Cicerone guide to Walking in Norway. According to my GPS, the route was about 110km, and took us five and a half days. We set out from the popular tourist station at Gjendesheim, scrambling along the Besseggen Ridge before descending to lake Russvattnet. Over the next ridge to the lodge at Glitterheim, then up Glittertind, which at 2,465m is Norway’s second highest mountain (and well over a thousand metres taller than Ben Nevis). Descending on the other side, we wound through valleys and passes, encountering three mountain lodges – Spiterstulen, Leirvassbu and Skogadalsbøen – before finally dropping down into the valley at Vetti, and picking up a bus back to the real world at Hjelle.
First, the good; and there was a great deal of it. I for one have never seen views like those in Jotunheimen, (and I have seen quite a lot of views at one time or another). The photo from the Besseggen ridge, showing the strikingly different-coloured lakes Gjende and Bessvattnet, must be the second most famous shot in Norway (I reckon star jumping on Trolltunga probably pips it to the top spot), and the scramble along the ridge is most exhilarating. Our guidebook writer reassured us that ‘the dangers of this ridge are often exaggerated’, but a quick google reveals that Connie Roos was tragically killed by a lightning strike in 1999 while working on a guide to the formidable GR20 in Corsica, so perhaps she may have been a bit edgier than your average upland bimbler. At any rate, with a big unwieldy backpack on, and drizzle greasing the rocks, the Besseggen scramble is enough to get your heart going nicely.
Each day had its own distinct character, and the joy of the route was how well these stages dovetailed. The ascent of Glittertind, for example, was punishing and rewarding in equal measure, with horizontal snow and biting winds as we crossed the eternal snowfields blanketing its top. It’s the kind of excitement these sorts of trips are all about, your jacket frosted with ice as you snatch glimpses of the tiny world below you through the swirling snow clouds, stopping only for the briefest of photos on the summit before making a dash down to comparative shelter.
The next day, by comparison, was a long, gentle climb through the valley between Spiterstulen and Leirvassbu. Soft, comfortable walking where you could recuperate from the previous day’s exertions and dawdle as you enjoyed the views of mythological-looking peaks like Kyrkja – ‘the church steeple’ – the cloud flowing round its pointed summit cartoonishly, like dry ice.
The social side of the Norwegian mountains was a pleasure too, and nowhere was this more enjoyable than at Skogadalsbøen. Given that most of the other mountain lodges have road access (Leirvassbu and Gjendesheim even have regular bus services from Oslo via Fagernes), as a multi-day walker you can sometimes find yourself in the minority. This isn’t necessarily a bad thing – and we mostly camped out anyway rather than using the lodges – but it’s always fun to swap stories with folk having the same sorts of adventures you are, and you can feel a little self-conscious when everyone around you looks immaculate on account of their suitcase full of clothes, while your own idea of ‘scrubbing up’ is to wear sandals instead of boots and a t-shirt that only has two days of wear instead of four. There are no such concerns at Skogadalsbøen. Everyone has got there on their own two feet – usually via somewhere interesting – and in the evenings you sit at long, communal tables, filling up on hearty platefuls of roasted meat and fish as you trade tales with fellow pack ponies. Rather charmingly, there was a small delay in serving the main course on the rainy night we stayed in their lovely old bunkhouse, so one of the girls who worked in the kitchen came out and gave us all a little flute recital by way of apology. Not something you see every day.
There is only one downside to Jotunheimen, and it is the inevitable one, which is that the world and his wife are all there. Footfall is heavy on all the main trails, and the pervasive road access means you never really feel like you’re getting into the back country. That said, it was only Besseggen where the crowds were really noticeable, along with the inevitable detritus of thousands of humans – plastic packets weighted down under stones, half-buried beer cans, disintegrating bog roll plastering the rock around more or less any little nook hidden from the wind, and old sanitary towels billowing ethereally in the shallows of Bessvattnet. Away from Besseggen though, the people quickly thinned out and got friendlier, and as we pitched camp the next evening, a moustachioed shepherd stopped to pass the time of day. His equipment was bodged and patched, and we could see his old brown teepee in the distance down by the edge of Russvattnet. His English vocabulary was sparse, but on learning our nationality, he was in no doubt as to the correct way to proceed.
