... in York

Adventures of the Anonymous Four in York

 

Despite much doubt as to whether we would actually be able to leave at 7am we were on our way by about ten past. We had a ‘new’ car in the form of a Fiat Multipla, or Ugly as it was affectionately called by us. The journey did not start especially well as we took a wrong turn within a mile from home. The journey was uneventful until we approached the M25 where warning signs advised of serious delays between Jct 9 and 11. We were joining at Jct 10 into almost stationary traffic.

 

Fortunately the incident wasn’t far ahead. A lorry appeared to have had some sort of coming together with the huge outer barriers and flipped over onto its side, blocking three of the four lanes of motorway.

In our excitement about doing well, and my talking to Husband to make sure he didn’t nod off we missed the turn to the M1. We came off at the next junction to turn round and try again, but having re-joined the M25 it became clear that perhaps the correct route would have been a different exit from the junction rather than re-joining the M25 as there didn’t seem to be a corresponding exit on the side of the road that we were now on. So we went on to the next one, turned round and came back again to the junction we had missed in the first place. The extra trip did give us another chance to look at the single wind turbine on the hill next the motorway.

Child the Elder and Child the Younger were unaware of our short circuit, engrossed in a film on the in-car DVD player. There was in fact an eerie, but pleasant silence, from the back. Having now been going for almost three hours we felt that a stop for breakfast wouldn’t go amiss. But this needed to coincide with the film ending. After passing a couple of service stations, the credits were rolling and we pulled in for a break.

During breakfast, which consisted of hot chocolates, coffee and vast quantities of croissants, Child the Younger realised that she had put her trousers on back to front. Despite having quite happily wandered around until now, she skulked in a most embarrassed fashion to the ladies, hands over her bum to try and disguise the error. During breakfast we started discussing inventions and Child the Elder observed that everything, in fact, has been invented. I begged to differ, commenting that things like table and chairs had in fact always existed in the form of rocks and other natural components. Whereas lamp posts, for example, hadn’t.

We set off again and two hours later approached the outskirts of York. The hotel was reasonably easy to find and we checked in, used the facilities and then ventured forth in search of lunch. While the girls and I waited for the sandwiches to be made Husband went in search of a cash point – and then phoned us to direct us to where he was, the queue for the cash point being so extensive that he anticipated being there for some time. On the way to him we passed the old Assembly Rooms – now an Ask restaurant – and on his instruction peered in. There were exclamations of wow all round. It was a huge, long hall with candlelit tables and columns supporting the high ceiling from which hung decorative chandeliers. Our venue for dinner was decided.

The wait for the cash point was alleviated by a one man band in the square singing familiar ditties – along with his sheep dog. At various points the man would lean over the dog and presumably whisper an instruction, at which the dog would woof or howl as required.

Thus the song ‘how much is that doggy in the window’ did actually include a genuine woof woof, although there was a distinct absence of waggely tail. In the midst of the crowds, some Romans casually wandered through the crowd. Well, when in York, and all that.

We sat on the steps of York Minster to devour our sandwiches – having first popped our heads into the Minster for a quick look. This was particularly quick as there is only a small area that can be accessed for free before reaching the turnstiles and ticket points.

The town centre of York is in fact quite small. Narrow streets, paved with stone or cobbles edge their way between buildings of every era which co-habit the town with a natural ease. Ancient, timbered structures, leaning precariously towards the buildings on the opposite side of the street comfortably neighbour ornate, stone Victorian architecture and red bricked medieval designs. The ‘olde worlde’ sweet shops did indeed give an impression of having not changed at all for two hundred years, only given away by the contents of ‘Thank you for looking after my pet’ fudge, and sweets designed to look like a fried breakfast.

York's turbulent history can be traced back nearly 2,000 years. It begins in earnest in AD71 when the Romans, at the height of their powers, conquered the Celtic tribes known as the Brigantes and founded Eboracum which, by the fourth century, was the capital of lower Britain. In AD71, the Roman Governor of Britain, Quintus Petilius Cerealis, led his troops northwards from Lincoln to invade 'Brigantia'. Recognising a good military strongpoint, he based his camp at the juncture of two rivers, the Ouse and the Foss.

Having conquered the Brigantes, the Ninth Legion built a fortress on the site of their camp and called it Eboracum. On the departure of the Ninth Legion in AD120, the Sixth Legion took command of the fortress which eventually enclosed 50 acres and housed a garrison of several thousand soldiers.

New roads were constructed, a civilian town grew up outside the fortress walls and Eboracum became the capital of Lower Britain and a leading city of the Roman Empire.

Several Emperors visited Eboracum and Severus held his Imperial Court there until he died in AD211. In AD306, Emperor Constantius Chlorus died in Eboracum and was succeeded by Constantine, his son. Constantine the Great, as he became known, was proclaimed Emperor and the proclamation is thought to have been held on the site of the present Minster – and there is a statue of him at the entrance of the Minster, in front of which vast numbers of visitors wanted to be photographed.

