Captain's Log

Intake Farm

I’d camped at Intake Farm which was located halfway up the hillside of a North York Moors dale. It was a sunny, fresh morning and I spent a few moments looking at the pretty view across the valley. House Martins swooped around the farm buildings hoovering up their breakfast. It's hard to believe that they can expend so much energy and yet survive on a diet of aphids and midges they capture as they fly. Their secret is that they don’t actually expend that much energy; in fact only 20-27 kilocalories per day. All that activity from so little energy. They must be one of nature's most efficient machines. Speaking of which, the Terminator was also an early riser and he was packing up his tent at the same time as me. He’d decided to wait for an Intake Farm breakfast provided by the lady of the farm. I’d already had my muesli and nuts and so set off on the C2C before him. I guessed that with his superior pace he would pass me at some point during the day.     

The good thing about walking a National Trail is that route choices are taken out of your hands. Well, most of the time. The question to be asked is ‘how far to walk?’ rather than ‘where to walk?’ Looking at my C2C map, the trail simply headed westwards over the North York Moors. I noticed that it passed through the villages of Grosmont and Glaisdale and so there’d be an opportunity of calling in at a cafe or a shop, sometime during the morning. As for, ‘how far to walk?’ I’d provisionally set the day’s destination as The Lion Inn on Blakey Moor which would make it a 16 or 17 mile haul. I’d read that the pub allowed people to camp on its grounds. The Terminator had confirmed this and it was his destination for the day too. The Lion Inn it would be then. The farm cats and kittens were scratching and meowing outside the kitchen door as I started my journey. I wondered if the mice around the farm could sustain two adult cats and half a dozen kittens. I didn’t fancy their prospects. Nature may be efficient, but it can be tough too. 

Headwind

Yesterday evening, I’d left the C2C trail down in the bottom of the dale and climbed up half a mile along a country lane to Intake Farm. The Terminator had recommended taking an alternative footpath from Intake Farm that joined up with the C2C path further westwards. This would have the advantage that I’d not have to lose height going back down into the dale, only to climb back up to the top again on the C2C. It seemed like a reasonable idea, but I felt duty bound to join the C2C where I’d left it yesterday; I headed down the country lane to the bottom of the dale.    

To be honest, it was a stupid idea. I should have taken the Terminator’s short cut. I ruminated on the bad decision as I hauled my heavy rucksack back up the steep side of the dale. Things became even more difficult as I left the hedgerow protection around the fields behind and started a trudge over open moor. I was hit by an incredibly strong headwind. At least the views were great. Over to the north I could even see the sea with Whitby Abbey clearly visible too. I reached the busy A169 and walked along its verge for a quarter of a mile or so, the noise of the traffic merging with the roar of the wind. I’m not sure what the drivers of the vehicles thought of the lone figure being buffeted about by a gale in the middle of the moors. I was relieved when the C2C left the A169 and took a short cut across the moors to a less busy  road that would lead me into Grosmont. I met a few groups of C2C EaBos coming the other way. The wind was too noisy to strike up a conversation and so we noted our passing by waving.I was high up now and had a great view westwards down the dale towards Glaisdale.  I hoped that the wind would die down, the further I descended into the dale.  It was a couple of miles of tarmac plodding down to Grosmont. As its houses came into view, I looked forward to the prospect of some coffee and cake. 

Grosmont

Grosmont has a heritage station on the North Yorkshire Moors Railway line. It was too early for the station tea room to be open. Fortunately the UK’s oldest Co-Op was open for business. Founded in 1867, it seemed to have adapted to modern times without losing its historical roots. I purchased a freshly made coffee and a wide selection of goodies from its well stocked shelves. I bought too much of course and sat on a bench near the railway station in order to reduce the pile somewhat. As I sipped coffee and chomped on a pastry, I half expected to see the Terminator march down the hill into the village. It didn’t happen though. Maybe he didn’t take the short cut from Intake Farm either. I left Grosmont with an even heavier rucksack and a full belly too. 

Egton Bridge

At least I’d left the wind back up on the moors. I crossed the River Esk and followed a stone farm track along the bottom of the dale. The sun was out and it had turned into a glorious day, now that I didn’t have to fight the wind. I soon reached Egton Bridge where there  was an extensive country pile, Egton Manor. It was certainly a pretty area. I was delighted to come across some Giant Redwoods that towered skywards. Apparently there are now more Sequoias (as they are also known)  in England than there are in the Sequoias National Park in California. I don’t think any of the girths of the trees I saw today matched the cross section of the one I found in the London Natural History Museum, earlier this year. Even so, they were still incredible to look at and admire. The C2C continued down country lanes before heading off along a lovely woodland trail. It eventually crossed the River Esk again and another tarmac plod took me towards the village of Glaisdale. 

Glaisdale

The road from the foot of the village of Glaisdale to its top was so steep and so long it made me wonder why they’d just not built a skyscraper and been done  with it. I met the local postman at the bottom of the village and we waved to each other. We made a similar rate of progress up the hill, him making deliveries and me hauling a rucksack. He did have the advantage of driving a van. We waved at each other again as I was recovering on a bench halfway up the hillside and he whirling his van around a hairpin of the road. Near the top of the village, I found a grocery store where I bought some drinks and goodies to replenish the calories I’d lost on this Herculean effort to get up the hill. As I sat on a bench opposite the shop, the postman drove past me again as he headed uphill. We waved at each other again. At last the gradient started to reduce as I neared the very top of the village. I caught up with the postman who was hand-delivering some letters.
‘It must keep you fit being a postman around here’ I said to him.
‘Yeah, it can certainly be hard work’ he replied as he swung himself into the driver's seat of his van and scooted off. 

