apathtosomewhere

Swaledale.

Swaledale has lot to answer for. It was many years ago, that hubby and I holidayed up here for two years running and fell in love with Yorkshire so much, that we moved up to this beautiful county and never looked back. To me, it’s the prettiest dale of them all, though all the Dales are special in their own right. It seems remote and sheltered from the hectic life beyond. I can’t put my finger on it, but it has so many wonderful memories for us. We couldn’t live there – it would spoil the magic – but to visit it from time to time, is such a delight and I enjoy every single minute of it.

This time, we were meeting some friends and agreed to meet at Muker car park. The weather was in a belligerent mood as we drove over the tops – heavy brooding clouds and threatening rain hovered low as we fretted whether we would get a walk in. As we dropped in Swaledale from Hawes, it seemed to brighten and hoped it just wasn’t our imaginations.

We stopped at the junction and looked at the hamlet of Thwaite. We couldn’t resist a quick drive through and to pull up briefly at our old holiday cottage, letting the memories flow. Getting it out of our system, we meandered to Muker and waited for our friends. We were early and hung around, as the sky started to darken again. Oh dear. Checking our weather apps, it claimed it would improve and we would have a window of sunshine before the weather closed in again. And as our friends pulled up in their car and we donned our walking boots, the sun pushed its rays through the lifting cloud and cracks of blue appeared.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Thwaite,_North_Yorkshire

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Muker

We had the choice of two walks – the first walking up Kisdon Fell, overlooking Thwaite and Muker which would afford us some spectacular views on top or to keep low level and follow the River Swale towards Keld. The low level walk got the vote, so we headed off over the bridge, strolled a few yards towards the village centre before turning right between the cottages and towards our first stile and into the meadows.

In the summer, these meadows are a riot of colour as wild flowers bloom in May and June. It is a truly beautiful spectacle with Lady’s Mantle, Cranesbill and Yellow Rattle being a few of the wildflowers that can be seen. In mid July the meadows are cut, then sheep are allowed to graze on them for the winter. We squeezed through the stone stiles, remarking how narrow they were and how on earth larger people got through. Sometimes we had to shuffle through on tiptoe to clear our rucksacks.

https://www.ydmt.org/muker-meadows-swaledale

We followed the stone paving slabs across the fields, in a single file to prevent damage to the meadows, circumventing sagging barns that have stood for centuries. We came up to the river Swale and bore left, contouring along the edge, following a grassy path.

By this time, the sun had won its battle with the clouds and lit the dale up with a beautiful golden light. The fells shone with greens and browns of dying bracken, the trees with a mixture of greens, yellows and gold – though they were still pretty much in full green leaf for this time of year. The path steadily rose, giving us fantastic views up and down. High up on the fell and in the side valleys, the crumbling buildings of Crackpot, the iron mining industry of the 18th and 19th centuries, stood resolutely by the slag heaps and scarring of that era. It added to the atmosphere of an isolated and untouched dale, where time has stood still.

http://www.outofoblivion.org.uk/swaledale.asp (lead mining reference).

We headed into a more wooded area and looked down onto the gurgling river below, the sun warm on our backs. We stopped to shed layers, take photos and nibble emergency biscuit rations. As we started to drop down as the path made its way down towards the little hamlet of Keld, the clouds had started to gather behind us again. Before we got to Keld, we took a side path that dropped down to the river to allow us to walk back down the other side to Muker. Here we came across the volunteers of the Yorkshire Dales National Park, putting up new fencing. Most of them were sat down eating their packed lunches while a determined colleague hammered nails into posts. We stopped to chat, remembering our time as YDNP volunteers when we first arrived in Yorkshire – mending paths, putting up finger posts, doing guided walks – before the onset of family and other distractions put paid to our volunteering weekends. We continued and came across a couple more working parties, having a quick chat as we passed.

The path went up, affording us a great view back towards Muker, but also a view of bristling clouds poking over Kisdon Fell. It was remarkably warm despite the disappearance of the sun. The clouds hung over us and started to empty their bulging underbellies, making us stop to dig out waterproofs. But they only played with us and the heavy raindrops soon stopped.

We walked the wide gravel path back into Muker and headed to the pub, The Farmers Arms. We have a soft spot for this place too. Many a night, while we holidayed here, we spent drinking Old Peculiar bitter, often one too many and staggering back up the unlit road towards Thwaite, following the white lines in the middle of the road, well past midnight. Sometimes, feeling daring, we would take the footpath across the fields – there was always seemed to be an ethereal glow even late at night, that lit our way. One memorable evening, we fell into conversation with a couple of old guys who drank like fish and at closing time, readily accepted their kind offer of a lift back up the dale in an ageing Fiat Panda. They were very drunk, but somehow guided that ancient vehicle along the winding road, across a vicious left hand bend and over a pack horse bridge, delivering us without incident to our abode. How they did it amazes us to this day and what possess us to join them also amazes us. But we were young, carefree and stupid and who would be horrified if our own kids did it!

