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Reeth Revisited—Memories of the Aftermath of the 2019 Flood
A day in Swaledale, that picturesque valley of the Yorkshire Dales, seemed promising enough, though the weather was somewhat overcast. I climbed High Harker Hill, naturally, as one does, to gain some view of the world. But coming down, there was that undeniable charm of Reeth—a place name clinging on to its roots with a…
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Whisky, Oats, and Onions: The Drovers’ Passage through Scarth Nick
In yesterday‘s posting, I told a tale of smugglers darting across the moors, slyly evading the prying gaze of the customs men who, I am sure, looked on in unmitigated fury at their repeated failings. The same wild terrain, it seems, was trampled not only by scoundrels with their wares, but by drovers steering whole…
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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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Ellen Wilkinson: The Fiery Reformer of Middlesbrough East
It has been some time since I was last on Eston Nab, that famed vantage point over Teesside, whose views—oh, those familiar scenes—shift and churn like the Tees itself in flood, eternally restless, rarely still. Come with me, back to this day, 29 October, 100 years ago, 1924. The British people were trudging to the…
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The Little Egret of Great Ayton
This morning, I set out with some faint notion of a nature photograph for today’s post. Nothing specific, but as fate would have it, on crossing the bridge over to Waterfall Park, I spotted Great Ayton’s resident Little Egret. Yes, “resident,” as though this bird has become some fixture of local society. There it stood—in…
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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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