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The Pannierman Way
A pair of ancient standing stones flank a stretch of weather-worn path known as the Kirby Bank Trod. This marvel of medieval civil engineering forms part of a so-called “Long Trod” — a term employed because it would have required “considerable resource and supra-parochial organisation” to build such an “economic venture of some significance.” The…
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The Cuckoo’s Shoe
Yesterday I posted about the Cuckoo. Today, naturally, it is the Cuckoo’s Shoe — not, alas, footwear for birds, but yet another whimsical provincial name, this time for the Dog Violet. A harmless enough little flower, though my encounter this morning has sent me spiralling into yet more botanical trivia. The woodland floor is having…
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When the Fool Returns from Africa: Musings on Cuckoo Day
I was spared the indignity of rummaging through an empty pocket for loose change on my Monday climb up Roseberry Topping, which is just as well, since I heard no cuckoo. According to local superstition, today—April 14th—is “Cuckoo Day,” the date when this allegedly symbolic bird is supposed to announce its return with its distinctive…
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Saltburn Bank and the Uphill Struggle of Women’s Cycling
To Saltburn, of all places, to witness the East Cleveland Classic cycle race. It has indeed become a “classic,” though one suspects the term was originally used here with the same generosity applied to overcooked Sunday roasts and tribute bands. The photo shows the Women’s race, which, in a rare nod to dignity, begins at…
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The Shah of Thorgill and His £26 Rebellion
This is Thorgill: a tributary of the River Seven, the main drainage for Rosedale. While technically a watercourse, it is perhaps better known as a hamlet, once even managing to sustain a Methodist Chapel. Thorgill briefly staggered into the national spotlight in the 1950s, not through any great achievement, but thanks to the antics of…
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Commondale Moor Revisited — a Tumulus
I thought I might as well head over to Wayworth Moor to cast a jaded eye over the so-called stone circle. I have been there more times than I remember, and—shockingly—it still has not transformed into a majestic North York Moors Stonehenge. Given its steadfast refusal to evolve in the past three millennia, I cannot…
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Idiots’ Luck on Black Monday
A day at the seaside, at Port Mulgrave with the National Trust. After the blip of yesterday, lovely sunshine again. It is whispered—by those who still have the energy to be shocked—that Trump and his merry band of grifters quietly offloaded large chunks of their share portfolios just before he decided to slap tariffs on…
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Furze: Fodder, Folklore, and the Smell of Coconut
A sudden change in the weather, as if the sky has grown bored. No more sun-drenched optimism; just a grey sheet of disinterest overhead. Still, Roseberry manages to look charming, despite being surpassed by the only plant capable of making scrubland smell like a tropical cocktail — gorse. Its yellow blooms, reeking of coconut and…
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Whitby Abbey: Holy Vows, Pagan Wars, and the Problem of Easter
I usually try to avoid posting touristy photographs, but in this case, my resolve faltered. This one was taken looking back as we wandered towards Ruswarp, along the River Esk, with the ruins of Whitby Abbey brooding in the distance. A cliché, admittedly, but quite picturesque in a ruinous sort of way. As for the…
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Ruswarp’s Chainbridge
Ruswarp once had a suspension bridge. James Wilson built it in 1825, his money coming from slavery. Perhaps the river knew, it hated the bridge, and washed it away. Twice.
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