I don’t think the Farmers Arms has changed in 30 years. Untouched by the need for gaming machines, background muzak and themed decor, it retains that old homely rustic feel pubs used to have. The old stone flags on the floor, the low ceilings and the timeless atmosphere, it just goes on about its business which it’s done for years. As usual the food was great – nothing fancy, but good wholesome pub grub. We opted for the giant Yorkshire pud, filled with gravy, vegetables and beef (and sausage) downed with a pint of the local brew. Just perfect way to end a walk in Swaledale.

We headed back to the cars and followed the road back over Buttertubs, down in Hawes. As we crossed the high fell towards Ribblehead Viaduct, it started to rain heavy and that’s how it stayed for the rest of the day. We had got the best of the day. Happy with that, we headed home to put on a blazing fire and hunkered down.

I took too many photos today. As I couldn’t fit them all in the blog, here are the rest of them from our walk from Muker.

It was one of those overcast drizzly mornings that dampen the most of hardened spirits, so I went off and stripped a room of wallpaper.

When I emerged a couple of hours later, the sun had poked its head out and it was pleasantly warm. The Dog cocked her head expectantly – she was wanting a walk. So I tidied and with The Dog leaping excitedly around my feet, we jumped into the car and headed to the coast.

The drive over was glorious. With the sun out, the deepening autumnal colours really shone and it was beautiful. I always find autumn bittersweet – it is beautiful season, the mass of golden colours and hues, but with the knowledge that it is so short lived and winter will soon be upon us. I didn’t dwell on this fact for long and enjoyed this lovely autumn day for as long as I could.

We arrived at Hest Bank – I’ve blogged about this area before. We parked up near the railway level crossing and stood on the grassy foreshore. The Dog galloped around madly while I stood and admired the view. It was a beautiful clear day – the fells of the Lake District were sharp and clearly defined. They were blue, purple and mauve with deep shadows enhancing their shapes. The town of Grange over Sands glinted across the water and everything seemed to sparkle. It was one of those days where you felt you could ping the sky with your fingers like on glass and sing “Zippity Doo Dah”

I had a hoodie on, with a body warmer on top and thought it would be enough. Initially it felt quite warm, but while I stood, the wind started to cut through me. I nipped back to the car and retrieved my coat as another layer.

There was some cloud in the sky but as the afternoon wore on, it evaporated leaving a clear blue sky. It was a cracking day and I was so pleased to be out in it.

We wandered along – the tide was out and had left puddles of water which The Dog gleefully jumped into. She’s easily pleased. The sun highlighted the mud flats and the deep crevices and shadows. It just all really stood out.

We carried on. I had bought a coffee to go and finally finished it. With The Dog ahead of me on the beach, I quickly scuttled to my right to deposit the cup in a bin. On my return, I was expecting an anxious looking dog scampering around, ears pricked with worry, concerned about where her human had gone. I got back on the beach, I had no such welcome and for a nanosecond I worried about her whereabouts.

Suddenly I spotted four black legs waggling in the air, some 50 yards or so further up the beach. Then she leapt up, looked intensely at the ground before crashing her head and shoulders onto the pebbly beach and rolling on her back. She was so engrossed in this activity she hadn’t noticed me missing. The Dog is not one for rolling normally, so I walked up to her, hoping it wasn’t anything horrible. As I got close, I thought it was a piece of seaweed, but alas it seemed to be a body of a sea creature. It was half eaten, its skeleton revealed, but the remaining skin was brown and leathery. It looked like a porpoise – I have seen these animals beached here before – but I couldn’t confirm it. All I knew was my dog had found it very attractive and now smelt disgusting.

I kept The Dog downwind of me and we wandered on the seabed, the worms and other sand creatures buried, leaving thousands of swirls of glistening mud across the beach. A nearby cliff showed recent movement with mini land slips sliding to the pebbles below.

We came up to the big flat grasslands that are covered with pools and ponds and I encouraged The Dog to jump in them, hoping they were deep enough to submerge her and get rid of that wretched stench. Unfortunately, many of them only had water deep enough that went up to her elbows. Others times, she would be happily swimming in them.

We met a lovely man walking his Beagle and we stood and chatted. He sighed as he recounted his dog rolling on a dead porpoise a couple of weeks ago and so he confirmed my suspicions, though it was much fresher then. We admired the view together and felt incredibly lucky to live in such a great place.

There were quite a few people around, making the most of the day. Out of the wind, it was quite warm and I was regretting my layers. But where it was exposed, the wind caused the temperature to tumble and I was glad I had my coat.

