North Yorkshire
Attractive villages of warm stone with broad village greens, lively markets and great value teashops. Heather moorland and deep green valleys divided into rectangular fields by countless neat walls. Where else but Yorkshire? We’ve come to explore the eastern dales that lie outside the National Park Nidderdale Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty and adjacent Uredale, or Lower Wensleydale as it’s often called.
As I’ve already been away for a week in the Lake District, I arrange to pick up my partner, Andrew, and our dog, Braan, at Penrith railway station. We drive across the Pennines to our first destination, Masham (pronounced as Mass’em), to visit our friends who have recently moved there.
This small market town on the River Ure is far enough away from other places to have a full range of local shops and a lively community where most people work locally. We are impressed by the spacious marketplace, lined by Georgian buildings.
It still has a biweekly market, the charter for which was granted in 1250. The stalls have a good range of food, clothing and gifts. For a ridiculously cheap price I buy a couple of pairs of British made socks that soon become favourites for wearing in my walking boots.
Elegant St Mary’s Church, standing on one corner of the market square, is mainly Norman with fifteenth century additions. Two footpaths lead through the churchyard to the fields behind the houses, making it a popular dog walk. I take Braan this way for a circuit beside the Ure, which is running high and brown after heavy rain.
Masham claims to be the Dales’ most creative corner with five galleries, a glassblower’s and an arts and crafts centre,but we focus our attention on the two real ale breweries Theakston’s and Black Sheep. Naturally, we have to sample their products to decide which we like best.
Our tasting confirms my long held opinion that there’s nothing to beat a pint of Theakston’s Old Peculier. Our friend dismisses my suggestion that the name refers to the drinker, explaining that it has religious origins. Masham was so far from the Minster of York that the archbishop didn’t want to travel here, so the parish was designated a ‘Peculier’ so it could govern its own affairs and have its own ecclesiastical court.
A few miles north we visit the romantic ruins of Jervaulx Abbey, founded in 1156 (its name means Ure Valley in Norman French). We’re following in the footsteps of painter, JMW Turner, who sketched here in 1816.
The ruins are privately owned, with an honesty box to collect the modest entry fee and a garden like feel to the abbey, where wild flowers, trees and shrubs mingle with the ruined walls.
It’s a very peaceful setting beside wide water meadows and we take advantage of benches to bask in the sunshine.
Later, we enjoy delicious home baked cakes in the visitor centre tearoom and learn that the monks here made a cheese that evolved into Wensleydale.
A little east of Jervaulx we visit Thorp Perrow Arboretum, hoping for a good display of autumn colours.
It’s half term and the place is full of families. We wander around the parkland, following grassy rides between tall trees and around a series of lakes.
The Catherine Parr oak is the oldest tree we see, whilst many of the exotic conifers date from the 1840s 50s, an era of worldwide exploration and plant hunting.
The maples, red oak and soft needled swamp cypress look particularly splendid in rich hues of red and orange.
Further up the Ure, near its confluence with the River Cover, we have dinner in The Cover Bridge Inn. The date 1674 above the door suggests a traditional hostelry at an ancient crossing point of the river.
The interior doesn’t disappoint, with low beams, roaring fires and well kept real ales. Our meal is excellent, home cooked pub fare served by the genial landlord.
Braan is made to feel at home and stretches out in front of the fire while we eat. We set off the next morning westwards from Masham through delightful little villages then over the moors. The website of the campsite we’re heading for tells us not to approach this way, but our friend who is blasé about single track driving assures us that we’ll be fine.
The road gives us a real feeling of the bleak, mist shrouded moorland as well as close views of red grouse, one posing on a stone wall by the road.
Beyond Leighton Reservoir we descend Trapping Hill into the head of Nidderdale. I take it slowly down the steep zigzags, but come to a full halt at the edge of the first houses in Lofthouse.
The road squeezes through a gap that appears too narrow for the ’van and I fear wedging it between the stone buildings. After a closer look, I take a deep breath and crawl through unscathed We receive a friendly welcome at Studfold Caravan and Camping Park, although I am told off for coming over the moor road! The small campsite, virtually at the end of the road up Nidderdale, is very peaceful with green fields rising on both sides.
That afternoon we do one of the campsite’s suggested walks, starting up a steep cobbled lane. We shorten the route by taking a grassy path midway up the hill. The pretty, but muddy, way has many wall crossings, either over stone steps or through squeeze stiles.
Crossing the valley we stroll up to Middlesmoor, whose church is perched on top of a hill St Chad’s is renowned as having one of the best views of any church in Britain and the prospect down Nidderdale is glorious. The church was consecrated in 1484 and the place has a timeless feel. I go inside on a quest to find St Chad’s Cross, an unusual stone carved with various symbols. It’s an old preaching cross dating back to seventh century Bishop Chad, who was leader of Celtic Christianity in the north.
