A return to Kielder

‘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you get used to expecting the unexpected, and it is in the nature of a working forestry concern that your maps are out of date almost as soon as they’re printed.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.



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Mend Our Mountains campaign extended

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.

Blue-Man-i-the-MossCarlton moor view

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Trappers and the quiet ways

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.


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My Green Ribbon 2015 video

I finally got round to stitching together the GoPro footage of my two-month hike through the Swedish mountains in summer 2015.

The Green Ribbon (or ‘Gröna Bandet’) is a long-distance challenge where you walk the length of the Scandinavian mountain range, travelling in either direction between Grövelsjön in the south and Treriksröset in the north. If you do it in the winter then it’s known as the White Ribbon. In total it took me 56 days, and the distance came in at around 1395km. If you’re interested, you can find lots more stuff under the Green Ribbon category tag.

Clearly I have not missed my vocation as a cameraman (or a video editor, for that matter), but the mountains are pretty and you can enjoy the spectacle of me transforming slowly into an increasingly deranged-looking ginger Brian Blessed.


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Blencathra, and some thoughts on fells

Last week my brother and I conducted a quick raid on the Lake District. Our window of opportunity was short (only one full day), but the north eastern area of the Lakes is actually pretty accessible from the east coast. Once you’ve put Scotch Corner in your mirrors, it’s a joyful leap across the expansive North Pennines on the A66, and as you start to see the Lakeland fells cresting in the distance you already feel better about life.

Christian fancied a potter up Blencathra, so I’d booked us into Gill Head Farm campsite near Troutbeck for a couple of nights. The camping field looked out squarely on our target, with tantalising views across its severe cliffs, the rocky gills burrowing up its face, and a ridge to take your breath away. I hadn’t walked up it since a sunny day on a scout camp in the summer of 1999.

Fish and chips from a van and a few pints of Cumberland Ale in the Troutbeck Inn, then an early bed, with the rain and wind battering the old two-man hike tent that I’ve had since I was sixteen. Spring may have arrived, but apparently no-one has told Cumbria, and I wriggled from my sleeping bag in the morning to find the flysheet frozen stiff, the cars covered with ice, and Blencathra up above us smeared white with fresh snowfall. I love icy early mornings, and once I’d got the Trangia stoves lit, I sat out in a heavy overshirt, sipping scalding hot tea and heating a couple of tins of that slightly obscene, luminous orange ‘all-day breakfast’ that always reminds me of our winter Coast to Coast crossing back in late 2007. The game is to see if you can find the one or two tiny mushrooms hidden among the powdery sausages and the bizarre yet savoury clumps of oats and egg.

We started with a muddy tramp across the valley in half-hearted rain, then a steep, breathless climb up a narrow track past a sign that said ‘NO PATH’ in weathered, long-ignored letters, pausing momentarily for me to get grouchy about some hikers in the distance who didn’t bother putting their dog on a lead even after it started chasing the fell sheep. Before we knew it we were up in the snow, with the cloud swirling around us, occasionally clearing to reveal the sunshine breaking across the valley below as the rain slunk off to bother someone else. Up on the top of the fell, there was a sense of elation among the few other walkers we ran into, all of whom had set out on a relatively grim morning and found themselves climbing into what might as well have been a completely different day.

Standing high on a mountain ridge never gets old, and being up on Blencathra reminded me of a passage from Travels with Charley, where old Steinbeck discovers that he’s driven too far and too fast.

‘And I sat in the seat and faced what I had concealed from myself. I was driving myself, pounding out the miles because I was no longer hearing or seeing. I had passed my limit of taking in or, like a man who goes on stuffing in food after he is filled, I felt helpless to assimilate what was fed in through my eyes. Each hill looked like the one just passed. I have felt this way in the Prado in Madrid after looking at a hundred paintings – the stuffed and helpless inability to see more.’

