WINTER ON THE NORTH YORK MOORS
A frosty morning on the high moor: Chris Gee sets off on a winter journey through North York Moors National Park, via wooded dales, stone villages, inns and old steam railways
Chris Gee sets off on a journey through North York Moors National Park, exploring wooded dales, ancient paths, cosy inns and stone villages.
Dawn breaks on a crisp winter morning. It is mid-December, soon after 8am, when a fiery orange globe rises slowly from the North Sea to break the horizon, casting the cairn on Simon Howe Bronze Age burial mound into sharp silhouette. The mound is one of many tumuli and ancient structures on high ground across the moors; our ancestors knew how to choose a last resting place.
The temperature is still below freezing as the first shafts of winter sun slowly illuminate the swathes of heather moorland. The ice that has gripped the landscape overnight slowly starts to retreat. The peat is solid, a thick crust of organic matter that is tens of thousands of years old, giving way only slightly as hiking boots crunch into the dark frozen mulch. There isn’t another sound – we’re miles from the nearest road, more distant from the nearest house and village – just rolling heathery moorland, morning mist settled in the valleys.
The sky slowly loses its orange hue, then pale blue gives way to cornflower blue. It’s going to be a perfect day, with not a cloud to be seen. The air is still; there’s not even a whisper of breeze. I press on, crunching my boots into the peat, small pockets of frozen water tempting me to press my boot through the icy film, shattering the thick layer of ice into shards. A sudden fluttering sound and a bird bursts rapidly from cover: a red grouse arcs across the horizon and comes to rest nearby. “Go-back, go-back, go-back,” it seems to call.
I stride out, reaching a cobbled road with square stone setts. The road marches across the moor in a dead straight line. Shown as Wheeldale Roman Road on the map, it’s also called Wade’s Causeway, said to have been built by the giant – whose name bestrides Britain’s ancient mythology – to ease his navigation across this difficult terrain.
BACK TO THE DAYS OF STEAM
Dropping to a beck, the first house in the landscape appears: a solid and lonely house, built of honey-sandstone blocks and topped with an orange-red pan-tiled roof. Smoke curls from the chimney; the fire in the grate is already lit, keeping the winter chill at bay.
Getting closer to civilization, there are more square-set cottages beneath red-tiled roofs, neatly set back from the road behind white picket fences, sheep nibbling at the frozen turf of the greenest of greens. A black-and-white sign says we are in Goathland. Or is it Aidensfield, as it says above the village store?
There’s a distant sound. Chuff-chuff, chuff-chuff: a hypnotic rhythm, a heartbeat almost. A steam train. It’s some way away and it’s working hard; the exhaust beat tells me the engine is struggling to lift its train up the steep gradient on icy rails deep in the gorge. When I drop down to Goathland station – still served by North Yorkshire Moors Railway – it’s like stepping back in time. Silver milk churns line the platform, oil lamps are dimly lit, barrows loaded with trunks and packing cases, a fire blazes in the hearth of the ticket office. I make for the toasty-warm goods shed. “A mug of Yorkshire tea and a toasted teacake please.”
Up in his tiny brick cabin, the signalman throws a lever, the brilliant-white-painted signal arm drops and around the corner comes the unmistakable sight of a polished black steam locomotive. A thick column of smoke rises from its chimney into the still air as it hauls its Santa Special train the final few yards into the station. The engine heaves a sigh, the hard work done. The driver and fireman lean out, smiles
“THERE ISN’T ANOTHER SOUND, JUST ROLLING MOORLAND, MORNING MIST IN THE VALLEYS”
FAT BETTY LEADS THE WAY
Dark, brooding clouds scud across the sky, pushed along by a strong westerly wind; a dark veil, a suggestion of rain. They once called this region Blackamore, but to me it is the North York Moors (and it is emphatically the moors north of York, never the North Yorkshire Moors). One of our most popular National Parks since its creation in 1952, this is the largest expanse of heather moorland in England and Wales.
The rain comes and goes and the sun comes out again – clear winter sunshine, lighting up the moorland and the valley below. The sun picks out the gaunt ruins of Rosedale Ironstone Mines, silent now since they closed in 1929, but well preserved, a monument to this once-industrial valley.
The old Rosedale Ironstone Railway links the head of Farndale and Rosedale; these days it is laid not with rails but with a good cinder path, thanks to which I make brisk progress despite the earlier rain, red grouse scattering as I go. A group of mountain bikers overtakes me, making faster progress still along this old railway as it contours around the head of the dales.
It’s hard to get lost here, for there on the horizon is Fat Betty, an ancient cross or waymarker, one of many on these moors that have helped guide travellers past and present. She leads me to high ground and a wonderful vista down into Danby Dale. There are Danby Rigg, Castleton Rigg and Glaisdale Rigg, stretching, finger-like, from the moorland plateau down into Eskdale.
