REDISCOVERING YORKSHIRE
There’s no place like home, so they say. But, given the opportunity, we dash as far as we can, seeking different weather, different food, different views. But last year, we weren’t given that opportunity. Travel was uncertain, even illegal, and more familiar landscapes took on a fresh appeal. So, as restrictions loosened enough for us to slip a rented car through them, we took to the roads – not to a far-flung destination, but to my childhood home county, neglected for decades, but still patiently waiting. We started in York: easy to get to from anywhere in the country (two hours from London King’s Cross) and a perfect base. Don’t get stuck exploring the medieval streets and great shopping on Stonegate and Low Petergate – road trip, remember? – but don’t move on so quickly that you miss the city’s burgeoning dining scene. Locals (I have ears on the ground, thanks to my parents) head to Skosh on Micklegate for innovative food in a relaxed setting, but if you’re pushing the boat out, try Le Cochon Aveugle’s stupendous tasting menu. Back in the car, we headed east, and soon found ourselves in the Dales: rolling hills, dry stone walls and more sheep than you’d know what to do with. You don’t need to head anywhere in particular – just pootling up hill and down dale is a lovely way to spend a day – but you could stretch your legs on the Ingleton Waterfalls Trail to enjoy the dramatic scenery, or make for Fountains Abbey, where monastic ruins nestle in a river valley. (There are cottages on site that you can book via the National Trust if you really want to soak up the atmosphere.) If the walking tires you out, visit the Turkish Baths in Harrogate for a spa treatment in an original Victorian hammam (a Yorkshire version of one, anyway) that’s been operating since 1897. Then, wander down the road for cake at the legendary Betty’s. Its Fat Rascals are famous, but I can never resist the less well-known Yorkshire curd tart, the most beloved treat of my childhood that you don’t find anywhere else in the country. Proust’s madeleines might be more chic, but who cares? It’s an odd feeling, holidaying in a place you used to live: everything is at once familiar and yet different from the memories stored in your head. As we turned west, I noticed like never before how the surroundings alter gradually; the rolling hills petering out to give way to fresh slopes that lead up to the moors. And we were able to make spontaneous diversions to half-forgotten haunts, such as Castle Howard – a favourite Sunday day trip destination and still very much stately home goals. (You might recognise it too: it stands in as the Duke of Hastings’ country pile in Bridgerton.) A short hop down the road is the sweet town of Malton, building a reputation as the food capital of the county, with artisan and independent producers (literally) on every street corner. Make Bluebird Bakery the top of your list to stock up for a picnic. For something a bit fancier, the Black Swan Oldstead on the edge of the Yorkshire Moors is the country pub of dreams, except it just happens to have a Michelin star. (It has nine rooms, too, so you don’t have far to go after dinner.) Heading over the Moors, the scenery becomes increasingly rugged and melancholic, until it abruptly stops at a steep descent to the sea. Most visitors hover around Whitby, with its fish and chips, Dracula associations and dramatic ruined abbey on the cliff edge. But I wanted to press on up the coast to Staithes, a quintessential fishing village nestled right at the top corner of the county, where whitewashed cottages tumble down the hill to meet the waves. The local community of artists congregate around the Staithes Gallery, though really there’s not much to do apart from get a drink at the harbour-side pub and watch the horizon. But I found there was nothing else I’d rather do.
“It’s odd, holidaying in A PLACE you used to live. Everything is familiar, yet DIFFERENT”