WENSLEYDALE
The approach from Muker to the upper part of Wensleydale is by a
mountain road that can claim a grandeur which, to those who have never
explored the dales, might almost seem impossible. I have called it a
road, but it is, perhaps, questionable whether this is not too
high-sounding a term for a track so invariably covered with large loose
stones and furrowed with water-courses. At its highest point the road
goes through the Butter-tubs Pass, taking the traveller to the edge of
the pot-holes that have given their name to this thrilling way through
the mountain ridge dividing the Swale from the Ure.
Such a lonely and dangerous road should no doubt be avoided at night,
but yet I am always grateful for the delays which made me so late that
darkness came on when I was at the highest portion of the pass. It was
late in September, and it was the day of the feast at Hawes, which had
drawn to that small town farmers and their wives, and most, if not all,
the young men and maidens within a considerable radius. I made my way
slowly up the long ascent from Muker, stumbling frequently on the loose
stones and in the waterworn runnels that were scarcely visible in the
dim twilight. The huge, bare shoulders of the fells began to close in
more and more as I climbed. Towards the west lay Great Shunnor Fell, its
vast brown-green mass being sharply defined against the clear evening
sky; while further away to the north-west there were blue mountains
going to sleep in the soft mistiness of the distance. Then the road made
a sudden zigzag, but went on climbing more steeply than ever, until at
last I found that the stony track had brought me to the verge of a
precipice. There was not sufficient light to see what dangers lay
beneath me, but I could hear the angry sound of a beck falling upon
quantities of bare rocks. At the edge of the road the ground curved away
in an insidious manner without any protecting bank, and I instinctively
drew towards the inner side of the way, fearing lest a stumble among the
stones that still covered the road might precipitate me into the gorge
[Illustration: TWILIGHT IN THE BUTTER-TUBS PASS
THE Butter-tubs are some deep pot-holes in the limestone that lie just
by the high stony road that goes from Hawes in Wensleydale to Muker in
Swaledale.]
below, where, even if one survived the fall, there would be every
opportunity of succumbing to one’s injuries before anyone came along the
beck side. The place is, indeed, so lonely that I can quite believe it
possible that a man might die there and be reduced to a whitened
skeleton before discovery. Of course, one might be lucky enough to be
found by a shepherd, or some sheepdog might possibly come after
wanderers from a flock that had found their way to this grim recess; but
then, everyone is not equally on good terms with that jade Fortune, and
to such folk I offer this word of caution. But here I have only
commenced the dangers of this pass, for if one does not keep to the
road, there is on the other side the still greater menace of the
Buttertubs, the dangers of which are too well known to require any
emphasis of mine. Those pot-holes which have been explored with much
labour, and the use of winches and tackle and a great deal of stout
rope, have revealed in their cavernous depths the bones of sheep that
disappeared from flocks which have long since become mutton. This road
is surely one that would have afforded wonderful illustrations to the
‘Pilgrim’s Progress,’ for the track is steep and narrow and painfully
rough; dangers lie on either side, and safety can only be found by
keeping in the middle of the road.
What must have been the thoughts, I wonder, of the dalesmen who on
different occasions had to go over the pass at night in those still
recent times when wraithes and hobs were terrible realities? In the
parts of Yorkshire where any records of the apparitions that used to
enliven the dark nights have been kept, I find that these awesome
creatures were to be found on every moor, and perhaps some day in my
reading I shall discover an account of those that haunted this pass.
Perhaps a considerate Providence has kept me from the knowledge of the
form these spirits assume in this particular spot, for the reason I will
recount. I had reached the portion of the road where it goes so
recklessly along the edge of the precipitous scars, when, far away on
the gloomy fell-side ahead of me, there glimmered a strange little light
that disappeared for a moment and then showed itself again. Soon
afterwards it was hidden, I supposed by some hollow in the ground. Had I
been bred in the dales in the time of our grandfathers, I should have
fled wildly from such a sight, and probably found an early grave in the
moist depths of one of the Buttertubs. As it was, although quite alone
and without any means of defence, I went on steadily, until at last, out
of the darkness, I heard a laugh that sounded human enough, and then
came to me the sound of a heavy cart lumbering slowly over the stones.
The breeze wafted to me a suggestion of tobacco, and in a moment my
anxiety had gone. The cart contained two girls, and by the horse’s head
walked a man, while another followed on horseback. One of the men lit
his pipe again, and in the momentary flare I could see his big, genial
face, the farm-horse, and the two happy maidens. We said ‘Good-night’ to
prove each other’s honesty, and after a while the sound of the cart died
away, as it went slowly along the windings of the pass. After this I was
seldom alone, for I had fallen in with the good folks who had gone over
to the feast at Hawes, and were now homeward bound in the darkness.
Although there are probably few who care for rough moorland roads at
night, the Buttertubs Pass in daylight is still a memorable place. The
pot-holes can then be safely approached, and one can peer into the
blackness below until the eyes become adapted to the gloom. Then one
sees the wet walls of limestone and the curiously-formed isolated pieces
of rock that almost suggest columnar basalt. In crevices far down
delicate ferns are growing in the darkness. They shiver as the cool
water drips upon them from above, and the drops they throw off fall down
lower still into a stream of underground water that has its beginnings
no man knows where. On a hot day it is cooling simply to gaze into the
Buttertubs, and the sound of the falling waters down in these shadowy
places is pleasant after gazing on the dry fell-sides.
Just beyond the head of the pass, where the descent to Hawes begins, the
shoulders of Great Shunnor Fell drop down, so that not only straight
ahead, but also westwards, one can see a splendid mountain view.
