SWALEDALE
There is a certain elevated and wind-swept spot, scarcely more than a
long mile from Richmond, that commands a view over a wide extent of
romantic country. Vantage-points of this type, within easy reach of a
fair-sized town, are inclined to be overrated, and, what is far worse,
to be spoiled by the litter of picnic parties; but Whitcliffe Scar is
free from both objections. In magnificent September weather one may
spend many hours in the midst of this great panorama without being
disturbed by a single human being, besides a possible farm labourer or
shepherd; and if scraps of paper and orange-peel are ever dropped here,
the keen winds that come from across the moors dispose of them as
efficaciously as the keepers of any public parks.
The view is removed from a comparison with many others from the fact
that one is situated at the dividing-line between the richest
cultivation and the wildest moorlands. Whitcliffe Scar is the Mount
Pisgah from whence the jaded dweller in towns can gaze into a promised
land of solitude,
‘Where things that own not man’s dominion dwell,
And mortal foot hath ne’er or rarely been.’
The eastward view of green and smiling country is undeniably beautiful,
but to those who can appreciate Byron’s enthusiasm for the trackless
mountain there is something more indefinable and inspiring in the
mysterious loneliness of the west. The long, level lines of the moorland
horizon, when the sun is beginning to climb downwards, are cut out in
the softest blue and mauve tints against the shimmering transparency of
the western sky, and the plantations that clothe the sides of the dale
beneath one are filled with wonderful shadows, which are thrown out with
golden outlines. The view along the steep valley extends for a few
miles, and then is suddenly cut off by a sharp bend where the Swale, a
silver ribbon along the bottom of the dale, disappears among the sombre
woods and the shoulders of the hills.
In this aspect of Swaledale one sees its mildest and most civilized
mood; for beyond the purple
[Illustration: SWALEDALE IN THE EARLY AUTUMN
THE view is taken from a spot just above Richmond, known as Willance’s
Leap. One is looking due west, with the high mountains of Craven just
beyond the blue plateau.]
hillside that may be seen in the illustration, cultivation becomes more
palpably a struggle, and the gaunt moors, broken by lines of precipitous
scars, assume control of the scenery.
From 200 feet below, where the river is flowing along its stony bed,
comes the sound of the waters ceaselessly grinding the pebbles, and from
the green pastures there floats upwards a distant ba-baaing. No railway
has penetrated the solitudes of Swaledale, and, as far as one may look
into the future in such matters, there seems every possibility of this
loneliest and grandest of the Yorkshire dales retaining its isolation in
this respect. None but the simplest of sounds, therefore, are borne on
the keen winds that come from the moorland heights, and the purity of
the air whispers in the ear the pleasing message of a land where
chimneys have never been.
Besides the original name of Whitcliffe Scar, this remarkable view-point
has, since 1606, been popularly known as ‘Willance’s Leap.’ In that year
a certain Robert Willance, whose father appears to have been a
successful draper in Richmond, was hunting in the neighbourhood, when he
found himself enveloped in a fog. It must have been sufficiently dense
to shut out even the nearest objects; for, without any warning,
Willance found himself on the verge of the scar, and before he could
check his horse both were precipitated over the cliff. We have no
detailed account of whether the fall was broken in any way; but,
although his horse was killed instantly, Willance, by some almost
miraculous good fortune, found himself alive at the bottom with nothing
worse than a broken leg. Such a story must have been the talk of the
whole of the Dale Country for months after the event, and it is in no
way surprising that the spot should have become permanently associated
with the rider’s name. He certainly felt grateful for his astonishing
escape, despite the amputation of the broken limb; for, besides the
erection of some inscribed stones that still mark the position of his
fall from the cliff, Willance, in order to further commemorate the
event, presented the Corporation of Richmond with a silver cup, which
remains in the possession of the town.
Turning back towards Richmond, the contrast of the gently-rounded
contours and the rich cultivation gives the landscape the appearance of
a vast garden. One can see the great Norman keep of the castle dwarfing
the church towers, and the red-roofed houses that cluster so
picturesquely under its shelter. The afternoon sunlight floods
everything with its generous glow, and the shadows of the trees massed
on the hill-slopes are singularly blue. At the bottom of the valley the
Swale abandons its green meadows for a time, and disappears into the
deep and leafy gorge that adds so much to the charm of Richmond. Beyond
the town the course of the river can be traced as it takes its way past
Easby Abbey and the sunny slopes crowned with woods that go down on
either side to its sparkling waters, until the level plain confuses
every feature in a maze of hedgerow and coppice that loses itself in the
hazy horizon.
