Cold and Dissolutioned

The last time we visited Rievaulx Abbey, a Cistercian monastery near Helmsley, North Yorkshire - it was one of the hottest days I can ever remember. One had to literaly seek the ornate shadows cast around this magnificent 12th Century ruin* to escape the rare, blistering rays of which England seems to experience so little of these days. Despite the illusion created above by the azure canvas enveloping the stark Yorkshire sandstone, today was bitterly cold. One can only sympathise with the Brothers as they slaved over their scriptures dressed only in their coarse robes by the light of tallow lamps with a Godless draught nipping at their cassocks!

The cold eventually took its toll and we seated ourselves on a wooden bench inside the roofless presbytery and took respite in a flask of hot chocolate and digestive biscuits. As we mused at the grandeur of the myriad arches, gargoyles and majestic pillars around us I happened to glance at my watch - it was exactly midday. I took the following two photographs in sequence with perhaps only a few seconds between them.....

Whatever one's religeous persuasion one cannot fail to admire the ingenuity and devotion of those long departed brothers. Quiet echoes of study, chant and prayer still seem to emanate from the cold stone of Rievaulx. There are many inscriptions still to be found hewn into the stones around the Abbey, some may be medieval graffiti, indeed some may have been from the brothers themselves..." Lord Give me hot chocolate and biscuits..."?

*Courtesy Henry VIII 1538

Wellington Meets His Waterloo

Bank Holidays seem to come thick and fast in Springtime. The few weeks since my last entry have seen a remarkable change in the weather. The Christmas-like feel of Easter has given way to to an August-like feel to May Day. Despite the low cloud, overcoats and woolies have given way to t-shirts, ice-cream and an abundance of panting dogs. At Runswick Bay, the 'Wellie Olympics' were being held to raise funds for Laura - a 13 year old local girl with cystic fibrosis. The turnout was impressive, yet a competitive edge suffused the proceedings. Serious youths and brawny farmers, delicate ladies and cocky kids, all endeavoured to seek the fleeting fame of a wellie 'well wanged'. The aerodynamics of a Wellington boot, however, do not suffer fools, nor crosswinds, gladly and I had to follow this confident and overly competent cove too......

Yes, that is the starting line! I somehow forgot to let go of the blessed thing!

Oliver's Twist

Sunday 6th April 2008

Next April it will be exactly 500 years since the birth of Oliver Cromwell - Lord Protector of England, Commander of the New Model Army...and general all round spoilsport. The puritanical cove banned festivities in general and Morris dancing in particular. Just why he considered prancing peasants waving handkerchiefs with bells round their ankles a particulary potent threat to national security heaven only knows. Thankfully, this colourful troupe performing on Endeavour Wharf, Whitby are in danger of losing nothing more than their dignity! Despite the cold winds and intermittent snow showers, sights such as these signal the start of the tourist season. Soon the the streets will echo to the sounds of street musicians, folk singers and dancing marionettes.

Almost as complex, it seems, as Morris Men syncronizing hankies or sticks, is keeping giddy dogs tangle free...but then again, there's no law against it!

One Good Tern Deserves Another..

Grand National day here in England. Pen tops are chewed studiously and chins stroked intently as millions of us savour the prospect of easy money courtesy of little men in harlequin silks astride half a ton of graceful muscle. Hence I retired to 'The Duke of York' in Whitby to study the form and seek inspiration. As I approached the Inn I saw this seagull 'studying the form' of a rubbish bin and the treasures within. An omen perhaps? A portentious hint from the deity of fortune?

I watched a while longer as the tenacious tern rummaged and ransacked to the exclusion of all else - tourists, dogs...even a nearby pneumatic drill! I left the gull to its toil and sought the warmth of cold beer in the pub. I studied the form guide in my newspaper but nothing caught the eye nor the imagination
.
On the way out the gull was still there and seemed to be assessing the meagre fruits of its labour...Eureka! (My Horse came forth and I won £4.00 - not a fortune by any means, but enough to buy some fish & chips...now...where's that seagull gone...?)

Cross Words and Crosswinds

An unholy row erupted in 664AD between Roman and Celtic Christians about exactly when the Resurrection should be celebrated. A compromise was reached, and the 'Synod of Whitby' as it is known, gave us the movable feast of Easter. Religion is not my strongest suit, but the Brotherhoods of Bernicia did us no great favours this year - it is the coldest, wettest most unpredictable Easter I have ever known! The Easter cross outside St Oswalds Church, Lythe (above) , looks oddly unseasonal against the night sky and driving snow.

