Wandering ‘Up North’

This was a trip that I'd been looking forward to for a while. A few nights staying at a much-talked-about Vegan hotel in Malham, walking in the Yorkshire Dales, visiting Skipton and taking a few photographs along the way. Sounds great, doesn't it?

As it turned out, the photographs were only part of the story. There was turning left instead of right (a major trait for me, literally every. single. time.), a territorial ram, an unhappy ankle, an unexpected shortcut down the hills and more...

Door to door, the journey took five and a half hours. As much as our transport system is often criticised, everything went remarkably smoothly: train, tube, train, two more trains and finally an Uber. I didn't get lost or miss a single connection which, based on some of my previous trips, is a pretty impressive achievement for me.

On the final train, I got chatting to a lovely lady who was also heading to Skipton. I love those completely random encounters. We shared stories about travelling solo and admitted that, however well you plan, things do sometimes go wrong. For her, it was being robbed in Italy, despite having visited many times before. For me, it was trying to find the right path up what I'd generously describe as a 'hill' in Bako National Park, Borneo.

My first full day was going to be spent tackling the famous walks from Malham Village; Janet's Foss, Gordale Scar and Malham Cove, with a little much-needed rest and relaxation thrown in for good measure.

Well... let's just say it didn't quite work out the way the guidebooks promised.

The start.

There was a signpost pointing towards the walks. Simple enough, right?

Wrong.

It pointed straight ahead along the bridge over a little stream. The only problem was there wasn't a 'straight ahead'. There was a left and there was a right.

Naturally, I went left.

Fortunately, Google Maps sprang into life almost immediately (a surprisingly good signal for the middle of nowhere) and directed me along the road towards Janet's Foss. I didn't actually mind. I'm a city girl and most of my walking is done on pavements, so a quiet country road felt like a gentle introduction. Walking steadily uphill, just me and my thoughts, I was quietly pleased with how my fitness was holding up.

Then, at the top of the hill and along the road, I saw it.

The old stone barn looked as though it had long since given up. Weathered, leaning slightly and quietly becoming part of the rolling Yorkshire landscape, it drew me in. There was something about its texture, its language against the green of the hills, that made me stop despite the heat.

But it wasn't just the barn that stayed with me.

Nearby stood a lone calf.

Even now, writing this, I find it difficult to think about. It looked unwell, completely on its own and kept looking towards me in a way that broke my heart. There was nothing I could do except hope its mother was somewhere nearby, just out of sight. Everyone says not to interfere, and they're probably right, but walking away felt surprisingly difficult.

As sad as I was, it was time to move on. For the first time that day, I looked right instead of left and was greeted by the Yorkshire Dales.

I was rewarded again by a steep descent where at the bottom Google Maps told me to turn right for Janet's Foss. I. Turned. Left.

No, seriously, I turned left. Not seeing a waterfall, I just carried on up the road towards Gordale Scar but knowing there were another 400 steps from there to Malham Cove, I didn't go much further.

Eventually my brain caught up and I remembered the right-hand turn and, voilà, there she was in all her beauty. As I reached the top of the steps, though, I decided not to go down. There were people enjoying the water and it just wasn't the moment for me. So I stood for a while, took it all in, and then quietly headed away.

There was some good news, however. A sign pointed to an alternative route up to Malham Cove. I spotted it while sitting on a bench, listening to a ram calling to his girls, a tenor to his sopranos. The route looked perfect. The ram, however, had other ideas.

He wasn't moving. He stood by the gate while his girls grazed in the field across the road.

I wasn't about to test my luck between the two of them and those wonderful horns, so I waited.

And waited.

Then, all of a sudden, he simply ran off. No thanks for waiting. Nothing. I felt slightly short-changed, but at least I could move.

It was a gentle climb and a pleasure to chat with the people making their way back down. It was certainly the right decision, and with the sun now behind me, it felt good simply to be moving again.

I reached a plateau and paused to take in the view. Then I looked to my left...

By now I was in photography paradise. Everywhere I looked there were dry stone walls weaving through the landscape, gates framing distant hills and textures that seemed to change with every few steps. I couldn't help stopping again.

Then there was the quiet whisper of a twinge in my left ankle.

Just a twinge, right?

Walked another ten minutes, okay... I can hear it now the whisper becoming a shout.

Up ahead was Malham Cove. I could carry on to the top and take my chance with the limestone rocks or walk back down this hill, turning right at the bottom then up the first hill now with the steep incline, pass the barn again and finally make my way back to the village, neither though sounded attractive or doable.

Instead, I looked left. I know, there's a theme here….

Two fields away and beyond a winding road, lay Malham Village. A shortcut that magically appeared for me and with the twinge almost at yelling level, it became the only option.

I hobbled down the first field towards a barbed wire-covered gate. Attached to it was a dilapidated sign reading, 'Keep Out. Private Land.'

I did have a full discussion with myself about the legalities of climbing over the gate, given the warning, and promptly drafted my defence in case I was arrested. It still seemed preferable to the ambulance service trying to reach me if my ankle went nuclear.

It was not pretty.

It was not graceful.

But I managed not to get stabbed by the barbs, made it through the next field, over the gate and gracefully hobbled the final fifteen minutes back to my hotel.

There followed a wonderfully gentle afternoon with towels wrapped around bags of ice, my ankle propped up and the day's images loaded onto my MacBook.

