Category: Great Ayton
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The Great Ayton Scallywags
A certain topic that has occupied my thoughts for some time is an Auxiliary Unit Patrol that was stationed in Great Ayton during World War II. This covert unit differed significantly from the stereotypical ‘Dad’s Army.’ I recall hearing at some point that, in the event of a German invasion, the anticipated life expectancy for…
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Ayton Banks Ironstone Mine — its legacy
Playing with my new tripod, a Christmas goodie. I do like the motion blur effect of long exposures. The water is draining from the Ayton Banks ironstone mine, the stone of which turned out to be poor-quality, leading to the mine’s brief existence. It had opened in the first decade of the 20th-century but closed…
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Smoke Signals from Great Ayton: A Meteorological Puzzle
I took this photograph of the large square-cut recess in the sandstone cap atop Roseberry summit. Clearly crafted by human hands, in my imagination, I’ve had it down as the likely spot for the hermitage and smith’s forge mentioned in a 17th-century letter. However, I might be wildly off the mark, considering the extensive quarrying…
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A Boxing Day Tradition — The Hunt
I chanced upon the Great Ayton Boxing Day Hunt today. A traditional affair, you know. Had completely slipped my mind. Christmas, a season steeped in tradition, yet this one leaves a sour taste. Every Boxing Day, the hunt assembles at the High Green in Great Ayton. Same old spectacle of well-appointed riders, splendid horses, and…
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A Forgotten Quarry—With a view of Roseberry
A broken down dry-stone wall enticed me to scramble over for a gander and I stumbled upon an old sandstone quarry I never knew existed with a view of Roseberry from an angle I’ve not seen before. Ah, the uncomplicated pleasures of discovery. It wasn’t a large quarry, and a quick count reveals it to…
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Raddle me this
I awoke under the weather, got talked into taking a Covid test. Lo-and-behold, the little red line made its appearance, and my ailment took a turn for the worse. Fresh air, my trusty remedy, beckoned. Raindrops drumming on the windowpanes, I embarked on a brief, low-level stroll. “Raddle,” a peculiar term. Readers of Thomas Hardy…
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“Gerroff Moy Land!” and don’t even look at it
On this rather dreich morning, I found myself compelled to focus my photographic endeavours closer to home. When I first moved into the village, the scene before me would have been an open field stretching toward a gate nestled in the distant hedge. However, as time has gone by, the path has become enclosed by…
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Late afternoon on Cliff Rigg
A morning spent volunteering alongside the National Trust, cutting sycamore saplings in Cliff Rigg Wood. Not exactly a photogenic opportunity, but later the dog was insistent that we ascend the ridge to bask in the waning afternoon sun. There, the lighting nicely highlighted a strange remnant from a bygone industrial era, the rocky pinnacle once…
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Storm Babet
A deserted High Street in Great Ayton. Not a soul in sight. Everyone’s hunkered down. For me, a pluvious and tempestuous battle up Roseberry, though I skipped the summit. A short walk, leaving the rest of the day for housework. There’s an Old English word that suits our usual cleaning routine — ‘scurryfunge.’ It means…
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Sunday Morning Coming Down
Though Johnny Cash’s song is as clear as crystal about solitude, the blues, and the foggy haze of a Sunday morning after a wild Saturday night, it oddly echoes the serenity of this particular Sunday morning, which coincided with the first frost of the season, a gentle nudge reminding us of the impending winter’s chills.…