Category: North York Moors
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Swifts on Roseberry, Silence on Easby Moor
It has been a while since I last stood on Roseberry, looking down on clouds. And even longer since I came up here on a Saturday. Most seemed to have taken the yellow thunderstorm warning as a cue to stay indoors. Easby Moor, with its pointed monument to Captain Cook, rose clean above the mist.…
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When the Beck Runs Dry: Hob Hole’s Ancient Ford Revealed
The word was that Baysdale Beck at Hob Hole Wath had dropped so low the old ford surface was showing. Thank you, Stephen. I could not resist. Hob Hole has drawn picnickers since the Edwardian age. The name alone — ‘hob’, likely from ‘hobgoblin’ — conjures something hidden and tricky, a haunt of creatures best…
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The Stone They Left Behind
A rough-cut sandstone block lies abandoned at the top of an old quarry on Ayton Bank. It first appears on the 1915 Ordnance Survey 25-inch map. One wonders what caused the sudden stop—tools downed, the block left where it was, after the time and effort it must have taken to cut it, shape it, and…
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Leven Vale and its Wayward River
The 1856 Ordnance Survey 6-inch map labels this ruin as a sheepfold. I remain unconvinced. It looks too small, for a start. But what would I know. This view looks down into Leven Vale, where the River Leven begins its oddly ambitious journey. It starts here in the upper reaches flowing east, then pulls off…
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Because It’s There: Tourists on Roseberry
Another day, another climb up Roseberry. I often wonder when someone first made the effort simply for the sake of it—“because it’s there,” as Mallory said of a rather taller peak. When did the first tourists arrive? And what exactly counts as a tourist? With its sharp outline and looming bulk, Roseberry Topping has always…
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Freebrough Hill — Where Arthur Waits
This hill has loomed over the Guisborough to Whitby road for generations, a constant, brooding shape on the horizon. Its symmetry is so precise, its position so solitary, that people have long refused to believe it is natural. Clearly the work of men. Or gods. Or giants. One giant in particular: Wade, whose name is…
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“HORRID MURDER AT ESKDALE NEAR WHITBY”
So screamed the headline of the Yorkshire Gazette on 18 September 1841. The grim report told of the brutal killing of 61-year-old Mrs Robinson, murdered alone in her home at Eskdaleside, near Sleights. Her husband, William Robinson, a yeoman farmer of decent standing, had gone to Egton Fair that day. His servants were out in…
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Orange Spots — The Slow Death of Ash Dieback
Ash dieback is sweeping through Cliff Ridge Wood, and the National Trust Rangers have been out marking doomed ash trees with orange spots. These are the infected—struck by a disease caused by the fungus Hymenoscyphus fraxineus. It came from Asia, hitched a ride on the global plant trade, and now spreads on the wind. Once…
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In Search of Pannierman Pots, Here is Long Stone Instead
I have long been interested in ancient transport routes across the moors, so I was pleased to come across some recent research on routeways in the North York Moors. These are vast landscape features, part of a tangled network linking places across great distances. Yet they are also intimate spaces, shaped by footfall, hooves, wheels,…
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Bombweed, a Hall Built of Basalt and German POWs
The vivid pinks of Rosebay Willowherb blaze across summer landscapes, yet most pass them by. Known as Fireweed, it is often the first plant to reclaim burnt ground. That was not always the case. The Georgians treated it as a rarity, grown in gardens rather than spotted in the wild. Even in 1853, the Reverend…