On North Yorkshire – Day 3 – North York Moors

I’ve got this thing about landscape and resonance and connection, and the call of the moors is as strong as that of the sea. I want to go and walk, and listen, feel, look, be.

‘Such a bloody weirdo-‘  says Stevie. But he agrees to drive wherever I decide and to find us the barest, most forsaken bit of moor possible. ‘And then this afternoon,’ he says. ‘We do the forest mountain biking.’

I try not to think of the seat-bone agony to come, and instead whip out my map. As we drive, I try to tell the daughters about great dramas on moorland, but can only remember snippets of  Bronte and King Lear. I’m pretty sure Macbeth involved a fair bit of moorland too, but I don’t think any of them had a particularly jolly time. I don’t feel they communed (Lear may have wailed a bit).

Happily, my ideas of moorland have been shaped by Enid Blyton and Arthur Ransome – I think of it as a place to range free, without grown ups and with plenty of pemmican and chocolate.

We decide to go without the tyranny of Sat Nav and I sit very upright, my finger on the map, directing us out of Cropton. I get a little bit carried away with the sense of adventure, and we leave the sensible A169 to career off down narrow, hair-pin tracks.I mean us to go to Cockayne Ridge, but somehow, inexplicably, we end up on Danby High Moor.Danby High Moor, North Yorkshire (2)

From the bubble of our car, we admire vistas and point out glimpses of farms down in the valleys. The colour scheme is very pleasing – all duns; bark-brown heathers, ochre moss, grasses the colour of milky tea. But it’s not until we get out that we can feel the place.  The wind snatches our breath, unclips our hair, numbs our cheeks. It gets in our ears, our noses, buffetting our brains clean and leaving us with the faintest taste of the North Sea.

Stephen has parked the car just off the grey satin ribbon of road and we stand across it, our arms outspread. The moor demands that we bend to the forces at work, that we recognise its elemental power. It’s impossible to stand still, the wind won’t let us, and we run whooping from the road and down a quad track. Pants and Dora are insanely happy, intent on unknowable missions,  almost frantic in their need to discover, to know. They send up black grouse every few seconds, barking as the birds whirr low over the ground, their red heads target-like.

Dora, rabbitting
Dora, rabbitting

The Moors are covered in tracks like these, unsigned mostly, and we’re careful to remember the path we take. The ground upon which we’re walking has been compacted by sheep, skeins of their wool are caught on bushes of stunted gorse. To either side of us are shallow mossed arbours, springy and soft underfoot, as if walking on velvet eiderdown. Reed-like grass grows in thick, brazen clumps, bleach blonde with mousey roots.

After twenty minutes, our eyes are watering and the children are asking for hot chocolate from the flask. We head back to the car, looping around blackened heather.

‘A fire?’ says Ellie, doubtfully. We tell her about men burning with big gas torches, so the grouse can eat the new shoots. She wanders off, mid-sentence.

We leave the dogs out free whilst we huddle back in the car with the flask and a lump of cake each.

Dora is in  rabbiting-mode, snuffling ecstatically along tiny pathways made for a her jack-rat legs. She’s much happier than she was in the rock pools of Robin Hood Bay.Danby Low Moor, North Yorkshire (4)

Our car windows are down so we can whistle if any cars come, and we can hear the faint calls of sheep on the wind, the peculiar music of wind up our exhaust.

The landscape makes me think of all my favourite childhood textures; close crop of the old snooker table, my dad’s corduroy trousers, the tweedy roughness of hemp sacks in the derelict cowshed.

We finish our drinks, but we still don’t leave. The fells are crossed with the uneven zips of stonewalls, and we can’t see any road but the one we’re on, just occasional beads of cars running along the landscape. Down below, in the valley, we can see copses of un-tellable trees, their bare arms like upended witches’ brooms.

Eventually, the children start talking about mountain-biking, and what colour bikes they might have, and anyway, Mum, how far is it to Dalby Forest? Stephen forcibly requests the use of Sat Nav, and then we’re whistling the dogs, driving away towards the A171.

Stephen looks at me as we turn onto the main road.

‘Happy?’ he says. ‘Did you be?’