We wandered back, strolling between the pools, leaping across the channels and dropping down onto the pebbles and the beach. As the sun tracked across the sky, the scenery had changed and the sharpness of the surrounding scenery had faded slightly, looking more hazy and muted. It was still glorious.

Then I got all artistic and started taking unusual shots to catch the patterns in the sand. I hadn’t brought my proper camera, but was surprised by the photos and my ability to bend down so low and get up again without assistance or toppling over. There were all sorts of footprints – humans, dogs, birds, big, small, minute, deep and light footed, all criss crossing each other mixed with the tide patterns, the worm holes and many other fascinating marks.

We got back to where we had left the car. I sat on one of the numerous benches with a little plaque on it, dedicated to someone “who loved this view“. I loved it too and sat for a long while just watching. The Dog, exhausted by her exertions, sat facing the other way, watching the railway line and briefly chasing Virgin trains as they swept through the junction, before returning and resuming her position.

With the afternoon drawing to a close, I wandered back to the car and opened the boot for the dog and began to pull off coats and body warmers. I then noticed The Dog had stopped halfway to the car and had sat down in the middle of the grass, about twenty feet away, looking at me with a depressed expression. I called her to come, but she just sat and stared. I continued my organising, glancing at her and sniggering. It was a definite message of “I don’t want to go home”. Nor do I, I thought, but tea needs to be made and you need a bath, you stinky hound. Finally, after many minutes and cajoling, with people giggling at her antics, she slowly sauntered without enthusiasm around the back of the car and jumped in with a heavy thud.

I drove slowly home, probably annoying many motorists with my dawdling, but it was such a gorgeous late afternoon and with the sun behind us, the countryside just glowed. It was just wonderful. You just had to make the most of it. Tomorrow would probably be piddling down with rain.

Okay, it’s not quite north west England, but it is a path to somewhere and today I’m in Derbyshire.

I was hanging out with relatives and with the dogs requiring a walk, we headed to the west side of Chesterfield and onto the edge of the Peak District.

We parked up in the designated car park, paid £3 to park for as long as we wanted and wandered down some steps on the start of our walk. It was a bit overcast, one of those days, where the weather is not sure to be cloudy or to brighten up with wall to wall sunshine. It kept tantalising us with bursts of autumn sunshine that lit up the surrounding trees with their tints of greens, golds and yellows.

http://www.peakdistrictonline.co.uk/linacre-reservoir-c101121.html

There’s a main path that follows the edge of the reservoirs – there are three that cascade down – through green tunnels of trees. There are other paths that lead off from here, but we didn’t have the time or inclination to investigate them. The dogs were in heaven with water to swim in and woods with squirrels. Luckily, the water held more fascination for them today and the squirrels were left in peace.

Linacre Reservoirs were built between 1855 and 1904 and together hold about 240 million gallons of water (don’t ask me what’s that in litres – it’s just a helluva lot of water).

Linacre seemed to have clues that it had an industrial past with stone gate posts and bricks poking through the paths. We did a bit of Googling and discovered that it was once a site for lead smelting back in 1596. Again, nature has taken it all back and there’s little evidence of this industry ever being there.

https://historicengland.org.uk/listing/the-list/list-entry/1009707

We continued our walk, with the dogs swimming after sticks, admiring how lovely it all was. There were other people exercising their four legged friends, but they were few and far between. (I can’t vouch for any other days especially weekends). It was just lovely and tranquil.

Now I will just shut up and let you admire the rest of the photos I took.

I just love these carved out information boards – they are so different from the standardised plastic cheap boards. There’s a lot of work been put in on this one (can you imagine making a spelling mistake anywhere????).

And finally a long distance view across towards Chesterfield nestling in the valley.

Today we are in north Leeds and into a wood, known locally as Adel Woods, but also goes by the name of Scotland Woods.

It’s on the very edge of Leeds surrounded on its southern and eastern flanks by the outer ring road and residential housing. The other sides edge onto farmland and woodland. The Meanwood Valley Trail meanders its way through here, from its beginning at Woodhouse Moor, in central Leeds to Golden Acre Park further north.

https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Meanwood_Valley_Trail

There’s a small dirt car park where we started today’s walk. The Dog was very excited as its Squirrel Season and she shot off to startle wildlife. She’s not exactly stealth and the squirrels are usually high up in the tree, peering down with a sneering “loser!”, before she even reaches its base.

We wander through the trees, coming across relics of a long lost industrial past – stone gate posts, mill ponds and foundations.

