August 15, 2000: Danby Wiske to Osmotherly
The Lees at our b&b in Danby Wiske; I used a version
of this photo as an illustration in AWalker’s Alphabet.
There was some sun in the sky when we got up for packing and breakfast on the morning of Tuesday, August 15. The Sherpa Van Company had failed to provide me with any labels to attach to the plastic baggage tags that they had sent – nor had they left any with Mrs. Elenor, as promised. (That efficient lady said she would speak to them when they arrived to pick up our bags.) The Bristol couple were at another table and they packed up and left a little bit before us. We now had to make a decision on what to carry in our daypacks (mine, a new one by Nike, always seemed to have too much in it) and what to leave for Sherpa to transport.
I was dressed in shorts today, and, indeed, I never wore trousers on the trail again on this trip. We went outside to put on our boots and Harold attracted the attention of a little black cat who made a grab for his shoelaces and bit him on the thumb in play. It was 9:20 when we waved goodbye and returned to more tarmac across the Vale of York. We had the Bristol couple in sight for the first hour or so, then we lost track of them. I found one ripened blackberry – well it was black, but it wasn’t very sweet and there wasn’t much fruit picking on this trip (too early perhaps). I was looking for a turnoff, indicated by the Hannon book in my back pocket, one into the fields on our left, but this route seemed to have been extinguished – for we did not see the next Coast-to-Coast finger post until we had reached Crawford Lane. A businessman was parked quietly on this avenue, but he started up his car somewhat guiltily as we approached.
When we had climbed Oaktree Hill we reached the busy A167 Northallerton road. There was a house on the corner that looked like a former chapel. Then I noticed that it had what looked like a Star of David in one of its windows – “a former synagogue,” I joked. Tosh was hoping for a shop, since she had forgotten her toothbrush, but all we had on offer here was machinery in the Oak Tree Garage. We walked north on the highway and soon found our turnoff to the right. By this time everyone was in shorts (Tosh’s were actually a man’s swimming costume by Speedo) because it was quite pleasantly sunny. Harold and I waited for the lady to catch up, after her change of attire, at Moor House – where there seemed to be a new way around the farm on the left.
Clover blooms next to the green lane at White House Farm
There followed a series of stiles and fields, some guarded by nettles, as we passed Brompton Moor Farm and walked between Northfield House and Northfield Farm. A dog leg to the right, on Long Lane, put us on the access road to Wray House where, again, we were asked to make our crossing of the the Northallerton-Teeside rail line a bit farther to the north than we had expected. Here we found an access stile and across the tracks two lads were having lunch on the equivalent structure. I was a bit concerned about joining up with the continuation on the other side (often there were no signs to aid the walker or just a yellow arrow, which could have referred to any footpath) but we persevered in a northeasterly direction along a hedgerow and after a while I could see Harlsey Grove farm in the distance and I began to relax. We approached this farm in a very indirect fashion, heading northwest then southeast along a field edge that had just been ploughed by a tractor driver on our right. He had left most of the footpath but chipped it away in some spots. “I’d give him only a B,” I concluded.
A track, again heading northeast, became Low Moor Lane and once Tosh asked a chap in a car if he could tell her the difference between wheat and barley; he could. It was just past noon and so we sat down on the verge of this lane and had our tuna sandwiches. Ahead of us views of the Cleveland Hills had been constantly improving. We could now see forests and fields of heather and the equipment on top of Beacon Hill, even stretches of the path we would use the next day – and this was very exciting.
After lunch we passed Sydal Lodge (where a conference with charts was taking place in a nearby field) and approached a hedge which overlooked our old friend the River Wiske. Tosh was out in front, as she often was, and I’m afraid we paid the price for this because she followed a cow track down to the river, with the rest of us in tow, and had already jumped down a steep bank, forded a stream and climbed up a second bank before I arrived. Harold too had jumped down the first bank before I had a chance to suggest that this did not seem at all like the kind of crossing a major footpath would use, and that I was expecting a real footbridge. I told the others to wait where they were and turned south to see if I couldn’t find the real crossing. I found it, crossed to the other side and used a field edge to walk back up to Tosh’s spot. Here she was instructing Harold how to get across the waterway and he made it at last so that we were now reunited on the far shore. This was an example of poor waymarking. The Bristol couple later told us that they had been seduced by the cow path too.
