Crookwise Caravan Park, Skipton, North Yorkshire

One should always celebrate the positives in life, and there were certainly lots of those today, but to ignore the disaster that started the day would be like burying one’s head in the sand. The Chauffeur had a wee accident, with minimal damage, but giving rise to costs we could well do without. To my credit I have said very little, except to prompt him to gather the necessary information to facilitate the outflow of funds when we are eventually presented with the bill.

We woke to the promise of good weather, and then after indulging in our political Sunday television time, packed up ready to set off on an extensive tikki-tour. There was a crunch as we backed up to turn and exit the camp, restricted by mud rather than space. 

Exploration revealed that we had backed into our neighbour’s shiny red souped-up hot Alfa Romeo. The damage was minimal, but any body work costs; this we know from past experience although none before here in the United Kingdom. Chris presented himself at Steve’s caravan door and confessed, while I stayed still and silent in the car. Details were swapped and I was duly informed that quotes would be sought after the weekend, and we would be duly presented with the invoice for the work. Needless to say, this has not been budgeted for.

We set off up into the National Park, the air stiff with shame, concern and unspoken condemnation. I suggested we try to put it all aside and enjoy the day, which after about an hour seemed to have been done and so I shall endeavour to do so now.

The Yorkshire Dales National Park covers an area of 2,179 square kilometres, and is a working and living environment for 24,000 people. The Park was initially established in 1954, but has been extended over the years, a little more just last year. We fell in love with this Park two years ago, and since being in the area these last few days, have not changed our minds.

  

Our trip today was in the form of a figure of eight, starting by heading north through the village of Rylstone made famous by the Women’s Institute calendar girls, immortalised in film with a gaggle of famous and wonderful English actresses including Helen Mirren and Julie Walters.

We continued on up to Threshfield which was oddly busy, and crossed the B6160 to the village of Grassington which we found to be even more so. People were heading in to the centre dressed in 1940’s period costume, both military and civilian, the women with their hair coiled in the fashion of the day. Buses were coming and going, buntings decorated the village and streets were closed off, no-parking cones were everywhere and it seemed we were not to find a park even for a brief visit. We pulled into an area manned by officials to ask what the “event” was.

It seems that Grassington annually hosts a 1940’s weekend with live music of swing and lindy-hop, vintage vehicles, re-enactments and war games, and trade stalls of all things 1940s. Should we wish to take part, we should proceed to the Threshfield Quarry and catch the bus into the village, for a fee of course. Had we been at a loss as to our activities for the day, we probably would have followed suit, however we had a plan, the weather was fine and had been looking forward to following through. We returned to the B6160 and continued north up into the National Park.

Near Kilnsey we noted the limestone crags dominating the surrounds, those seen only in part two years ago, then rising out of the rain mist. Just as then, there were dozens of fishermen sitting about the Kilnsey Fly Fishery and Trout Farm, dangling their rods for a fee in the hope of catching a fish which they would duly return to the pond. This had been the first time I had ever seen such an activity and then found it absolutely hilarious; now I accept that this is how the English fish. The activity has absolutely nothing to do with hunter gathering, as it does DownUnder.  

On we went through this stunning countryside, following the road upriver, in reverse to that taken two years ago, passing through the quaint and cramped village of Starbottom, then Buckden, soon heading up out of Wharfdale, over the top and on down until we reached Aysgarth where we had stayed above the beautiful waterfall in the hired motorhome. We located the pub which was host, and noted that that the countryside was much greener than when we had last come through. Then it had been May, the end of the winter and spring hardly commenced in this part of the world, whereas we are now in autumn after a good growing summer.

After turning east along the A864, now in Wensleydale, we turned south again just before reaching Wensley, heading up yet another valley, this Bishopdale. Just before we reached the high moor, we stopped to lunch in a rare pull-off spot, from where we had wonderful views over the valley and up into the hills where we were soon to reach. There was a notice here which begged our attention; here are adders of which we should be aware. Fortunately we chose to dine in the car rather than spread a picnic blanket and invite all-comers.

Further on, as we crossed the elevated moors on “unclassified” roads, we made our way past a large herd of cattle grazing near the road before heading steeply back down into Wharfedale. Amazingly there were masochistic cyclists rising across these hills, climbing steep inclines of 25 degrees which are challenging enough for motor vehicles.  

Arriving back down on the B6160 we pulled into the charming village of Kettlewell beside the River Wharfe which invited exploration but found that the only car park open to the public demanded £2.50 for two hours or less. Only wanting to stop for half an hour or less and knowing we were to be stung when we stopped at our last and longer destination, we were unwilling to fork out; this was an instance of cutting off our nose to save our face. This whole dilemma means that the casual tikki-tourer such as ourselves does not stop by for a brief wander about, a visit that might occasion the purchase of an ice-cream, a newspaper, a grocery item or perhaps even a souvenir or meal. If their parking fees were more reasonable, the citizens might do better out of the tourists.

We pressed on, soon turning north west toward Arncliffe and through Littondale, which the name suggests, is surrounded in limestone cliffs. In fact this whole area is all about limestone which makes it all so very picturesque. Soon we climbed up out of the valley and up onto another wide open space, turning south toward Malham, passing Malhem Tarn, a lake created by an impervious layer of glacial debris, on between high dry-stone walls, then descending down to the village, busy with weekend visitors. Walkers crowded the side of the roads and car parks were all raking in the pounds. We pulled into a farmer’s field where his son or employee, collected £4.50 from every vehicle. We could only surmise that the collection of parking fees was a far more lucrative business venture than the sale of beef, mutton or wool. But we were well prepared for this and I only mention it to prepare any tourist who might choose to be guided by our touring itinerary.

From here we walked north of the village, joining the dozens upon dozens of fellow weekend walkers, to explore Malham Cove, a white-walled limestone amphitheatre rising three hundred feet from its surroundings. Rather than try to discover the source of the creek that ran down from the base of the cliff, we headed directly up the four hundred or so uneven stone steps, just for a short distance walking the Pennine Way, until we reached the limestone pavement, an expanse of slabs and clefts created by water seeping through weaker lines of the limestone rock. From here, eighty metres above the base of the “cove”, we had splendid views back down to the village and the lines of people still arriving to share this experience.

After descending, carefully but less breathlessly than the ascent, we spent quite some time watching seriously mad rock climbers scaling the cliff, sometimes falling and swinging precariously on their safety ropes.

As we made our way back to the car park in the village, we called into an old farm barn, open to the public and part of the National Trust properties. Here as we wandered around reading the interpretative panels, I could not help but hear the musings of two women doing the same, in rather familiar tones. On asking them where they were from and discovering they were from Auckland, within two hours of our own hometown, we chatted about our respective travels around England, before going our separate ways. It was so strange to bump into “neighbours” here in the Yorkshire Dales.