July 30, 2018: Rievaulx Bridge to High Paradise Farm
Crossing Nettle Dale Beck.
After a gentle introduction to the trail yesterday Gavan and I now made preparations for a far more substantial endeavor, a walk of some nine and a half miles – but one that could have been even more challenging had we not already completed the section between Rievaulx Bridge and Helmsley and determined that we would not undertake a two-mile round-trip out to a viewing spot where, below, you can see the famous White Horse of Kilburn. Breakfast was a simple ritual; though Gavan started the trip with the Full English he would join me in scrambled eggs on toast after only a few more days. Now we picked up our packed lunches and, exactly at 9:00, we emerged from the Feathers in order to enter the waiting cab of Dave.
We were back at Rievaulx Bridge almost immediately and able to start our walk at 9:05. Initially this involved some road walking but there was very little traffic. We kept an eye out for Dave’s car since he said he would be visiting his father-in-law at a nearby farmhouse but we never spotted him. A turnoff on a track brought us through the valley of Nettle Dale, whose beck had been damned to create a series of lakes. We were using Ian Sampson’s National Trail Guide to the Cleveland Way and he notes that the lakes had been created to “attract wildfowl” – hereabouts one has to wonder if this didn’t mean “attract wildfowl so that someone can shoot them.” Ashberry Hill faced us across the water with Noodle Hill above us on the left. We continued up Nettle Dale, using some steps to cross a feeder stream – Gavan’s photo of me accomplishing this feat served as the shot I sent on to those following my progress later that night.
This was delightful walking on forestry tracks but after a while we had to turn our back on Nettle Dale in order to follow a track into Flassen Dale. Shortly after doing so Gavan discovered some picnic benches and we sat down for a nice rest and some liquid before continuing up the dale and then turning steeply uphill on a footpath that soon had us amid grassy fields – the path continuing to rise, though gently enough. Our surface was now called Low Field Lane and we used it almost all the way to our first on-route village (there weren’t many of these) before dropping down to a little valley and climbing steeply up to Cold Kirby.
The place offered little comfort to the visitor, though there was a bench where we could have a little rest. The trip’s only solo woman walker passed us here (there were many pairs); she was studying her maps but there was nothing on offer in the village itself – just a main road with widely spaced houses and trundling farm machinery. A farmer was calling for his dog – who went speeding by in his attempt to rejoin his master.
Shortly after climbing out of the village we were invited to abandon the road for some cross-country footpaths that switched directions every now and then as we made a southwesterly progress. We were discovering, incidentally, that the route was quite well waymarked. In addition, as we made our way along field paths, the views back in the direction from which we had come were outstanding, a mixture of fields, hedgerows and forestry.
In fact we soon had trees on our left as we approached the farmstead of Hambleton House. This was an enterprise with horsemanship as its great passion and indeed a chap was now urging his charge to walk sideways. As we turned south toward the roar of the A170 Gavan proposed an alteration in the official route. There was little point in heading for the Hambleton Hotel and its beer pumps since this establishment was closed and up for sale. There was little point, as well, is following a route that would have given us access to the White Horse spur – which we had spurned – and Gavan hates walking along busy highways, even though the one in question would have taken us to our next goal, Sutton Bank.
No, Gavan proposed following a forestry path that paralleled the highway, one he had located on a downloaded phone version of the OS Explorer sheet OL 26 (North York Moors Western Area) which I had purchased some months earlier at Stanford’s in Covent Garden. This proved to be a delightful variation and, though there seemed to be many paths in the woods Gavan has a good nose for these problems and after only a few minutes we emerged opposite the Sutton Bank Visitor’s Centre. It was 12:20.
We sat down on some picnic benches and tucked into our lunches. We were joined by Ken, a 79 year-old local walker who wanted to chat – as did many of the people we met on this route. Soon Ken was offering his recommendations of where to eat in the next day’s village and quizzing us on our own adventures. I drank a carton of juice which I purchased from a kiosk across the way.
Gormire Lake and the Vale of York
Because we had not arrived on the official path it took us a little while to place ourselves in the correct position for our afternoon’s stroll along the western escarpment. There were a number of official viewpoints, one advertising the “Finest View in England” in 50 meters. The view referred to was of the great Vale of York, now on our left, but views ahead were equally resplendent for the Hambleton Hills were now covered in the lush purple hues of the burgeoning heather. At the foot of the cliff we could also see Gormire Lake – after such a dry summer in London it always took me by surprise that there was still water in lakes and that streams were still running in North Yorkshire. (A few months after our walk I learned that the territory where we now walked had been chosen as a repository for the ashes of the great James Herriott and his wife.)
Our route was mostly level now and, with the sun on our backs, this was just as well for our energy levels. Fortunately it never got really hot on this walk, something I had been fearing, but we did have to pause often to take in liquid. At Gavan’s insistence I carried not only water but a bottle of energy elixir in each stage of the walk. The path follows a right hand arc above South Woods before resuming its northerly progress along Boltby Scar. There weren’t many outstanding landmarks by which to measure our progress (I often referred to Xeroxes I had made from the guidebook) but one such was the distant High Barn. There were lots of people about, some on bikes, and we often paused to exchange greetings. Gavan was asked to take a photo of a family on bikes. I put my hand into a clump of foliage and ended up with a finger than was stinging for the next mile.
There was no rush and so we could pause every now and then for a nice rest. After High Barn there was some downhill and, as at the Sneck Yate road, I found this to be disappointing – losing elevation that would soon have to be regained. After dropping down to a spot above Low Paradise Farm we used a track to climb steeply uphill, almost to the top of the escarpment again, as we searched for any sign of our evening’s accommodation at High Paradise Farm. We reached this establishment, part farm, part b&b, part tearoom, at last. We entered the latter, displacing a few dogs lying on sofas, and were greeted by proprietor Ginny. It was 4:10.
A unique experience awaits us at High Paradise Farm.
Ginny offered us cold bottled beers and these went down well. An attractive blonde woman, she was in a dither (her operating mode) because she had expected a couple and now a room with two beds would have to be prepared. She sent her red-cheeked assistant to get started in moving us from “The Piggery” (where our bags had been delivered) to “Wild Goose Nest” but this process was never quite completed – we never saw any soap, for instance, and mopping the stone floors of our room left us with a damp surface to walk on for the next hour or so. In fact it was quite chilly and only Gavan braved the shower room. (Later Ginny started a fire in our wood stove.) I had a nice double bed but Gavan’s looked more suitable for a doll. Still it was pleasant enough to be here – though I was a bit non-plussed when Ginny supplied us with all the materials needed for us to cook our own breakfast; our room had cooker and refrigerator.
Ginny asked us if fish and chips would be satisfactory for our evening meal and soon she drove off on a round of errands. (She forgot to buy bread and had to repeat her journey.) The place did have wi-fi and so we attended to our usual round of emails and attachments. The food was delivered and it was quite tasty; Ginny had made sure we had a bag of all those chip shards that fall to the bottom of the fryer. By now the room was toasty, the light had faded in the skies and it was time to hit the hay – which, around here, you could do literally.
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