Ingleborough’s flat top is conspicuous in the south, and in every
direction there are indications of the geology of the fells. The hard
stratum of millstone grit that rests upon the limestone gives many of
the summits of the hills their level character, and forms the
sharply-defined scars that encircle them. Lower down the hills are
generally rounded. It used to puzzle Dr. Whitaker, the historian of
these parts, ‘how, upon a surface which must at first have consisted of
angles and right lines only, nothing but graceful curves should now
appear, as if some plastic hand had formed the original surface over
again for use and beauty at once.’ Then, with the blankest pessimism,
he goes on to say that ‘these are among the many questions relating to
the theory of the earth which the restless curiosity of man will ever be
asking without the hope or possibility of a solution’! The exclamation
mark is mine, for I cannot restrain my feelings of astonishment that a
learned man writing in 1805 should deny to us the knowledge we have of
the action of ice and the other forces of denudation, by which we are
able to understand to such a very great extent the agencies that have
produced the contours of the Yorkshire mountains. The sudden changes of
weather that take place among these watersheds would almost seem to be
cause enough to explain the wearing down of the angularities of the
heights. Even while we stand on the bridge at Hawes we can see three or
four ragged cloud edges letting down on as many places torrential rains,
while in between there are intervals of blazing sunshine, under which
the green fells turn bright yellow and orange in powerful contrast to
the indigo shadows on every side. Such rapid changes from complete
saturation to sudden heat are trying to the hardest rocks, and at
Hardraw, close at hand, there is a still more palpable process of
denudation in active operation.
Such a morning as this is quite ideal for seeing the remarkable
waterfall known as Hardraw Scar or Force. The footpath that leads up the
glen leaves the road at the side of the ‘Green Dragon’ at Hardraw, where
the innkeeper hands us a key to open the gate we must pass through.
Being September, and an uncertain day for weather, we have the whole
glen to ourselves, until behind some rocks we discover a solitary
angler. There is nothing but the roughest of tracks to follow, for the
carefully-made pathway that used to go right up to the fall was swept
away half a dozen years ago, when the stream in a fierce mood cleared
its course of any traces of artificiality. We are deeply grateful, and
make our way among the big rocks and across the slippery surfaces of
shale, with the roar of the waters becoming more and more insistent. The
sun has turned into the ravine a great searchlight that has lit up the
rock walls and strewn the wet grass beneath with sparkling jewels. On
the opposite side there is a dense blue shadow over everything except
the foliage on the brow of the cliffs, where the strong autumn colours
leap into a flaming glory that transforms the ravine into an astonishing
splendour. A little more careful scrambling by the side of the stream,
and
[Illustration: HARDRAW FORCE
THIS fall of water on a tributary of the Ure is generally considered to
be the finest in Yorkshire. The water comes over a lip of overhanging
rock, and drops sheer into a pool 80 feet below. It is a most romantic
spot at all times, but it is seen at its best after a heavy rainfall. It
is possible to walk behind the fall on a slippery spray-drenched
path.]
we see a white band of water falling from the overhanging limestone into
the pool about ninety feet below. Off the surface of the water drifts a
mist of spray, in which a soft patch of rainbow hovers until the sun
withdraws itself for a time and leaves a sudden gloom in the horseshoe
of overhanging cliffs. The place is, perhaps, more in sympathy with a
cloudy sky, but, under sunshine or cloud, the spout of water is a
memorable sight, and its imposing height places Hardraw among the small
group of England’s finest waterfalls. Everyone, however, realizes the
disappointment so often experienced in visiting such sights in dry
weather, and the water at Hardraw sometimes shrinks to a mere trickle,
leaving only the rock chasm to tell the traveller what can happen in
really wet weather. The beck that takes this prodigious leap rises on
Great Shunnor Fell, and if that mountain has received the attentions of
some low clouds during the night, there is generally a gushing stream of
water pouring over the projecting lip of hard limestone. The shale that
lies beneath this stratum is soft enough to be worked away by the water
until the limestone overhangs the pool to the extent of ten or twelve
feet, so that the water falls sheer into the circular basin, leaving a
space between the cliff and the fall where it is safe to walk on a
rather moist and slippery path that is constantly being sprayed from the
surface of the pool.
In hard winters, such as that of 1881, the waters freeze up into a great
mass of ice, through which the fall makes its way by keeping an open
pipe down the centre. It is recorded that in the winter of 1739-40 the
fall began to freeze at the top and bottom, and that it eventually met,
making ‘one hollow column which was seventy-two yards and three-quarters
in circumference.’
As we turn away from the roar of the waters the sun comes through the
clouds once more and illuminates the glen with such a generous light
that we long to be in the open again, so that we may see all the play of
the sweeping shadows along the slopes of Wensleydale. As we cross the
Ure we have a view of the wet roofs of Hawes shining in dazzling light.
The modern church-tower, with a pinnacle at one corner only, stands out
conspicuously, but the little town looks uninteresting, although it does
not spoil the views of the head of the dale. The street is wide and
long, and would be very dull but for the splendid surroundings which the
houses cannot quite shut out. As we are here for pleasure, and not to
make an examination of every place in the dale country, we will hurry
out of the town at once, making our way southwards to the little hamlet
of Gayle, where old stone cottages are scattered on each side of the
Duerley Beck. Dodd Fell, where the beck has its source, is mantled by a
cloud that is condensing into rain with such rapidity that, if we wait
on the bridge for a time, we shall be able to see the already swollen
waters rise still higher as they come foaming over the broad cascades.