Moor Moors

I was back on the top of the moors again now and the wind had returned with increased vigour. At first sight, the infinite tracks across the tops of the North York Moors can seem a little intimidating and maybe even a little boring. I have to admit that it sometimes feels that you are making little progress. Generally though, there are some stunning views down into the dales to keep you interested. The route of Glaisdale Moor was a case in point with great views into Glaisdale on the left and Great Fryup Dale (yes, really!) on the right. The long stone tracks do attract the Trail riders though and half a dozen of them zipped past me at one point leaving me surrounded by clouds of white dust.       

The trail gradually worked its way around the head of Great Fryup Dale. I passed a remnant of a coal mine that was next to the path. Leaving Great Fryup Dale behind, I came to Trough House, a gamekeeper’s building and used  by the Tweed Trouser Brigade. It would have made a good wildcamping spot if the area hadn’t been taken over by the sheep and littered with droppings. The trail now started to swing around the head of Rosedale. Wainwright had done his best in his route design to minimise the amount of height loss on the walk. I could now see some remote buildings on the skyline that I took to be The Lion Inn. I wondered how protected its camping area would be from this strong wind.       

A road section carried me westward and a curious white object became apparent in the distance. As I got closer, I could see that it was a boulder in the shape of a torso and head,  that had had its upper half painted with whitewash. My curiosity got the better of me and I left the road to investigate. The object was Fat Betty Cross (aka White Cross) and dated back to the 10th or 11th century. It is believed to have been used as a boundary marker for the parishes of Danby, Westerdale and Rosedale. There’s much folklore about it too. One such tale says that it inspired Ram Jam to create their iconic 1970s song ‘Whoah, Fat Betty, Bam-ba-lam.’  Another folklore tradition is that travellers leave a gift of some food at the cross in case some other person is in need of sustenance. There was indeed a chocolate bar and a slab of flapjack left near Fat Betty’s head, although I think I’d have to have been desperate to eat it. 

The Lion Inn

The trail reached the busy road that runs along the ridge separating Rosedale and Farndale. Fortunately, the  verge was wide enough to keep me well away from the traffic. At last I reached The Lion Inn, which was evidently bustling with customers. 

I ordered a pint and a meal from the bar as well as enquiring about camping. It turned out that camping only cost £3 (2026) which seemed reasonable. The meal was pricey though at £22 (2026). The quantity was okay, but the vegetable lasagne with chips and peas was basically a microwave TV meal. I expected something a bit better for that price. I finished my meal and pint and went outside to pitch my tent. The barmaid had given me directions to a field beyond the inn’s carpark. I walked over to it and was immediately unimpressed. The ground was so stony that I’d have ended up with bent or broken pegs if I'd tried to pitch my tent. There was no protection from that unforgiving westerly either and so it was essential that my guy lines be secure.  The area was also littered with sheep droppings. The noise from the traffic on the road and carpark would also be unwelcome. I ventured further into the field, but things didn’t improve. I wandered back towards the inn and met a Swiss fellow who was wondering where to pitch his tent. He couldn’t believe this was the designated area. We both went back to the bar and I checked with a new barmaid where we were supposed to pitch our tents.
‘Yes, it’s that field beyond the carpark. You can pitch in the beer garden once people stop using it this evening. It was only 6pm; I didn’t fancy waiting around until closing time to pitch my tent in the beer garden. I could do better than this. I left the Swiss man to make his own decision and went to fill my water bottles at the tap near the entrance door to the inn. I headed back on to the C2C to find a wildcamp spot. 

Rosedale Railway

The C2C followed the line of the old Rosedale Railway and so provided easy walking. There was a great view down into Farndale on my left. I met a couple of groups of walkers coming the other way, but time was getting on and most people had obviously stopped walking for the day. The areas next to the railway line that looked promising on first glance were too stony to pitch a tent. I took an excursion onto High Blakey Moor to see if I could find a suitable pitch, but it was all too heathery. I wondered if I’d made the right decision to leave The Lion Inn. I continued down the railway line and came to a junction where a bridleway coming up from Farndale crossed the railway line to continue northwards into Westerdale. There was a suitable pitch at the foot of the embankment of this junction. Although my tent wouldn’t be visible down in the dale, it would be visible to anybody walking along the C2C or the bridleway connecting the dales. It was nearly 8pm now though, and so I thought it would be unlikely that anybody would be mooching around. I pitched my tent, threw my stuff in and laid back on my mattress. Apart from a few grouse calling, it was perfectly quiet. I’d made the correct decision not to pitch at The Lion Inn. I guess I should have checked the pitch there before handing over my £3. You live and learn. 

It had been a cracking walk over the North York Moors. I’d had  some great views down into the dales as I’d tussled with that strong headwind. The paths through the lower dales had been exceedingly pretty too. I noted that I’d not seen the North Sea for ages. I felt like I was making progress. It was odd that the Terminator had not caught me up. Maybe he’d blown a fuse.