‘A little,’ I say. ‘But I’m going to have to come back to be sure.’

Pants!
The Silly Pants! Oh Dog of Little Brain

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

This is the fourth of a set of posts, written about our family holiday in North Yorkshire, as guests of  Forest Holidays (part of the Forestry Commission for England). All opinions and views are my own.

PS. Thank you to my American friend, and his prod of ‘Get on with it!’

On North Yorkshire – Day 2 – Whitby Abbey

We wake up and the sunlight is slanting through the blinds onto our bed. I turn my head, straight into the unnerving stare of my youngest daughter.

‘Mummy,’ she says. Her voice is an urgent whisper. ‘Can. We. Get-in-the-hot-tub-now?’

I pick up my watch, squint. 6:45. ‘No,’ I say. ‘Go away.’

But the children’s excitement is catching, and somehow we’re eating breakfast at half-seven, and the daughters will be hot-tubbing and I will be dog walking in the woods. Stephen’s packing the car (his best thing) then we’ll all be off on the next adventure. We’re to go to Whitby, because the sea-side’s our favourite place.

We drive through Pickering, which has a proper ironmonger’s and a Lidl, and which would please my mother. We find the A169 to Whitby, and start winding our way up onto the moors, Pants barking at anything with two wheels. Around practically every bend, a new vista unrolls; the North York Moors producing views with the aplomb of a souk-seller.  Our speed is erratic, we slow down every few minutes to point and exclaim.

In places, the landscape appears almost primeval; last year’s heather blackened, petrified by the winter winds. There are knots of sheep strung down the steep hillsides, scattering shiny poo-marbles over the thick green mosses. Glossy black grouse shoot out of blonde tussocks of spent grass.

In the boot, Pants and Dora keep sitting up to look out of the window; Stevie shouts at them to sit down as we drop down a dizzying hill. The landscape is changing – the moor slipping behind and the fields becoming green again, protected by their stone walls.

We pass a ruined pub – the Saltersgate Inn – and Stevie and I play our ‘Imagine if’ game, where I suggest up-rooting and carpe-diem and yeah-but-we-could-do-it-up and he reminds me that it has taken us ten years to build our chunk of new house. And it’s still not finished.

‘But I could keep sheep,’ I say. ‘And that barn bit could be a cottage for walkers.’

We drive on, past RAF Fringford, its enormous radar a bizarre concrete triangle on the horizon. We don’t know anything about Whitby itself, but our lovely Forest Ranger has said is worth a look and that we must eat scampi. I know rather more about the Abbey, having Googled it. It’s managed by English Heritage and helped inspire Bram Stoker to write Dracula. There has been a monastery on the site since the 7th century, and the Gothic version was attacked by King Henry VIII’s men. I’ve a thing for old monasteries, I’m fascinated by the idea of private fiefdoms and the whole Papal control thing. I like to stand in bits like the kitchens, and imagine the bone-reek of hot stock, the wielding of a ladle, a knife chopping root veg. The lives lived so basically similar to my own.

We join the A171, Whitby suddenly ahead, its sky-line dominated by the abbey.Whitby Abbey

‘Oh,’ I say. ‘Look at that.’

It’s a spectacular ruin, its empty fenestrations gazing out at a pearled sea. We wind through pretty Whitby (earmarking our chip-shop for lunch), and follow the signs up to the Abbey. There’s a Youth Hostel up here, in the absurdly grand-looking Abbey House, and a huge empty grass car park for the Abbey itself.

The wind snatches the car doors from us, and Pants leaps from the boot, barking in excitement. Dora follows more sedately. We all pull on hats, gloves and scarves, Stephen and the children chasing each other whilst I run to the entrance of the Abbey to find out ticket prices. I already know they let dogs-on-leads into most parts. But, oh. I didn’t check the opening hours. It’s shut.

The children will be pleased, as it means no trailing around learning stuff, but I’m sad. I hop up on the wall to have a good look and surprise a workman in a fluorescent jacket just below.

‘Sorry!’ I say, and wave. He hunches back over his drain, as if routinely exasperated by wall-climbing tourists.

I walk back across the car park to the others, watched by a huge seagull. They’re all ruddy cheeked and breathless.

‘Well?’ says Stevie. ‘How much?’

‘Closed,’ I say, doleful. ‘We can’t go in.’

The children cheer and leap to tig Stephen, running away screaming when they do. He kisses me.

‘Never mind. We’ll walk here instead. After coffee. I’ll just-‘ He runs off, arms outstretched to catch a daughter.

I go to the boot of the car, pull out the flasks and the tin of cake, call the dogs for their biscuits. He’s right: there’s a foot path sign, heading out along the cliff.

I gather everything up and walk to the banked edge of the car park. I perch on the top, pouring the coffee and hot chocolate. The Abbey is before me, and I can look through its windows to slivers of the sea.

 

This is the third of a set of posts, written about our family holiday in North Yorkshire, as guests of  Forest Holidays (part of the Forestry Commission for England). All opinions and views are my own.

 

 

On North Yorkshire – Day 1: Arriving In The Forest

The last town we drive through before reaching Cropton Forest is Pickering, the sign for which stirs uncomfortable memories. ‘Something odd,’ I murmur, but then I stop as the memory crystallises into shape.

Pickering. The last name of a brawny blonde labourer who always turned up at Young Farmers’. He was the one you had to snog at the end of a party if you hadn’t found anyone else.

‘What?’ says Stephen, as we drive over the crest of a hill. The North York Moors is suddenly rising before us.

‘Nothing! Golly! Look at the hill!’

Poor Master Pickering. I hope he’s happy, somewhere, not still cow-eyed and slack-jawed at the bar, hoping it’s his lucky night.

We’re winding through Cropton village now, dark-stoned houses with jolly orange-red roofs. The dogs are sitting up in the back, sensing the end of the long journey. The children have taken off their head-phones, bored with DVDs, and we all lean forward, peering from the car windows, searching for a signpost. The Sat Nav counts us down with smug efficiency.

I say for the hundredth time: I hope it’s going to be nice. We have bad form for British holidays, especially ones where we’ve taken the dogs. When the children were little, we never had any money, and we did everything on the cheap. We once took our German Shepherd (Archie) to Devon, and stayed in some tin-hut type chalet with the most terrible smell. It had black mould ringing the smeared windows, like eye-liner on an ageing raver, and human-hair balls beneath the children’s beds. The owner met us with the key, and to take our money (‘Cash only, dearie’). She had a blonde candy-floss beehive and insisted on telling us that the guests before us had left a giant poo in the middle of the floor. They hadn’t had a dog. As soon as she had gone, we ran to the on-site shop and bought three bottles of bleach, a mop and a scrubbing brush. Whenever we have tough times in our house, we always console ourselves that at least we’re not in the Tin Shack.

It’s starting to spit with rain with rain as we follow the signs and turn left into the woods. We drive up a rough Tarmac road, and a sign welcomes us to Forest Holidays. We pull up next to a house and courtyard area, all pointing and talking at once.

‘Go on, then,’ says Stevie, leaning back and shutting his eyes. ‘Go do your stuff.’

Our map of the North York Moors.
Our map of the North York Moors.

The children and I jump out, staggering as we shove our feet into trainers, trying not to squash the spears of new daffodils.

‘Look, Mummy! Bikes!’

The courtyard area has a bike-hire shop to the left, and those lovely chunky hard-wood tables and chairs up the centre. The weather has turned them that soft silver, and I briefly imagine sitting at one with a coffee and the paper. Reception is up a couple of steps, in the little on-site shop. We go in, and are instantly welcomed by a team of smiling out-doors types in green fleeces.

‘Hello,’ we say back. ‘Hello, hello.’

I sign us in as the children roam the shop, louder with each new discovery. ‘Pencils!’ ‘Jam!’ ‘Mummy! They Make Pizzas Actually Here!’

‘Anything you need, or want to know,’ I’m told. ‘You just need to ask.’

I can’t think of anything sensible, and we say thank you, thank you, and run back out to the car. We pile back in, waking Stephen up and sending the dogs scrabbling with excitement. Stevie starts the car and we roll slowly round the one way system, looking for our cabin. Cabin 29. We keep stealing little looks at each other. It’s so nice. All so nice. The cabins are arranged on a short of sprawling figure-of-eight, with plenty of space between each one. Smoke curling from chimneys tell of wood-burners, and quite a lot of smart cars are parked on the bends of the eight, away from the cabins themselves. A cock pheasant struts out in front of us as we climb a slight hill, and Pants erupts into a series of howls.

