Category: North York Moors
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Letting Sheep Be Sheep
I cannot quite tell whether these sheep huddling under the gorse to dodge the sleet are tough old “moor” sheep or soft “lowland” types, but either way they carry the usual reputation. Sheep, like cows, belch methane, methane warms the planet, and that is that. Or so we thought. A study with the esoteric name…
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When Eskdale Held Its Breath
A dreich day in Bransdale, so I am clinging to a favourite photo from yesterday, taken high above the clouds under a blue sky. It does the soul some good to watch mist creep up the dale while back home in the Tees valley was wrapped in damp fog like a forgotten parcel, although I…
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In Search of a Broch, Finding a Bog
My mission today was to chase down a tiny mystery. On the O.S. map it appeared as two neat black circles, concentric, barely a millimetre across and quietly absent from the legend. Naturally this would not do. The puzzle was set by a friend, so thanks to Lenny for the nudge that sent me off…
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The Hidden Life of Newton Wood
All was quiet in Newton Wood today. No leaves rustling, barely a bird bothering to sing. Colour drained away. Even the fungi looked as if they had clocked off. Appearances mislead. Fungi are like icebergs. What shows above ground, the mushrooms, is only the fruit. The real organism is the mycelium, a vast web beneath…
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Nature’s Invitation, Authority’s Refusal
It may have been a cold walk around Cod Beck Reservoir today, but imagine it is hot. The height of the summer. You are with friends. A dull sign saying “No Swimming” stands between you and a better afternoon. Many people have stared down that sort of sign and decided it probably does not apply…
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Little Fryup Dale
Little Fryup Dale on a very dreich day. The cloud lifts its base just enough to show the moors in the distance, a wide sweep of heather and bare earth. Even under this leaden sky it is both beautiful and desolate. It feels unchanged, as if wind and rain have been quietly getting on with…
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The Silent Machine
A heavy plough stands sulking in a farmyard, built like a tank and already freckled with rust. It was made to tear into the ground and turn it over without mercy. Now it does nothing at all. You see this sort of thing everywhere. It stands as a quiet sign that our view of soil…
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Sutton Bank’s Finest Object Today
The “finest view in England” decided to play hard to get on our trudge from Sutton Bank, and anything else worth photographing was equally uncooperative. So this posting is very much for the faithful. Those nerds who slow down for roadside trivia and feel a small thrill at a lump of iron with numbers on…
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Initials in Stone, Mist in Motion
I stood on the summit of Roseberry Topping this morning, watching the mist drift over the fields below like a slow tide. The place felt as old as the hills, quiet enough to hear your own thoughts. Looking down at graffiti cut into the rock centuries ago only sharpened that feeling. I am guessing, of…
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Filling the Gaps on a Bransdale Hillside
A return to Bransdale, where last winter the National Trust planted 6,000 saplings onto the steep side of Bloworth Slack. The site had been clear-felled, a blank but messy page waiting for a better story than rows of timber grown for profit. To give the youngsters a fighting chance, the usual tree guards went in.…