It is a difficult matter to decide which is the more attractive means of
exploring Swaledale; for if one keeps to the road at the bottom of the
valley many beautiful and remarkable aspects of the country are missed,
and yet if one goes over the moors it is impossible to really explore
the recesses of the dale. The old road from Richmond to Reeth avoids the
dale altogether, except for the last mile, and its ups and its downs
make the traveller pay handsomely for the scenery by the way. But this
ought not to deter anyone from using the road; for the view of the
village of Marske, cosily situated among the wooded heights that rise
above the beck, is missed by those who keep to the new road along the
banks of the Swale. The romantic seclusion of this village is
accentuated towards evening, when a shadowy stillness fills the hollows.
The higher woods may be still glowing with the light of the golden west,
while down below a softness of outline adds beauty to every object. The
old bridge that takes the road to Reeth across Marske Beck needs no such
fault-forgiving light, for it was standing in the reign of Elizabeth,
and, from its appearance, it is probably centuries older. There used to
be a quaint little mill close to the bridge, but this was,
unfortunately, swept away when some alterations were being made in the
surroundings of Marske Hall, a seat of the Huttons. It was one of this
family, in whose hands the manor of Marske has remained for over 300
years, to whom the idea occurred of converting what was formerly a
precipitous ravine, with bare rocky scars on either side, into the
heavily wooded and romantic spot one finds to-day. Beyond the
beautifying of this little branch valley of Swaledale, the Huttons are a
notable family in having produced two Archbishops. They both bore the
same name of Matthew Hutton. The first, who is mentioned by Thomas
Fuller in his ‘Worthies’ as ‘a learned Prelate,’ was raised to the
Archbishopric of York from Durham in 1594. This Matthew Hutton seems to
have found favour with Elizabeth, for, beyond his rapid progress in the
Church, there is still preserved in Marske Hall a gold cup presented to
him by the Queen.[A] The second Archbishop was promoted from Bangor to
York, and finally to Canterbury in 1757.
[A] Murray.
Rising above the woods near Marske Hall there appears a tall obelisk,
put up to the memory of Captain Matthew Hutton about a century ago, when
that type of memorial had gained a prodigious popularity. An obelisk
towering above a plantation can scarcely be considered an attractive
feature in a landscape, for its outline is too strongly suggestive of a
mine-shaft; but how can one hope to find beauty in any of the
architectural efforts of a period that seems to have been dead to art?
The new road to Reeth from Richmond goes down at an easy gradient from
the town to the banks of the river, which it crosses when abreast of
Whitcliffe Scar, the view in front being at first much the same as the
nearer portions of the dale seen from that height. Down on the left,
however, there are some chimney-shafts, so recklessly black that they
seem to be no part whatever of their sumptuous natural surroundings, and
might almost suggest a nightmare in which one discovered that some of
the vilest chimneys of the Black Country had taken to touring in the
beauty spots of the country.
As one goes westward, the road penetrates right into the bold scenery
that invites exploration when viewed from ‘Willance’s Leap.’ There is a
Scottish feeling--perhaps Alpine would be more correct--in the
steeply-falling sides of the dale, all clothed in firs and other dense
plantations; and just where the Swale takes a decided turn towards the
south there is a view up Marske Beck that adds much to the romance of
the scene. Behind one’s back the side of the dale rises like a dark
green wall entirely in shadow, and down below, half buried in foliage,
the river swirls and laps its gravelly beaches, also in shadow. Beyond a
strip of pasture begin the tumbled masses of trees which, as they climb
out of the depths of the valley, reach the warm, level rays of sunlight
that turns the first leaves that have passed their prime into the fierce
yellows and burnt siennas which, when faithfully represented at
Burlington House, are often considered overdone. Even the gaunt obelisk
near Marske Hall responds to a fine sunset of this sort, and shows a
gilded side that gives it almost a touch of grandeur.
