YORKSHIRE COAST AND MOORLAND SCENES
Painted and Described
By
GORDON HOME
_Second Edition_
1907
_First Edition published April 26, 1904
Second Edition published April, 1907_
PREFACE
It may seem almost superfluous to explain that this book does not deal
with the whole of Yorkshire, for it would obviously be impossible to get
even a passing glimpse of such a great tract of country in a book of
this nature. But I have endeavoured to give my own impressions of much
of the beautiful coast-line, and also some idea of the character of the
moors and dales of the north-east portion of the county.
I have described the Dale Country in a companion volume to this,
entitled 'Yorkshire Dales and Fells.'
GORDON HOME.
EPSOM, 1907.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I
ACROSS THE MOORS FROM PICKERING TO WHITBY
CHAPTER II
ALONG THE ESK VALLEY
CHAPTER III
THE COAST FROM WHITBY TO REDCAR
CHAPTER IV
THE COAST FROM WHITBY TO SCARBOROUGH
CHAPTER V
SCARBOROUGH
CHAPTER VI
WHITBY
CHAPTER VII
THE CLEVELAND HILLS
CHAPTER VIII
GUISBOROUGH AND THE SKELTON VALLEY
CHAPTER IX
FROM PICKERING TO RIEVAULX ABBEY
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
1. On Barnby Moor
2. Goathland Moor
3. An Autumn Scene on the Esk
4. Sleights Moor from Swart Houc Cross
5. A Stormy Afternoon
6. East Row, Sandsend
7. In Mulgrave Woods
8. Runswick Bay
9. A Sunny Afternoon at Runswick
10. Sunrise from Staithes Beck
11. Three Generations at Staithes
12. Boulby Cliffs from Staithes Scaur
13. The Coast at Saltburn
14. Whitby Abbey from the Cliffs
15. Robin Hood's Bay
16. A Street in Robin Hood's Bay
17. Scarborough Harbour and Castle
18. Sunlight and Shadows in Whitby Harbour
19. The Red Roofs of Whitby
20. Evening at Whitby
21. The Cleveland Hills from above Kildale
22. Hutton Woods, near Guisborough
23. A Wide Expanse of Heather seen from Great Ayton Moor
24. A Golden Afternoon, Danby
25. A Sunset from Danby Beacon
26. An Autumn Day at Guisborough
27. A Yorkshire Postman
28. The Skelton Valley
29. In Pickering Church
30. The Market-place, Helmsley
31. Rievaulx Abbey from 'The Terrace'
_Map at end of volume_
CHAPTER I
ACROSS THE MOORS FROM PICKERING TO WHITBY
The ancient stone-built town of Pickering is to a great extent the
gateway to the moors of Northeastern Yorkshire, for it stands at the
foot of that formerly inaccessible gorge known as Newton Dale, and is
the meeting-place of the four great roads running north, south, east,
and west, as well as of railways going in the same directions. And this
view of the little town is by no means original, for the strategic
importance of the position was recognised at least as long ago as the
days of the early Edwards, when the castle was built to command the
approach to Newton Dale and to be a menace to the whole of the Vale of
Pickering.
The old-time traveller from York to Whitby saw practically nothing of
Newton Dale, for the great coach-road bore him towards the east, and
then, on climbing the steep hill up to Lockton Low Moor, he went almost
due north as far as Sleights. But to-day everyone passes right through
the gloomy canyon, for the railway now follows the windings of Pickering
Beck, and nursemaids and children on their way to the seaside may gaze
at the frowning cliffs which seventy years ago were only known to
travellers and a few shepherds. But although this great change has been
brought about by railway enterprise, the gorge is still uninhabited, and
has lost little of its grandeur; for when the puny train, with its
accompanying white cloud, has disappeared round one of the great bluffs,
there is nothing left but the two pairs of shining rails, laid for long
distances almost on the floor of the ravine. But though there are steep
gradients to be climbed, and the engine labours heavily, there is
scarcely sufficient time to get any idea of the astonishing scenery from
the windows of the train, and you can see nothing of the huge expanses
of moorland stretching away from the precipices on either side. So that
we, who would learn something of this region, must make the journey on
foot; for a bicycle would be an encumbrance when crossing the heather,
and there are many places where a horse would be a source of danger. The
sides of the valley are closely wooded for the first seven or eight
miles north of Pickering, but the surrounding country gradually loses
its cultivation, at first gorse and bracken, and then heather, taking
the place of the green pastures.