Its amazing to think that there was a huge flax mill here, built to make use of the water course. It was built in 1785 and went through a chequered history, before burning down for a second time in 1906, never to be rebuilt. Now there’s nothing but trees, the odd stones sticking out of the ground. You have to really look for clues. It’s sad that the mill has gone, but heartening that nature can take back our destructiveness and bury it without a trace.

http://www.peacehavens.co.uk/BSSCOTLAND.htm

http://www.secretleeds.com/viewtopic.php?t=2981

We come across the Seven Arches aqueduct that runs through the woods. You suddenly come across it. It was built to ferry water from Eccup Reservoir, a few miles north, into Leeds. It’s a beautiful structure, lost in the middle of the woods. I think it has been threatened with demolition in the past, but has been saved. It’s just amazing.

The seven arch aqueduct was built in 1837 and carried water from Eccup Reservoir along a 6 mile route of Underground pipes and tunnels to the city of Leeds. In Adel woods it crosses the Meanwood Beck where the seven arch aqueduct was built. The aqueduct became redundant after 24 years when it could no longer cope with the Cities demand. The aqueduct still stands and each arch spans 34 feet.

We wander back to the car and stop at the Slabbering Baby, a small water fountain. Nearby there was a series of ramshackle wooden buildings that formed Verity’s Tea Rooms, run by the formidable Frances Verity from 1901 to 1953. After her death, it fell into disrepair and demolished, overtaken by the encroaching undergrowth. There are information boards here explaining everything and The Friends of Adel Woods has a great little website.

https://friendsofadelwoods.wordpress.com/2017/05/26/friday-26-may-2017-the-refurbishment-of-the-slabbering-baby/

The picture above shows the Slabbering Baby on the left and where the cafe and associated buildings once stood. It’s completely disappeared under the undergrowth.

Adel Woods is full of paths and trails, but there is a circular walk, down one side of the beck until the ring road where you cross the beck and wander back up the other side. It’s not particularly well signposted, but new signs are going up (by the Friends I presume). A fascinating little place, full of history and ancient relics.

It’s another glorious day in Yorkshire, a little chilly with the wind, but sunny and clear.

The Dog and I find ourselves in Gargrave, a pretty little village, cruelly dissected by the A65 main road which runs from Leeds to the edge of the Lake District. It also has the Leeds Liverpool Canal running through the middle of it, which we chose for today’s saunter.

We parked in the little free car park and walked the hundred or so yards to the Canal towpath, where The Dog rejoices in her freedom as I unleash her. She loves canals. We wander under the dapple shade of the trees lining the path while The Dog is trying to figure out how to get into the canal. She’s a bit of a wuss as she won’t just jump in and hope for the best. She dilly dallies on the edge, trying to see how deep it is. It’s painful to watch and I’m tempted to give her a shove.

Leaving her to it, I carry on, saying hello to fellow canal walkers. The Dog gallops past, startling two ducks who were happily sunbathing and now flapping across the water, quacking indignantly. The Dog looks proud with herself.

We come to the first lock which looks like it’s under renovation and a little further along, our first canal boats. I’ve always fancied living on a canal boat, it looks so romantic. I love peering into them and fascinated how the living arrangements are set up. It’s so compact and cosy, so simple and easy. In reality, it probably isn’t and I would probably end up hating it. But I can dream.

The views are lovely across to the fells of Barden Moor. The colours of the heather are deep and purple. It’s really vibrant at the moment.

We have a brief, but exciting interlude when The Dog, investigating a bridge ahead of us, discovers a sheep on it and her inner Collie. The sheep legs it with a frantic baa with my hound hot on its heels. I holler at The Dog across the water and thankful she gives up the chase almost immediately as the sheep carries on before doing a nifty leap over a dry stone wall into a field full of its mates. It had obviously escaped the field for whatever reason. The Dog returns, looking very pleased with herself and her achievement of herding a sheep. I’m just very relieved.

We walked for about an hour, I suppose, before we turned around. The next village is East Marton and a few more miles further along. I didn’t have the time or energy to walk there, even though it’s got a pub, which is quite an incentive. We walked up to the little mile stones, paused to admire the countryside and slowly wandered back to Gargrave and a delightful little cafe for coffee and a teacake for some sustenance.

The Dog looks suitably worn out, even with an infusion of dog treats and water courtesy of the cafe. We saunter back to the car, where The Dog shows some reluctance to jump into the back of the car – either through being too tired to jump in the boot or sorry, I don’t want to go home. We finally leave the little car park and Gargrave and drive slowly home.

It was one of those beautiful autumnal afternoons without a cloud in the sky. After working all day, I just wanted to be out in it.