Evening is by no means necessary to the attractions of Swaledale, for a
blazing noon gives lights and shades and contrasts of colour that are a
large portion of Swaledale’s charms. If instead of taking either the old
road by way of Marske, or the new one by the riverside, one had crossed
the old bridge below the castle, and left Richmond by a very steep road
that goes to Leyburn, one would have reached a moorland that is at its
best in the full light of a clear morning. The road goes through the
gray little village of Hudswell, which possesses some half-destroyed
cottages that give it a forlorn and even pathetic character. As one goes
on towards the open plateau of Downholme Moor, a sense of keen regret
will force itself upon the mind; for here, in this gloriously healthy
air, there are cottages in excess of the demand, and away in the great
centres of labour, where the atmosphere is lifeless and smoke-begrimed,
overcrowding is a perpetual evil. Perhaps the good folks who might have
been dwelling in Hudswell, or some other breezy village, prefer their
surroundings in some gloomy street in Sheffield; perhaps those who lived
in these broken little homes died long ago, and there are none who sigh
for space and air after the fashion of caged larks; perhaps---- But we
have reached a gate now, and when we are through it and out on the bare
brown expanse, with the ‘wide horizons beckoning’ on every side, the
wind carries away every gloomy thought, and leaves in its place one vast
optimism, which is, I suppose, the joy of living, and one of God’s best
gifts to man.
The clouds are big, but they carry no threat of rain, for right down to
the far horizon from whence this wind is coming there are patches of
blue proportionate to the vast spaces overhead. As each white mass
passes across the sun, we are immersed in a shadow many acres in extent;
but the sunlight has scarcely fled when a rim of light comes over the
edge of the plain, just above the hollow where Downholme village lies
hidden from sight, and in a few minutes that belt of sunshine has
reached some sheep not far off, and rimmed their coats with a brilliant
edge of white. Shafts of whiteness, like searchlights, stream from
behind a distant cloud, and everywhere there is brilliant contrast and a
purity to the eye and lungs that only a Yorkshire moor possesses.
Making our way along a grassy track, we cross the heather and bent, and
go down an easy
[Illustration: DOWNHOLME MOORE, ABOVE SWALEDALE]
“Wide horizons beckoning, far beyond the hill,
* * * * *
Greatness overhead,
The flock’s contented tread
An’ trample o’ the morning wind adown the open trail.”
H. H. BASHFORD.
slope towards the gray roofs of Downholme. The situation is pretty, and
there is a triangular green beyond the inn; but, owing to the church
being some distance away, the village seems to lack in features.
A short two miles up the road to Leyburn, just above Gill Beck, there is
an ancient house known as Walburn Hall, and also the remains of the
chapel belonging to it, which dates from the Perpendicular period. The
buildings are now used as a farm, but there are still enough suggestions
of a dignified past to revivify the times when this was a centre of
feudal power. Although the architecture is not Norman, there is a
fragment in one of the walls that seems to indicate an earlier house
belonging to the Walburns, for one of them--Wymer de Walburn--held a
certain number of oxgangs of land there in 1286.
Turning back to Swaledale by a lane on the south side of Gill Beck,
Downholme village is passed a mile away on the right, and the bold
scenery of the dale once more becomes impressive. The sunshine has
entirely gone now, and, although there are still some hours of daylight
left, the ponderous masses of blue-gray cloud that have slowly spread
themselves from one horizon to the other have caused a gloom to take the
place of the morning’s dazzling sunshine. When we get lower down, and
have a glimpse of the Swale over the hedge, a most imposing scene is
suddenly visible. We would have illustrated it here, but the Dale
Country is so prolific in its noble views that a selection of twenty
pictures must of pure necessity do injustice to the many scenes it
omits.
Two great headlands, formed by the wall-like terminations of Cogden and
Harkerside Moors, rising one above the other, stand out magnificently.
Their huge sides tower up nearly a thousand feet from the river, until
they are within reach of the lowering clouds that every moment threaten
to envelop them in their indigo embrace. There is a curious rift in the
dark cumulus revealing a thin line of dull carmine that frequently
changes its shape and becomes nearly obliterated, but its presence in no
way weakens the awesomeness of the picture. The dale appears to become
huger and steeper as the clouds thicken, and what have been merely woods
and plantations in this heavy gloom become mysterious forests. The
river, too, seems to change its character, and become a pale serpent,
uncoiling itself from some mountain fastness where no living creatures,
besides great auks and carrion birds, dwell.
In such surroundings as these there were established in the Middle Ages
two religious houses, within a mile of one another, on opposite sides of
the swirling river. On the north bank, not far from Marrick village, you
may still see the ruins of Marrick Priory in its beautiful situation
much as Turner painted it a century ago. Leland describes Marrick as ‘a
Priory of Blake Nunnes of the Foundation of the Askes.’ It was, we know,
an establishment for Benedictine Nuns, founded or endowed by Roger de
Aske in the twelfth century. At Ellerton, on the other side of the river
a little lower down, the nunnery was of the Cistercian Order; for,
although very little of its history has been discovered, Leland writes
of the house as ‘a Priori of White clothid Nunnes.’ After the Battle of
Bannockburn, when the Scots raided all over the North Riding of
Yorkshire, they came along Swaledale in search of plunder, and we are
told that Ellerton suffered from their violence. The ruins that
witnessed these scenes remain most provokingly silent, and Heaven knows
if they ever echoed to the cries of the defenceless nuns or the coarse
laughter of the Scots, for the remains tell us nothing at all.