At the village of Newton, perched on high ground far above the dale, we
come to the limit of civilization. The sun is nearly setting. The
cottages are scattered along the wide roadway and the strip of grass,
broken by two large ponds, which just now reflect the pale evening sky.
Straight in front, across the green, some ancient barns are thrown up
against the golden sunset, and the long perspective of white road, the
geese, and some whitewashed gables, stand out from the deepening tones
of the grass and trees. A footpath by the inn leads through some dewy
meadows to the woods, above Levisham Station in the valley below. At
first there are glimpses of the lofty moors on the opposite side of the
dale, where the sides of the bluffs are still glowing in the sunset
light; but soon the pathway plunges steeply into a close wood, where the
foxes are barking, and where the intense darkness is only emphasized by
the momentary illumination given by lightning, which now and then
flickers in the direction of Lockton Moor. At last the friendly little
oil-lamps on the platform at Levisham Station appear just below, and
soon the railway is crossed and we are mounting the steep road on the
opposite side of the valley. What is left of the waning light shows the
rough track over the heather to High Horcum. The huge shoulders of the
moors are now majestically indistinct, and towards the west the browns,
purples, and greens are all merged in one unfathomable blackness. The
tremendous silence and the desolation become almost oppressive, but
overhead the familiar arrangement of the constellations gives a sense of
companionship not to be slighted. In something less than an hour a light
glows in the distance, and, although the darkness is now complete, there
is no further need to trouble ourselves with the thought of spending the
night on the heather. The point of light develops into a lighted window,
and we are soon stamping our feet on the hard, smooth road in front of
the Saltersgate Inn. The door opens straight into a large stone-flagged
room. Everything is redolent of coaching days, for the cheery glow of
the fire shows a spotlessly clean floor, old high-backed settles, a gun
hooked to one of the beams overhead, quaint chairs and oak stools, and a
fox's mask and brush. A gamekeeper is warming himself at the fire, for
the evening is chilly, and the firelight falls on his box-cloth gaiters
and heavy boots, as we begin to talk of the loneliness and the dangers
of the moors, and of the snowstorms in winter, that almost bury the low
cottages and blot out all but the boldest landmarks. Soon we are
discussing the superstitions which still survive among the simple
country-folk, and the dark and lonely wilds we have just left make this
a subject of great fascination.
Although we have heard it before, we hear over again with intense
interest the story of the witch who brought constant ill-luck to a
family in these parts. Their pigs were never free from some form of
illness, their cows died, their horses lamed themselves, and even the
milk was so far under the spell that on churning-days the butter refused
to come unless helped by a crooked sixpence. One day, when as usual they
had been churning in vain, instead of resorting to the sixpence, the
farmer secreted himself in an outbuilding, and, gun in hand, watched the
garden from a small opening. As it was growing dusk he saw a hare coming
cautiously through the hedge. He fired instantly, the hare rolled over,
dead, and almost as quickly the butter came. That same night they heard
that the old woman, whom they had long suspected of bewitching them, had
suddenly died at the same time as the hare, and henceforward the farmer
and his family prospered.
In the light of morning the isolation of the inn is more apparent than
at night. A compact group of stable buildings and barns stands on the
opposite side of the road, and there are two or three lonely-looking
cottages, but everywhere else the world is purple and brown with ling
and heather. The morning sun has just climbed high enough to send a
flood of light down the steep hill at the back of the barns, and we can
hear the hum of the bees in the heather. In the direction of Levisham is
Gallows Dyke, the great purple bluff we passed in the darkness, and a
few yards off the road makes a sharp double bend to get up Saltersgate
Brow, the hill that overlooks the enormous circular bowl of Horcum Hole,
where Levisham Beck rises. The farmer whose buildings can be seen down
below contrives to paint the bottom of the bowl a bright green, but the
ling comes hungrily down on all sides, with evident longings to absorb
the scanty cultivation. The Dwarf Cornel, a little mountain-plant which
flowers in July, is found in this 'hole.' A few patches have been
discovered in the locality, but elsewhere it is not known south of
the Cheviots.