The Legions, who occupied Eboracum until around AD410, had their headquarters where the Minster stands today and, during restoration work, Roman remains were discovered beneath it. These included a 31 foot Roman pillar which was re-erected.

After the Romans withdrew from Britain in the fifth century, the Anglo-Saxons began their invasion.

In the seventh century, known as Eoferwic, it was the chief city of the Anglo-Saxon King Edwin of Northumbria and, two centuries later as Jorvik, it became an important trading centre for the Vikings.

The Kingdom of Northumbria was in the midst of civil war when the Vikings raided and captured York in 866.

Ten years later the Danish King Halfdan shared out the lands of Northumbria from his capital, Jorvik, and the former warriors settled down to a peaceful existence having stopped marauding in favour of starting Ikea.

Jorvik became a major river port, part of the extensive Viking trading routes throughout northern Europe. The last Danish ruler of Jorvik, Eric Bloodaxe, was driven from the town in the year 965 by King Eadred of Wessex who succeeded in uniting Northumbria with the southern kingdom. But for another hundred years, the north was largely ruled by earls of both Anglo-Saxon and Scandinavian blood.

During 1065-66, following rebellion of the local earls, there came invasion by the Norwegians and the defeat of their army at Stamford Bridge. But a few weeks later, the victor, King Harold II of England was himself defeated and killed at the Battle of Hastings by the Normans

The city was ravaged by William the Conqueror. He ruthlessly pursued a policy of scorched earth, causing great destruction. The Domesday Book, William's census of 1086, records that 'there was not a blade of grass between the Rivers Trent and Tweed'. By the Middle Ages it had again become an important commercial centre.

In the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries Tudor and Stuart kings were among its visitors, in Georgian times it was the social capital of the north, and in the 19th century, with the coming of the railway, its industrial future was assured.

We were planning to go on a walking tour of York, led by a man on stilts dressed as a monk. The meet point was the roman column and we deduced that the large column across the road from the Minster must be the very spot, and presumably the re-erected one that had been found when building the Minster.

We walked past the Minster – where a wedding party had just arrived - and out of the city through Boothambar where our guide informed us that there was still a law in place whereby a Scotsman could be shot within the city walls provided it was with a cross bow and not on a Sunday. On the top this gate there used to be spikes which displayed the heads and upper body parts of such unfortunate Scotsmen as well as other criminals and undesirables.

Just outside the city walls was a large red-bricked building that had been commandeered by Henry VIII when he was married to Catherine Howard, and the two of them had stayed here when in York. On one corner of this building was a tiny window and there was said have been some sort of lavatory arrangement sticking out from the wall allowing waste to fall into what was then the moat below – and a warning for all boatmen to row a little faster as they approached this overhang.

We walked on to the multagonal tower. This was another mix of eras, the foundations being roman and the upper parts medieval. The change in brickwork was quite distinct. We went through the city walls into the tower using an underrated method of warfare - which basically involved the invader putting his head round the corner to see if anyone was there. Within the tower a series of roman stone coffins were arrayed. These had been found in Victorian times while digging the foundations for the station – and had apparently had skeletons inside them. Beyond this was the monks undercroft, a place where the local monks had treated the ill but which had been destroyed as part of the dissolution of the monasteries.

Ladies were sent first into a long, dark passage which was lined with Roman stone coffins. Our guide – having not very surreptitiously put something inside one of the coffins – then volunteered Child the Elder to feel inside. She was reluctant. As was Child the Younger. Somehow the two of them volunteered me and I reached in and pulled out a rubber hand, which did actually feel unpleasantly life like. Apparently it normally wiggles its fingers, but in all the hesitation, the batteries had expired. I was pleased. I’m not sure I would have maintained any sense of decorum had it actually moved.

We walked through some of the low, narrow passageways past Barley Hall into Grape Lane. The monk explained that this was not in fact an area where wine was made. Previously the A had been and O and something completely different had in fact taken place in this area. Child the Younger asked what grope meant, but seemed rather disgusted with the reply. Particularly as the example I used involved her and her boyfriend. 

We passed through Mad Alice Lane – so called because a woman poisoned her husband and then pretended to be mad in order to avoid the death penalty. Whilst the locals thought her mad, she was found to be totally sane, extremely guilty and consequently hanged.

We went on to an old church which had no electricity or running water, and appeared to be subsiding. Its floor was decidedly uneven and some of the box pews were leaning at extreme angles. The box pews ranged from the cramped, cheap ones at the back to the more spacious and expensive ones at the front, which were decorated with carvings and right in front of the pulpit. Next to the pulpit was the sin bin – into which all the children were put. This was used to house anyone who misbehaved during the service. It had low bench seats so that the occupants couldn’t look out and distract the congregation, but from the pulpit the vicar could look in and keep a beady eye on the inhabitants.

We went through Monks Gate to St Williams College that apparently never was a college. Here we were told about the catholic martyr who was crushed to death for hiding priests in her house and refusing to convert to Protestantism.