Where the dale becomes wider, owing to the branch valley of
Arkengarthdale, there are two villages close together. Grinton is
reached first, and is older than Reeth, which is a short distance north
of the river. The parish of Grinton is one of the largest in Yorkshire.
It is more than twenty miles long, containing something near 50,000
acres, and according to Mr. Speight, who has written a very detailed
history of Richmondshire, more than 30,000 acres of this consist of
mountain, grouse-moor, and scar. For so huge a parish the church is
suitable in size, but in the upper portions of the dales one must not
expect any very remarkable exteriors; and Grinton, with its low roofs
and plain battlemented tower, is much like other churches in the
neighbourhood. Inside there are suggestions of a Norman building that
has passed away, and the bowl of the font seems also to belong to that
period. The two chapels opening from the chancel contain some
interesting features, which include a hagioscope, and both are enclosed
by old screens.
Leaving the village behind, and crossing the Swale, you soon come to
Reeth, which may, perhaps, be described as a little town. It must have
thrived with the lead-mines in Arkengarthdale and along the Swale, for
it has gone back since the period of its former prosperity, and is glad
of the fact that its splendid situation, and the cheerful green which
the houses look upon, have made it something of a holiday resort,
although it still retains its grayness and its simplicity, both of which
may be threatened if a red-roofed hotel were to make its appearance, the
bare thought of which is an anxiety to those who appreciate the soft
colours of the locality.
When Reeth is left behind, there is no more of the fine ‘new’ road which
makes travelling so easy for the eleven miles from Richmond. The surface
is, however, by no means rough along the nine miles to Muker, although
the scenery becomes far wilder and more mountainous with every mile. The
dale narrows most perceptibly; the woods become widely separated, and
almost entirely disappear on the southern side; and the gaunt moors,
creeping down the sides of the valley, seem to threaten the narrow belt
of cultivation, that becomes increasingly restricted to the river
margins. Precipitous limestone scars fringe the browny-green heights in
many places, and almost girdle the summit of Calver Hill, the great bare
height that rises a thousand feet above Reeth. The farms and hamlets of
these upper parts of Swaledale are of the same grays, greens, and browns
as the moors and scars that surround them. The stone walls, that are
often high and forbidding, seem to suggest the fortifications required
for man’s fight with Nature, in which there is no encouragement for the
weak. In the splendid weather that so often welcomes the mere summer
rambler in the upper dales the austerity of the widely scattered farms
and villages may seem a little unaccountable; but a visit in January
would quite remove this impression, though even in these lofty parts of
England the worst winter snowstorm has, in quite recent years, been of
trifling inconvenience. Bad winters will, no doubt, be experienced again
on the fells; but leaving out of the account the snow that used to bury
farms, flocks, roads, and even the smaller gills, in a vast smother of
whiteness, there are still the winds that go shrieking over the desolate
heights, there is still the high rainfall, and there are still
destructive thunderstorms that bring with them hail of a size that we
seldom encounter in the lower levels. Mr. Lockwood records a remarkable
storm near Sedbergh in which there were only three flashes. The first
left senseless on the ground two brothers who were tending sheep, the
second killed three cows that were sheltering under an oak, and the
third unroofed a large portion of a barn and split up two trees. In
this case the ordinary conditions of thunderstorms would seem to have
been reversed, the electric discharge taking place from the earth to the
clouds; otherwise, it is hard to account for such destruction with each
flash.
The great rapidity with which the Swale, or such streams as the Arkle,
can produce a devastating flood can scarcely be comprehended by those
who have not seen the results of even moderate rainstorms on the fells.
When, however, some really wet days have been experienced in the upper
parts of the dales, it seems a wonder that the bridges are not more
often in jeopardy. Long lines of pale-gray clouds, with edges so soft
that they almost coalesce, come pressing each other on to the bare
heights, and, almost before one mass has transformed itself into silvery
streaks on the fellsides, there are others pouring down on their
emaciated remains.
