HOLDEN PARK: FOIBLES AND FOLLIES.

It being a sunny Autumn day, one where the afternoon sun is  making it warmer out of doors than in the house, we decide to get out and kick our circulations into gear. We had heard that in nearby Oakworth there is a park with some sort of Victorian folly in it. We thought it may be worth a look and the walk over there is always good-especially the bit where we can get off the beaten track and follow the river for a while, lots of mud down there! So off we went, totally unprepared for what awaited us in Holden Park.

Eccentricity is a trait for which we as a nation are known throughout the world-though in our 21st century identikit society such singularity of character is increasingly frowned upon. And eccentricity is something that the Victorians did so well that it has become a byword for that era, perhaps inaccurately. It was, after all, a time of great change scientifically and culturally. With so many new ideas and possibilities suddenly being developed it is little wonder that some of them, by later standards, seem a bit wild and whacky. At the time they were quite normal. So when in 1875 Issac (later Sir Issac) Holden spent £120,000 creating a system of caves and grottoes in the grounds of his home, Oakworth House, it was probably seen as just a rather grand bit of landscape gardening very much in keeping with the age. Sir Issac was an inventor and a wool manufacturer, so successful at both of these things that in 1859 his company had become the largest wool combing business in the world. He died at the ripe old age of ninety in 1897 and ten years later Oakworth House, still in the possession of his descendants, was destroyed by fire.  After a further twenty years had passed the family gave the land which the house and grounds had occupied to the local council, to be used as a public amenity for Oakworth. So was born Holden Park.

On the spot where the house once stood is now a bowling green, where the Turkish bath and the billiard room were situated is now a children's play area. As for the rest, it is the wonderfully preserved grottoes and caves-which are more extensive than they appear to be at first glance. That first glance, it has to be said, takes us completely by surprise: we had expected to find a run of the mill folly (whatever that is!) and instead there is this whole garden where follyness abounds. The starting point for Issac's grand plan was in the fact that the piece of land around the house was, many centuries ago, a stone quarry. This meant that the sides and back of the property were bordered by a rock face some twenty foot high. Into this he created a series of interconnecting caves running right around the garden, open to the sky in places where stone steps were cut to lead up to a  garden on top. Throughout the caves various openings large and small lead into the grottoes, some of which can be entered by squeezing through a gap on one side and exited by an equally tight gap on the other side. Much use has been made of hypertufa (look it up-we had to!) blended in with the natural rock to give the impression that cave roofs are supported by fossilised tree trunks, so realistic that it had us wondering if this is what they actually were. Here and there on the cave walls are the evidence of pipework and brass jet fittings which, with the drainage points on the floor, show that the whole complex was also a water feature. Water was also a feature in the top garden where walkways wind around planted areas through which streams were created. These lead to a central point where a waterfall would have dropped down into a large grotto facing  the back of the house-it must have been incredible to see all of this in full flow!

Holden Park is one of those places where you could spend a lot time in wandering and never knowing which way to turn next, not wanting to miss something which may be tucked away out of sight. That it was created a hundred and fifty years ago, the result of one person's vision, gives it an iconic air. It is also cool to realise that this is not a tourist attraction for which an admission fee is charged (it could well be, and then they would probably go and build a tacky gift shop in one of the caves). It is there in a public park, open to anybody to walk in and enjoy and this is how it will stay. A secret garden, one of the country's hidden gems.

      

PONDEN KIRK

This is a Mudhoppers public information announcement: There are some places for which photographs and words could never do full justice-certainly not through the medium of a blogspot.

The walk up through Ponden Clough and then up some more to Ponden Kirk starts easily enough: about three quarters of a mile of tarmac road past the Old Hall and through a couple of farmyards, then across a field which leads to a well made and maintained track. This track, despite being part of an international tourist trail (the signposts are worded in both English and Japanese) is not kept so for the public. For at the far end of the clough, where two high waterfalls run down the hill to join Ponden Beck below, the local water board have built lock gates on each one-presumably an emergency measure in the event of flash flooding. As the track ends abruptly at the works it is clearly to enable easy access for water board vehicles. Beyond this it is stout walking boot country, more suited to Mudhoppers and sheep than to coachloads of tourists.