 

Our walk over, we scampered through The Shambles to the York Dungeon. It was dark inside and now and then things jumped out at you, or water was sprayed. We went through various episodes of horror from the plague to vampires and torture. The girls were appropriately unnerved by some of it. In the court room one woman was accused of dancing in a graveyard to summon a man. The judge declared that ‘that man appeared’ pointing at Husband, at which apparently the said man (Husband) looked confused while the woman looked disappointed. I would have stood up for him, but didn’t want to be summoned next into the dock.

We went to a pub along the River Ouse for dinner. It was a large spacious building with spiral staircases leading upstairs. Child the Younger managed to spill sticky toffee pudding and coke down her front – which joined the butter from breakfast. Thus replete, we wandered along the river until it was time for our boat cruise. The river side had clearly been the site of industrial activity in the past with a wide, paved quayside and buildings, mostly now pubs and restaurants, that had the appearance of former industry. On the opposite side of the river were buildings which looked like warehouses. A line of geese wandered casually down the quayside, as did a hen party a few minutes later. It was the first of many hen parties that we would see that evening. Child the Elder had commented on the number of bridal shops in York – but with this number of hen parties, such shops were clearly needed.

Our boat pulled up. We were on the ghost trip cruise whereby as we sailed along the river we were told about various ghost stories in the area, accompanied by low budget screaming. The trip took us past the equally low budget millennium bridge and the Cock and Bottle pub which was apparently haunted by the notorious philanderer George Villiers, Duke of Buckingham. Child the Younger wanted to go there hoping for a ghostly encounter in the ladies – but was adamant that she wouldn’t go to the ladies alone.

 

Passing some of the riverside pubs upstream a local barbarian on an upper balcony mooned at the boat. Child the Elder and Child the Younger looked on in stunned surprise, before this gave way to complete shock in Child the Younger’s case as the full realisation of what she had seen came to her. There had been a reasonable view of his crown jewels between his legs.

After a long and exhausting day we walked back to the hotel, past a few more hen parties. There was a slight scuffle to determine ownership of the hotel biro – all other pens had been left in the car which was parked around the corner from the hotel. This did result in my coffee being ever so slightly jiggled and coffee ending up on the bed, floor and in my shoes. Making the coffee had proved interesting in the first place. The various implements were located on a shelf under the obligatory hotel room desk. However, we had already constructed the sofa bed which blocked the shelf so it couldn’t be pulled out. The kettle was too tall to be pulled out or turned on its side. In the end Child the Elder managed to pull the shelf out enough to free the kettle. It boiled away just beneath the shelf that supported the TV and Child the Elder did observe that this was perhaps not ideal or safe. However, the shortness of cable on the kettle ensured that there was no alternative option.

As the room was by now very cluttered we all made mental notes about where various obstructions lay in order to avoid too many incidences in the night of the sound of a bump, followed by ‘ow’. Despite this, before lights out all except Husband had indeed bumped and owed.

Child the Younger did not appear to have any pyjamas packed, so was going to sleep in T shirt and pants – about which she was very self conscious and insisted that no one looked at her bottom. Apparently a girl at school had told Child the Younger that she had a big bottom. Fortunately she was more concerned that the girl had been looking than with said girl’s conclusions and in a matter of fact way stated that she got her big bottom from Mum (Former Wife of Husband and mother to Child the Elder and Child the Younger). I suggested that she perhaps not mention this to Mum. Ever. There would never be an appropriate moment to drop that particular comment into conversation.

We settled down to sleep. Settling was not required as there would not be much sleep. Firstly I struggled as I was incredibly hot and didn’t really want to throw all the covers off in case the girls got up in the night and had a bit of a visual shock. We had opted to have the window closed as it was nearest to Child the Elder and might have made her cold during the night. Mind you, had the window been open then the sounds of hard partying in the city for most of the night might have prevented sleep anyway. Then some thoughtful guests sprinted up and down the corridor outside, noisily. I was awoken yet again by someone in the corridor knocking incessantly on a door – which quite clearly was not going to be opened. It was 1am and I was starting to become frustrated. Managing to get back to sleep we were all woken up a mere 50 minutes later by a group of girls returning to their room which was next to ours. They were not quiet. What made matters worse was that our rooms were linked by an adjoining door through which noise could travel ever so much more easily. Husband, who had also been sleeping badly, had had enough by this point and phoned reception –who asked the inhabitants of the neighbouring room to be quiet. They did quieten down a little – assisted by all having a smoke, the smell of which pleasantly seeped in through the adjoining door.

When I got up the next day my eyes were obscenely puffy. In much need of a good cooked breakfast we went downstairs where clearly there was only continental breakfasting available. In hindsight that was probably a good thing. We were after all due to meet up with friends of Husband’s parents for a sumptuous lunch.

We set off early for a number of reasons. Firstly, we were ready and secondly, if we removed our car from the car park by 10am it would cost less. On asking for directions, by foot, to the car park we were asked for the ticket so it could be stamped which would ensure that our costs were capped. Good thing we asked for directions – the ticket discount hadn’t been mentioned the previous evening when we had asked for road directions to the car park.