The stream has much the colour of ale, and the creamy foam adds to the
effect so much that one might imagine that some big brew-house had
collapsed and added the contents of its vats to the stream. But we have
only to realize that, as upper Wensleydale produces no corn and no hops,
breweries could scarcely exist. When Leland wrote, nearly four hundred
years ago, he said: ‘_Uredale_ veri litle Corne except Bygg or Otes, but
plentiful of Gresse in Communes,’ so that, although this dale is so much
more genial in aspect, and so much wider than the valley of the Swale,
yet crops are under the same disabilities. Leaving Gayle behind, we
climb up a steep and stony road above the beck until we are soon above
the level of green pasturage. The stone walls still cover the hillsides
with a net of very large mesh, but the sheep find more bent than grass,
and the ground is often exceedingly steep. Higher still climbs this
venturesome road, until all around us is a vast tumble of gaunt brown
fells, divided by ravines whose sides are scarred with runnels of water,
which have exposed the rocks and left miniature screes down below. At a
height of nearly 1,600 feet there is a gate, where we will turn away
from the road that goes on past Dodd Fell into Langstrothdale, and
instead climb a smooth grass track sprinkled with half-buried rocks
until we have reached the summit of Wether Fell, 400 feet higher. There
is a scanty growth of ling upon the top of this height, but the hills
that lie about on every side are browny-green or of an ochre colour, and
there is little of the purple one sees in the Cleveland Hills.
The cultivated level of Wensleydale is quite hidden from view, so that
we look over a vast panorama of mountains extending in the west as far
as the blue fells of Lakeland. I have painted the westward view from
this very summit, so that any written description is hardly needed; but
behind us, as we face the scene illustrated here, there is a wonderful
expanse that includes the
[Illustration: A RUGGED VIEW ABOVE WENSLEYDALE
THE picture shows the mountains to the north-west of Wether Fell (2,015
feet), the heathery summit of which appears in the foreground. Hawes
lies to the right, hidden by the steep sides of the dale.]
heights of Addlebrough, Stake Fell, and Penhil Beacon, which stand out
boldly on the southern side of Wensleydale. I have seen these hills
lightly covered with snow, but that can give scarcely the smallest
suggestion of the scene that was witnessed after the remarkable
snowstorm of January, 1895, which blocked the roads between Wensleydale
and Swaledale until nearly the middle of March. Roads were cut out, with
walls of snow on either side from 10 to 15 feet in height, but the wind
and fresh falls almost obliterated the passages soon after they had been
cut. In Langstrothdale Mr. Speight tells of the extraordinary
difficulties of the dalesfolk in the farms and cottages, who were faced
with starvation owing to the difficulty of getting in provisions. They
cut ways through the drifts as high as themselves in the direction of
the likeliest places to obtain food, while in Swaledale they built
sledges. It is difficult to imagine such scenes after a hot climb on a
warm afternoon, even though great white masses of cumulus are lying in
serried ridges near the horizon; but, having seen the Lake District
under a thick mantle of snow from the top of Helvellyn, I have some idea
of the scene in Wensleydale after that stupendous fall.
When we have left the highest part of Wether Fell, we find the track
taking a perfectly straight line between stone walls. The straightness
is so unusual that there can be little doubt that it is a survival of
one of the Roman ways connecting their station on Brough Hill, just
above the village of Bainbridge, with some place to the south-west. The
track goes right over Cam Fell, and is known as the Old Cam Road, but I
cannot recommend it for any but pedestrians. When we have descended only
a short distance, there is a sudden view of Semmerwater, the only piece
of water in Yorkshire that really deserves to be called a lake. It is a
pleasant surprise to discover this placid patch of blue lying among the
hills, and partially hidden by a fellside in such a way that its area
might be far greater than 105 acres. Those who know Turner’s painting of
this lake would be disappointed, no doubt, if they saw it first from
this height. The picture was made at the edge of the water with the
Carlow Stone in the foreground, and over the mountains on the southern
shore appears a sky that would make the dullest potato-field thrilling.
A short distance lower down, by straying a little from the road, we get
a really imposing view of Bardale, into which the ground falls suddenly
from our very feet. Sheep scamper nimbly down their convenient little
tracks, but there are places where water that overflows from the pools
among the bent and ling has made blue-gray seams and wrinkles in the
steep places that give no foothold even to the toughest sheep. Raydale
and Cragdale also send down becks that join with Bardale Beck just
before they enter Semmerwater. Just now the three glens are particularly
imposing, for some of the big clouds that have been sweeping across the
heavens all day are massing themselves on the edges of the heights, and
by eclipsing themselves have assumed an angry indigo hue that makes the
scene almost Scottish.
Perhaps it is because Yorkshire folk are so unused to the sight of lakes
that both Semmerwater and Gormire, near Thirsk, have similar legends
connected with their miraculous origin. Where the water now covers the
land, says the story, there used to stand a small town, and to it there
once came an angel disguised as a poor and ill-clad beggar. The old man
slowly made his way along the street from one house to another asking
for food, but at each door he met with the same blank refusal. He went
on, therefore, until he came to a poor little cottage outside the town.
Although the couple who lived there were almost as old and as poor as
himself, the beggar asked for something to eat as he had done at the
other houses. The old folk at once asked him in, and, giving him bread,
milk, and cheese, urged him to pass the night under their roof. Then in
the morning, when the old man was about to take his departure, came the
awful doom upon the inhospitable town, for the beggar held up his hands,
and said:
‘Semmerwater, rise! Semerwater, sink!
And swallow the town, all save this house,
Where they gave me meat and drink.’
Of course, the waters obeyed the disguised angel; and, for proof, have
we not the existence of the lake, and is there not also pointed out an
ancient little cottage standing alone at the lower end of the lake?