‘You watch football? I am a Manchester United fan…’
‘Isn’t it just a massive conifer forest?’
Well, yes, I suppose it is. But that’s doing Kielder Forest a bit of a disservice. Last month I took a long weekend to have a second nose around England’s largest man-made forest, following an earlier visit in October. I was feeling a bit beaten-down what with one thing and another, and there’s nothing gives you a lift like a few days slinking around somewhere unfamiliar with a map and a backpack.
Secrets of the forest
Once again, Kielder didn’t disappoint. It’s just so full of interest. In the course of a single day I came across a giant decapitated wooden head hidden in the trees; relics of a long-gone railway track, including a towering, slightly eerie viaduct; a striking modern observatory high on a hill, and one of James Turrell’s famous Skyspaces, which for the uninitiated is a sort of oversized, upside-down celestial version of those underwater viewers you used to make out of plastic bottles. During a brief brush with other humans, I sat with mid-morning coffee in the caff at Kielder Castle, watching a live video feed of the recently-arrived migrant ospreys pulling strips of sushi off rainbow trout from the reservoir [they have a good blog, if you’re interested].
There are moorland hilltops hidden in the forest too, and since it’s access land (and you can thus wander more or less wherever you like), I indulged in a little afternoon yomp on a compass bearing across rough, trackless heather to the trig point at Purdom Pikes. There are plenty more tops around, including a couple of Marilyns that I quite like the look of.
It’s a place where you get used to expecting the unexpected, and it is in the nature of a working forestry concern that your maps are out of date almost as soon as they’re printed. Wholesale felling can mean you get wide-reaching views when you were expecting to be hemmed in by lofty spruces, and the route you might have planned to take may well have been planted over.
Paths, tracks, and the sticky question of walking on bike trails
There is a downside to all this, in that the footpaths are frequently very ropey, if you can find them at all. The circuit round the reservoir is superb (and wheelchair-friendly, I believe), but otherwise your choice is often between sticking to the Forestry Commission vehicle tracks or toiling through clawing scrub, trees and bog with your compass out, occasionally reassured by a mouldering bridleway sign sticking wonkily out of the side of a tree. But you can’t have your cake and eat it, and in some ways it’s all part of the fun – you just have to enjoy the place for what it is. If you want to make quick progress, take the Forestry Commission tracks, and if you want an adventure, get your compass out and have a play in the woods. There are enough landmarks that it’s hard to get really lost.
In fact there’s a third option, but it’s a bit of a tricky call to make. You see, there’s actually an excellent network of tracks in Kielder Forest that most likely won’t appear on your map. They’re well-maintained, and access many beautiful and hard-to-reach areas of the forest. The snag is that they’re for mountain bikers, and have been lovingly built with a great deal of time and effort by volunteers from the Kielder Trail Reavers.
Of course you’re not going to do the trails any harm with your boots, and bikers use footpaths all the time, but equally part of the fun of downhill biking is being able to hoon down a track without slamming the brakes on to negotiate walkers. On bridleways I would take the view that bikers should expect to share the path (and indeed they do), but when they’ve gone to the considerable trouble of creating a network of purpose-built routes, I feel like they’ve probably earned the right to enjoy them freely. Mountain bikers are among the most likeable groups of outdoorsmen, and it would be a shame to interfere with their fun.
I was curious enough about the question that I emailed the forest rangers, and their response was eminently sensible. They say it’s access land, so you can go where you like, but they’d prefer walkers to avoid the bike tracks for safety reasons. According to the ranger I spoke to, ‘I think generally we would discourage pedestrians from walking on dedicated mountain bike singletrack trails, as riders may be moving at considerable speed and not expecting to encounter people on foot’.