We now had to head south to the footbridge, turn our backs on this, and climb a wheat-covered hill in search of the ruin that was Breckon Hill. From here we followed a track in the shape of a “W” and emerged on the busy A19. This was not an easy highway to negotiate because cars were really roaring up and down at speed. We made a dash for a central divider and then continued to the far side, easily making it before a driver, perhaps annoyed at having to share his space with mere pedestrians, honked at us. Our dash put us onto the access road for Ingleby Arncliffe village, where I took a picture of a charming water tower and the Lees inspected the suburban gardens before we headed downhill, beneath greying skies, to Ingleby Cross.
A brief shower was just beginning at 1:45 as we reached the friendly confines of The Blue Bell Inn – where most of the gang from yesterday’s White Swan were just finishing a lunchtime stop. I had a Diet Coke and we had a nice rest while the locals gradually replaced the hikers. I was astonished to hear one of the former say to the publican, “I didn’t think you served walkers here” – but he was only talking about a brand of crisps. The shower was over when we were ready to leave and we made our way up the hill to the church at Arncliffe Hall. There were some quite lovely buildings here but before we could continue a real rain began and, after huddling hopefully under the protecting arms of some large trees, we decided to put our rain jackets on.
So for the last few miles of the day’s march we had rain. It was not accompanied by wind or cold and my bare legs did not get very wet but it wasn’t too pleasant either, naturally.
We soon entered Arncliffe Woods (Tosh went to investigate a recent grave) and followed a forestry track that promised union with the Cleveland Way. After the adventure center of Park House I began to look for a turnoff to Mount Grace Priory (which I had hoped to visit as part of an improvised route to Osmotherly), but the likely looking access track was a quagmire and so I abandoned this idea; it wouldn’t have been very pleasant at the Priory on this afternoon anyway and I was not at all certain how to get to our village from it. Conservatively, we remained therefore on the Coast-to-Coast path as it made a steep ascent, amid families of lucky grouse, on a flank of Beacon Hill.
At the top we reached the Cleveland Way, where we could turn south for a descent into Osmotherly. It was still raining but visibility wasn’t too bad and just as we reached the village at 4:00 things began to brighten a bit. We had walked eleven and a half miles. We met the Bristol couple at Vane House but the window washer had told them that the proprietor, Allan Abbott, was out giving a driving lesson. This meant there was time to take some photographs and examine the three town pubs and shops. Tosh bought a toothbrush and a newspaper from Grace, the village newslady.
We had a drink at the Queen Catherine, where I had a half lager and Tosh asked the buxom classy blonde barmaid (who had a sore throat) whether we could have coffee and tea. The accommodating young lady was not fazed by this request, nor by Harold’s spilling the milk. After a while the phone rang and the girl asked us if we were staying at Vane House. Our landlord, returned, had tracked us down to this spot in order to announce his arrival. We were making our way back up the hill when he drove down in his bright orange instructor’s car, ran across the street, and handed us keys to our rooms – he was off on another lesson.
At the Golden Lion, Osmotherly
We let ourselves into the guesthouse, looked at our rooms, and then penetrated the private part of the house in search of our bags. We weren’t successful but just at this moment Pat, who lived across the street and worked for Sherpa, arrived with the objects in question. They now had proper labels. We each had en suite bathrooms here and I took a shower and got cleaned up, spending a little time getting my socks and my rain jacket into a spot where they might dry. I used the mobile phone, as I had on the previous night, to call Dorothy. At 7:00 or so we toured the pubs again, disdaining the tarted up Three Tuns, having another drink at the Queen Catherine, and settling for the recommended Golden Lion. This place was already very crowded but we made a reservation for the upstairs dining room, to which we repaired with our drinks after half an hour. Service was slow but the food was good. I had calves liver and onions and there were lots of fresh vegetables – ones which had not been cooked to death.
We had a chat with our busy landlord when we returned at 9:30, and then went to our early beds. There was a skylight in my small room and once in the middle of the night I was awakened by the huge moon – which had made its way into this space, illuminating my narrow bed.
To continue with our next stage you need: