Category: North York Moors
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Cockayne: The Land of Milk, Honey, and Mumbling Clerks
Medieval peasants dreamed of a place called Cockaigne — a land of luxury and ease where roasted pigs wandered about with knives in their backs to make carving easy, grilled geese flew directly into one’s mouth, and the wine flowed freely. Streets paved with pastry. Skies that rained cheese. You get the idea. Then someone…
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The Humble Bluebell and the Heavyweight Rift
The bluebells in Newton Wood seem a bit thin on the ground. The coverage of these flowers is not as full as in previous years. It is still early days though. In a fortnight they may well be more vibrant. Some people like the flowers. Others might remember the Scottish group called The Bluebells. Their…
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Esklets: A Proper Muddle in a Very Small Pond
Humanity is like a persistent rash, always there and difficult to ignore. We’ve been reshaping the world to fit our needs for a very long time, demonstrating our enduring desire to adapt and make things our own. During the Mesolithic period, this high moorland plateau of Esklets was not a dry waste; it featured small…
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The Ancient Yellow Field
Every spring, Britain turns yellow. These vast, almost aggressive swathes of rapeseed feel utterly modern — the crop of motorway verges, cooking oil, and biodiesel. Surely this is a 20th-century invention? Sort of. This is almost certainly some genetically engineered new cultivar, but let’s meet the navew. That is what our ancestors called rapeseed, and…
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Where the Moor Ends and the Farm Begins
A shaft of sunlight illuminates the bright green fields of Farndale, seen from the old ironstone railway line on High Blakey Moor. Brown rushes surround a small peaty pool in the foreground. Dark drystone walls cascade down the hillside beneath a wide, cloud-filled sky. The view tells a story in two colours. Up here: the…
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Hatless in Great Ayton
A deep shadow hangs over Newton Wood while Great Ayton basks in glorious Spring sunshine. I found this article in the Northern Weekly Gazette for 8th October 1869. It is a splendid little window into Victorian village life. “FRISKY JACK ELOPES WITH A LABOURER’S WIFE FROM MIDDLESBROUGH”. The quiet village of Great Ayton was, last…
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Chop Gate: Pedlars, Vikings and a Farmer’s Opinion
Chop Gate sits quietly in Bilsdale until the TT roars through and reminds everyone it exists. But the village has a quieter puzzle that never goes away: nobody can agree on what to call it, or what it means. Travel guides and linguists will tell you confidently that it is pronounced “Chop Yat.” The reasoning…
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Coast to Coast Opens — But Not For All
The Coast to Coast is now an official National Trail. Years of effort, a considerable sum of public money, and another grand ceremony. But one writer greets the opening carrying not a celebratory banner but a rather pointed question: Who, exactly, is it for? Charlotte Ditchburn is happy to acknowledge that these routes bring people…
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Lewis Hunton: The Boy Who Read the Rocks
Stand on the site of the old Loftus Alum Works and you feel rather small. These 213-metre cliffs are not pretty. For centuries, workers burned shale and processed aluminium sulphate here, poisoning the ground so thoroughly that almost nothing grows. The place looks dead. It seems more of the remains of the seeping pits and…
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Bloworth Slack—Not as Lazy as It Sounds
Bloworth Slack, just moments before it meets Badger Gill to become Hodge Beck. Bransdale again — but today we’ve been beside this quietly lovely woodland stream, its amber rocks lit by a sky so clear it almost seems rude. I never took Geography at ‘O’ Level. I was a science boy, apparently, and Geography was…