I didn’t plan to use the bike trails, but I did occasionally explore them if they went the right way and there wasn’t any other way of getting there. I kept eyes and ears open, ready to get out of the way quickly, though in fact in the whole weekend I only saw two bikers (which probably says more about the extensive nature of the network than it does about the area’s popularity). Ultimately it’s your decision, but if you do decide to take the bike tracks, it’s worth making sure you respect the priority of the users for whom they were built.
A night in the woods
Another fine feather in Kielder’s cap is that it’s one of the few places in England where wild camping is permitted to some extent. There are twelve ‘backpacking sites’, on top of a few bothies that also lurk in the woods. It’s worth being absolutely clear that these are not ‘campsites’ with toilets and taps. They’re just little corners of forest, usually in pretty places, where you’re allowed to wild camp. There are streams nearby for water, but you’ll need to filter, sterilise or boil it. And if nature calls, you can slide off into the trees and commune with it directly.
One morning at Scotch Knowe (so called because it sits right on the border), after I’d taken the decision to wait out some persistent rain in the warmth of my tent, a passing ranger hollered over just to check I was ok. He said many of the sites were rarely used, and I think that’s a bit of a shame. True, some of them are boggy or difficult to find, but they’re there, and that’s the important thing. The forest covers a very large area, and having places to stay dotted around brings more of it within reach. You don’t have to get back to the car by the end of the day, and you can enjoy being deep in the heart of the forest at dusk and dawn.
If you want to wild camp in Kielder, you’ll need to contact the Forestry Commission at Kielder Castle for a list of sites and locations, then you just have to give them a rough itinerary in advance (they mainly just want to make sure they don’t double-book the smaller, single-pitch sites). It’s easy and they’re very flexible. Oh, and if you’re only going to try one, make it Needs Hill, on the north side of the reservoir. It’s pretty magical.
Some final thoughts
As a walker, you’re often used to being tolerated rather than welcomed, but in Kielder you get a very different feeling. The forest is full of things for you to find, spots for you to camp, and interesting routes for you to take. It’s all open access so you can roam wherever you like, and there are baited lures to hook in various tribes of outdoor enthusiasts, whether they be hikers, bikers, runners, twitchers, anglers, or stargazers. There are even tracks suitable for wheelchair users. They’re working very hard to make adventures in the outdoors more accessible and appealing for as wide a group of people as possible, and I think that’s something to be commended.
Kielder is a real playground, and I for one will definitely be back.
I noticed lately that the British Mountaineering Council’s ‘Mend Our Mountains‘ crowdfunding campaign has been extended.
It’s a nice idea to help fund repairs to our hill paths, many of which are in a bit of a bad way. Various gear and outdoor companies, national parks and even celebrities have given prizes that you can redeem in exchange for donations. People can choose to fund individual projects or to contribute towards a bigger general pot.
I donated towards one of my own local paths, the Lyke Wake Walk, on the North York Moors, and I think it’s interesting that the park rangers have chosen this particular route to improve.
The Lyke Wake Walk path
The Three Peaks Challenge of its 1970s heyday, the Lyke Wake Walk is a once wildly popular 40-mile challenge route that has rather fallen out of fashion in more recent years. But the scars across the landscape remain, and there have been so many different tracks carved out that it’s often impossible to work out which one was the original. It also doesn’t help that it crosses some very boggy terrain which doesn’t cope well with heavy footfall. In short, it’s greatly in need of some love.
It might seem odd to invest in a challenge route that’s on the wane (even though plenty of people still walk it), but there’s a lot more to the Lyke Wake than a 24-hour crusade. It covers some of the best walking on the North York Moors, and in his excellent Cicerone Guide to the area, Paddy Dillon includes it as a four-day walk, reasoning that it’s worth enjoying it for the glorious path it is rather than ‘struggling through the hours of darkness on some godforsaken moorland grind’. He writes:
‘Traditionalists may pour scorn on the notion of covering the Lyke Wake Walk in stages, but the aim is to enjoy the route and its wilderness surroundings, rather than suffer for the sake of meeting a deadline, walking through the night and seeing little of the remarkable moorland scenery.’