We therefore arrived early for our lunch engagement, stopping at a small village on the way to get postcards – which we didn’t get because they didn’t sell them. In the end we sat in the car for a while reading newspapers and magazines before going to Mr Friend of Family and Mrs Friend of Family.

Their house smelled of old people, that distinctive mothball aroma which you only get from a generation who were clearly brought up to be terrified of moths. There’s so much more to be frightened of now. And it was decorated in what was probably the height of fashionable taste – in the 70’s.

Once upon a time there had been a front and back garden. Now there was pristine patio slabs covering anywhere that might sprout grass. It seemed a pity, but similarly I could imagine that maintaining a garden as you get older would be difficult.

Second Mr Friend of Family and Second Mrs Friend of Family arrived soon afterwards. Second Mrs Friend of Family looked wonderfully dishevelled, and slightly mad. Her glasses made her eyes look ten times their natural size and her hair gave the appearance of having recently encountered a tornado. Her husband – mumbling words in his thick Yorkshire accent which made him quite difficult to understand - was constantly grinning and seemed terribly good fun although his trousers hadn’t been near a washing machine since the turn of the century.

Second Mrs Friend of the Family informed me that Mrs Friend of the Family had insisted on the paving, which had resulted in the removal of Mr Friend of the Family’s greenhouse – apparently the only joy in his life. Mr Friend of the Family looked like a broken man. He stood there, hunched over, only speaking when spoken too and generally looking quite scared.

‘You had to get rid of your greenhouse, didn’t you’ Second Mrs Friend of the Family told him. He looked up, and nodding quickly, looking around in case Mrs Friend of the Family saw and took this a sign of rebellion.

 

We retired indoors for some tea and pre-lunch biscuits. Mr Friend of the Family only spoke when prompted by Mrs Friend of the Family’s ‘didn’t we Mr Friend of the Family’. ‘Yes dear’ he dutifully replied before bowing his head and returning to his static silence, almost like a voice response toy. It seemed sad. As I told the girls later, earlier in their marriage she had probably prodded him when speaking, but didn’t need to any more. The prod was silently acknowledged between them as existing. It was a mistake perhaps to have told the girls this – for the rest of the holiday whenever they wanted a response they would prod us repeatedly in the arm and mutter ‘didn’t we Mr Friend of the Family’ in a sharp, nagging way.

I was struggling to stay awake. Not because it was boring – well actually yes, partly because it was boring – but also because it was jolly warm and I hadn’t really slept much the previous night. Child the Younger and I decided to go to the lavatory to help break the monotony, and we both whispered to each other that it was a little dull. Despite this, Child the Elder and Child the Younger were behaving remarkably well, politely answering all the questions put to them and gently pointing out ‘no, she’s Child the Elder, I’m Child the Younger’ when required.

At last we left for lunch – and not a moment too soon as I was ravenous. Mr Friend of the Family came in the car with us and seemed delighted to be free.

We were lunching at a local carvery where tables could not be booked and there was a little wait before we could be seated – which Second Mrs Friend of the Family subsequently complained about.

As it was a help yourself affair, and as I was hungry, I piled my plate with as much food as could it would take. About a quarter of the way through – when I was still trying to find the meat underneath – I thought perhaps I might have overdone it. But being in the presence of people who were brought up to clear their plates I felt under a degree of pressure to eat it all. And to my credit – or greed – I did.

Then somebody decided that we ought to have puddings. Actually that might have been me. Anyway, I did finish it but was well and truly done for.

On the way back to Mr & Mrs Friend of the Family’s we went to Rothwell to see a whalebone arch. Somehow we had managed to get onto the subject of my Male Parent’s whalebone interests. It was, as Husband described, a bonus (bone-us). Ha ha. Perhaps you had to be there.

 

 

The bones were huge and we fired off a load of pictures, secretly hoping that this would be one that my Male Parent had missed, and explaining to the girls exactly what it was and how big the original whale would have been. We had their concentration as they were also too full to be boisterous or difficult.

Back at the house we were furnished with some more tea and then, mon dieu, two plates of cakes appeared! Even I could not even attempt to eat one. Mrs Friend of the Family explained it was just a small something to ‘cleanse the palate’. I got the feeling it was a phrase she had heard somewhere and liked the sound of without fully understanding its meaning. Anyway, my palate certainly didn’t require cleansing at that point. A darn good emptying out perhaps. But that was it.

As soon as it was possibly polite to do so, we left, and congratulated the girls on the most impeccable and outstanding display of nice young ladies which they had maintained, without fault, almost the entire day. Except for the brief moment in the carvery when Child the Younger had decided that actually yes, she was going to be a vegetarian today and I had to quietly inform her that when invited out for lunch by other people this was not a polite move to make.

We went back to the hotel, and had a lie down – and a bit of a sleep. A couple of hours later, still quite full, we decided that we ought to have dinner and should go the Ask restaurant we had seen the previous day.