This winter day is short and the mixed weather gives way to a dramatic late afternoon sky. The sun is starting to set in the west and I tramp across moist heather and bilberry moor to the road, the silhouette of the Ralph Crosses, Young and Old, marking my route, with long views down into Westerdale and Rosedale, the lengthening shadows quickly chasing the sun away. In the distance, the lights of the Lion Inn draw me closer. I’m looking for shelter, food, warmth and good beer, just like the travellers who have passed this way for the past 400 years.
DELVING INTO THE DALES
The day after Boxing Day and I’m down in Eskdale. This very different landscape – a broad valley – is a reminder that the character of this area is as much about its dales as its moors. Winter frosts coat the drystone walls and lonely sycamores shelter stone-built farmhouses. Villages – Egton, Castleton, Lealholm, Glaisdale, Grosmont – huddle on the slopes, cascading down from moor to river, smoke drifting high from chimneys in the red-tiled roofs of sturdy honey-sandstone cottages. Little has changed here in 200 years. There are cows in the byre and sheep are grazing.
I dive into woodland, through leafless trees made eerie by the mewing call of an unseen buzzard and the squawk of a jay. Narrow stone setts lead through the wood, keeping my boots clear of the soft mud on either side. I’m following another ancient way, one of many that criss-cross the valleys and moors. It’s an old pannierman’s causeway; or is it a Quaker’s causeway, or a Monk’s Trod? The stone setts have been eroded by generations of boots and hooves. This is East Arncliffe Wood and my old way leads me gently down to the River Esk and the arched Beggar’s Bridge at Glaisdale.
This has long been a landscape for travellers, from an ancient track known as the Thurkilsti above beautiful Bransdale;
“THIS AREA’S CHARACTER IS AS MUCH ABOUT ITS DALES AS ITS MOORS”
to Hambleton Drove Road above Osmotherley; to the boot-sucking, 24-hour slog of the Lyke Wake Walk, and the popular 109-mile Cleveland Way, one of our National Trails. Long before hiking boots and waterproofs, our ancestors found ways to navigate this landscape, on moor top or valley bottom. The famous walker Alfred Wainwright came this way too, the North York Moors offering a grand finale to his epic A Coast to Coast Walk, published in 1973.
WINDING DOWN TO WHITBY
The squeal of steel wheel on rail announces the arrival of my diesel train at Glaisdale; together we wind our sinuous way through the Esk Valley, crossing the raging River Esk a dozen times on stone and iron bridges. The River Esk and me, we’re on our way to Whitby.
My arrival in Whitby signals a change of pace. It’s the depths of winter, but no one has told the day-trippers from Yorkshire and industrial Teesside. They’ve come here to get some air and exercise after two days of Christmas feasting.
I make my way past the quayside, lobster pots stacked neatly beside colourful fishing boats and trawlers, tied up securely against winter storms. Even fishing boats get Christmas off. The smell of fish and chips hangs on the air, reminding me how hungry I am, and I give in to temptation: a takeaway from The Magpie Café.
I head across the swingbridge for the Old Town, enjoying the hustle and bustle of the crowds as they thread their way through the narrow old cobbled streets, peering into the shop windows displaying jewellery made from jet, the glossy black substance formed of fossilised wood, which is found locally.
The other distinctive smell is wafting from Fortune’s Kippers on Henrietta Street, the last remaining traditional smokehouse in Whitby. I stock up on smoked kippers – locally caught, wrapped in paper – it’s then a heart-busting climb up the 199 steps to the skeletal remains of gothic Whitby Abbey. On a winter’s day, when the wind whips in off the North Sea, it’s easy to see how Bram Stoker found inspiration here for his classic novel
Dracula. St Mary’s church sits alongside, worth a peek inside to see the fascinating wooden pews and elevated walkways.
As I make my way back to the station, the toot of a whistle quickens my pace. I settle down in my cosy sprung seat, wisps of steam
“THE STONE SETTS HAVE BEEN ERODED BY GENERATIONS OF BOOTS AND HOOVES”
rising from below the railway carriage, old 1950s posters above the seats with sunlit summer scenes of the Yorkshire Coast: Staithes, Robin Hood’s Bay, Scarborough, all best saved for high summer. Whitby though, is always worth a winter visit. The steam locomotive of the North Yorkshire Moors Railway draws my train away and before long we’re threading our way back towards the moors, climbing through woodland giving way to moorland. As we snake through Newtondale, moors give way to pine forests: a textbook geology lesson in glacial valleys. Mile after mile of pine forest climbs away from the valley; mountain-bike heaven, just like nearby Dalby Forest.
We pull into Pickering station, the end of my train journey and my North York Moors adventure. Daylight is fading, the streetlights are glowing, the illuminated shop windows draw me in. This traditional Yorkshire market town has it all: a butcher and baker, fishmonger, grocer and hardware store complement the artisan deli and tea rooms. If the weather is fair, this busy little market town (and Helmsley and Kirkbymoorside) are my gateway to the Tabular Hills, distinctive flat-topped hills that sit apart from the moorland plateau. If rain is falling, they offer respite from the weather, spending the day shopping, enjoying cake in the tea rooms and a tour of Pickering and Helmsley castles. One thing’s for sure, come the new year, I’ll be back.