We lose sight of Semmerwater behind the ridge that forms one side of the
branch dale in which it lies, but in exchange we get beautiful views of
the sweeping contours of Wensleydale. High upon the further side of the
valley Askrigg’s gray roofs and pretty church stand out against a steep
fellside; further down we can see Nappa Hall, surrounded by trees, just
above the winding river, and Bainbridge lies close at hand. We soon come
to the broad and cheerful green, surrounded by a picturesque scattering
of old but well preserved cottages; for Bainbridge has sufficient charms
to make it a pleasant inland resort for holiday times that is quite
ideal for those who are content to abandon the sea. The overflow from
Semmerwater, which is called the Bain, fills the village with its music
as it falls over ledges of rock in many cascades along one side of the
green. There is a steep bridge, which is conveniently placed for
watching the waterfalls; there are white geese always drilling on the
grass, and there are still to be seen the upright stones of the stocks.
The pretty inn called the ‘Rose and Crown,’ overlooking a corner of the
green, states upon a board that it was established in 1445. This date at
one time appeared in raised letters upon a stone over the doorway,
which, Mr. Speight tells us, ‘had formerly a good Norman arch.’ Anything
of that period would, of course, carry the origin of the building back
some centuries earlier than the year claimed for the establishment of
the inn. The great age of the village, owing to its existence in Roman
times, as well as the importance it gained through being not only
situated at important cross-roads, but also on the edge of the forest of
Wensleydale, would account for the early establishment of some sort of
hostelry for the entertainment of travellers. Even at the present day a
horn-blowing custom has been preserved at Bainbridge. It takes place at
ten o’clock every night between Holy Rood (September 27) and Shrovetide,
but somehow the reason for the observance has been forgotten. The
medieval regulations as to the carrying of horns by foresters and those
who passed through forests would undoubtedly associate the custom with
early times, and this happy old village certainly gains our respect for
having preserved anything from such a remote period. When we reach
Bolton Castle we shall find in the museum there an old horn from
Bainbridge.
Besides having the length and breadth of Wensleydale to explore with or
without the assistance of the railway, Bainbridge has as its particular
possession the valley containing Semmerwater, with the three romantic
dales at its head. Counterside, a hamlet perched a little above the
lake, has an old hall, where George Fox stayed in 1677 as a guest of
Richard Robinson. The inn bears the date 1667 and the initials ‘B. H.
J.,’ which may be those of one of the Jacksons, who were Quakers at that
time.
On the other side of the river, and scarcely more than a mile from
Bainbridge, is the little town of Askrigg, which supplies its neighbour
with a church and a railway-station. There is a charm in its breezy
situation that is ever present, for even when we are in the narrow
little street that curves steeply up the hill there are peeps of the
dale that are quite exhilarating. The square-topped Addlebrough is
separated from us by a great airy space, and looking up and down the
broad dale which widens eastwards and becomes narrower and more rugged
to the west, there appears to be a vastness lying around us which no
plain can suggest. We can see Wether Fell, with the road we traversed
yesterday plainly marked on the slopes, and down below, where the Ure
takes its way through bright pastures, there is a mist of smoke
ascending from Hawes. Blocking up the head of the dale are the spurs of
Dodd and Widdale Fells, while beyond them appears the blue summit of Bow
Fell. We find it hard to keep our eyes away from the distant mountains,
which fascinate one by appearing to have an importance that is perhaps
diminished when they are close at hand. All the big clouds that
yesterday could scarcely hold up their showers for the shortest
intervals have disappeared; perhaps they have now reached the river in
liquid form, and are sparkling in the sunshine that now comes, without
interruption, from their spotless cenotaph. We will follow Shelley’s
metaphor no further, for there is water enough everywhere to fill the
dales with all the roarings and murmurings that the forces and gills can
supply, and we would gladly forget the cloud’s ‘silent laugh’ as it
begins to unbuild the blue dome of heaven.
We find ourselves halting on a patch of grass by the restored
market-cross to look more closely at a fine old house overlooking the
three-sided space. There is no doubt as to the date of the building, for
a plain inscription begins ‘Gulielmus Thornton posuit hanc domum
MDCLXXVIII.’ The bay windows, as may be seen in the illustration, have
heavy mullions and transoms, and there is a dignity about the house
which must have been still more apparent when the surrounding houses
were lower than at present. The wooden gallery that is constructed
between the bays was, it is said, built as a convenient place for
watching the bull-fights that took place just below. In the grass there
can still be seen the stone to which the bull-ring was secured. The
churchyard runs along the west side of the little market-place, so
[Illustration: A JACOBEAN HOUSE AT ASKRIGG
THE village of Askrigg, perched picturesquely on the northern slopes of
Wensleydale, possesses this imposing stone house. It overlooks the open
space by the church, where bull-fights took place in the early part of
last century. The ring is still to be seen in the patch of grass, and
the wooden balcony between the projecting bays of the house was a
favourite position for watching the contests.]
that there is an open view on that side, made interesting by the
Perpendicular church. The simple square tower and the unbroken
roof-lines are battlemented, like so many of the churches of the dales;
inside we find Norman pillars that are quite in strange company, if it
is true that they were brought from the site of Fors Abbey, a little to
the west of the town. The greater part of the church dates from 1466,
and shortly after this reconstruction of the thirteenth-century building
a chantry in the south aisle, dedicated to St. Anne, was founded by one
of the Metcalfes of Nappa Hall, which we shall pass on our way to
Aysgarth.