It really was a fantastic building. Dimly lit and flickering candles on the tables gave the huge hall an amber glow. Polite and silent waiters attended to our every need. In some respects it was a shame that such an incredible building was an Ask, and in other ways it was nice – because if it had been a hugely expensive fancy restaurant then we probably wouldn’t have eaten there.

 

 
Husband and I opted for salads on the assumption that this would be a lighter option. Child the Elder and Child the Younger went for pizza’s which we helped them eat, rather negating our ‘lighter’ option.

The girls even rather patiently waited for us while we had coffees. Child the Younger was slightly unnerved by the fact that her seat was directly below large chandelier, suspended a few feet above her head and several feet away from the ceiling. We told her that if she heard a noise above, then run. On the plus side, however, if she was squashed by the chandelier then we would probably get a discount or even a free meal. This didn’t seem to be particularly comforting to her.

 

 After a much better nights sleep we went downstairs for breakfast – which was running low on supplies. We did ask the rather ignorant staff if they could bring out more – a request that they by and large ignored. When we checked out we were asked if there was anything they could do to improve. We all hrumphed in a meaningful way and I passed them the comment card I had filled in – overfilled in fact as it wasn’t big enough to contain all the comments I wanted to make.

Pointing the car in the direction of Whitby we set off. All was going well until we neared Pickering. There had been a steam and traction engine rally which was ending. Now. As a consequence we joined the end of a long and very slow moving queue of traffic which crawled towards Pickering where, with any luck, most of it would go either left or right on the main A road. We were due to carry straight on through the North Yorkshire Moors. After about an hour of snail pace driving we finally got through.

The moors were beautiful. Miles of nothing but windswept purple heather carpeting the otherwise barren landscape. The road stretched ahead into the distance, clinging to the hills as they rose and fell through, occasionally, some reasonably serious contour lines. We had decided to go on to Whitby. Husband had already established that the car was not especially high performance, and as we plummeted down to Sleights on a road with emergency brake failure exit slips, he did wonder whether the car would cope with driving back again.

Shortly after this we could see the ruins of Whitby abbey on the hillside.

 

 

We drove into the town which was phenomenally busy – so busy that in fact the only place we were able to park was by the abbey, once we had procured some change. Whitby is a sloping town, crowding down in picturesque alleys or yards and flight after flight of stone stairs to the water. We walked down the hill into the town, with the sound of the fair by the harbour rushing up both sides of the valley so that everywhere we were, the fair could be heard. We wandered along the narrow, cobbled streets towards the harbour, from which all the streets radiated steeply. The streets were filled with souvenir shops and several jewellers specialising in jet and even more filled with people. Making headway became increasingly difficult. Part of the reason for it being so busy was that this was day 3 of a 3 day regatta.

We walked along one of the huge concrete breakwaters separating the North Sea from the harbour and watched the sea rushing in towards the shore. Whitby Bay stretched out into the distance, an expanse of white sand flanked by huge dark cliffs. Although a calm day, the sea was a mass of foam and froth. Long, tall waves rolled in at speed before crashing onto the shore. I was surprised there were no surfers out there. A lifeboat moored up a few metres off shore was being thrown around in a manner which served remind you of the power of the sea. It looked so small out there, and so very much as the mercy of the waves.

We looked in a number of jet shops as I wanted to get some – but the jewellery was mighty pricey. Many of the jewellery shop windows were festooned with black glistening beads and dangling necklaces. In the end I bought a lump, which had been polished on a couple of sides.

We walked over the narrow bridge to the other side of the harbour. The bridge could be raised to allow tall boats in and out of the river Esk. Its narrowness combined with the many hundreds of people wanting to cross it ensured that it took a few minutes to negotiate. Once over we were rewarded with Whitby fish and chips. It is not beyond the realms of possibility to assume that the fish eaten was caught the previous night by local fishermen.

We walked up to see the whalebone arch – which was much smaller than the Rothwell arch. But you can’t see too many whalebones in one holiday.

 

We spent a few minutes looking at the sea battered cliffs reaching out in one direction, and in the other, the steep hillside randomly peppered with houses rising up to the dramatic ruins of the gothic abbey. Captain Cook’s statue had certainly been given a spot with a stunning view. Child the Elder and Child the Younger hadn’t heard of Captain Cook. Although they had heard of New Zealand. One therefore assumes that they don’t know he discovered it. Education just isn’t what it used to be. Technically of course, that isn’t quite right. It had already been discovered by the Maori’s who lived there – as well as the DoDo who the European explorers shot to extinction. But we hadn’t known it existed, and really that was all that mattered. And having found it existed, we decided it was ours, conveniently ignoring clear evidence of prior claims.

Deciding to head back we made our way, slowly, back across the bridge and through the masses to the steps that led up to the church, 199 in total allegedly (Child the Elder and Child the Younger were counting, but lost count and for some reason were unwilling to go back to the bottom and start again). We had a reason to stop for a breather on the way as there were 5 bi-planes performing a display, all fully equipped with wing walkers, which must have been jolly good fun when the plane did 360º loops – and on a couple of occasions came very close to one of the fair rides that threw people up into the air.