                                         

Getting up to Ponden Kirk should, in theory, also be easy. Alongside of one of the waterfalls stone steps have been set into the steep hillside and a wooden handrail is in place on the downhill side. But the stones were only ever going to be temporarily secure: the soil beneath them has gradually washed away and they now tilt every which way and wobble. This means the handrail is indispensable for making the ascent, a good climb for all that (so long as you keep looking ahead, if you have no head for heights the backward view will send your sphincter into overdrive) and attaining the top step is enough to make even the most complacent feel smug. When we walk up here today visibility is good and distant hills spread across the horizon. But it is the closer scenery which grabs our attention. The heather across the moor has lost the purple blanket of its flowers and the bracken on the hillside is turning brown. These dull colours, under a bright mid-afternoon sun, are a blaze of autumn glory (Wordsworth can keep his daffs!) The air here is full of the time of year too, these wilting flora mixing their earthy aromas with that of the rich black soil-this last made more prominent by a good soaking in the recent rainstorms. With the steep drop to one side and the chance of encountering a quag on the other we find the path to the Kirk, a path which in places is no more than a rabbit track. Keeping to the track is therefore wise, but difficult to do whilst unable to stop yourself from looking all around for the sheer pleasure of it.

                                     

The small outcrop of rock known as Ponden Kirk is named for a church, though the reasons for this are lost in the mists of a time long before churches were built in this country. There are folk tales surrounding it (which can, arguably, be held to be the most accurate way of learning of our history-if you can sort the wheat from the chaff) that tell of the wedding ceremonies which took place here. These tales are so enduring that it would be hard to not give them credibility as the reason for its name. Also associated with this rock are methods which would ensure that a desired marriage will take place-either by a couple hoping to wed each other or a single person wishing that, before they pop their clogs, someone will turn up who will be the ideal partner in the enterprise. All of these tales involve climbing around the rock to its base and squeezing through an opening known as the Fairy Cave (and this name also suggests legends from a pre-christian era). Not needing these services for ourselves, we are content to sit upon the flat top of Ponden Kirk for a while and enjoy the peace and calm. It is a very special place, a one-off and time spent here gives a reality to the old tales. And can this statement be qualified? Yes, in that all of us know that there are times when, for one reason or another, there is magic in the air.
                     
                                     

Having negotiated the wonky stones to get up here we let discretion be the better part of valour and do not attempt to go down them. Instead we follow the top of the hill, which crosses the top of the other waterfall and leads to a more gentle descent (plus this second waterfall is even more photogenic than the first). If the walk up was relaxing due to the clough shutting the rest of the world out, this downward path is inspiring for exactly the opposite reason-the sense of space and of place is immense. We are walking on top of the world.

PENISTONE HILL, HAWORTH MOOR.

We have moved from Dorset to West Yorkshire, to a village called Haworth high up in the Pennines. It is a fantastic place to be, surrounded by miles of open moorland which climb into the sky and then drop down into deep valleys. Water tumbles down the hillsides and over rocks, brown tinged from the peaty soil, it finds its way to the becks below in any way that it can. These becks in their turn join the rivers, the same rivers which powered the many mills which dot this area. You are never far away from one, whether it is a crumbling ruin now overgrown or one which has been given new life with a more modern commerce. What land has been cultivated over the centuries seems to be purely for the grazing of livestock, there are no wheatfields adding their colour to the scene. It is little wonder that its most famous literary connections are with the Bronte sisters whose works were peopled with dark brooding characters, living embodiments of the landscape. It has a reputation for being a dour landscape, but this is a shortsighted view which does not do justice to the breathtaking beauty of this part of our green and pleasant land.

After living, as we were, at sea level in Dorset it is now a huge contrast to find ourselves (at 1000 ft) living in the sky. The sky is now our world and though our feet, by neccessity, still use the ground to walk about on this does at times go unnoticed. All around us is the deep blue of of clear skies or, in another mood, clouds. The blue is welcome because there is less chance of rain falling out of it but it is the clouds which give shape and substance to our new world. They come in colours which, if not so vivid, are more varied than those found in a rainbow-especially in the evening just before the sun sets. At this time we walk up onto Penistone Hill where the uncountable miles of panoramic views can give the clouds in all of their variations. From the west we get the dark, sometimes thunderous, clouds creeping towards us. Due to the setting sun behind them, these are usually tinged with gold. Where the cloud cover is more sparse the golden hue streaks through the black, its brightness giving lie to the threat of a storm.