Wensleydale generally used to be famed for its hand-knitting, but I
think Askrigg must have turned out more work than any place in the
valley, for the men as well as the womenfolk were equally skilled in
this employment, and Mr. Whaley says they did their work in the open air
‘while gossiping with their neighbours.’ This statement is,
nevertheless, exceeded by what appears in a volume entitled ‘The Costume
of Yorkshire.’ In that work of 1814, which contains a number of George
Walker’s quaint drawings, reproduced by lithography, we find a picture
having a strong suggestion of Askrigg in which there is a group of old
and young of both sexes seated on the steps of the market-cross, all
knitting, and a little way off a shepherd is seen driving some sheep
through a gate, and he also is knitting. The letterpress describes how a
woman named Slinger, who lived in Cotterdale, used to walk to and from
Hawes Market with her goods on her head, knitting steadily all the way.
Knitting-machines have long since killed this industry, but Askrigg has
somehow survived the loss. Grandfather-clocks are still made in the
little town, as they have been for a great number of years. We have
already noticed an old Askrigg clock at Muker, and if we keep our eyes
open we shall come across others, as well as examples from Leyburn,
Middleham, and other places in the dale that possessed a clock-maker.
It is interesting to those who wish to get a correct idea of a place
before visiting it to know that they may easily be led astray by even
the best guides. When we read in Murray that Askrigg is a ‘dull little
town of gray houses,’ we are at once predisposed against the place,
although we might know that all the houses in the dales are gray. No
suggestion is given of the splendid situation, and one might imagine
that all the houses, with the exception of the one near the church, are
featureless and quite uninteresting. This, of course, would be a total
misapprehension, for many of the buildings are old, with quaint doorways
and steps, and there are mossy roofs that add colour to the stone, which
is often splashed with orange and pale emerald lichen. In writing of
Hawes, on the other hand, Murray omits to mention the lack of
picturesqueness in its really dull street, merely saying that ‘the town
itself is growing and improving.’ Not content, however, with this
approval of the place, the guide goes still further astray by stating
that the dale in the neighbourhood of Hawes ‘is broad and open, and not
very picturesque’! I cannot help exclaiming at such a statement,
although I may be told that all this is a mere matter of individual
opinion, for is not Wensleydale broad and open from end to end, and is
not Hawes situated in the midst of some of the wildest and noblest fells
in Yorkshire? It is true that the town lies on the level ground by the
river, and thus the views from it do not form themselves into such
natural pictures as they do at Askrigg, but I am inclined to blame the
town rather than the scenery.
From Askrigg there is a road that climbs up from the end of the little
street at a gradient that looks like 1 in 4, but it is really less
formidable. Considering its steepness the surface is quite good, but
that is due to the industry of a certain roadmender with whom I once had
the privilege to talk when, hot and breathless, I paused to enjoy the
great expanse that lay to the south. He was a fine Saxon type, with a
sunburnt face and equally brown arms. Road-making had been his ideal
when he was a mere boy, and since he had obtained his desire he told me
that he couldn’t be happier if he were the King of England. And his
contentment seemed to me to be based largely upon his intense pleasure
in bringing the roads to as great a perfection as his careful and
thinking labour could compass. He did not approve of steamrollers, for
his experience had taught him that if the stones were broken small
enough they bound together quickly enough. Besides this, he disapproved
of a great camber or curve on the road which induces the traffic to keep
in the middle, leaving a mass of loose stones on either side. The result
of his work may be seen on the highway from Askrigg to Bainbridge, where
a conspicuous smoothness has come to a road that was recently one of
the most indifferent in the district. Perhaps he may eventually be given
the maintenance of the way over the Buttertubs Pass; and if he ever
induces that road to become a little more civilized, this enthusiastic
workman will gain the appreciation of the whole neighbourhood. The road
where we leave him, breaking every large stone he can find, goes on
across a belt of brown moor, and then drops down between gaunt scars
that only just leave space for the winding track to pass through. It
afterwards descends rapidly by the side of a gill, and thus enters
Swaledale.
There is a beautiful walk from Askrigg to Mill Gill Force. The distance
is scarcely more than half a mile across sloping pastures and through
the curious stiles that appear in the stone walls. So dense is the
growth of trees in the little ravine that one hears the sound of the
waters close at hand without seeing anything but the profusion of
foliage overhanging and growing among the rocks. After climbing down
among the moist ferns and moss-grown stones, the gushing cascades appear
suddenly set in a frame of such lavish beauty that they hold a high
place among their rivals in the dale, and the particular charms of this
spot are hardly surpassed by any others in the whole county. Higher up
there is Whitfield Force, which has a fall of nearly 50 feet. Its
setting, too, among great rock walls and an ancient forest growth, is
most fascinating, especially when one finds that very few go beyond the
greater falls below.
Keeping to the north side of the river, we come to Nappa Hall at a
distance of a little over a mile to the east of Askrigg. It is now a
farmhouse, but its two battlemented towers proclaim its former
importance as the chief seat of the family of Metcalfe. The date of the
house is about 1459, and the walls of the western tower are 4 feet in
thickness. The Nappa lands came to James Metcalfe from Sir Richard
Scrope of Bolton Castle shortly after his return to England from the
field of Agincourt, and it was probably this James Metcalfe who built
the existing house. We are told something about the matter by Leland,
who says: ‘_Knappey_ in _Yorkshire_, now the chifest House of the
_Metecalfes_, was boute by one _Thomas Metcalfe_, Sunne to _James
Metecalfe_, of one of the Lordes _Scropes_ of _Bolton_.’ He also says
that ‘on it was but a Cotage or litle better House, ontille this
_Thomas_ began ther to build, in the which Building 2 Toures be very
fair, beside other Logginges.’ Mr. Speight thinks that Leland made some
mistake as to the Metcalfe who purchased the estate, and also as to the
builder of the house; and in his account of Nappa the author of
‘Romantic Richmondshire’ has, with the aid of the Metcalfe Records, been
able to correct several inaccuracies which have been written about this
distinguished and numerous family.