  

We drove a bit further down the coast to Robin Hood’s bay, and then back towards Goathland via some small country lanes – which had a tendency to be more bendy and steep than the main road. As we approached there were tantalizing puffs of steam rising out of the valley below and coming from the North Yorkshire steam railway, but the line ran too deep in the valley below for us to actually see the train.

 

The road to Goathland was lined by sheep who stood or sat on the verges, ambled across the middle of the road without a care in the world or quite simply lingered in the road with no concept of any danger that they might be in. Child the Younger wanted to stop and stroke them. Child the Elder and Child the Younger both wanted to count them – and hereafter the sheep were referred to as random baas, partly because we kept hearing baas in a random manner. Having initially followed some rather dubious directions courtesy of Auto Route – which seemed to think our hotel was a small copse of trees in the middle of nowhere – we did eventually find it, and very comfortable it looked too. We were greeted at reception by Anon the dog whose head suddenly came up from behind the desk.

Goathland is otherwise known as Aidensfield and is the setting for Heartbeat. We hadn’t known this when we booked, but had found out pretty quickly. We saw the Aidensfield garage, fully equipped with old cars and passed shops which had, for example, Goathland Stores on one side of the door and Aidensfield Stores on the other – presumably the latter being the side that is used when required in the TV show.

 

We went to Aidensfield Arms for a pre-dinner drink. There were few options of places to go for dinner. The Arms had a very limited choice, so we decided to have a look at the fare in a hotel opposite. The options here seemed to fit the bill, so we tucked in. We had a discussion about debates (Child the Elder had been anxious about this being required in one of her GCSE subjects, so I pointed out her skills when she was ‘debating’ something with Husband – such as agreeing bedtime - at which she became very embarrassed rather than fully realising that she could actually do it with no bother at all). As Child the Elder and Child the Younger were starting to have petty bickers we also had a discussion about my belief that there does not exist a good reason for an argument. They chose to disagree – which I found sad, especially as their short lives have born witness to so many arguments, so many of which they must have viewed as a pointless waste of energy.

Pudding was served with decorative red currants. I ate one and heartily regretted it. It was revolting – very very bitter – and could only ever serve the function of decoration. Child the Younger had noticed the face I pulled when eating it – that look when you have suddenly realised that what’s in your mouth tastes extremely nasty. So I asked her to try one to see how bad it was. She declined. So I told her that I would buy her one of the dragons she has had her eye on. After humming and herring for some time, she actually did it and frankly put on a performance that put Paul Burrell’s kangaroo testicle eating well into the shade.

We returned to the hotel and went to bed. The following morning we were greeted with a cooked breakfast – at last.

Having been blessed with glorious warm and sunny days until now, today it looked a little damp outside. Today was also the day we were due to visit my waterfall. I had first become aware of this many years ago from a fiction book which suddenly came out with ‘There are two constituent brooklets of the Mirk Esk, the Eller Beck and the Wheeldale Beck, which have their juncture at a place called Beck Holes – and along these Beck are many fine fosses – the Anonymous Foss, Water Ark and Walk Mill Fosses ….’ Later on in the book there is a conversation between a man and a little girl ‘he asked her name which she told him was May. She had another name, she said, which she did not like. He said perhaps that might come to change, names grew and diminished as time ran on: he would like to know her long name. So she said that her name was Maia Anonymous Bailey…He told her that Maia was the mother of Hermes and that he knew a waterfall called Anonymous. She had a pony called Hermes, she said, and she had never heard of a waterfall with a name like Anonymous’.

We drove to Beck Hole along the narrow country roads and down an incredibly steep hill to Beck Hole, a small hamlet in a fold of the moorland hills. Only having a rather vague idea about how to get to the Foss we followed the path along the side of the river. It was quiet, beautiful and comfortably overgrown. The river ran through a deep gorge in the rocks which reached up high above us. The height of them was increased by the fact that the top of the gorge was overgrown with trees, and this added to a certain darkness of the rock faces. Towards the Foss the path descended steeply and soon became muddy. With the Foss in sight, we had to clamber among boulders and scramble to the waters edge.

The Foss was opposite, tumbling into a naturally cavernous circle of rocks in which various saplings struggled for a precarious living. It was dark and smelled cold and mossy. Child the Elder and Child the Younger played on the these rocks, traversing a fallen tree which linked one set of rocks with another, taking them over part of the pool of water. Fortunately no one fell in. I sat there for some time, just watching the green-gold-white rush of the fall. The pool crept out into dark, mossy corners, overhung by the dark rock face towering above it. The effect of light and shade, both in the changing green of the foliage and the depths of the pool was particularly fine. The contact between the cool dappled world of the little dales, and the shady caverns and pools into which the forces rush and hurry to be swallowed in quiet, and the open spaces where for mile upon mile nothing seems to stir is so absolute and yet so natural. Above us trees teetered on jutting out parts of the cliff on rock that would one day fall. I could have sat there all day, and the girls could probably have played there all day. But having other things to do, we turned back.

