-
Brume, Roke, and Other Vapourous Delights
There is something magical about mist creeping up the dales of the North York Moors, at least if you’re being sentimental. Behind me, the mist—sorry, ‘brume’—was crawling up the Vale of Mowbray, but that was less of a spectacle than this show over Raisdale and Bilsdale. Speaking of brume, it is the ideal word for…
-
A Walk along Hasty Bank to the Sound of Gunfire
A return to Hasty Bank along a lovely trod, an old favourite, thoughtfully chosen to avoid the paved motorway of the Cleveland Way. What a transformation from three days ago, when there was proper snow cover. Now the snow has almost melted away, revealing the bleak “bare bones of winter,” as some poet once lamented.…
-
The Light: Conspiracy Bile Delivered Direct to Your Letterbox
There I was, about to embark on my virtuous trek up Roseberry Topping, coat in hand, when a free newspaper crashed through the letterbox like an unwelcome guest. A relic of a bygone era, I thought, since such things had ceased to grace my street years ago. Still, the design carried a whiff of credibility,…
-
POW! WHACK! The Circus Returns to Town
On this day in 1966, the campy spectacle of Batman made its debut on American television. Adam West donned the cape, Burt Ward chirped as Robin, and Cesar Romero refused to shave his moustache to play the Joker. Although by the time it hit British screens, I was too old, but I remember it well.…
-
Bilsdale and the Curious Journey of Road Salt
Another thrilling morning on the North York Moors. Freezing temperatures, frost blanketing the valley, and snow still stubbornly clinging to the high ground. How enchanting. This is a view of Bilsdale from Hasty Bank. For days now, the gritters have been tirelessly scattering salt as if the very fate of civilisation depends on it. It…
-
The Bullfinch: Bouncer, Thief, and Reluctant Songbird
Ah, the Bullfinch. Black-headed Bullies. Blood-Olphs. Whatever you prefer to call them, here they are, battling the winter like pint-sized gladiators. The sun, feeble and disinterested, barely filters through the foliage as I trudge back to the village along the River Leven. A few shrivelled leaves cling stubbornly to the trees, while dead Dock stalks…
-
Teddy’s Nook: Where Facts are Optional
Working with the National Trust at Old Saltburn, tucked away in Littledale—a predictably small valley with a narrow view across to the new town. The place has some flora worth noting, though you will be mostly clawing your way through Blackthorn, Gorse, and Brambles. Today’s thrilling task was hacking back this jungle. Perched smugly on…
-
Winter’s Teeth
Sometimes, one stumbles across a so-called fascinating photograph in the most banal of places. I happened upon this forest of icicles whilst driving into Middlesbrough. On the return journey, I abandoned the car in a field entrance and voila. There is an aesthetic beauty to ice-shoggles, as they were once called in the Cleveland dialect,…
-
The Hag-Mare’s No-Show: A Snowbound Trudge Across Urra Moor
A circuit of Urra Moor—Orrah, as it was once called before the Ordnance Survey decided to tidy up. The moor was generously blanketed in snow, looking superb The witch that supposedly roams this moor as a horse—the illustrious “hag-mare of Orrah”—was nowhere to be seen. A shame, really; she would have made an interesting subject…
-
Wellies, Floods, and the Debate over Captain Cook
Billy Connolly once sang about the virtues of wellies: “Cause they keep out the water, and they keep in the smell.” This morning, I was rather pleased to have followed his wisdom, as the path to Little Ayton was a sodden mess thanks to the rain and snowmelt. Here is a photo of the path…
Care to comment?