The weather however didn't stop the crowds flocking to Whitby, and yesterday armies of tourists in hoodies, hats and coats of many colours sought respite in cosy cafes, cheery Inns or curiousity shops. The wind across Whitby Swing Bridge brought involuntary tears to the eyes and claimed the lives of at least two bags of fish & chips!























Later at Sandsend the wind had eased somewhat, but it seems that, for some at least, it was all too much. The dejected duck (right) seems to have had enough of the weather and his dillydallying friends and has decided to await the 'Second Coming' of the X56 bus... Happy Easter everyone!

(Apart from brightness and contrast corrections, all photos in my diary are unretouched or manipulated in any way)

Leap of Faith

Legend has it that the famed daffodils of Farndale, North Yorkshire were originaly planted by the Cistercian monks of nearby Rievaulx Abbey nearly 900 years ago. We were perhaps a little early in the season to expect the usual riot of swaying yellow as mid-April is the best time to see them. Nevertheless, I mused on the origins of such legend - did the monks eat the daffies? Were they cultivated by wayward brothers with 'bad habits' who distilled the Narcissus for illicit recreation when the Abbott's back was turned? Alas, early research suggests that they planted them simply because because they liked the look of them!




Such care and devotion to aethstetics was much in evidence at the Feversham Arms too - this thirsty hiker traversed myriad obstacles on his way to the beer garden with almost gyroscopic control of the head on his 'Black Sheep' bitter!

" They flash upon that inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude, And then my heart with pleasure fills, And dances with the daffodils.." (William Wordsworth 1804)

Bouquets and Bandits

A bright but cold and windy morning. The moors high above Danby have a certain 'outback' quality about them this time of year. Patches of dry earth breaking up the hardy, dormant heather. From atop Danby Beacon - a former wartime RAF early warning station - one can truly appreciate the majesty of this small corner of 'God's own County'. We came across a bouquet of beautiful silk flowers, lovingly arranged around a wooden memorial cross, nestling amongst the heather. With no inscription or clues to its provenance, we speculated on whether it was a favoured viewpoint of a departed loved one, or the last resting place of a faithful hound? But then again - Perhaps it was a memorial to the brave men of the RAF who guarded our shores all those years ago...

In Search Of The Lost Explorer

It is almost Two Hundred and Thirty Years since Captain James Cook, the talented British explorer and navigator died in unsavoury circumstances in Hawaii. He set sail from Whitby aboard the Resolution to seek the enigmatic North West Passage - the link between the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans. Today in Whitby, it seemed like once again he had set sail on one more mysterious voyage. A local 'tribute artist', who attires himself in the garb of the great man and stands on a plinth for the amusement of tourists, briefly went absent without leave. He would normally be found atop his dias standing literaly rock-still (His attire is sprayed with some kind of stone coating), and he would occasionaly frighten the life out of folk by a sudden jerky movement or exclamation. But today he was missing - his lonely plinth (above) was all that remained. Fortunately, this particular incarnation of the redoubtable seafarer had not fallen foul of tribal retribution or even the dreaded 'scurvy' - he was merely a little thirsty!

Not Right Now Honey, I'm Busy

So Flaming June has arrived. Housemartins have built their Circus tents beneath the eves and emerge regulary to perform daring swoops, swirls and random acrobatics. Lambs and calves moo and bleat and chew and Whitby strains under the weight of what seems like a million visitors a day. The longest day beckons, yet right now the equinox matters little to the birds and the bees - life is good! The industrious worker pictured above seemed oblivious to my camera as it feasted on the sweet nectar of benevolent Honeysuckle -briefly resplendent on Nature's catwalk in its Summer best, the Honeysuckle flowers will soon wither and fall - but not just yet....

And so to less important matters! I hope to update Inland Review on a more regular basis and I apologize for my lengthy absence these past months. Thank you for taking the time to visit this little corner of North East England and I hope you enjoy reading my ramblings - I certainly get a 'buzz' out of writing them!

Steaming

Today has possibly been one of the hottest, most uncomfortable days I can remember. When it is really hot in England it is usualy humid - and today was no exception. There was no hiding place, even in the beer tent at Pickering Steam Traction Engine Show! The Gentleman in the picture sought respite in the shadow of his steamroller, but as you can see there really is no escape. Otherwise the event was both exciting and ethereal. The smell of steam and diesel was everywhere, brawny yet shy farmers duelled in tractor pulls and revelled in brief respite from their daily toil. A kind of fleeting fame - and a joy to behold!
I have always found fairgrounds somewhat spooky - barrel organs, carousels and monkeys and covered rides - they evoke a kind of timeless fascination and unease, yet a sense of abstract wonder too. It is as though they, fairground folk, know things the rest of us dont and inhabit an underworld of dark secrets . Yet as I write six hours later, still breathing out diesel fumes, I can only say - What a wonderous thing!