 

 Soon afterwards we heard the sound of a stream train. The railway line ran along the top of the gorge just above us. Child the Younger and I ran up to the top of the extremely steep sided gorge and got there in time so see the train fighting its way up the hill, puffing with all its might. Husband and Child the Elder, more sensibly, only ran as far up as was necessary to be able to see the train. The line had been designed by George Stevenson, but the modern train route was designed by George Hudson to avoid this hill that was part of Stephenson’s original route as the gradient from Beck Hole to Goathland – one of the steepest in the country at 1 in 49 – was not only inconvenient, but a number of serious accidents had sealed its fate.

Having got all the way up to the top, Child the Younger and I tried to walk the rest of the way back along the top rather than go back down to the river level, and climb up the hill again near Beck Hole. Husband and Child the Elder opted for the latter option. And quite soon I wished that we had too. Our route was thick with gorse bushes and bracken. Also, as the gorge side was extremely steep I was concerned about one or other of us falling. So the decision was made to get back down the hill. We clambered down through bracken that was high enough to hide both of us. The ground underneath was uneven and there were occasions when I put my foot down and went further down than I had expected, and ended up sitting down in all the bracken – to which I maintained a tight grip so as not to slide down the hill.

Reasonably unscathed we finally reached the river – and still seemed to be ahead of Husband and Child the Elder. All was going smoothly until we reached the steps which led back up to the railway line. These had been dug into the earth and had wood across the front to maintain the step shape. However, as the earth within had settled, the wood fronts stuck up out of the ground. Child the Younger, approaching the steps with speed, tripped over and hurt herself. Certainly there were a few verbal references to various characters from the Bible. She continued up the steps much more slowly. We stopped at the top to wait for Husband and Child the Elder – and it also gave us the chance to cool down. Soon after they arrived we saw another steam train go past, however this one was rolling down the hill towards Grosmont. Husband was fairly sure that it would have had its breaks on, quite hard, the whole way.

We ambled back to Beck Hole – which by and large consisted of a pub, a handful of houses and a hump backed bridge over the river. It had been quiet and sleepy when we arrived. Now it was thronging with people – or more specifically, the pub was thronging with people. After the morning exertions, however, we were much in need of liquid refreshment.

The pub was a converted house – only not much converting had been done. We went into a tiny room with a flag stone floor. There was a small table in the corner and wooden bench seats around the edge. Straight ahead was a small bar. The room next door served as a small shop. It was quaint but uncosy. Although Child the Younger wanted to sit inside we opted to go out to the patio. There was just the small matter of quite a few steps to climb to get there. The patio was liberally surrounded by flowers which attracted bees and birds. The bees were not hugely welcome, but it was quite nice to have a drink while a bird perched on the end of the table. From their mode of dress, it seemed that most people using the pub were walkers.

Duly refreshed, we returned to the car. By now a group of Brownies had gathered at the river for lunch. Child the Younger went down to the river to play, leaping precariously from wet stone to wet stone with Child the Elder in hot pursuit. Husband, wanting to avoid both injury and soggy clothes, coaxed her away, with difficulty, and we returned to Goathland. The intention had been to go to another waterfall in the village – Mallyn’s Spout. However, as we arrived back into the village a rather heavy downpour began. It was about lunch time, and we were hungry, so all agreed to go forth in search of food. This was actually easier said than done. We had pretty much exhausted Goathland’s food options. Beck Hole had offered butties and pork pies. We decided to venture further afield – to Grosmont. And we went the scenic route along the narrow country lanes through the moors, which were now misty, wet and inhospitable. The bleak barrenness of the silent and empty moors was beautiful. We stopped the car on the way to look at the view – and all was silence. There was no one there but us.

Child the Younger wanted Husband to let the car roll down all the hills we came to – which I didn’t like at all. I saw from the map that we would go through a ford. Child the Elder asked what this was. Well, I told her, it’s like a Fiesta or a Mondeo.

The sign warned us that the ford was ahead, and that the road could often be impassable. We turned the corner, and there it was. This wasn’t a ford. It was large, wide and reasonably deep. Like a river in fact. I did suggest to Husband that perhaps this was one of those times when it was impassable. But he decided to the contrary, and we splashed through it, creating huge waves of water on either side of the car to the noisy delight of Child the Elder & Child the Younger. Once out of the water the engine was steaming thickly as the water evaporated away.

Grosmont was only slightly larger than Goathland. There was a pub next to the railway that had all the appearances of providing lunch. The family room was booked out for a private function, but we were able to squeeze into the bar area amongst the silent, smoking clientele who didn’t seem overly enamoured by the presence of children. The pub hadn’t been decorated for about a century and there was a noticeable absence of anything modern – like music or fruit machines.

  

Being next to the railway this did provide ample opportunity for Husband to keep ducking outside every time he heard a steam engine.