Of course, even the highest hills of Yorkshire are surpassed in wetness
by their Lakeland neighbours; for whereas Hawes Junction, which is only
about seven miles south of Muker, has an average yearly rainfall of
about 62 inches, Mickleden, in Westmoreland, can show 137, and certain
spots in Cumberland aspire towards 200 inches in a year. No figures
seem to exist for Swaledale, but in the lower parts of Wensleydale the
rainfall is only half of what has been given for Hawes, which stands at
the head of that valley.
The weather conditions being so severe, it is not surprising to find
that no corn at all is grown in Swaledale at the present day. Some
notes, found in an old family Bible in Teesdale, are quoted by Mr.
Joseph Morris. They show the painful difficulties experienced in the
eighteenth century from such entries as: ‘1782. I reaped oats for John
Hutchinson, when the field was covered with snow,’ and: ‘1799, Nov. 10.
Much corn to cut and carry. A hard frost.’
Muker, notwithstanding all these climatic difficulties, has some claim
to picturesqueness, despite the fact that its church is better seen at a
distance, for a close inspection reveals its rather poverty-stricken
state. The square tower, so typical of the dales, stands well above the
weathered roofs of the village, and there are sufficient trees to tone
down the severities of the stone walls, that are inclined to make one
house much like its neighbour, and but for natural surroundings would
reduce the hamlets to the same uniformity. At Muker, however, there is a
steep
[Illustration: MUKER ON A STORMY AFTERNOON
THIS is a typical village of the dales, with its simple square-towered
church and its greeny-grey roofs. The hill on the left is Kisdon, and
one is looking up the narrowest portion of Swaledale.]
bridge and a rushing mountain stream that joins the Swale just below.
The road keeps close to this beck, and the houses are thus restricted to
one side of the way. There is a bright and cheerful appearance about the
Farmers’ Arms, the small inn that stands back a little from the road
with a cobbled space in front. Inside you may find a grandfather clock
by Pratt of Askrigg in Wensleydale, a portrait of Lord Kitchener, and a
good square meal of the ham and eggs and tea order.
Away to the south, in the direction of the Buttertubs Pass, is Stags
Fell, 2,213 feet above the sea, and something like 1,300 feet above
Muker. Northwards, and towering over the village, is the isolated mass
of Kisdon Hill, on two sides of which the Swale, now a mountain stream,
rushes and boils among boulders and ledges of rock. This is one of the
finest portions of the dale, and, although the road leaves the river and
passes round the western side of Kisdon, there is a path that goes
through the glen, and brings one to the road again at Keld.
Just before you reach Keld, the Swale drops 30 feet at Kisdon Force, and
after a night of rain there are many other waterfalls to be seen in this
district. These are not to me, however, the chief attractions of the
head of Swaledale, although without the angry waters the gills and
narrow ravines that open from the dale would lose much interest. It is
the stern grandeur of the scarred hillsides and the wide mountainous
views from the heights that give this part of Yorkshire such a
fascination. If you climb to the top of Rogan’s Seat, you have a huge
panorama of desolate country spread out before you. The confused jumble
of blue-gray mountains to the north-west is beyond the limits of
Yorkshire at last, and in their strong embrace those stern Westmoreland
hills hold the charms of Lakeland. Down below is the hamlet of Keld,
perched in an almost Swiss fashion on a sharply-falling hillside, and
among the surrounding masses of heaving moor are the birthplaces of the
dozen becks that supply the headwaters of the Swale. These nearer hills,
which include High Seat and the Lady’s Pillar, form the watershed of
this part of the Yorkshire border; for on the western slopes are to be
found the sources of the river Eden that flows through the beautiful
valley, which is one of the greatest charms of the Midland route to
Scotland.
If one stays in this mountainous region, there are new and exciting
walks available for every day. There are gloomy recesses in the
hillsides that encourage exploration from the knowledge that they are
not tripper-worn, and there are endless heights to be climbed that are
equally free from the smallest traces of desecrating mankind. Rare
flowers, ferns, and mosses flourish in these inaccessible solitudes, and
will continue to do so, on account of the dangers that lurk in their
fastnesses, and also from the fact that their value is nothing to any
but those who are glad to leave them growing where they are. You can
look down into shadowy chasms in the limestone, where underground waters
fall splashing with a hollow sound upon black shimmering rocks far
below, or, stranger still, into subterranean pools from which the waters
overflow into yet greater depths. You can follow the mountain streams
through wooded ravines, and discover cascades and waterfalls that do not
appear in any maps, and you may leave them by the rough tracks that
climb the hillsides when you, perchance, have a longing for space and
the sparkling clearness of the moorland air.
WENSLEYDALE