Thing is, this doesn’t happen when you’ve got your boots on. It’s a feeling we’ve all had at one time or another, but in all the years crossing fells and moors, I’ve never experienced it when I’ve been out walking. The novelty has never worn off, and maybe it’s because the sights and sensations don’t come easily. It’s not a question of taking three steps to the next painting, or sitting with your foot on the floor while the road spools ahead of you. Mountain walking in particular is a sort of crescendo. As you climb, the views get more spectacular each time you stop and look, until finally you’re up high on the ridge and there’s nothing more to do but to take your time and enjoy it. The effort of getting there makes it all the sweeter once you do.

As Christian and I are fond of saying to one another, ‘let us not be worms’.


blencathra-2 blencathra-3 blencathra-4


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Nelly Ayre Foss

A few weeks ago, while I was catting around on the internet for information about Biggersdale Hole, I came across a mention of a waterfall near Goathland called Nelly Ayre Foss.

A former spa village, Goathland is perennially popular thanks to its alter ego as Aidensfield in blue-rinse classic, Heartbeat, and its railway station’s cameo as Hogsmeade in the Harry Potter films. In terms of waterfalls, it’s well known for the tumbling waters of Mallyan Spout, and to a lesser extent Thomason Foss in the charismatic little hamlet of Beck Hole. But I’d never heard of Nelly Ayre.

My mum was visiting last weekend, and with the sun shining, we set out on Sunday morning to see if we could track Nelly down. Our timing wasn’t brilliant, since the narrow lanes of the Esk Valley were choked with trippers hoping to get a photo of the legendary Flying Scotsman as it plied the North York Moors Railway for a few days. Not that you could blame anyone for wanting to take themselves somewhere pretty on such a glorious morning, and in fact the crowds were all clustered around the railway and the pubs, leaving the moors themselves fairly quiet.

Turns out Nelly Ayre Foss is not the most accessible of places, but in many ways that adds to its charm. I reckon the best way is to head south-west out of Goathland past the Mallyan Spout Hotel, then at the roundabout take the track that goes straight on (not the one up over the hill), skirting the edge of the moor parallel to Hunt House Road. Of course you could just take the road (in which case you would go right at the roundabout, then take the left fork at Hunt House Road, being careful not to go too far – if you pass Hunt House itself then you’ve overshot it), but it’s nice to get a bit of a view over towards Castle Hill and evocatively-named Murk Mire Moor. When you’re a short way past the road switchback and buildings at New Wath, you can then cut down to your right, crossing Hunt House Road and making for the wall of a sheepfold. It doesn’t much matter where you hit the wall, since you just turn left and follow it to its end, then turn the corner down towards the valley floor. By now you should be able to hear the foss (which, by the way, is a corruption of ‘force’, and is a pretty standard local term for a waterfall).

From there it’s a little bit of a scramble, with a steep bank to slither down whichever way you elect to come at it. A massive stick might help (or not).


Your reward, however, is a thoroughly lovely spot – secluded, airy and beautiful. A relatively wide, gentle foss with good ledges for sitting and swinging your legs as you tackle a cup of coffee and a piece of shortbread. What’s especially nice is to compare an 1872 drawing of Nelly Ayre Foss by Edmund Marriner Gill (courtesy of the British Museum) to the pictures I took last weekend. The trees have grown a bit, and it looks like he had a bit more water coming over than we did, but in a changing world, Nelly Ayre is more or less as he left it 140 years ago.



nelly-ayre-foss-3[Note: A good way to see the waterfalls round Goathland is to put together a circuit taking in Nelly Ayre, Mallyan Spout and Thomason Foss, with obligatory refreshments at the wonderful Birch Hall Inn. Be warned however that the beckside path between New Wath and Mallyan Spout is very eroded, to the point where it can be quite difficult going. The local authorities have provided an alternative path which runs a little higher up the side of the valley, and if you’re at all unsteady on your pins (or not wearing stout boots) then this might be a better option.]