He watched one pull into the station, and went back out a while later to see it leave. I heard it from inside the pub, the slow rhythmic chuff chuff of the steam as the train started to move, the sound of exertion. It was an indescribably beautiful sound, like a heartbeat before gradually speeding up and trailing into the distance while wreaths of smoke gracefully rose from the engine and shrouded the huge, greased wheels.

We walked through Stephenson’s tunnel to the engine shed. Husband insisted on telling us all sorts of technical information, and I told the girls to pay attention as there would be questions later.

It had now started to rain – on and off, but more on than off. Based on the weather we decided to go for a quick trip on the trains instead.

Child the Elder and Child the Younger thoroughly approved of the train as it had old fashioned compartment coaches – and we had a compartment to ourselves. This alone was not the reason for the approval – apparently the Harry Potter train has compartments. We discovered all sorts of things about it – such as the control of all the lights including individual lamps behind the seats. There was also a control to brighten or dim the lighting. We had heating controls – although I don’t think the heating was on, and there were also mirrors. Once we started moving, we hung our heads out of the window filing our faces, hair and eyes with smuts, but also inhaling the fantastic smell of the steam. This was considerably better than the fantastic smell of egg produced by Child the Elder – always a mistake in a confined space. A small boy was also looking out of the window, and rather more sensibly, looking behind him. This did of course mean he was looking at us, but this seemed to amuse him.

The competition being played by us was first one to spot where we had stood to watch the trains when on route to my waterfall. The track rises high above the gorges on either side, at the bottom of which the river bends and weaves its way onward.

At Grosmont we waited for the tender to be re-filled with coal and water before we returned to Goathland. In the meantime a rather grumpy old couple got into the compartment with us. The man had some sort of walker or zimmer frame which completely blocked the space between their seats – and our way out. However, we didn’t worry about it for the time being.

In due course we set off again for the long uphill pull back.

Once back, although the weather still looked a little uncertain, it was too early to go back to the hotel and Husband really did want to see Mallyon Foss. The path led off next to Mallyon Hotel which was surrounded by film crews. At the back of the hotel we could see huge set lights. We found out later that Heartbeat was being filmed there.

Our hotel had a schedule of when and where filming was taking place – partly so that the residents knew if and when they would be inconvenienced (such as roads being temporarily closed while policeman is filmed cycling along said road) or for the multitude of fans and visitors. The tiny village was constantly swarming with elderly day trippers. And quite a few of them had decided to walk to the Foss.

It was a much more accessible waterfall, with a well maintained and clearly signposted path. But somehow I preferred the fact that my waterfall was more discreet, hidden. You had to know it was there.

As we approached the Foss the path deteriorated into large wet boulders which went along past the bottom of the fall, made wetter by the rain which was now falling rather persistently. This foss had a higher drop, but the fall was largely a fall of spray and mist. It was stunning against the green mossed stones behind, catching the light through the trees and glistening in the gorge in which we stood. The gorge did not seem as deep as the gorge that housed my foss, nor were its sides so harsh and dramatic. Here there were gently sloping sides, lined with trees and golden on the ground from fallen leaves. The river trundled along a wide flat bed next to us. The rocks on either side of this and relatively low level of the water was too tempting for Child the Elder and Child the Younger who immediately went off gorge walking. It was now raining quite hard. Child the Younger was wearing a waterproof jacket although she adamantly refused to put the hood up. Child the Elder wasn’t wearing anything waterproof at all – just a jumper which was getting very damp. Also, neither of them had appropriate footwear for such activities. As they moved further along the opposite side of the river I expressed concern to Husband that should anything happen to either of them – such as slipping and doing a mischief to ones ankle – we would not  be able to get to them and bring them back with anything resembling ease. He agreed and we tried to get them to come back. They did, but were most unhappy at having to do so. We tried to explain our rationale. However, the grump had settled.

We returned to the hotel to dry off and change before dinner. I had been wearing a waterproof but quickly became cold once back at the hotel. Neither Child the Elder or Child the Younger would say whether they were cold – something to do with not wanting to prove anyone right. Child the Elder’s sniffly nose the next day was also, of course, not in any way related to having got properly wet.

While waiting for dinner (which we were having at the hotel) we turned on the TV. An episode of Heartbeat was on which we watched just for the fun of it and to see if we recognised anywhere.

Dinner was scrumptious. We had second helpings of the main course and thoroughly gorged ourselves.

The following morning, after another hearty breakfast, we turned for home – via York’s National Railway Museum. This was for Husband’s pleasure and he enjoyed walking around the engines, as well as running to the viewing platform to watch The Flying Scotsman leave York station.

On the way back we stopped at a service station for dinner, the cost of which would have appalled Mrs Friend of the Family and her Yorkshire frugality. It may have been low key, but it marked the end of our trip.

 

NOTES

The above is a true story. At the time of writing Child the Elder 14 was  and Child the Younger was 12. Some of the information about places visited is sourced from a variety of guide books. The author maintains rights over all other content.