I grabbed The Dog as soon as I could, startling her from her slumber on the sofa and we just headed off in the late afternoon, following our noses. Ingleborough rose majestically from the edge of the Yorkshire Dales, it’s summit clear of cloud and profiled against a clear blue sky. We drove towards the edge of the Forest of Bowland, The Dog hanging her head out of the window, her ears flapping. We pulled up onto a lay-by on the moor, not far from from the Great Stone of Fourstones, a local landmark near the market town of Bentham. It’s known locally as the Big Stone and looks like it’s been dumped in the middle of the grassland, from a great height.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Great_Stone_of_Fourstones

After a short stroll across the moorland, we reached its base. There are steps carved into the side so you can go up and stand on its top. It has the most amazing views and this afternoon, it was beyond gorgeous. Towards the west, the Lake District hills and fells looked a purple blue in the far distance. As I panned eastwards, the Yorkshire Dales gently rose with two of the Three Peaks of Yorkshire – Ingleborough and Pen-y-Ghent – hoving into view. With the late afternoon sun making long shadows, the landscape was of rolling green fields, woods, little villages and farms. I had a stunning 180 degree view and after our visit to the Big Stone, The Dog and I sat in the boot of the car and admired the view for many minutes.

I didn’t want to go home yet, so we decided to go on a drive and follow our noses to see what we came across. We headed towards the little hamlet of Lowgill, nestling in a valley, but got distracted by a side road. The sign said church and village school. The lane was single track with grass down the middle and I hoped not to meet a tractor or some other huge farm vehicle. We found the little church just as a sign declared the road “unsuitable for motor vehicles” and another declaring a 25% descent. I parked up and The Dog and I went through the double iron gates and through an avenue of trees to the main porch. It was here that I realised I had left my camera phone in the car! Grrr. The church was small and squat with a cockerel weather vane on its stumpy tower. It was a charming little building and evidently in use. The gravestones were marked with recent deaths in the graveyard and I was surprised by how many for such a little house of worship in such an isolated spot. I wandered past up to the old schoolhouse which seemed to be used as the village hall with chairs and tables, posters and notices on the noticeboards inside. Delightfully, it had two outside toilets thoughtfully marked “gentlemen” and “ladies”.

I meandered back to the car, the sun glinting through the beautiful browns, greens and yellows of early autumn. It is a stunning evening. We retraced our steps back to the main lane and followed the road to Wray, stopping every now and then to admire the long distance views and fantastic scenery.

We stopped at Wray in Lancashire where I know a little river walk. The Dog is not impressed by this itinerary. First a short walk to the Big Stone and back into the car. Another short walk through a graveyard and back to the car. Now a diversion to Lowgill and back (not even a sniff of a short walk here) and now she was getting impatient and starting to vocalise her disapproval by pathetic whimpering. She got really excited when I finally parked, and dashed off when I let her off lead. There’s only one destination in The Dog’s head – the river.

She’s looking very pleased with herself standing knee deep in the water, ears pricked. She was in heaven. We had a pleasant walk through the fields, with The Dog dashing ahead, running in and out of the water.

With our tummies starting to rumble for tea, we wandered back to the car and enjoyed a lovely drive back with beautiful colours, a cloudless blue sky, green hills, woods, long shadows and the peaks of Yorkshire as a stunning backdrop. Once home, I looked at my photos from my phone and cursed that they didn’t reflect the views I had seen with my own eyes. Photos never do, do they? They never do the scenery justice.

Never mind, there will always be plenty more days like this.

It was one of those horrible rainy days when all you want to do is put a blazing wood fire on, pull up the settee and watch a good war film like Dambusters or The Great Escape and basically not move.

But move we did. A couple of weeks ago, I came across a flyer advertising an Open Day at Hornby Castle. For the last couple of years, we’ve been meaning to go to the Open Day in May (they only open to the public two or three times a year) and every time, there’s some other important distraction that occupies us. So we made the effort.

https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hornby_Castle,_Lancashire

http://www.hornbycastle.com/

The rain was coming down in steady stair rods, so we donned woolly jumpers, cagoules, waterproof trousers and sturdy boots. It was odd having so much clothing on after our fantastic UK summer where having shorts and t-shirt seemed overdressed. Now we were padded out like sumo wrestlers and had trouble moving.

We parked on the street, not sure if we could park inside – there’s signs saying “private grounds”, as Hornby Castle is a private residence. So we played it safe, not wanting to do an excruciating many point turn in their driveway, crushing prized plants as we did so. We wandered down the path to be met by a lovely, but rather damp lady sheltering under a gazebo, who took our money, and gave us a quick run down of what was on offer.

We set off and dropped onto the woodland path to let The Dog have a good sniff and check for squirrels. She was firmly on lead. She wasn’t impressed with the weather either and regularly shook off the excessive, giving us brief showers. We wandered around the grounds, lamenting it would be beautiful in the sunshine. We came across the walled garden and the nursery, got chatting to the gardener who was retiring and huddled under his gazebo too. It seemed to be getting darker.