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A bit of winter walking in Füssen

This time last week I was beginning my journey home from a snowy week spent winter walking in Bavaria. I was actually on a press gig for walk magazine, and though the full feature will show up sometime in the autumn, I’m tempted to bob up a few brief thoughts about the experience in the meantime.

It was a guided group trip with Ramblers Worldwide Holidays, based in the pretty town of Füssen, on the eastern edge of Germany’s Allgäu region. This corner of Bavaria is a real looker, with cotton-wool snow, conifer woodlands and storybook castles giving the whole place a sort of otherworldy aesthetic, like peering into a snow-globe.


Ludwig’s famous castles are a big draw too, of course, and while there’s an inescapable sense of disappointment about the way you’re buffeted around the interiors on whistlestop guided tours, in many ways the castles are loveliest when viewed from a distance anyway. Tramp for fifteen minutes up the forest tracks and the coach parties melt away, leaving you free to admire Neuschwanstein’s Wagnerian spires or Hohenschwangau’s gaudy yellow ramparts at your leisure through their frame of snow-laden fir trees.


One of the things that struck me most about the region was the accessibility of its winter hiking. Our guide easily got five days of varied walks (usually 7-10 miles/11-16 kilometres) out of the Füssen area, with motorised travel limited to a few 10-minute rides on local bus services. The trails were almost all cleared and gritted, and the gradients weren’t particularly punishing. There were a couple of occasions where we needed ice grippers and poles, but nothing more demanding than that. Of course, bring a pair of snow shoes and your options get a lot wider, but there’s plenty to go at without them.

In terms of conditions, we sort of had the best of both worlds. Fresh, soft snow, but without the harsh temperatures and biting winds that often accompany it. In the whole week we had about half an hour of rain, and there were a couple of days where I even caught the sun a bit. It’s difficult to say whether what we encountered was a stroke of exceptional good luck, but one of the group had a friend who’d reported similar weather on the same trip the previous year, so maybe it wasn’t so extraordinary after all.

Put simply, it’s an area that gives big rewards for very moderate effort. Most days we ate and drank well at mountain lodges, and a gang of 16 well-travelled, outdoorsy sorts made for genuinely entertaining company. Our guide, Ursula, was an easy-going German lady who gave us plenty of rope, and even as an inveterate solo trekker I could see the appeal of this kind of sociable group holiday – relaxing and invigorating at the same time.

That’s not to say I didn’t have my beady eye out for longer-distance possibilities, and I’m highly tempted by a return visit in a warmer season to walk the Lechweg. Looks like it’s about a week’s trip, with the potential to be pretty spectacular. Suppose I’d better stick it on the list.


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A mission to Bavaria

Considering much of my existence is spent hunched over a computer in the front bedroom of a North Yorkshire cottage, life has been rather exciting lately. Last week I was in the Swiss Alps near Verbier, wobbling erratically down the blue runs while my ski instructor girlfriend heckled me encouragingly with shouts of ‘you look like a T-rex on skis!’ and this week finds me on a job reviewing a winter walking holiday in Bavaria with Ramblers Worldwide Holidays. I’m currently gazing out from a warm snug in a spa hotel in Füssen as the snow falls heavily outside.

I’ve only been here a few days, so I’m still finding my feet a bit, but even from the most cursory introduction, I’m already realising that this is an area with a lot of potential. You’ve got deep evergreen woods and frozen lakes ringed by craggy, white-dusted mountains and the lunatic Wagnerian castles of King Ludwig. Bavaria looks thoroughly lovely in her winter coat, and we’ve struck mighty lucky with the weather so far. The snow has an appealing fairytale fluff about it, and as we tramp the soft woodland tracks I keep half expecting Mr Tumnus to poke his nose tentatively out of the trees.

I’ll write more when I’ve got the measure of the place a bit better, but I’m already enticed by some of the long-distance possibilities lurking in this corner of the Alps.

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Jeanie the hag

It’s rather wonderful to discover something new about somewhere you thought you knew back to front.

