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Crannimoor: A Hill, a Café, and a Case of a Misplaced Apostrophe
On Cringle or Cringley Moor, or if one wants to sound particularly archaic, Crannimoor. A Victorian writer hailing from the West Riding once claimed this was pronounced “Creenay.” As for its origin, the modern thinking is that it comes from the Old Norse ‘kringla,’ meaning a “circle.” However, the ever-reliable Reverend R. C. Atkinson, walking…
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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 View from Alcock Tarn: Grasmere and Helm Crag
Another view from our recent trip to the Lakes. This surprisingly hibernal scene of the Grasmere valley, with Helm Crag taking centre stage, was captured from Alcock Tarn below Heron Pike. The green pasture fields in the valley provide a pleasant contrast to the lifeless, bracken-covered, rock-strewn hillsides. Helm Crag is often called “The Lion…
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Tarn Hows
Yesterday, I reflected on my perceived sorry state of Tarn Hows, now resembling the aftermath of a minor apocalypse. The larches, felled due to the ravages of Phytophthora ramorum, are gone, and the recent storms have left a trail of destruction. One might be reminded of those eerie photos of the Tunguska event. While the…
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Rose Castle Revisited
A few days of nostalgia at Rose Castle, once part of the Monk Coniston Estate and now within the National Trust’s Tarn Hows property. There is a certain sadness in the loss of its quirks, though not for the old toilet—the one-holer, the thunderbox. Electricity and piped spring water are welcome signs of progress. The…
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The Wurzelweg of Larner’s Hill
I have walked this path up Larner’s Hill to Captain Cook’s Monument more times than I care to count. Where it winds past Round Hill Wood, exposed tree roots have formed what could generously be called natural steps. Supposedly, this is a Public Bridleway, though one would have to admire the optimism of anyone attempting…
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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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