A circuit of Urra Moor—Orrah, as it was once called before the Ordnance Survey decided to tidy up. The moor was generously blanketed in snow, looking superb
The witch that supposedly roams this moor as a horse—the illustrious “hag-mare of Orrah”—was nowhere to be seen. A shame, really; she would have made an interesting subject for the photo.
Along Billy’s Dyke, that prehistoric earthwall, two people and a dog had clearly passed through, judging by the footprints. A trail blazed yesterday, no doubt. The dyke, named after William the Conqueror (because apparently he paused here mid-rampage to curse at a storm), also enjoys the name Cromwell’s Trenches, thanks to his daughter marrying the Earl of Fauconberg. Never mind that it is almost certainly far older—Middle Bronze Age, give or take a millennium. Perhaps it was later repurposed as a medieval deer park. But no deer today, just us and a grouse or two looking smug now that the shooting season is over.
Occasional unfrozen flushes added an unwelcome thrill to the proceedings, as I discovered to my cost. Then the climb to Round Hill began, the highest point on the North York Moors. This was an escalating punishment. The snow grew deeper—calf-deep, knee-deep—and alternated between supporting my weight and cruelly collapsing under it. The landscape became more Arctic in its bleakness as even the hardy heather gave up and disappeared beneath the drifts.
The footprints persisted, though one belonged to someone with an awkward, splayed gait that made following them an exercise in futility and flailing limbs.
At last, the Cleveland Way was reached, leading downhill. The path here had transformed into a treacherous mix of ruts and frozen slush—a fitting end to the morning’s endeavour.
Leave a Reply