Until the year 1880 there was still kept at Nappa Hall a fine old
four-post bedstead, which was, according to tradition, the one slept in
by Mary Queen of Scots when she is said to have stayed in the house.
Nothing exists, however, to give the slightest colour to this story, but
the bed, now somewhat altered, is still in existence at Newby Hall, near
Ripon.
The road down the dale passes Woodhall Park, and then, after going down
close to the Ure, it bears away again to the little village of Carperby.
It has a triangular green surrounded by white posts. At the east end
stands an old cross, dated 1674, and the ends of the arms are ornamented
with grotesque carved heads. The cottages have a neat and pleasant
appearance, and there is much less austerity about the place than one
sees higher up the dale. A branch road leads down to Aysgarth Station,
and just where the lane takes a sharp bend to the right a footpath goes
across a smooth meadow to the banks of the Ure. The rainfall of the last
few days, which showed itself at Mill Gill Force, at Hardraw Scar, and a
dozen other falls, has been sufficient to swell the main stream at
Wensleydale into a considerable flood, and behind the bushes that grow
thickly along the river-side we can hear the steady roar of the cascades
of Aysgarth. The waters have worn down the rocky bottom to such an
extent that in order to stand in full view of the splendid fall we must
make for a gap in the foliage, and scramble down some natural steps in
the wall of rock forming low cliffs along each side of the flood.
Although it is still September, the rocks are overhung with the most
brilliant autumn foliage. The morning sunlight coming across a dark
plantation of firs on the southern bank lights up the yellow and red
leaves, and turns the foaming waters into a brilliant white where they
are not under the shadow of the trees. The water comes over three
terraces of solid stone, and then sweeps across wide ledges in a
tempestuous sea of waves and froth, until there come other descents
which alter the course of parts of the stream, so that as we look across
the riotous flood we can
[Illustration: AYSGARTH FORCE
THE beautiful river Ure that flows through Wensleydale falls over a
series of rocky ledges close to the village of Aysgarth. The picture
shows the lower series of falls on the morning following a wet
night.]
see the waters flowing in many opposite directions. Lines of
cream-coloured foam spread out into chains of bubbles which join
together, and then, becoming detached, again float across the smooth
portions of each low terrace. Where the water is smooth and shaded by
the overhanging mass of trees it assumes a dark green-brown colour, and
shows up the chains and necklaces of sportive bubbles which the cascades
produce. I suppose it was because Leland did not see the other great
falls in Wensleydale that he omits any mention of High Force on the Tees
and Hardraw Scar, but yet mentions ‘where _Ure_ Ryver faullethe very
depe betwixt 2 scarry Rokks.’
Besides these lower falls, we can see, if we go up the course of the
river towards Aysgarth, a single cascade called the Middle Force, and
from the bridge which spans the river with one great arch we have a
convenient place to watch the highest series of falls. But neither of
these have half the grandeur of the lowest of the series which is
illustrated here. There is a large mill by the bridge, and, ascending
the steep roadway that goes up to the village, we soon reach the pathway
to the church. Perhaps because Aysgarth Force is famous enough to
attract large crowds of sightseers on certain days throughout the
summer, the church is kept locked, and as we wish to see the splendid
Perpendicular screen, saved from the wreck of Jervaulx Abbey, we must
make our way to the Vicarage, and enter the church in the company of a
custodian who watches us with suspicious eyes, fearing, no doubt, that
if he looks away or waits in the churchyard we may feel anxious to leave
our initials on the reading-desk. Apart from the screen, the choir
stalls, and the other woodwork of the choir, there is very little
interest in the church owing to the rebuilding that has taken place, and
left few traces of antiquity beyond suggestions of Early English work in
the tower. There is a short-cut by some footpaths that brings us to
Aysgarth village, which seems altogether to disregard the church, for it
is separated from it by a distance of nearly half a mile. There is one
pleasant little street of old stone houses irregularly disposed, many of
them being quite picturesque, with mossy roofs and ancient chimneys.
This village, like Askrigg and Bainbridge, is ideally situated as a
centre for exploring a very considerable district. There is quite a
network of roads to the south, connecting the villages of Thoralby and
West Burton with Bishop Dale, and the main road through Wensleydale.
Thoralby is very old, and is beautifully situated under a steep
hillside. It has a green overlooked by little gray cottages, and lower
down there is a tall mill with curious windows built upon Bishop Dale
Beck. Close to this mill there nestles a long, low house of that
dignified type to be seen frequently in the North Riding, as well as in
the villages of Westmoreland. The huge chimney, occupying a large
proportion of one gable-end, is suggestive of much cosiness within, and
its many shoulders, by which it tapers towards the top, make it an
interesting feature of the house. The lower part of Bishop Dale is often
singularly beautiful in the evening. If we stop and lean over a gate, we
can see Stake Fell towering above us--an indistinct blue wall with a
sharply-broken edge. Above appears a pale-yellow sky, streaked with
orange-coloured clouds so thin as to look almost like smoke. The intense
silence is broken by the buzz of a swift-flying insect, and then when
that has gone other sounds seem to intensify the stillness. Suddenly a
shrill bellow from a cow echoes through the valley, a sheep-dog barks,
and we can hear the distant cough of cattle, which are quite invisible
in the gathering twilight. A farmer in his cart drives slowly by up the
steep lane, and then the silence becomes more complete than before, and
the fells become blue-black against a sky which is just beginning to be
spangled with the palest of stars. They seem to flicker so much that the
soft evening breeze threatens to blow them out altogether.