‘We know,’ we tell him. ‘We’re nearly there.’

Cabin 29
Cabin 29

We find Cabin 29, and race with the key. Ellie spends at least five minutes trying to open the door, sending the rest of us into orbit with frustration. Finally, she gets it open and we all crowd into the hall. It’s so warm, so clean and Scandi-style, like the very best sort of ski-chalet.

‘Dogs’ll be in here then,’ says Stevie. The children kick off their shoes (which they never do at home), and run into the living room. We hear their cries of delight and follow them in. There’s a big, curving sofa, big enough for all of us, and the whole of the back of the cabin facing the trees is glass.

‘Hot tub!’ we shriek. ‘And look at the fruit bowl, and the map, and we’ve got two loos – two loos darlings – and look at the lovely kitchen with gas, and oh my goodness, look at the picnic table and the woods and IT’S JUST ALL SO NICE.’

Stevie and I go into domestic mode, unloading the car, taking the dogs for a run (straight into the woods) un-packing everything, immediately, bustling with the kettle and making hot drinks.

A Forest Ranger with a pony tail comes to talk to us about heating and how to work the telly (which sorts out our Wifi), then gives us a whole load of brilliant places to go and visit.

‘You must go to Whitby,’ he says. ‘Best scampi in England. Seriously.’ We write a list as he talks, and he shows us where to go on our map. The children ask him about the pizza we can order.

‘We’ll go up to the shop, later,’ I say.

The ranger grins. ‘You can order it from your telly-‘ The children are in raptures.

Later that night, after we’ve stuffed ourselves silly, marked up maps, hot-tubbed and we’ve opened a bottle of wine, Stevie and I lean together on the long sofa. I tuck my feet up, away from Pants and his loving nibbling. Dora is fast asleep on the rug, exhausted by the car.

‘Oh,’ I say. ‘This is going to be a brilliant week.’ Stephen is scrolling through the lists of films for the children. I nudge him. ‘Don’t you think?’

‘What?’

‘Going to be brilliant here. At Cabin 29.’

Stevie stretches out his arms and yawns loudly. He’s grinning, his face mischievous. ‘Yeah. It is. It’s all right, suppose.’ He gives me a sly look. ‘Just about beats the Tin Shack.’

I punch him, aiming for a dead-leg, and the children tell us to shush, just shush, they’re watching their film.

 

This is the second of a set of posts, written about our family holiday in North Yorkshire, as guests of  Forest Holidays (part of the Forestry Commission for England). All opinions and views are my own.

 

On North Yorkshire – Day 1 (‘Let’s Just Get There’)

One of the loveliest things about going on an English holiday (apart from not weighing suitcases), is taking the dogs with us. We’re off to North Yorkshire to stay in a cabin in the woods, where we will play Scrabble, walk until our shins are numb, and Embrace Nature.

‘Will there be bears?’ asks Ellie. We assure her that there will not. ‘Pity,’ she says.

It’s Monday morning, and we’re doing the usual stressy nightmare we do whenever we go away. Have-you-packed-the-torches-well-why-are-they-on-the-stairs-then, and I-thought-YOU-were-putting-diesel-in-the-car. This time though, it’s worse than ever, as we were out for Sunday lunch yesterday, and I haven’t packed anything. Not one thing. Worse still: three pairs of jeans (two of mine, one of Elle’s) are still in the tumble dryer. I don’t actually remember them until we’re roaring up the M40.

‘We’re not turning round,’ says Stevie. ‘Look. Let’s just get there, shall we?’

‘Fine,’ I snap. ‘I’ll buy leggings.’ He hates leggings. I shake out Sunday’s Telegraph and retreat behind it, muttering.

I sulk until the M1, but then I glimpse the pale face of Hardwick Hall up on its hill, and put down the paper. I say for the millionth time how lovely it would be to visit. Stevie rolls his eyes, but the atmosphere in the car has lightened; the holiday-feeling  working its magic. Yorkshire Moors! Sea-side! Hot tub!

