August 19, 2017: Wintringham to Ganton
On we sped, heading back to Wintringham after our usual breakfast; it was another lovely day, one with marvelous clouds floating peacefully in a rich blue sky. (I would have to say that the Wolds, lovely throughout, had one outstanding feature for us on this trip – the skies.) Dave told us something of the steep ascent we would soon have to make and of the unusual items we would discover at the end of this struggle. He let us off behind the church at the exact spot needed for a resumption of the YWW; it was 9:00 exactly.Yes, the way to the top, through Deep Dale Plantation, was indeed steep but it did not last too long and soon enough we were wandering among one of those sites dedicated to art and history that often cropped up on this route. “Enclosure Rites” included a weather-beaten wooden stockade in red, a dewpond, and a series of miniature figures in imitation of ancient artifacts discovered by local archeologists. I posed for my photo of the day here and we had a nice rest after our steep ascent.
Our direction was about to take a major shift – for after a long mostly northerly progress we were now set to head to the east – at first just inside the southerly margins of Knapton Wood. A short open stretch brought us to another band of woodland but views to the north were opening up and below us we had the full extent of the valley bearing the busy A64 and all its adjacent villages – beginning with West Heslerton below us. The route now bypassed Manor Wold Farm and made a number of brief twists to right and left, though it did maintain a mostly level progress well below the higher elevations to our right.

It looks like rain as we face all those villages that line the A64 but, in fact, we escaped moisture on this day.
Soon we could see the spot where we had spent the previous evening, East Heslerton, and I used the zoom on my camera to capture the window of our bedroom, just beyond the church steeple. Gavan, incidentally, carried no camera at all on this journey, preferring to use his iPhone, which took excellent pictures – some of which illustrate these accounts. After another stretch of woodland we passed the melancholy site of the graves of two young people – before climbing steeply from Crowsdale Wood. We paused for some lunch and greeted a number of now familiar faces among the walking fraternity, including the man with the purple arm.
The quite sizeable town of Sherburn was a further objective and we were soon walking along a road in its direction. The YWW doesn’t actually descend as far the the town itself, turning right on a track just before doing so – but naturally I resented having to make a descent at all for I knew this usually meant more uphill to follow.
In fact the track deposited us on a ribbon of tarmac that did not require great exertion as it headed back uphill and soon we were able to return to our easterly direction for an advance on the hamlet of Potter Brampton.
It was quite warm in the afternoon sunshine and we tried to do justice to the liquid we carried in our backpacks. It seemed like a long time since the containers for such liquid were actually canteens; these days my walking companions and I are content with refilling plastic bottles that had been emptied of their original contents. Truth to tell, however, I was moving rather slowly by now, and often calling for frequent rests. I was more than a little gratified when Gavan could say that the next village below us would be our Ganton.
A paved road lead downhill, bypassing the village on its western side, and we needed to remain on this in the late afternoon shadows in order to reach the A64. Just to our right, across this artery, we could make out the Ganton Greyhound; fortunately there was a highway divider here and this made it easier to dodge the traffic in order to approach our accommodation. It was 5:55 and we had walked only nine miles.
We were welcomed by an accommodating staff and directed to Room 11 in a dormitory complex adjacent to the pub itself. Gavan had to return to fetch our bags and then we both crossed over for a very welcome pint. After a nice cleanup we also returned to the Greyhound’s restaurant for our evening meal. I was running out of new choices so, trying to display my roots, I experimented with the chili cheese burger – with onion rings and fries what could be more American? I say this knowing full well that I was in for a disappointment. The burger, like some ancient ziggurat, was punctured by a lengthy toothpick holding, in its unexpected place, the aforementioned onion ring. Furthermore there was no chili, none except for the chili powder with which the burger beef had been admixed. Once again I left a lot of food on my plate, though I did accept some ice cream to cool down the chili powder on my tongue.
Our room, as it appeared every night, was a mess – with the contents of our exploded packs lying everywhere. Most of what I had packed was now classified as dirty clothes (in a shopping bag of its own) – nevertheless it was easy to lose things in the melee. I had lost track of my pen days ago and Gavan had misplaced his map case and the National Trail guide within. This would have been an alarming development but we must remember that he had downloaded the OS maps onto his phone.
There wasn’t too much noise from the highway nearby but the same could not be said of some of the other residents who had to shout their goodnights to everyone in the parking lot. At about midnight I swallowed some Tylenol PM.
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