The dale narrows up at its highest point, but the road is enclosed
between gray walls the whole of the way over the head of the valley. A
wide view of Langstrothdale and upper Wharfedale is visible when the
road begins to drop downwards, and to the east Buckden Pike towers up to
his imposing height of 2,302 feet. We shall see him again when we make
our way through Wharfedale, but we could go back to Wensleydale by a
mountain-path that climbs up the side of Cam Gill Beck from Starbottom,
and then, crossing the ridge between Buckden Pike and Tor Mere Top, it
goes down into the wild recesses of Waldendale. So remote is this valley
that wild animals, long extinct in other parts of the dales, survived
there until almost recent times.
When we have crossed the Ure again, and taken a last look at the Upper
Fall from Aysgarth Bridge, we betake ourselves by a footpath to the main
highway through Wensleydale, turning aside before reaching Redmire in
order to see the great castle of the Scropes at Bolton. It is a vast
quadrangular mass, with each side nearly as gaunt and as lofty as the
others. At each corner rises a great square tower, pierced, with a few
exceptions, by the smallest of windows. Only the base of the tower at
the north-east corner remains to-day, the upper part having fallen one
stormy night in November, 1761, possibly having been weakened during the
siege of the castle in the Civil War. We go into the courtyard through a
vaulted archway on the eastern side. Many of the rooms on the side
facing us are in good preservation, and an apartment in the south-west
tower, which has a fireplace, is pointed out as having been used by Mary
Queen of Scots when she was imprisoned here after the Battle of Langside
in 1568. It was the ninth Lord Scrope who had the custody of the Queen,
and he was assisted by Sir Francis Knollys. Mary, no doubt, found the
time of her imprisonment irksome enough, despite the magnificent views
over the dale which her windows appear to have commanded; but the
monotony was relieved to some extent by the lessons in English which she
received from Sir Francis, whom she describes as ‘her good
schoolmaster.’ While still a prisoner, Mary addressed to him her first
English letter, which begins: ‘Mester Knoleis, I heve sum neus from
Scotland’; and half-way through she begs that he will excuse her
writing, seeing that she had ‘neuur vsed it afor,’ and was ‘hestet.’ The
letter concludes with ‘thus, affter my commendations, I prey God heuu
you in his kipin. Your assured gud frind, MARIE R.’ Then comes a
postscript: ‘Excus my iuel writin thes furst tym’--‘iuel’ being no doubt
intended for ‘evil.’
Another relic of the Queen’s captivity at Bolton was a pane of glass,
upon which she had scratched ‘Marie R.’ with a diamond ring; but it was
damaged during the execution of some repairs to the castle, and in
removing the glass for greater security from the castle to Bolton Hall
it was hopelessly smashed.
The stories of Mary’s attempts at escape have long been considered mere
fabrications, for, despite many intimate details of the months spent at
Bolton, no reference to such matters have been discovered. In the face
of this denial on the part of recorded history, Leyburn Shawl still
holds affectionately to the story that Mary Stuart did leave the castle
unobserved, and that she was overtaken there in the place called the
Queen’s Gap.
[Illustration: BOLTON CASTLE, WENSLEYDALE
IN this feudal stronghold Mary Queen of Scots was imprisoned for six
months in 1568. She was brought from Carlisle by Lord Scrope, the owner
of Bolton Castle. The building forms a gaunt square, lofty and almost
featureless, except for the broken towers which rise at each of the four
corners. Lord Chancellor Scrope built the castle in the reign of Richard
II., and his descendants occupied it for three centuries.]
As we leave the grim castle, so full of memories of a great family and
of a lovely Queen, we turn back before it is hidden from our gaze, and
see the towers silhouetted against a golden sky much as it is depicted
in these pages. We think of all the Scropes who have come and gone since
that Lord Richard received license in 1379 to crenellate the fortress he
had built, and we regret again the disappearance of all those sumptuous
tombs that once adorned the choir of Easby Abbey. However, there are
memorials to members of the family in Wensley Church lying a little to
the east beyond the wooded park of Bolton Hall, and we shall arrive
there before long if we keep to the right at the turning beneath the
height known as Scarth Nick. On the opposite side of the dale Penhill
Beacon stands out prominently, with its flat summit reflecting just
enough of the setting sun to recall a momentous occasion when from that
commanding spot a real beacon-fire sent up a great mass of flame and
sparks. It was during the time of Napoleon’s threatened invasion of
England, and the lighting of this beacon was to be the signal to the
volunteers of Wensleydale to muster and march to their rendezvous. The
watchman on Penhill, as he sat by the piled-up brushwood, wondering, no
doubt, what would happen to him if the dreaded invasion were really to
come about, saw, far away across the Vale of Mowbray, a light which he
at once took to be the beacon upon Roseberry Topping. A moment later
tongues of flame and smoke were pouring from his own hilltop, and the
news spread up the dale like wildfire. The volunteers armed themselves
rapidly, and with drums beating they marched away, with only such delay
as was caused by the hurried leave-takings with wives and mothers, and
all the rest who crowded round. The contingent took the road to Thirsk,
and on the way were joined by the Mashamshire men. Whether it was with
relief or disappointment I do not know; but when the volunteers reached
Thirsk they heard that they had been called out by a false alarm, for
the light seen in the direction of Roseberry Topping had been caused by
accident, and the beacon on that height had not been lit. After all, the
scare did no harm, for it showed the mettle of the Dalesmen, and they
were afterwards thanked by Parliament for their prompt response to the
signal.
