Category: North York Moors
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4th February, 1921: Redundancies at Roseberry Ironstone Mine
His day began long before any sensible person would even consider waking. At 4:30 in the morning, he and his wife dragged themselves from their bed, greeted not by comfort but by the biting cold. The morning’s first ordeal was the outhouse—an unenviable journey in deep winter, where snow, ice, and the ever-present risk of…
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A Wall, a Track, and Centuries of Erosion: Bransdale’s Legacy
Ah, the wonders of dry-stone walls. This one in Bransdale is quite remarkable, though to many an eye, it might be just a very large pile of stones. Compare it to the more modest wall on the other side of the track, then maybe you’ll be as impressed as I am. It is well-built, you…
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A Red Grouse, the Civil War, and Pennyman‘s 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 Roseberry’s Summerhouse
A supposedly “gentler” path to the top of Roseberry Topping winds up the southern side from the Summerhouse Field. After last night’s 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 bikers’ berms and humps standing…
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Burns Night: Tartan, Haggis, and a Global Legacy
Ah, Burn’s 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 fa’ your honest, sonsie face, Great Chieftain o’ the Puddin-race! Perhaps not Robert Burns’s maximum opus for surely that superlative must go to ‘Auld Lang…
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The Witch-Mare of Orra—A Forgotten Nightmare Myth
Ah, Urra—barely 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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Cleopatra’s 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 Cleopatra’s 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.…
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Four Years On: From Relief to Dread
A dreary morning on Great Ayton Moor, perfectly suited to my mood. Four years ago, I posted about watching Joe Biden’s inauguration as the 46th President of the United States. It was the first time I had ever bothered with such a ceremony, accompanied by an immense sense of relief. Today, there is no such…
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Flocking Together: Hebridean Sheep and Sheepdog Training
I heard, through the ever-reliable grapevine, that this small flock of Hebridean sheep at Aireyholme Farm is being used to train a young sheepdog. Predictably, just before this photo was taken, the dog had had its lesson, and the sheep were beginning to calm down. Hebridean sheep are apparently the darlings of the sheepdog training…