As we pass Nottingham, the sun comes out. Blue scraps of sky are visible between the sullen March clouds. The blackthorn is starting to flower along the motorway – incongruous frills of white behind grey crash-barriers and bright orange rescue-phones. Here and there are clumps of just-flowering daffodils, and Stevie and I speculate how they came to be there.

‘Wild animals, birds?’ ‘Bulb-bombing truckers?’

The miles roll on, the children entranced by a DVD, the dogs silent in the boot like stowaways.

We join the A1 and marvel at the smoking giant chimneys of Ferrybridge.

‘Look Jess,’ says Stevie. He gestures to her to remove her ear-phones. ‘Cranes!’

Jess hums politely and replaces her earphones. Stephen and I exchange glances. Too grown up now, for cranes.

We go past York Racecourse, its huge glass stands glinting in the afternoon light, then we’re in the gentle sweeps of the Howardian Hills.

A sign comes up for Castle Howard, and I look at Stevie hopefully. He steadfastly ignores me for three miles, but then he crumbles, abruptly.

‘Fine,’ he says. ‘But only for two minutes, and we’re not going in.’ I have a wild moment, imagining leaping from the car and shinning the wall with the daughters and the dogs.

We pull off the A1 and drive past a giant monument inscribed with ‘The Earl of Carlisle’, but we can’t figure out exactly what the monument is for. It heads the top of a long avenue that undulates like a very long magic carpet. It’s bisected by huge stone walls, and I crane to see the main house. ‘I bet it’s amazing,’ I say. ‘Almost a Blenheim.’

The mysterious monument
The mysterious monument

‘Nowhere’s a Blenheim,’ shout the children.

We drive past yolk-yellow gorse, puffy fluffs of pale green goat willow. Then woodland; silver birch, larch, pine, ash. We see signs for an arboretum, but then we swing into Castle Howard’s car park, come to a stop beside its cricket pitch.

‘Look, look! It’s got a pavilion and everything, and they’ve got a wicket like Horley-‘

Everyone explodes from the thick air in the car and we run about, whooping, playing tig and shouting instructions at the dogs and abuse at each other. Then we put the dogs and Stephen back and head towards the signs that say Farm Shop. We walk into what was once the courtyard for the stables, and it’s the nicest place.

We visit the bookshop, the gift shop and the loo, and we buy three Castle Howard Pencils. The lady behind the till is endlessly patient as the children and I squabble over colours.

We finally settle (one yellow, one green and Jess buys a rubber), and whiz to the farm shop. It’s groaning with delicious things, and I hugely regret my grand statement that this holiday, I shall not be shackled to a handbag.

Playing tig on Castle Howard's cricket pitch
Playing tig on Castle Howard’s cricket pitch

‘I only grabbed a couple of pounds,’ I say. The children look appalled. They’d spotted tremendous cake.

‘We’ll just ask Daddy to get out of the car-‘ says Ellie. I shake my head, not holding out much hope. The children run ahead, and I arrive back at the car just as he says it: Where’s Your Bloody Mother? and Let’s Just Get There.

I wave my hands at the daughters’ chorus of disappointment.

‘Fine,’ I say. ‘It’s fine. Be calmed. Calm.’ I look at Stephen, who’s reversing before we’ve all got our seatbelts on. He accelerates and I look back at Castle Howard, its intricate roof-line indistinct behind the winter trees.

‘It’s a fabulous place,’ I say. ‘A day’s worth place, not a snatched half-hour. We’ll plan it properly for the summer and we’ll bring a picnic in the hamper.’

The gates of Castle Howard. The nearest I got - this time.
The gates of Castle Howard. The nearest I got – this time.

‘And a book each,’ says Jess, thoughtfully. ‘In case there’s cricket, and Daddy starts watching.’

I turn round in my seat, looking North to Cropton Forest. If this is a taste of Yorkshire, we think we’re going to like it here.

 

 

This is the first of a set of posts, written about our family holiday in North Yorkshire, as guests of  Forest Holidays (part of the Forestry Commission for England). All opinions and views are my own.