The gardener was selling off his tools to any one who made him an offer. Hubby picked up something suitably sharp and dangerous, carrying it around under his arm. We hoped we wouldn’t get challenged for carrying an offensive weapon, but as we were the only fools out in this weather, the chances were pretty low.

We also found a ceramic workshop in the grounds and a chance to get out of the rain. There was an Aladdin’s cave of ceramic pots, bowls, dishes and many other designs. We dropped into conversation with the owner as we perused and saw a beautiful dark blue bowl with an inscription inside for a stupidly low price. On enquiring, we were told that it was a reject as the edges weren’t straight or some other defect. To me, it was perfect and quirky. I like things slightly off centre, so we bought that too along with an incense bowl which was also a reject. The chap wrapped them well in bubble wrap and into a large paper bag, whereupon we asked him to look after them and we would pick up later. The sky had just got blacker, the rain heavier and I had images of the bag disintegrating within minutes and my quirky purchases either smashing or rolling off down the hill.

We found the riverside path alongside the River Wenning and followed that until the “private” sign barred us. We retraced our steps, stood agog at a recently fallen beech tree which had ripped its way through the surrounding woodland, crashing across the path. It had been chopped up, but you could see its trajectory from high up and surviving trees still standing, but boughs and branches cruelly ripped off. The remains of the strickened tree lay by the path, huge slabs that would made beautiful table tops and other pieces of furniture. I love wood and this was in its purest form, with beautiful markings and lines. We stood there for awhile, quite amazed by the beauty of nature.

We headed up and came across the castle proper. It’s not really a castle now, more of a rather large grand house with a terrace looking down the Lune Valley, a pretty vista through the trees and rainy mist. We realised there was a historical talk here at 3pm, so a brief walk back to collect my bowls and we arrived at the imposing front doors.

It was here we had dilemmas. Where to put the tool and what to do with our rather wet and unimpressed dog. The first was solved by hiding the tool in the adjacent shrubbery and the second, by hubby opening the huge oak door to be met by a small friendly lady. Yes, the dog was welcome she thought. So we walked into a large tiled hallway, and stripped off our wet outdoor clothing and The Dog had a couple of extravagant shakes to disperse her collection of water. Then a man appeared and seemed to baulk at the idea of The Dog dripping on his carpets. After a little debate, one of which was to leave our dog in the hallway – not an option on our dog’s part, a large and very hairy dog bed was produced as we all went into another room and sat down. The Dog was not impressed to having to sit on another dog’s smelly, hairy bed and had to be forcefully coaxed on to it. We were the only people here.

Hubby sat in a high backed chair, me on the floor next to the Dog almost nailing her down and hoping she wouldn’t have another shake. This room was straight off from the hallway and I presume would of been a reception room. It was full of mismatched, saggy sofas and chairs that these houses always seem to specialise in. Numerous paintings hung off the walls, a huge fireplace dominated a wall, while floor to ceiling windows, partly stained glassed, took another wall. It was a pleasant room and evidently part of the living quarters of the current owners.

The lady turned out to be the matriarch of the family that made Hornby Castle their home, and once the seating and dog had been sorted, she sat opposite on one of the baggy settees and set about talking about the history of Hornby Castle. And how fascinating it was. She started with William The Conqueror and the castle being a fortified placement, and carried through to the present day, cataloguing the numerous calamities and owners through its chequered history, how it was fought over, taken over, nearly demolished several times, left derelict, saved, owned by feckless landowners, loved and rebuilt by eccentric wealthy industrialists. Richard III, Oliver Cromwell, Henry VIII, and other historical characters had touched this place, tucked as it was in a remote corner of the NorthWest of England. We were amazed by its chequered past. The Castle had been changed and altered throughout its life, it’s castle exterior eradicated when it was styled more into a Georgian house for more permanent living rather than for defensive purposes. Victorian additions were soon added, but in the 20th century, those extensions were removed and it now retains a Georgian gothic look and is more house than castle in that sense.The lady was amazing and her talk so detailed. Even The Dog finally relaxed and slept on the dog bed, despite another couple appearing during the talk, with their little white hound. Our Dog was not impressed by this invasion and told the other dog, by a series of low level growls and a brief bearing of teeth that this dog bed, despite probably been the property of many boisterous Labradors was now firmly hers and to Back Off. We have a strange dog.

As the talk continued, we became aware of the sun shining through the windows and as we left through the impressive front door, the full vista and views of the Lune Valley finally showed themselves to us and it’s was amazing. We gathered up our stuff, lamenting how sad it was that the good old British weather had scuppered the Open Day, noting just two cars parked on the field. We had only met about three other people for the two hours we were there. It was such a shame.