Less than a ten-minute walk from my cottage, Mulgrave Woods is an enchanting place – a 2000-acre ancient woodland with a ruined castle perched high on a hilltop in the middle. Part of the Marquess of Normanby’s estate, it’s managed for game and timber, but the public are allowed in at weekends and on Wednesdays. I’ve been going there my whole life, and as I stroll down the broad forest tracks, I sometimes pass trees that I used to clamber on when I was a boy, or dense, tangled rhododendron thickets where I once hid. I imagine they will still be there long after I’m gone.

Last week, while sorting out the bookshelves at the cottage, I uncovered a battered copy of the Ward Lock’s Red Guide to Whitby and the Yorkshire Coast. It’s a beauty, with some classic vintage advertisements and a rich, antiquarian smell. There’s no date on it, but from the ads and the fact that the Yorkshire coast still had a good train network, I reckon we’re looking at the early to mid 1950s.


It’s the sort of book I could spend hours poring over, but inevitably I started by turning to the section on my own village (‘a neat village […] not much to show the visitor except its church’) and the adjoining woodlands. The old and new castles got a mention, of course, but I was intrigued by the following:

‘On the other side of the ravine, almost opposite the old Castle, is the Hermitage, really a small arbour or summerhouse of modern construction […] The Wizard’s Glen is reached by a pathway at the back of the Hermitage. A pretty waterfall will be seen here, and there are others in various parts of the grounds. Indeed, one can spend hours among the varied beauties of Mulgrave Woods.’

Hang on. The Wizard’s Glen? I got out my OS map (OL27 North York Moors Eastern Area), and sure enough, directly south of the old castle, on the other side of the ravine, was a steep-sided gully with a waterfall. Seeing that the waterfall was named ‘Biggersdale Hole’, a bell rang somewhere, and I remembered that there’s a local legend about ‘Jeanie of Biggersdale’, also known rather gallantly as ‘Jeanie the hag’. In some versions she’s a fairy who lives in a hollow under the waterfall, while in others she’s a witch, a sprite or a bogle, but the rough story is usually the same.

A fairly lengthy version of Jeanie’s tale can be found in Katharine Simpson’s 1893 book, Jeanie O’Biggersdale, alongside several other regional folk yarns. Jeanie’s particular saga runs to 52 pages, and is notable for undoubtedly the most Yorkshire opening to a book that I have ever read:


A rather more concise account of Jeanie’s misdeeds comes from Folklore of Yorkshire, by Kai Roberts:

‘An Eskdale farmer got more than he bargained for when he accepted a wager to enter Mulgrave Woods late one night and call out Jeanie of Biggersdale, an infamously ill-tempered fairy who lived at the head of that dell. Emboldened by alcohol, the farmer approached her dwelling and called her name; unfortunately for him, Jeanie was at home and at once replied that she was coming, her voice ripe with fury. The farmer turned heel and fled, with the irate fairy in hot pursuit. He managed to escape by crossing the running stream – a boundary which no denizen of the Otherworld can traverse – but Jeanie was so nearly upon him that she managed to snatch at the rear half of his horse before the animal was fully across, and her supernatural touch severed the animal in two.’

On Sunday lunchtime, after working the morning, I grabbed a flask and a handful of biscuits and set off to have a look. Of the hermitage I could find no sign, but walking west past the steps up to the old castle then zig-zagging down to the valley floor brought me to a bridge across East Row Beck, and the foot of Jeanie’s glen.


It’s safe to say the Wizard’s Glen is no longer a tourist spot. The bottom part was still used for shooting, as evidenced by the numbered wooden platforms across the stream, the spent shells glinting in the water and the occasional remnants of downed birds, but as I clambered further up the glen the pathway gave out. It grew steeper, darker, narrower and choked with brash and fallen trees, to the extent that the easiest way was often to scramble up through the water. Finally, turning a corner, I came upon the edge of the wood high above me, with the waterfall tumbling down into the dell from the fields beyond. Thankfully there was no sign of stroppy Jeanie, but it was a beautiful, wild spot, with the bright winter sunlight shining through the branches, and long tendrils of ivy hanging down from a fallen tree that bridged the ravine above.


