Category: Cleveland Hills

  • Jack’s Short Life: From Rural Bilsdale to the Trenches of the Great War

    Jack’s Short Life: From Rural Bilsdale to the Trenches of the Great War

    A view from Cold Moor to Garfit Gap. The row of sheds belong to the industrial pheasant rearing farm at Whingroves, a shining example of rural diversification, if one defines success as raising battery-bred birds for folk to shoot. In 1896, however, it was just another typical mixed farm on the North York Moors, run…

  • Sir George the Dragon Slayer

    Sir George the Dragon Slayer

    A picturesque bank of cloud hung over the Cleveland Hills this St. George’s Day morning. A reminder that even the sky can be more subtle than patriotic flag-wavers. St. George’s Day stirs about as much feeling in me as Carlin Sunday, Plough Monday or Hocktide – curious relics of a myth-soaked past, clung to by…

  • Crannimoor: A Hill, a CafĆ©, and a Case of a Misplaced Apostrophe

    Crannimoor: A Hill, a CafƩ, 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 ā€œCreenay.ā€ As for its origin, the modern thinking is that it comes from the Old Norse ā€˜kringla,’ meaning a ā€œcircle.ā€ However, the ever-reliable Reverend R. C. Atkinson, walking…

  • The Cleveland Hills on a Myst-Hakel Morning

    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…

  • A Slog up Roseberry Topping and a Nod to Pagan Roots

    A Slog up Roseberry Topping and a Nod to Pagan Roots

    I could claim it was a brisk dash up Roseberry Topping this morning, but in truth, it was more of a plodding trudge. Perhaps it only felt that way because I foolishly dressed for winter, not realising it would be unseasonably warm for Christmas Eve. This is the view from the summit, looking down on…

  • A Ruined Shelter, a Romantic Name, and some Random Latin

    A Ruined Shelter, a Romantic Name, and some Random Latin

    An opportunistic photograph, captured during a rare moment when the winter sun managed to pierce the unrelenting gloom of an overcast day. Here I am on Cold Moor—or, if you are feeling fanciful, Mount Vittoria Plantation. I prefer the latter; it has that pretentious 19th-century flair. This narrow strip of heather moor overlooks the Donna…

  • The Scaur—Musings on Glaciers and Randklufts

    The Scaur—Musings on Glaciers and Randklufts

    I revisited an old stomping ground today—a route I came to know far too well during the 2001 Foot and Mouth epidemic, when it was the only slice of countryside not off-limits. Back then, it was decorated with the charred remains of several burnt-out cars, but these have now been swapped for a battalion of…

  • An Overlooked Old Quarry on Scarth Wood Moor

    An Overlooked Old Quarry on Scarth Wood Moor

    What a difference from yesterday morning, with super lighting on Scarth Wood Moor. Here we have a disused sandstone quarry, now absorbed into the landscape, grazed by sheep and cattle. According to the National Park Heritage Records, it dates to the early 19th century. Meanwhile, the National Trust, who actually own the moor, appear to…

  • From Beak Hills to the Cotswolds: A Tale of Unequal Farming

    From Beak Hills to the Cotswolds: A Tale of Unequal Farming

    Cringle Moor, as seen from Cold Moor across the eastern sweep of Raisdale. Below sits Beak Hills farm, your archetypal North York Moors operation. According to their website, they mostly breed sheep on 125 acres of valley pasture, with another 300 acres of shared grazing rights on Cold Moor. They have also embraced modern farming…

  • Jackson’s Bank—Medieval Trod

    Jackson’s Bank—Medieval Trod

    As you reach the top of Jackson’s Bank, it is hard not to imagine that, at the turn of the last century, weary walkers resting upon these boulders were serenaded by the rather pastoral sounds of iron-laden trucks grinding, screeching, and clattering their way down that incline on the opposite side of Greenhow Botton. This…