Category: North York Moors
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William Mudd: Lichens, Legacy, and a Whiff of Whisky
There I was, trudging along the escarpment of Great Ayton Moor this morning, mulling over what I might post about today, when a patched-up bit of dry-stone wall caught my eye. Naturally, my thoughts turned to how many times one can repair a wall before it ceases to be the original. Yes, I am aware…
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The Beck, the Inn, and the Blizzard: Histories of Slape Stones
I quite like this photo. It captures the sweeping valley of Slape Stones Beck, leading—predictably enough—to the hamlet of Slape Stones. The scene positively drips with tranquillity, and after the boisterous festive season perhaps a reminder to pause and simply be. How very profound. The name Slape Stones, unlike the beck, has fallen out of…
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An Unofficial Path Gets Official Attention
Ah, one for the history books. Last year, the main path up Roseberry’s eastern flank was given a facelift, and now it is this desire path’s turn. The one by the fence that skirts the hill’s south-east side, linking the Cleveland Way with the Folly Field. The upgrade might happen this year, or perhaps next—what…
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Temperature Inversions and Timetable Errors
A glorious morning on the hills south of Guisborough, the so-called top of Belmangate. While the town wallowed in cold and damp misery, those above the temperature inversion were treated to the breathtaking sight of Eston Nab and Airy Hill rising like islands from the clouds, with a diffused Brocken spectre thrown in for good…
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Tudor Christmas: Twelve Days of Saints and Swans
Up at an unholy hour to climb up Roseberry Topping and watch the sunrise. We were not alone. The place was packed, because apparently nothing says “Christmas spirit” like elbowing strangers on a hilltop. In Tudor times, you would not have found the masses up here. They would have been at Mass, fulfilling their religious…
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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…
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Lealholm and the story of John Castillo, Poet and Stonemason
Lealholm developed around the first place you could sensibly cross the River Esk, just downstream of the dramatic gorge of Crunkly Ghyll. In the good old days, people splashed through a ford until someone finally built this graceful 17th-century bridge, which managed to survive the disastrous 1930 flood—unlike the bridges further downstream in Glaisdale, Egton,…
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A’ Thomasing: A Quaint Custom for St. Thomas Day
Yesterday was St. Thomas Eve, or so I gather from the indisputable evidence of my own post about it. Naturally, this means today, 21 December, must be St. Thomas Day—a grand occasion for destitute medieval widows, who marked the day by going “a’ Thomasing.” That is, begging for alms. In some places, it was called…
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A Dreary Day, a Doubtful Saint, and Too Much Christmas
A dreary, cold day, though mercifully not freezing, but with rain looming. St. Thomas’ Day Eve—dedicated to the patron saint of doubt—drapes itself in the sort of gloom that makes you wonder why you bothered to look out the window. That housing estate west of Guisborough in today’s photo? I had been blind to its…
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Roseberry In the Golden Hour
Roseberry was looking its usual self this morning as we trudged up Aireyholme Lane, the sun just beginning its obligatory climb over the Cleveland Hills. From this angle, Roseberry‘s distinctive shape is rather less obvious. High above, a waning gibbous moon lingered sulkily in the sky, and the early morning sunlight—in what us self-important photographers…