On my way back, I took a different route, crossing East Row Beck at a ford, and I was amused to see the prints of a horse’s hooves in the soft mud at the edge of the stream. Hopefully this one made it out alive.


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The cliff route to Robin Hood’s Bay

The sun has been venturing out lately, and so have I.

Yesterday, after working late into the previous night, I crawled out of bed to discover the sun rising into a beautiful clear sky. I sacked off work for the day, laced up the walking boots and bounced out of the front door with a flask of coffee in my backpack.

I strolled the hour or so into Whitby, where I had a few things to pick up, and on the self-indulgent whim of a man who has no-one to please but himself, I nosed around the peculiar galleried church of St Mary’s, high on the east cliff by the abbey. It’s a curious, charming old place, with its hefty coal-fired stove, its triple-decker pulpit with ear trumpets attached at the request of a long-dead vicar’s wife, and its strict, hierarchical sets of box pews for noblemen, shipbuilders, lifeboatmen and so forth. Out in the ancient churchyard, the salt-laden sea winds gnaw the faces off the crumbling sandstone graves, and every now and again a landslide sends the bones of Whitby’s ancestors tumbling into the old town below.

From there, I decided to potter along the cliff path down to Robin Hood’s Bay. It’s only about six and a half miles from Whitby Abbey, but it’s full of interest. As I looked down over treacherous Saltwick Bay, the fossil and jet hunters were out, crouched over the mudstone in their wellingtons, while the low tide revealed the beached husk of an ill-fated Scarborough trawler called the Admiral Von Tromp, wrecked in mysterious circumstances nearly forty years ago. [Edit, November 2016: a reader has kindly corrected me – the boat in my picture, and the one I saw, is not the Admiral, but another vessel called the Cretablock, built oddly enough out of concrete. Must go back and have another snoop around…]


Past a sprawling caravan park and the rearing teeth of Saltwick Nab, I came to Whitestone Point, with its lighthouse and foghorn station. As far as I can tell, the lighthouse is still operational (the keepers’ cottages are holiday rentals), but I remember seeing that the string of low buildings making up the fog signal station (decommissioned in the 80s) were up for sale in the local paper last year. It’s close enough to the cliff edge to give you the odd sleepless night, but otherwise it’s nigh on perfect. Whoever lives there at the moment has a pretty little garden, a couple of stocky ponies in a paddock, and sea views beyond compare.


The undulating, muddy track, still frozen solid in the hollows, wound its way on past Hawsker Bottom and round National Trust-owned Bay Ness, with the coast looming hazily beyond like the edge of an undiscovered island. I passed an old coastguard rocket post, before descending past rows of smart B&Bs into the olde-worlde maze of poky taverns and alleyways that make up Robin Hood’s Bay. Back in the 1700s, the good people of the Bay were legendary for their disdain of customs and excise law, and the local fishing fleet wasn’t nearly so concerned with catching fish as it was with bringing in copious quantities of bootleg baccy, booze, salt and tea from the schooners anchored out on the North Sea. I imagine it’s no coincidence that the old moorland foot causeway known as Robin Hood’s Bay Road crosses Fylingdales Moor before emerging conveniently at the famous smugglers’ haunt of the Saltersgate Inn.

Traditionally, Wainwright’s 200-mile Coast to Coast walk finishes in the downstairs bar at the Bay Hotel on the seafront, but I had my sights set on a pint of Old Peculier in the Dolphin, just up the hill. A couple of buses ferried me home just in time to get the fire lit before nipping down to Darren’s fish and chip van on the village green.

It’s days like this I remember why I moved up here.

bay-ness cliffs-from-bay-ness black-nab

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