We headed home after reclaiming the tool from it’s hiding place. Despite the brightening evening, we lit a blazing wood fire, pulled up the sofa and put a good war film on telly…………

Took my more lively dog for a walk this morning and decided to combine it with a trip to the shops in the nearby town.

I decided to take a shortcut across fields to town and The Dog was off lead and enjoying her freedom. As we entered a small field to walk across to a nearby stile, I was a little perturbed to see a solitary cow, calmly scratching its head on the wooden post of the stile – usually where there’s only sheep grazing. As far as I could see, the cow was on its own, so with a bit of shooing and extravagant arm waving, I thought he would trot off. So The Dog and I were confident as we strolled towards the stile, though The Dog did her “I’m a big black dog” and barked at it and lunged towards the cow, though mercifully stopped by her leash which I had quickly attached. (She’s part collie and loves rounding things up).

The cow, somewhat startled staggered back and gave us a thoughtful stare. He was indeed a young bull (so I will stop calling him a cow) and after some consideration, galloped off to our left into an adjoining field. Phew. We came up to the stile and The Dog had efficiently jumped over it, when I heard a noise to my left. It sounded very much the thundering of many hooves and not waiting to actually see visual evidence, hauled The Dog back quickly to my side of the stile.

The original brown bull skidded to a halt back into the field, with a look of surprised bravado. Hot on his heels was about 15 of his mates, intrigued by the brown bull’s excited intrusion into their lives. You can imagine the panted conversation.

“Here, come and have a look. There’s a human and a dog thinking of coming in our field. Maybe we could follow them – it will liven up our day. I don’t know about you but I’m fed up grazing – this will be a great little diversion”.

So he had called his mates to have a look or maybe he was just a wimp and wanted safety in numbers. Nevertheless it had changed my perspective of the situation considerably. These were large year old male stirks (hope I’ve got that detail right), all frisky and skittish. Every time The Dog barked, they all took a step back and jostled each other, but also egging each other to go and check us out. “Go on, Dave, go and have a closer look” they seemed to be saying, nudging one of their larger colleagues who dug his heels in and refused. Finally, one of the braver bulls rolled his eyes with impatience and strode purposefully towards us – it was our turn to take several steps back and jostle each other. Of course, this was the signal for them all to stride en masses towards the stile, all snorting, shaking their heads and looking rather intimidating.

I looked at The Dog and she looked at me. “Well, don’t think we’re going this way” I told her. She was all for rounding them up and coralling them to a corner of the field. Denying my dog her inner Collie, I turned on my heels and retraced our steps. It meant walking all the way back to the lane and then do the mile trip on the main road. I sighed, cursing the farmer for putting his bulls in a field with a public footpath across it. Cattle have been known for trampling and killing people especially ones with dogs, so I wasn’t keen to test this theory and be mashed to a pulp.

It also denied you, dear reader, of a detailed commentary of this short but pleasant walk, with stunning autumnal views through meadows and fields and a half decent blog. I will return in a few weeks back along this route hoping a) the farmer had put them in another field or b) they are so far in the distance that I have a sporting chance of outrunning them if they are inclined to check me out again………..

I needed to take The Dog for a walk, but wanted something different for our usual haunts.

After pouring over some maps, I chose to visit Clapham, a small village on the edge of the Dales and just off the A65 road. The plan was to walk out of the village and up onto the surrounding fells.

I had done my ablutions, eaten breakfast, washed up and prepared myself for the walk, when I noticed The Dog was still curled up in a tight ball on one of the armchairs. Technically, she’s not supposed to do this, but over the years she has taken advantage of the house’s open plan design by stealth. At the beginning, as you got out of bed, you heard a thud as four paws landed on the carpet and by the time you got down, an innocent looking dog lying on her dog bed as if she had been there all night. A still warm cushion gave the game away. Then she got bolder and as we came downstairs, she was in the process of getting off the sofa with a luxurious yawn and extravagant stretch. The next stage was watching you come down the stairs and watching you go into the kitchen with a sleepy eye and the beginnings of rousing. Now it’s a blatant “don’t you disturb me” look as she remains curled up, refusing to move at all and only getting up when she’s ready.

I was ready with her lead before she decided to get up today – I think she would of stayed there longer – and we jumped into the car. We parked up on the road in the centre of the village and headed off. We walked up past the church and started up a steady incline, under two bridges, one quite dark and gloomy. I had a steady pace, The Dog was off lead and the sun shining. Then I noticed The Dog wasn’t running ahead and checking out smells as her usual habit. I turned to find The Dog stopped and looking at me quizzically. I called her and carried on, but she remained unmoved. A couple more encouragements failed to get her bounding up. Like most dog owners, I started firing questions at her as if she would give a full blown answer of her reluctance, but her face spoke “a walk up there? Really?” I started to walk back down and she leapt up delightedly and legged it down the hill……….