I put on my pretty dress for Afternoon Tea, enjoyed the food and simply relaxed.

Early that evening I decided to test the ankle with a slow walk through the village. Along the way I fell into conversation with an elderly gentleman who lived locally. We wandered together towards his farm, which he had bought thirty years earlier. He told me about his daughter raising horses and then casually mentioned that she'd bought the hill in the distance.

Sorry... what?

I pointed towards the hill.

"You mean thathill?" I asked, pointing towards the one I'd climbed over just a few hours earlier, complete with the barbed wire and the 'Keep Out. Private Land.' sign.

He followed my finger, nodded and simply replied,

"Yes."

That was it.

He looked at me rather bemused, completely unable to understand why I was suddenly so fascinated by one particular hill.

I, meanwhile, was replaying the afternoon in my head: the barbed wire, the warning sign, my carefully prepared legal defence and the rather undignified climb over the gate.

I left soon afterwards, quietly chuckling to myself all the way back to the hotel.

It somehow completed the day.

What a wonderful, and totally unexpected, way to spend my birthday.

The next morning was a travel and explore day, with a few ups and downs of its own.

Back in the village I stood staring at the bus timetable, trying to make sense of it. Unlike the live bus arrivals back home in London, this was wonderfully old school. What I couldn't understand was why the bus left Malham Buck Inn at 10:25 but Malham Opp. Buck Inn at 10:35. Were they different places? Different buses? Had I completely misunderstood?

Deciding not to take any chances, I turned up at the Buck Inn at 10:00.

With time to spare, I wandered around taking photographs of the steam sparkling in the morning sunlight before making my way back to the little bridge. You know... the one with the sign.

A couple had just crossed it, map in hand, looking rather puzzled. At the same time, a very fit-looking walker appeared, the sort of person who looked as though a quick 10K before breakfast was perfectly normal. As he approached, he asked if they needed any help.

They explained they were trying to find Janet's Foss but couldn't make sense of the sign.

Wait... what? It wasn't just me! For the first time ever, I felt completely vindicated.

He smiled, pointed confidently down the path to... his... right... and said, "You can't go wrong. Just follow the path."

I quietly chuckled to myself. Who knows what would have happened if I'd turned right after all? I'm so glad I turned left though….

What a wonderful way to start the day.

I made my way to the shadows by the bus stop where a couple of chaps were already waiting. We soon fell into conversation in the wonderful way that complete strangers sometimes do, until the bus arrived.

Despite checking the internet several times and reassuring myself that I could simply use my contactless card, the driver cheerfully announced,

"Cash only."

Erm...

Like most Londoners these days, I don't carry cash. In fact, I don't think I've carried cash since someone gave me a £10 contribution towards a birthday present about four years ago.

Without a second thought, one of the chaps quietly paid the £3 fare.

Ten minutes later, just as the timetable promised, we departed from Opp. Buck Inn, drove past the old gentleman's farm and made our way towards Skipton.

The conversation continued the 40 minute journey to the station before we said our goodbyes, probably never to meet again.

Next on the agenda was Ribblehead.

The plan sounded perfectly reasonable. Catch the train, walk to the viaduct, take the photograph, catch the return train seventeen minutes later and head back to Skipton.

Seventeen minutes. Plenty of time, right?

Not even close.

The light wasn't quite right. The viaduct was further from the station than I'd imagined and, before I knew it, I was glancing at my watch more than I was looking through the camera.

Sometimes you have to admit defeat. This was one of those times.

I climbed back aboard the return train without taking the photograph I'd travelled there for.

The thirty-seven minute journey back to Skipton was wonderfully peaceful though. The Yorkshire Dales drifted quietly past the window and, for a little while, everything slowed down again.

Then the train pulled into Skipton.

Within seconds I was catapulted straight back into the real world as a group of teenage boys casually climbed over the station fence to avoid paying the fare with guards passing by on the platform.

By now I was ready for lunch. I spotted a Morrisons where I could pick up a baguette and some hummus for a cheap lunch, which seemed like the sensible option.

On the way there, I was almost flattened by a group of rather aggressive teenage boys on bikes, who then only just avoided being knocked down by a car themselves. The peace and quiet of the Yorkshire Dales suddenly felt a very long way away.

I continued towards the High Street, with the castle at the far end, but I just couldn’t settle. There were too many people, too much noise and, visually, it all felt a little messy. It was simply too much for me.

Want to take a guess what I did?

I. Turned. Left.

Walked along a quiet road and then I saw it.

Honestly, the image spoke to me. I stood there completely alone, looking up the narrow street, unable to move. Beyond its end was the busy High Street, but it felt a world away.

For a few moments, the years seemed to fall away. The cobbles, the old stone wall and the buildings lining the street carried me back through the centuries until I could almost imagine Skipton continuing exactly as it always had.

I think this became the photograph of the trip. There was an emotional connection to it that I couldn’t quite explain.

It’s funny: I loved visiting the castle afterwards. It was a lovely interlude, and I took several photographs, but somehow none of them worked. The castle was the obvious subject, grand and imposing, but this quiet street was the image that stayed with me.

I had turned away from what everyone else had come to see and found the photograph somewhere else.

Again, I was very glad I had turned left and very Found While Looking Elsewhere.