Away to the north the road crosses the desolate country like a
pale-green ribbon. It passes over Lockton High Moor, climbs to 700 feet
at Tom Cross Rigg, and then disappears into the valley of Eller Beck, on
Goathland Moor, coming into view again as it climbs steadily up to
Sleights Moor, nearly 1,000 feet above the sea. An enormous stretch of
moorland spreads itself out towards the west. Near at hand is the
precipitous gorge of Upper Newton Dale, backed by Pickering Moor, and
beyond are the heights of Northdale Rigg and Rosedale Common, with the
blue outlines of Ralph Cross and Danby Head right on the horizon.
The smooth, well-built road, with short grass filling the crevices
between the stones, urges us to follow its straight course northwards;
but the sternest and most remarkable portion of Upper Newton Dale lies
to the left, across the deep heather, and we are tempted aside to reach
the lip of the sinuous gorge nearly a mile away to the west, where the
railway runs along the marshy and boulder-strewn bottom of a natural
cutting 500 feet deep. The cliffs drop down quite perpendicularly for
200 feet, and the remaining distance to the bed of the stream is a rough
slope, quite bare in places, and in others densely grown over with
trees; but on every side the fortress-like scarps are as stern and bare
as any that face the ocean. Looking north or south the gorge seems
completely shut in. There is much the same effect when steaming through
the Kyles of Bute, for there the ship seems to be going full speed for
the shore of an entirely enclosed sea, and here, saving for the
tell-tale railway, there seems no way out of the abyss without scaling
the perpendicular walls. The rocks are at their finest at Killingnoble
Scar, where they take the form of a semicircle on the west side of the
railway. The scar was for a very long period famous for the breed of
hawks, which were specially watched by the Goathland men for the use of
James I., and the hawks were not displaced from their eyrie even by the
incursion of the railway into the glen, and only recently
became extinct.
Newton Dale Well, at the foot of the scar, used to attract the country
people for miles round, to the fair held there on Midsummer Day, when
strange ceremonies were performed in order to insure the beneficent
influence of the waters. The custom survived until the beginning of last
century, but now it is not easy to even find the position of the well.
Very few people living in Whitby or Pickering had any idea of the
grandeur of the scenery of Newton Dale when the first official journey
was made by railway between the two towns. This was in 1836, but the
coaches were drawn by horses on the levels and up the inclines, for it
was before the days of the steam-locomotive.
However, the opening of the line caused great enthusiasm and local
excitement, necessitating the services of numbers of policemen to keep
the people off the rails. When the separate coaches had been hauled to
the highest part of the dale, the horses were detached, and the vehicles
were joined up with connecting bars. Then the train was allowed to rush
through the pass at what was considered the dangerous speed of twenty
miles an hour. For the benefit of those who enjoyed the great pace, the
driver allowed the train to go at thirty miles an hour, and then, to
show his complete control over the carriages, he applied the brakes and
came to a standstill on the steep gradient. But for the existence of the
long, narrow ravine right through the heart of these lofty moors, we may
reasonably doubt whether Whitby would ever have been joined with York
other than by way of the coast-line to Scarborough.
We can cross the line near Eller Beck, and, going over Goathland Moor,
explore the wooded sides of Wheeldale Beck and its waterfalls. Mallyan's
Spout is the most imposing, having a drop of about 76 feet. The village
of Goathland has thrown out skirmishers towards the heather in the form
of an ancient-looking but quite modern church, with a low central tower,
and a little hotel, stone-built and fitting well into its surroundings.
The rest of the village is scattered round a large triangular green, and
extends down to the railway, where there is a station named after
the village.
The rolling masses of Sleights Moor rise up steeply towards the east,
and from the coach-road to Whitby that we deserted at the Saltersgate
Inn there is an enormous panorama over Eskdale, Whitby, and the sea.