Fleeting Dance Of The Water Ladies?

This water fountain at Mulgrave Castle in Lythe seems to be attempting to mimic the stance of her stone companion. The gardens of the castle are open once a year to the public with the proceeds going to charity. Beautiful as they are in their grandeur, the gardens somehow have an austere, lonely ambience about them. Perhaps this otherwise secret garden just needs more beholders of its beauty? After weeks of hot sunny weather we had a thunderstorm on Saturday night with a heavy downpour. You could all but hear the grass and trees gulping down the cool pools of rainwater. So the gardens were able to put on their Sunday best, and a dazzling feast of richest green greeted the visitor. Same time next year ladies?

An Enduring Habit

Apologies for the lengthy absence. Its all to do with football and holidays - hopefully I'm back on track now.!
Monks certainly knew how to pick a spot. The locations of most Abbeys seem to be in idyllic settings- and Rievaulx Abbey near Helmsley is no different in this respect. The beauty of Rievaulx is in the detail which has survived the centuries, dissolutions and the apathy of our ancient forebears. Floor tiles are still visible in many parts, as are fonts which would have contained Holy water. The communal latrine still conjures bizarre images of the brethren hoisting their habits as they discuss the scriptures and the latest fashions in bald spots. Indeed, the latrine is perched twenty feet or so above a channeled stream with still runs freely today. One thing which drew my interest was the altar stone in the presbytery. On it are some inscriptions. If one assumes that it would have been sacreligeous for the Cistercians to defile the stone in such way - then it can be safely deducted that this graffitti occured sometime between the dissolution and the present day. It is reasonably easy to pick out 'JF' - done it seems in a kind of fluted style. Below this seems to be the words 'W (S?) Atkins'
Perhaps you see it differently? - any suggestions would be most welcome. I expect the answers will never be found, but to 'JF' and the elusive 'Mr (or Mrs) Atkins' - you haven't quite got away with it yet! Amen

Comings And Goings

The invasion has begun! The hot weather has brought thousands to Whitby - including these 'Vikings' who were in town for another Viking funeral. A local man tragically drowned, despite the heroic efforts of a very brave friend to save him. The narrow streets of the town struggle to cope with the huge number of visitors - but who can blame them? There is no place like Whitby on God's Earth. Here in the outskirts the skies are full of birdsong - House martins have forsaken the plains of Africa for the eaves of English dwellings and everywhere radiates with the lushest green. I took a walk out of the village to take a picture of my 'English Scene'. Its just a view that I love - not the prettiest or the most spectacular, just...well, my favourite. Unfortunately it was a little misty - and even 'Daisy' (below) wasn't playing ball! Maybe tommorrow...

A Magnet For Romans & Countrymen

An ancient Roman road marks part of the route to Rosedale and one can only imagine the discomfort of the Legion as they trudged the high moors with a vicious Yorkshire wind whistling through their skirts! The contrast between the rugged moors and the pleasant pastures of the dale can be seen in this photo. The village of Rosedale Abbey itself is simply beautiful and I cannot believe I have never been before. Magnetic ironstone was mined here during the 19th Century and one can still see the oxidized 'blood' of this precious industrial ore seeping from the moors onto the road after heavy rain. The small gate leading to the tiny churchyard of St. Lawrence is like an invitation to a secret garden and one can only feel a sense of blessedness for those at peace in such tranquil surroundings.

We signed the visitors book in the Church (Look it up if you ever find yourself on 'The Leodensian Trail'!) and then set about seeking spirits of a different kind....

'The White Horse Farm Hotel' is situated about 300 yards up a steep hill and has some breathtaking views from the beer garden.

(I know this entry reads a little like one of those dreary 'Travel' sites - but Rosedale Abbey really is worth a visit....cheers!)

Perfect/Imperfect

Sadly our Song Thrush has abandoned her young and fled the nest. She guarded her eggs with her very life and refused to move even though her eyes were sometimes wide with fear. None of the chicks survived. Sometimes nature can be very bemusing. It has been a day of changing skies with intermittent sunshine and blustery winds. Whitby is packed with tourists, eager to drink in a forgotten England and bringing with them a happy ambience to the town. But it was nice to come home here away from the crowds. The wind has died and as the sun slipped below the promentary of Runswick to the North, it sent its last spectacular rays upwards as if to demonstrate that, whatever its mysteries, the sometimes unfathomable architect somehow knows what is right...

