Category: North York Moors
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Smugglers of the North York Moors
For some inexplicable reason, I find myself riveted by this ruined barn overlooking above the Esk Valley railway. I have taken to photographing it with a slavish devotion, each time I pass, but usually something with more interest has turned up. This barn, apparently, is recorded on the North York Moors historical monuments database, albeit…
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Armouth Wath: “Here Coal was Expected”
In March of 1803, a notice in the York Courant trumpeted the forthcoming sale by auction of the “MANOR and DEMESNE of BASEDALE ABBEY,” an estate furnished with a “COALMINE supposed very considerable.” One imagines that the allure of a rich seam of coal lent the whole sale a dash of speculative glamour. The “considerable”…
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Paradise Lost? The Noble Art of Swidden Burning
Ah, the noble swiddens! That iconic mosaic left by the benevolent, precise art of setting fire to the countryside, all for the good of its charming inhabitants: grouse—who, one imagines, must dance a jolly jig singing ‘hahahahahaha‘ when those nutritious shoots emerge. How delightful to know that we can rely on a “low-temperature” burn, barely a…
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From a Templars’ Retreat to a Cobbler’s Last Stand: The Many Lives of Brathwatte
I see a rock outcrop on the crest of a hill and feel a maddening urge to investigate. So, naturally, I ended up on Tor Hill Crags, gazing down over Westerdale. Or, perhaps, that should be Camisedale—a name found in the Domesday Book, while Westerdale, notably, is not. The general presumption is that they are,…
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Of Cloud and Candle-Rushes: Taxation, Tradition, and a Dreich Brian’s Pond
What a profoundly uninspiring morning it has been—so much dull, grey cloud blanketing the Cleveland Hills that one might have suspected a conspiracy to make photography impossible. Still, in search of a morsel of interest, I plodded resolutely up to Brian’s Pond, which is quite possibly named in honour of that storied Irish figure, “Bryan…
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The Power of 1001: A Curse of Commercial Memory
Roseberry — there is something rather comforting about returning to one’s own patch after a trip away, as if the local familiarity becomes a source of great solace. During my recent travels, I was struck by a different type of familiarity, altogether less welcome. A chap of my own vintage was sharing with us the…
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Bracken, Oaks, and their Folklore
Bracken—our most invasive ground cover, steadily browning itself to perfection. How marvellously it complements this oak woodland on Cockle Scar, on the west-facing slope of Roseberry. Who needs daffodils or bluebells when you can have a decaying fern carpeting your view? And did you know that bracken is charmingly referred to as the ‘oak fern’? Apparently,…
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Following the Green Dots: An Unclassified Road to Nowhere
Now that the summer’s undergrowth is finally abating, I thought it an opportune moment to exercise a rarely-trod right of way past Ayton Bank Farm. One likes to ensure that these landowners are periodically reminded of the existence of such rights, lest they grow complacent. According to the 1:25,000 O.S. Map, the route is marked…
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Hasty Bank and an Old Gatepost
Whenever I‘m Out & About, I rarely start out with any sort of plan. There might be a vague idea of a route, but more often than not, I just make it up as I go along. Some might call that reckless, others might deem it inconsiderate or just plain annoying, but I like to…
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A Monument to Ingenuity: The Story of Bransdale Mill
It is said that the waters of Hodge Beck have powered a water mill here in Bransdale since the 13th century. The current range of buildings, a veritable monument to early 19th-century ingenuity, was built in 1811 by William Strickland, a man with grand visions of increasing the mill’s capacity. To this end, he exuberantly…