The original premise of the Lyke Wake was to cross the whole national park without leaving the moors – a notion which is even more valuable on a slow long-distance walk than it is on a high-mileage challenge. There’s no messing around winding through conifer plantations or dodging shirty cattle and loose dogs round the valley farms, just gorgeous, exposed moorland bimbling with stand-out views and some of the big sights of the North York Moors. You get the soaring vistas north into the Tees Valley from the moors above Great Broughton; the jutting dinosaurs’ teeth of the Wainstones; the lonely old railway track across the high moors to the isolated Lion Inn at Blakey; the Wheeldale Roman Road, and the ancient look-outs at Shunner Howe and Simon Howe. You cross heritage railways and nature reserves, tread old moorland causeways, and pass countless antique boundary stones and monuments, including the famous Lilla Cross and mysterious Blue Man i’ the Moss.
I’m firmly in camp Dillon on this one. Just a couple of weeks ago, I was walking the section that crosses Fylingdales Moor from Eller Beck Bridge. If I’d been doing the challenge proper I’d have been about 30 miles in by then, and I daresay my enjoyment of the occasion – splashing across the boggy moor then lounging under Lilla Cross in the sunshine, gazing out towards the coast with a flask of coffee and a custard doughnut – might have been considerably less pronounced. I reckon it’s definitely time we redefined the Lyke Wake as a long-distance walking path, appreciating it for the classic moorland route it is, and giving it the time and the TLC it deserves.
If anyone fancies donating a few quid to keep it nice, you can do so here.
The other day, taking advantage of a pocket of sunshine and a light workload, I went out for a bit of an explore. I recently got hold of the Harvey Mountain Map for the North York Moors, and it’s got some paths on it that the OS map doesn’t, so I fancied investigating. In particular, there was a snicket marked winding up through the woods from the ruin of Carter House, and it proved to be a lovely way, leading up to a grassy, neglected forest ride which in turn took me out onto a spectacular moorland track along the rim of unspoiled North Dale. The muntjacs were bold and noisy, letting me get within a few metres of them before they bounced off white-tailed, barking out their ugly alarm cries.
It was a good day. The sun beat down hot and the wind blew cold as I hooked up with the wide scar of the Lyke Wake Walk heading towards Eller Beck Bridge, followed it across swampy Fylingdales Moor to the ancient Saxon grave of Lilla Cross, then struck back across the moor, hopping the A169 and strolling down through the heather to Goathland Station. After a cuppa at the station caff, I took a 15-minute steam train ride to the shady platform at Newton Dale Halt – a request stop deep in the woods – then climbed out of the dale and back to the car. Between you and I, I may have had a little snooze on a rock by Hudson’s Cross.
At one stage during my day, crossing a fairly quiet stretch of moor, I happened upon a couple of sets of fox snares, and a Larsen crow trap with a big black bait bird bristling angrily inside. Subject to certain regulations these are perfectly legal, but you don’t often come across them – usually only at certain times of year when the gamekeepers are trying to keep the predators off the baby birds. They were an interesting reminder that these tracks I so enjoy wandering are part of a working landscape, and have been one way or another for many hundreds or even thousands of years. In a single day I walked old pony causeways, military access tracks, and paths carved out by gamekeepers, foresters and farmers (and occasionally just sheep). I passed broken-down field barns and cottages, paths that no longer lead anywhere, and stiles to tracks that have ceased to exist.
Traps aren’t a particularly attractive thing to come across, (and I recognise that many people will find the idea of them unpleasant), but they bring a sense of reality to the place which has an odd appeal. The notion that the ground you’re travelling through isn’t an archive of something that once was, but an evolving landscape full of life and death, growth and decay. Home to people and creatures who know some of its secrets.
All the same, if you’re out and about, I’d keep your dogs close.