A Brief Stop In Udders Field

A cloudy day with intermittent drizzle - its hard to believe that the south of England has a severe water shortage! No plans today so we just took off in the car and meandered around the country lanes around Sandsend and Mulgrave. There are a multitude of calves in the fields and if one stops the car and gets out one soon has an attentive and inquisitive audience (above). Many of the lambs born just weeks ago are growing fast and are gaining the confidence to stray briefly from Mum and the countryside seems alive with moos, bleats and Baahs. We stopped briefly in Mulgrave Woods to take another look at the bluebells - I could stand and admire them till..well, till the cows come home..

Bridge Of Sighs

It certainly feels like spring this morning. There is a warm breeze and the birds definitely seem to be enjoying the early morning sunshine. They sound like a million little stockbrokers discussing whether to invest in worms or ladybirds! I took a walk into Mulgrave Woods. The bluebells are coming along nicely but I expect it will be a week or so until they are at thier best. I stopped briefly at 'Sam's Bridge' - a rickety log bridge spanning a small stream. My dog Sam used to have serious misgivings about traversing this ramshackle pontoon. He would sooner plunge into the freezing brook or attempt a death-defying leap accross it rather than risk a short pad accross the 'timbers of death'. My beloved pup passed away eighteen months ago - but the bridge always brings a smile. As I crossed the bridge today I half listened for the patter of paws behind me but, alas, it seemed I was alone - although I'm almost certain I heard a distant splash from somewhere...

Update
The song thrush in the garden seems to be getting used to our presence and stays put atop her precious eggs even when we approach with a chugging lawnmower.There has been stray cat prowling around of late - which is a little worrying as the nest is only five or six feet above the ground. They say you should let nature take its course - now, where did I put that pepper..

Queens Head In The King's Arms? - Not This Time!

Its been one of those oddly English days of grey skies and thin drizzle. It could be November, it could be August - just one of those 'inside- looking-out-of-the-window' days. We took a ride out to Danby, a beautiful little hamlet with a notable former resident. The record books at first seem fairly unremarkable - until marriage number three! - shows how keen this lady was to get ahead..

Marriage 1. Edward Borough, 1526

Marriage 2. John Neville (B.Latimer), 1533.

Marriage 3. Henry VIII Tudor (King Of England) 1543.

Luckily for Catherine Parr, she outlived the ailing King and went on to marry again. The 'Duke Of Wellington Inn' (above) also did its duty for King & Country - it was used as a local recruiting centre during the Napoleonic Wars - But today it served only fine ales and good cheer to this weary traveller. Cheers!

Young & Younger

There is something about looking in shops when they are closed. The pressure is off and one can muse and mull 'till ones heart's content. There is a tiny antique toyshop in Market Square in Whitby called 'Curios' which is crammed with all manner of childhood nonpareil. Each item with its own little history, and each radiating a feint residual joy from the pleasure they must have brought to the tiny hands and eyes of little boys and girls past - It's easy to get maudlin as the eyes refocus from the wonders within to the reflection in the shop window! The Sun is still battling it out with the north east wind, which seems determined to cling on to winter. But at least one little madam is ahead of the game - she has built her nest close to our back door and directly above the bird-feeder. Life it seems is too short, and way too beautiful, to wallow in matters past...

Update
It seems our new neighbour is a Song Thrush - and she has had a busy day...

Pebbles Goes Nuts In May

Today has been the first warm day of spring. The cool North east wind has been replaced by a warm Mediterranean breeze and all of a sudden things seem brighter and everywhere there is the cheery glint of yellow as the daffodils wake to take a brief glimpse of the World. The dramatic and hazardous approaches to Runswick Bay (above) would be small beer to todays High-tech craft, but the smugglers who frequented these shores up until the mid 19th Century would have certainly earned a flagon or two of foaming ale after negotiating such venturesome passage in the dead of night in a howling gale. But tonight in the Royal Hotel bar, set in a majestic setting overlooking the bay, the only booty of interest to 'Pebbles' - the Landlady's ambrosial Border Terrier, was the timeless allure of salted peanuts. A battle of wills was fought right until the very end, and we resisted upsetting his delicate constitution with cholesterol-serried legume.....that is, until he gave us 'The look'. Did he get his peanut? Could YOU resist?