Our circuit continues across fields to Lofthouse. Beside the gap I drove through we spot a banner advertising Meadow Vale ice cream.
Just at that moment, a woman arrives by car and we ask her where we can buy it. “I’ve been milking,” she replies, “But if you don’t mind waiting while I wash and change, I’ll get you some.”
She returns a little later with two delicious ice cream cones and tells that most of the farms used to have dairy herds, but producing milk became less profitable and they gradually converted to sheep Eventually the bulk tanker stopped coming up the valley because there was too little milk to collect, forcing their farm to sell their herd. But she kept 10 cows, the last in the valley, for a local milk delivery (we’ve already seen the bottles on doorsteps) and to make ice cream.
The next morning it’s pouring with rain, but we expect it will only make How Stean Gorge more spectacular. This deep, water eroded feature has been a tourist attraction for 150 years and is very close to the campsite.
The shop and café are closed for repairs, but we are told we can go around for free, so long as we put on the hard hats provided and are careful as the paths are particularly slippery in the rain.
We step through a wardrobe door and walk upstream to the ‘tunnel’, where the beck emerges from a limestone cave. A sign says you can walk through, using the eelheaded railing to help you descend into the hole, but there is no way you could do that today as it’s full to the brim with surging brown water.
On the other side of the gorge is Tom Taylor’s Cave, which was the secret haunt of a highwayman.
Braan takes one look at the steps descending into the dark cavity and refuses to enter maybe she knows it’s haunted! Andrew takes her back while I go through it.
A stalactite drips on my head and I try not to imagine a body hanging above me Tom’s fate when an angry mob tracked him back to his lair. The gradient steepens, damp walls press in on either side and I’m beginning to feel claustrophobic when I see light ahead. A sigh of relief and I squeeze back into the fresh air.
As it’s so wet, we opt not to drive to Scar House Reservoir as originally intended but, instead, we enjoy a relaxing drive through charming stone villages and the lush green scenery around Gouthwaite Reservoir.
In Pateley Bridge we park at the showground car park, next to the auction centre where a livestock market is in full swing. We ask if we can watch then clamber in at the back, behind cloth cap wearing farmers leaning on the railings of the small ring. I daren’t move a muscle in case I accidentally buy a trio of heifers!
Then in the Willow Tearoom we enjoy the best roast lunch I have had for years. Our plates are piled with beautifully fresh homecooked food and real Yorkshire puddings.
I’m amazed by how many shops allow dogs in even a posh boutique has a sign ‘Doggies Welcome Here’.
An evening walk up to Yorke’s Folly, odd pillars with a great view up Nidderdale, finishes long after sunset.
Being out after dark is very atmospheric, with a barn own gliding overhead and a tawny owl hooting in the woods and the full moon reflected in the River Nidd. We make an early start the next day for Fountains Abbey and Studley Royal Water Garden and first take Braan for a walk around the deer park.
The rut is still on, with big antlered red deer stags sniffing hinds and chasing of younger rivals. Studley Royal Water Garden is a series of geometrically shaped ponds carved into green lawns, their still waters reflecting the autumn trees on the banks at either side. Laid out in the mid 1700s, they are punctuated by sculptures, Grecian temples and other follies.
I walk up to Surprise View, a stunning vista leading the eye to the ruins of Fountains Abbey.
Continuing around the extensive abbey ruins, I’m fascinated by how the River Skell runs under several of the buildings. On the other bank is a large mill, which has an exhibition in it. I also explore Fountains Hall, a lovely Elizabethan building surrounded by topiary hedges. It’s easy to spend a whole day here.
Our last day is spent in Ripon, where we park in the cathedral car park. Close by is Ripon Cathedral, a welcoming building with free entry and none of the sense of hush some cathedrals have. Children are painting at tables set up in the middle and the library upstairs has a remarkable collection of gold and silver communion cups.
I have to search to find the entrance to the cathedral’s unique feature, an AngloSaxon crypt under the floor.
Once inside the vaulted space I feel an immediate connection to the past and the founder, St Wilfred, who built it and the first church here in 670AD.
The Thursday market is on and we wander around buying heather honey, vegetables and sausages.
We time our visit to see the costumed bell ringer flourishing his handbell at 11am, continuing a centuries’ old tradition. Formerly, it marked the time when visiting farmers could sell their corn, after the locals had had a chance to sell theirs.
The bell ringer tells us to come back at 9pm for the daily Wakeman ceremony when a horn is blown to mark the start of the night watch, an unbroken tradition for 1,100 years. Sadly though, we need to start our journey home instead. Before we bought a motorhome I barely knew North Yorkshire, but now it has become one of my favourite places to visit.
As well as delightful scenery and walking, I am always struck by the quality and value of the food. What’s more, I reckon it’s the most dog friendly county in Britain.