A Month in Yorkshire

by Walter White

“The turf was as soft and fine as that of the adjoining hills; it was seldom broken, so scanty was the population to which it was appropriated; scarcely a thistle or a nettle deformed it, and the few tombstones which had been placed there, were now themselves half buried. The sheep came over the wall when they listed, and sometimes took shelter in the porch from the storm. Their voices and the cry of the kite wheeling above, were the only sounds which were heard there, except when the single bell which hung in its niche over the entrance tinkled for service on the Sabbath day, or with a slower tongue gave notice that one of the children of the soil was returning to the earth from which he sprung.”

Is not that charming?—a word-picture, worthy of a master’s pen. One error, however, has slipped in. There is no porch, nor any sign that one has ever been. The chapel will hold eighty persons, and is, as Mr. Metcalfe, informed me, “never too small.”

A week or more might be spent in explorations in this neighbourhood. Five miles down towards Kirkby Lonsdale, there is Thornton Force. Near it is Yordas Cave—once the haunt of a giant; Gatekirk Cave is distant about half an hour’s walk; Douk Hole is in the neighbourhood of Ingleton; and in all the region, and over the Westmoreland border, there is a highly picturesque succession of caves, ravines, glens, and torrents dashing through rocky chasms, and of all the magnificent phenomena only to be seen amid the limestone. Many a tourist hurries past on his way to the Lakes all unmindful of scenery which, in its kind, surpasses any that he will see between Windermere and Bassenthwaite.

I went up to the public-house and dined with the haymakers, and enjoyed the sight of sunburnt rustics eating smoking mutton-pie without stint, as much as I did my own repast. The host’s daughter brought me a book, which had only recently been provided to receive the names of visitors. Among them was the autograph of a Russian gentleman who had called within the week, and who, as I heard, did nothing but grumble at English customs, yet could not help praising the scenery. He was on foot, and with knapsack on shoulder. I crossed his track, and heard of him sundry times afterwards, and hoped to meet him, that I might ask leave to enlighten him on a few points concerning which he appeared to be distressingly ignorant.

I had planned to ascend and cross Ingleborough, and drop down upon Clapham from its southern side; but when a hill is half buried in mist, and furious scuds fly across its brow, it is best to be content with the valley. So I took up my route on the main road, and continued down the dale, where the limestone crags breaking out on each side form a series of irregular terraces, intermingled green and gray, pleasing to the eye. In the bottom, on the right, the subterranean river bursts forth which Goldsmith mentions in his Natural History.

The height of Ingleborough is 2361 feet. Its name is supposed to be derived from Ingle-burg—a word which embodies the idea of fire and fortress. It is a table-mountain, with a top so flat and spacious that an encampment of more than fifteen acres, of which the traces are still visible, was established thereon, probably by the Brigantes, if not by an earlier race. It is a landmark for vessels on the coast of Lancashire. St. George’s Channel is visible from the summit; and one who has looked on the eastern sea from Flamborough Head may find it convenient to remember that Yorkshire, on its westernmost extremity, is but ten miles from the western sea.

In a short hour from Weathercote you come to the end of the fells, an abrupt descent, all rough with crags and boulders, where the view opens at once over the district of Craven, and the little town of Ingleton is seen comfortably nestled under the hill. Craven lies outspread in beauty—woods, hills, fields, and pastures charming the eye of one who comes from the untilled moors, and suggestive of delightful rambles in store. The Ribble flows through it, watering many a romantic cliff and wooded slope. And for the geologist, Craven possesses especial interest, for it is intersected by what he calls a ‘fault,’ on the southern side of which the limestone strata are thrown down a thousand feet.

I left Ingleton on the right, and turned off at the cross-roads for Clapham, distant four miles. Here, as in other parts of my travel, the miles seemed long—quite as long as they were found to be years ago. We are told that when young Daniel Dove walked dutifully every day to school, “the distance was in those days called two miles; but miles of such long measure that they were for him a good hour’s walk at a cheerful pace.” On the way from Mickle Fell to Brough I met with a more unkindly experience; and that was an hour’s walking for a single mile.

The road undulating along the hill-side commands pleasing views, and for one on foot is to be preferred to the new road, which winds among the fields below. And with a brightening evening we come to Clapham—a cheerful, pretty village, adorned with flowers, and climbers, and smooth grass plots, embowered by trees, and watered by a merry brook, lying open to the sun on the roots of Ingleborough. Looking about for an inn, I saw the Bull and Cave, and secured quarters there by leaving my knapsack, and set out to seek for the guide, whom I found chatting with a group of loungers on the bridge. Bull and Cave seemed to me such an odd coupling, that I fancied cave must be a Yorkshire way of spelling calf; but it really means that which it purports, and the two words are yoked together in order that visitors, who are numerous, may be easily attracted.

Here in Clapdale—a dale which penetrates the slopes of Ingleborough—is the famous Ingleborough Cave, the deepest and most remarkable of all the caves hitherto discovered in the honeycombed flanks of that remarkable hill. Intending to see this, I left unvisited the other caves which have been mentioned as lying to the right and left of the road as you come down from Gearstones.