Realising I had neglected this Blog for awhile, I decided that I should start posting again, albeit a small one and start at Clapham. We walked to the pretty little church of St James and was delighted to find it open. English churches are often open and unattended, which allows you to wander in and admire the majesty of the building. The tower is Norman but the rest of the building dates from the 19th century. This was lovely with whitewashed walls and ceiling, beautiful stained glass windows and wooden pews. Outside I wandered about the gravestones, reading them and appalled at the devastation families suffered. One large stone, listed at least four children passing away between the ages of 5 and 20 years. How awful is that? But then the parents lived to 75! I just love these stones, with the elaborate font and detailed information – “here lies George, son of John and Gertrude Smith, born 25th September 1850, died 20th January 1857aged 6 years and 4 mos. Also his sister, Mabel, second daughter, born 8th July……….. ” and so it goes on listing all the family deaths, on a huge engraved stone. Today you would get “George Smith, 25.9.1850 – 20.1.1857. RIP” on a little black plaque.

We wandered down towards Clapham Beck that runs through the village, allowing The Dog to have a paddle and a good drink. Then we followed our noses. We found a waterfall further up and then the entrance of the Ingleborough Nature Trail. There’s a small charge of £1 from an ugly car park style machine and a lengthy notice board which allows you to follow the trail up towards Ingleborough Cave where another large chunk of money is extracted to enter the said cave. There’s plenty of other footpaths around, so I declined and carried on our exploration of the village.

Clapham is the home of the Farrer family whose Ingleborough estate was established in the 19th century. One of the family, one Reginald Farrer was a notable botanist and the family has maintained much of the beauty and charm of the village.

The Dog and I wandered down footpaths and ginnels, found the lovely little primary school, noted how close Clapham is to the busy A65, admired the Clapham Cave Rescue headquarters, a jarring modern building which could of been a bit more sympathetic to its surroundings, but nonetheless very important, saving hapless souls off the nearby fells, peaks and caves.

Wandering back to the car, we found a little vintage shop, stuffed full of antiquities and other bric and brac. Surprisingly, she was happy to allow The Dog in considering the amount of china and glass in the vicinity of swishing tails. Luckily The Dog is brilliant in shops and developed a suitable “I’m bored” look as I studied the merchandise. I made a mental note to do either two things – my sister in law loves vintage meccas like this and I had a dilemma. Not to tell her of its existence or bring her here for the day while I go off for a lengthy coffee and iced bun in the cafe next door and pick her up when she’s bought up the whole shop and the owners can go for a round the world cruise for six months. (Actually she would probably run it while they’re away!). Joking apart, it was very well stocked and needed a good rummage through – if I didn’t have The Dog (who had now spotted the resident cat) I would of lingered a lot longer.

The cat gave The Dog one of those sneering looks that cats specialise in – “Bring it on, mutt. You’re on a lead and can’t get me so I’ll just really wind you up by sitting here and licking my bum”. Which it did.

By now, we had exhausted the possibilities that Clapham could offer us. If you want to avoid the masses in other more popular Dales places, this is perfect this time of year. I wandered around the sleepy streets, the tidy little houses and bungalows and the few little shops – the little village store run by community volunteers (just love that), the tiny little cafes, a tiny wool shop and the aforementioned vintage shop. The pretty beck and the whole genteel, very quiet and gentle atmosphere. I think it gets busy in the summer months and the weekends as walkers park up to walk up nearby Ingleborough and the cave systems while the less energetic head up the Ingleborough Nature Trail (there’s a Yorkshire Dales National Park carpark, so Clapham does entertain quite a few visitors who soon disperse into the surrounding countryside for the day, leaving the village to carry on with life).

Just a lovely little gem worth a couple of hours for a bit of downtime.

Homeward bound.

Our last morning of tea and biscuits in bed, before getting up and starting to get organised. We need to pack our stuff that we’ve spread all over the motorhome, back into bags, do a quick clean of the inside and do the final chemical toilet, fill up with water and getting it ready to take back.

The sun is shining and it’s glorious as we set off and say goodbye to Moffat. We pick up the A6, preferring that to the motorway. We trundle down back into England, taking it easy. Clouds are gathering and the sun disappears behind them. We follow the A6 to Kendal and then back to Skipton. It starts to spit with rain and by the time we return the little motorhome to its home, it’s pouring.

We empty our stuff, pat our faithful mobile home on the bonnet and bid it farewell -for the time being. Then it’s off into the drizzle to unpack, sort out 10 days worth of dirty laundry and back to reality.

Welcome back.