Month: January 2025
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Rose Castle Revisited
A few days of nostalgia at Rose Castle, once part of the Monk Coniston Estate and now within the National Trustâs Tarn Hows property. There is a certain sadness in the loss of its quirks, though not for the old toiletâthe one-holer, the thunderbox. Electricity and piped spring water are welcome signs of progress. The…
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The Wurzelweg of Larnerâs Hill
I have walked this path up Larnerâs Hill to Captain Cookâs Monument more times than I care to count. Where it winds past Round Hill Wood, exposed tree roots have formed what could generously be called natural steps. Supposedly, this is a Public Bridleway, though one would have to admire the optimism of anyone attempting…
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A Red Grouse, the Civil War, and Pennymanâs Delinquency
This Red Grouse, clearly unimpressed by my presence, stood its ground clucking defiantly as I trudged up Easby Moor. Its red wattle gave away its gender, maybe it was trying to attract a mate. Back in the 17th century, grouse would not have been hunted to the same extent as today but still might have…
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Slippery Paths and Roseberryâs Summerhouse
A supposedly âgentlerâ path to the top of Roseberry Topping winds up the southern side from the Summerhouse Field. After last nightâs heavy rain, the path has become a veritable death trap, with these walkers wisely prefering the rough grass for better footing. Ascending it is manageable, but descending? Practically suicidal. Avoiding the path might…
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The Cleveland Hills on a Myst-Hakel Morning
I slogged up through the old whinstone quarry, staring at the ground, my thoughts elsewhere. I braced myself to find the usual rubbish left behind by quad bikers, as if the world is their personal skip. I could hear them active yesterday. The frost-covered, sterile earth stretched ahead, with the bikersâ berms and humps standing…
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Burns Night: Tartan, Haggis, and a Global Legacy
Ah, Burnâs Night, that annual spectacle of tartan-wrapped sentimentality when the Scots remind everyone of their heritage. Beyond haggis, neeps, and tatties, there is, of course, The Address itself: Fair faâ your honest, sonsie face, Great Chieftain oâ the Puddin-race! Perhaps not Robert Burnsâs maximum opus for surely that superlative must go to âAuld Lang…
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Hinderwellâs Holy Well and the Legacy of St. Hilda
Storm Ăowyn made it rather wild on Roseberry this morning, so let me take refuge in recent memories and revisit Wednesdayâs more gentle jaunt to the Yorkshire Coast instead. This is the Holy Well in the churchyard at Hinderwell, once the villageâs sole water supply. Apparently, the waters were deemed miraculous, curing eye diseases and…
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The Witch-Mare of OrraâA Forgotten Nightmare Myth
Ah, Urraâbarely discernible through the oppressive cloud that choked my aimless trudge around the moor it so generously lends its name to. It is also the setting for the utterly enthralling tale of the Witch-Mare of Orra. A legend I have alluded to with tiresome frequency, though clearly without bothering to grasp its finer points.…
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Port Mulgrave: A Harbour of Erosion and Memory
The last time I ventured down Rosedale Cliff to Port Mulgrave was sometime before the world discovered a new way to grind to a halt â the dreaded COVID. Shortly afterwards, a landslip completely wiped out the path. Today, visiting the beach was not on the itinerary, but fate â in the form of National…
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Cleopatraâs Needle and its Tenuous Connection to the North Riding
Let us journey back to this day, 21st January in 1878, to Gravesend, Kent. Imagine the children, thrilled to avoid school, lining the Thames estuary to witness the grand arrival of Cleopatraâs Needle. This 3,500-year-old, 224-ton, 21-metre-high granite obelisk had been towed from Alexandria to London in a cumbersome iron vessel shaped like a cylinder.…