The Yorkshire Dales

   Right, this is bob writing this time. I thought I better write one or two of these things seeing as my name is on the website.  Today’s blog takes us to the Yorkshire Dales:

     After the frenetic madness of Glastonbury we needed somewhere considerably more serene and relaxed to recuperate and recharge the batteries. Scotland may have well been on mars for how far away it seemed from Glastonbury after that festival so something a bit closer on route was needed, the Yorkshire Dales fitted the bill perfectly. Although in all honesty we didn’t even make it as far as Yorkshire, first stopping for the night and a bumper BBQ at my mate Jims house in Cheltenham just 2 hours down the road, and then paying my Brother a visit for yet another night and a pub meal in Nottingham. We certainly weren’t in any kind of a hurry after that festival anyway.

    We eventually arrived in a very grey and dreary Yorkshire two days after leaving the sunny fields of Glastonbury, our first stop, a tiny little village by the name of Malham which had the exact brand of sleepy, Olde Worlde charm that we were after; roughly cobbled walls made from local stone, ivy drenched stone pubs and cafes and a nice little stream running right through the middle of it all:

It was around 7pm by the time we arrived in Malham so first port of call was to find a place to park the van for the night and cook some dinner. We noticed a field on the way into the village that already had a campervan and a couple of tents pitched up so drove back to check it out, which on closer inspection seemed to be an impromptu campsite set up to cater for the Tour de France (or Tour de Yorkshire as it should really be called as France happens to be situated a not even remotely close 600km to the south), which would be passing through a nearby village in a few days time.  No sooner had we parked up and got a frying pan out a farmer and his wife in a Landrover pulled up demanding 20 pounds a night for the two of us. I began sheepishly trying to explain in the most diplomatic way possible that we were a couple of free camping skinflints who hadn’t considered on paying to stay anywhere, let alone a bare open field with no toilet facilities, no running water, let alone an electrical hookup or complimentary wifi. I think he clocked us pretty quick for what we were though and actually directed us towards a large, open plot of moorland on top of a nearby hillside where the locals didn’t mind roaming travellers pulling up for the night. Which to be fair was actually very cordial of him, locals and especially landowners in this kind of small, secular and naturally beautiful community often loath and despise tourists and travellers who dare to try and take pleasure from their own precious spot of paradise they have carved out for themselves. Having been a regular free camper to Cornwall in my younger days and witnessing furious farmers barricading our cars and tents into a small corner of their giant empty field and demanding 20 pounds off each and every one of us or they will call the police, it was most refreshing to have one actually recommend a spot we could go and camp for free.  Plus the spot he recommended took us up a steep road, which offered this lovely view over the little hamlet of Malham:

    The reason we came to Malham in the first place was to undertake a local scenic walk, which seemed to be rated very highly among travellers and guide books of the area: the Malham cove walk. Early the next morning we drove back down into the town and parked up in the information centre to begin our walk. The weather forecast was for heavy rain moving in the afternoon so we wanted to knock it out pretty sharpish and after a quick chat in the info centre and the acquisition of a guide book of the walk we set off.

     The early part of the walk took us through open fields past derelict farmers barns along the banks of a small stream:

The fields then gave way to small woodland and the terrain became steeper as we climbed up to the base of a scenic woodland waterfall:

   Shortly after the waterfall the woodland ended and we began walking through a plain leading up the impressive Gordale scar, a dramatic 100 metre high gash carved out of the limestone by the actions of past ice ages and glacial erosion. Take note of the size of the waterfall in the second from last photo and then a close up of Andrea in front of the same waterfall in the last photo to get a sense of the size and scale of the place:

The walk then took us up some steep farmland and around the back of the village of Malham to the second great geological feature of the walk, Malham Cove; a huge natural 70 metre amphitheatre which was just as impressive as the Goredale scar although we entered it from the top and crossed over its rocky summit before making our way down the stone steps at the side where we could view it properly from the ground:

    We bid farewell to Malham later on that afternoon, just as the promised heavy rain set in, and drove up the Dales through a couple of other just as quaint little villages and eventually came to the intended town of Ingleton; far larger than Malham but lacked quite the same level of charm. We spent the night in the car park outside the information centre as there were 4 or 5 other campers already pulled up for the night so we figured it was a safe spot. When we woke the next morning however it seemed we had been transported back in time into the middle of the Second World War! Nestled in nicely right behind our van was a replica spitfire and it seemed the entire town had taken to wearing original uniforms from both sides of the War. Completely by coincidence we had woken up in the town on the 100^th anniversary of the start of the first world war and the entire town was having a mock up day in remembrance; complete with tanks, armoured jeeps, fighter planes and motorbikes with machine gun sidecars. With every side and division of the armed forces uniforms represented and worn with pride by the towns locals, even the German ones.

Our favourite however was the town hussy who was singing world war karaoke songs and ball room dancing around the centre of town:

However despite the largest collection of people wearing military uniforms I’d ever seen and much to Andreas disgust we could not find a single Australian representative in the whole town (and we all know how important the Australians were to supporting the success of the Allies –Andrea add in J)

Whilst we were sitting down having a portion of the typical Yorkshire health food; pie, mushy peas and gravy,

we overheard three elderly gentlemen complaining that there were actually far more English on the beaches of Normandy than there were Americans but because the Americans brought five camera crews with them and the British only brought one it looks like from the footage that it was mainly Americans and they got much more credit than they deserved.  This seemed to further enrage Andrea who already felt there was absolutely no credit for the Australians as it was and we had to promptly leave as I feared a punch up was imminent.  

  The final treat of the day was a full battle re-enactment, complete with live weapons firing blanks and people dying very enthusiastically on the town green:

It was quite a surreal scene to be thrust upon on a Saturday morning, and just the kind of tweed, quintessentially British experience I was hoping that Andrea would get to witness with her time here. We left Ingleton in search of Scotland with a big smile on our faces.