On the side of Penhill that looks full towards Bolton Castle there still
remain the foundations of the chapel of the Knight Templars, who must
have established their hospital there soon after 1146, when the Order
was instituted in England.
Wensley stands just at the point where the dale, to which it has given
its name, becomes so wide that it begins to lose its distinctive
character. The village is most picturesque and secluded, and it is small
enough to cause some wonder as to its distinction in naming the valley.
It is suggested that the name is derived from _Wodenslag_, and that in
the time of the Northmen’s occupation of these parts the place named
after their chief god would be the most important. In its possession of
a pleasant sloping green, dominated by a great elm, round whose base has
been built a circular platform, Wensley is particularly happy. The Ure,
flowing close at hand, is crossed by a fine old bridge, whose pointed
arches must have survived many centuries; for Leland says that it was
built by ‘_Alwine_, Parson of _Wencelaw_,’ ‘200 Yer ago and more,’ that
statement being made about the year 1538.
In the little church standing on the south side of the green there is so
much to interest us that we are almost unable to decide what to examine
first, until, realizing that we are brought face to face with a
beautiful relic of Easby Abbey, we turn our attention to the parclose
screen. It surrounds the family pew of Bolton Hall, and on three sides
we see the Perpendicular woodwork fitted into the east end of the north
aisle. The side that fronts the nave has an entirely different
appearance, being painted and of a classic order, very lacking in any
ecclesiastical flavour, an impression not lost on those who, with every
excuse, called it ‘the opera box.’ In the panels of the early part of
the screen are carved inscriptions and arms of the Scropes covering a
long period, and, though many words and letters are missing, it is
possible to make them more complete with the help of the record made by
the heralds in 1665.
On the floor of the chancel is the brass to Sir Simon de Wenselawe, a
priest of the fourteenth century. There is no trace of any inscription,
and the name was only discovered by a reference to the brass in the will
of Oswald Dykes, a rector who died in Jacobean times, and desired that
he might be buried under the stone which now bears his name above the
figure of the priest. This brass is the best in the North Riding, and it
closely resembles the one to Abbot de la Mare in St. Albans Abbey.
A charming lane, overhung by big trees, runs above the river-banks for
nearly two miles of the way to Middleham; then it joins the road from
Leyburn, and crosses the Ure by a suspension bridge, defended by two
very formidable though modern archways. Climbing up past the church, we
enter the cobbled market-place, which wears a rather decayed appearance
in sympathy with the departed magnificence of the great castle of the
Nevilles. It commands a vast view of Wensleydale from the southern side,
in much the same manner as Bolton does from the north; but the castle
buildings are entirely different, for Middleham consists of a square
Norman keep, very massive and lofty, surrounded at a short distance by a
strong wall and other buildings, also of considerable height, built in
the Decorated period, when the Nevilles were in possession of the
stronghold. The Norman keep dates from the year 1190, when Robert Fitz
Randolph, grandson of Ribald, a brother of the Earl of Richmond, began
to build the Castle. It was, however, in later times, when Middleham had
come to the Nevilles by marriage, that really notable events took place
in this fortress. It was here that Warwick, the ‘King-maker,’ held
Edward IV. prisoner in 1467, and in Part III. of the play of ‘King Henry
VI.,’ Scene V. of the fourth act is laid in a park near Middleham
Castle. Richard III.’s only son, Edward Prince of Wales, was born here
in 1476, the property having come into Richard’s possession by his
marriage with Anne Neville. The tower in which the boy was born is
pointed out to-day, but how the knowledge has been preserved I am quite
unable to say. When he was only eight years old, this little Prince died
in the castle in which he had first seen the light.
The efforts to blow up the projecting towers of the Norman portion of
the castle are most plainly visible, but the splendid masonry, like that
of Corfe, in the Isle of Purbeck, has held together, although great gaps
have been torn out below, so that one can scarcely understand why the
upper part has not collapsed. The church contains some interesting
details, but they are not very apparent to the uninformed, to whom the
building might appear somewhat dull. All can, however, be interested in
the old cross in the market-place, and also in the Swine Cross in the
upper market, which shows the battered shape of some animal, carved
either in the form of the boar of Richard III. or the bear of Warwick.
We have already seen Leyburn Shawl from near Wensley, but its charm can
only be appreciated by seeing the view up the dale from its
larch-crowned
[Illustration: THE VIEW UP WENSLEYDALE FROM LEYBURN SHAWL
THIS is one of the spots in this beautiful dale that repays a visit a
thousandfold. The effects are best on a clear day, when sunlight and
shadows are chasing one another over the hills and woodlands.]
termination. Perhaps if we had seen nothing of Wensleydale, and the
wonderful views it offers, we should be more inclined to regard this
somewhat popular spot with greater veneration; but after having explored
both sides of the dale, and seen many views of a very similar character,
we cannot help thinking that the vista is somewhat overrated. Leyburn
itself is a cheerful little town, with a modern church and a very wide
main street which forms a most extensive market-place. There is a
bull-ring still visible in the great open space, but beyond this and the
view from the Shawl Leyburn has few attractions, except its position as
a centre or a starting-place from which to explore the romantic
neighbourhood.
As we leave Leyburn we get a most beautiful view up Coverdale, with the
two Whernsides standing out most conspicuously at the head of the
valley, and it is this last view of Coverdale, and the great valley from
which it branches, that remains in the mind as one of the finest
pictures of this most remarkable portion of Yorkshire.
RIPON AND FOUNTAINS ABBEY