The huge county of Yorkshire has many claims on our attention. It has
vast manufacturing centres, and in some parts it is crowded thickly
with towns and villages, packed with mills, and studded with lofty
chimneys which belch out unceasing clouds of smoke. Then, again, it
has a splendid coast-line, with noble cliffs and rocky headlands,
dotted with quaint fishing villages and tiny ports, whence the "cobles"
put out to sea with hardy fishermen aboard. And, striking right away
inland, it can show some of the most beautiful scenery in its dales and
fells that our country has to show.
Putting busy town and breezy fishing village aside for the moment, we
will go up to the lofty moorland heights of this "county of the broad
acres" and see some of their beauties, and hear some of the tales which
linger around their quiet, grey stone villages.
On the western side of Yorkshire the land heaves up to the Pennine
Chain--the "backbone of England," as it is often called. It is not a
chain of sharply-defined peaks; it is rather a great mass of rolling
moorland whose tablelands, the "fells," are divided from each other by
deep valleys, long and narrow--the famous "dales." At the foot of each
dale flows a swift river, which, twisting and turning round sharp
angles of rock, leaping from ledge to ledge in sheets of foam, or
gliding in deep quiet stretches below an overhanging wood, affords most
striking and picturesque scenery.
There are many points at which the explorer may strike into the hills
from the more level and cultivated part of the county. But perhaps the
best of all is to enter the dales at Richmond, a beautiful old town
beside the River Swale. It matters not from which point you approach
Richmond, there is one feature of the view which catches the eye at
once--the magnificent fashion in which the splendid Norman keep of its
castle rises above the little town. The stately tower stands up
four-square to every wind, just as its Norman builders left it 800
years ago, and around it cluster the red roofs of the town, just as
they gathered there for shelter during the Middle Ages.
From Richmond the Valley of the Swale runs up into the Pennines, and
the journey along it must be made by foot or carriage, for 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
loveliest and grandest of the Yorkshire dales retaining its isolation
in this respect. About a mile from the town there is a lofty cliff
called Whitcliffe Scar, whence the spectator may see far up the dale
whither he proposes to journey. The country people call the Scar
"Willance's Leap," and it has borne this name since 1606. In that year
a certain Robert Willance was out hunting, and a great mist came down
the dale and wrapped the hills. So thick was the fog that Willance
could scarcely see a yard before him, and suddenly he found himself on
the verge of the Scar. It was too late to check or turn his horse:
both went headlong over the lofty cliff, and were hurled to its foot.
The horse was killed on the spot, but in some miraculous fashion the
rider found himself alive at the foot of the precipice, his worst
injury a broken leg. Full of wonder and thankfulness, Willance erected
inscribed stones to commemorate his marvellous escape, and the stones
are still to be seen at that point of the cliff from which he fell. He
also presented a silver cup in memory of this event to Richmond, and
the cup remains in the possession of the town.
Pushing westwards through the bold and striking scenery of the dale, we
pass glen after glen, each with its little beck, its moorland stream.
At times the headlands spring up so abruptly as almost to shut in the
dale, and in times of storm the thunder rumbles from wall to wall of
the glen with tremendous echoes. Wonderful at such times of heavy rain
is it to see how swiftly the little brooks become swollen, how the main
stream becomes a raging, foaming torrent. Then we understand why the
bridges are so high and strong. They had seemed far too large for the
little river pushing over the stones: they seem none too strong now to
withstand the terrific rush of flood-water sent down from the broad
faces of the fells.
As we gain the higher parts of the dale, trees and corn and rich
meadow-land are left behind. The farms are sheep-farms, and the moors
stretch on every hand. The houses are strongly built of grey stone,
and where there are fields, grey stone walls divide them, for hedges
cannot grow on these windy, storm-swept heights.
It is striking to note how the houses and barns match the grey
hill-sides. Not only are the walls of grey stone, but they are roofed
with slabs of stone also, and these weather to beautiful shades of
green and grey, and blend perfectly with the prevailing hue.
"In the upper portions of the dales--even in the narrow riverside
pastures--the fences are of stone, turned a very dark colour by
exposure, and everywhere on the slopes of the hills a wide network of
these enclosures can be seen traversing even the steepest ascents. The
stiles that are the fashion in the stone-fence districts make quite an
interesting study to strangers, for, wood being an expensive luxury,
and stone being extremely cheap, everything is formed of the more
enduring material. Instead of a trap-gate, one generally finds a very
narrow opening in the fences, only just giving space for the thickness
of the average knee, and thus preventing the passage of the smallest
lamb. Some stiles are constructed with a large flat stone projecting
from each side, one slightly in front and overlapping the other, so
that one can only pass through by making a very careful S-shaped
movement. More common are the projecting stones, making a flight of
steps up one side of the wall and down the other."
From the head of Swaledale a wild road crosses the fells to
Wensleydale, the next great glen. The road bears the strange name of
Buttertubs Pass, because it passes the edges of some vast chasms
called, from their shape, the Buttertubs. There is no path leading to
the depths of these immense holes, but men have been let down into them
by ropes, and there found the bones of lost sheep which had fallen down
the sides. It is a most unsafe road for a stranger to traverse, above
all, if night is falling. The way runs along the lip of these
frightful descents, and is very lonely. If a passer-by fell into one
of these huge hollows, he would never be heard of again.
The road is freely used by the dalesfolk, save when winter snowdrifts
block the passage, when it becomes too dangerous even for them. Snow
is a terrible enemy on these bleak heights if it makes its appearance
in earnest. The great snowstorm of January, 1895, will long be
remembered, for it "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 blocked the passages soon after they had been cut. The
difficulties of the dales-folk in the farms and cottages were
extraordinary, for they 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."
Buttertubs Pass leads us to Hawes, a quiet little town lying among
splendid hill scenery; and not far from Hawes is Semmerwater, the only
piece of water in Yorkshire that really deserves to be called a lake.
There is an old Yorkshire legend which gives Semmerwater a 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
was sent empty away. 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 folks 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! Semmerwater, 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?"
[Illustration: AN ENGLISH COTTAGE]