On each side of the rainclouds-to the north and the south-are thick bands of clouds ranging from grey to pure white.These last form into strange, almost box-like, shapes over the far hills. To the east the clouds tend to be thinner and, catching the rays of the setting sun from a distance, have pinkish tints to them which deepen in colour as the sun sets lower. Here too we see the sky peeping through the breaks,  pale watery blue. But the most spectacular effect is back in the west during those short minutes when the sun has virtually dropped out of sight. Then it appears as if a fire is raging along the hilltops, moreso when there is wind to give movement to this illusionary inferno.

When it has burnt itself out this singals that we should make our way back down the hill. When darkness comes to the moors at this time of year it tends to be sudden and complete, so we head for the village and return to earth. Haworth is a one-off: it is dark and lopsided, oozing history from streets and buildings that make no apology for their failure to be picturesque. The energy that was spent in years gone by, when daily survival was a struggle, still pervades and feeds our imaginations. It is an exciting place to live.

SOLSTICE 2010: KNOWLTON AND STONEHENGE.

Saturday.

Our relaxing into the Solstice starts on Saturday evening with a visit to Knowlton Rings to watch the sunset. Here we meet a small crowd who have settled themselves down to enjoy a weekend of gentle celebration-and Knowlton is the perfect place for gentle. This Bronze Age earthwork must have been a very important site, the Christians felt the need to build their church slap bang in the middle of it. This church, like so many erected on Pagan sites, now stands in ruins-adding more to the ambience of Knowlton than it ever could have done when it was in use for its intended purpose. It is interesting to note that this church, first built in the 12th c, collapsed in the middle of the 18th c-a time generally credited as being one of new enlightenment (interesting, that is, to Pagans, who like to think of this land's old religion sweeping the upstart Christians away!) So we sit against the wall of the church: drums are drumming, a whistle is whistling, a didgeridoo is didgeridooing, a child is playing, the sun sets and all is well with the world.

Sunday.
Girls and boys come out to play, it is the eve of the Summer Solstice and (for a good option on celebrating it in the traditional way) that means Stonehenge. Your newspapers and televisions will tell you that the whole thing centres around 'Druids and Hippies' but of the 20,000 that we mingled with this year there were comparatively few who would have been identifiable as either of these stereotypes-as a scan through the photographs of the Beebs report on the event will show. Instead what you will see is that the majority of folk there are 'ordinary people': ages ranging from the very young to the very old, drawn from most sections of society and from all over the world. These are the type of people who have been coming to Stonehenge at this time of year for far longer than any modern day Druid order and for over a century before the 1960s presented the world with its first 'Hippy'.
(For a more detailed-not to mention highly readable-history of the gatherings at Stonehenge since the mid-19th century, Andy Worthington's 'Stonehenge, Celebration and Subversion' is recommended.)

For ourselves, we are openly Pagan and undoubtedly freaky in our way of life-perfect fodder for both of the stereotypes-but we are at Stonehenge for the more fundamental reason. To be at this enigmatic ancient site on a rare occasion when everyone can actually get amongst the stones and to enjoy the relaxed atmosphere created by a good natured crowd. It is a combination for what the Druid would describe as 'A Raising of Energy' and the Hippy would declare as 'A Good Vibe'. Us Mudhoppers just call it 'Fun'.

Close to the stones stands 6 tonnes of 20ft high statue-an impressive work in steel created by Andy and Michelle Rawlings called 'The Ancestor'. We first see it against the darkening sky, a good setting as it towers over the crowds below. Crowds that are laying, sitting, standing or walking around-all intent on doing very little apart from being there. Within the stones itself the revelry is more intense, though no less good humoured: drums are once again dominating, punctuated by joyful whoops which start up from nowhere and spread through the crowd until they break out into wild cheering at nothing in particular. Experiencing this sound happening all around you is akin to being suddenly lifted a few feet off the ground and, as the cheering subsides, gently lowered down again. Getting into the depth of the press of bodies is a feat well rewarded, the energy everyone is giving out is infectious and addictive-and this is for us two who in usual circumstances cannot abide being in crowds. But this is Stonehenge at Summer Solstice, a time to be with folk who, despite differing appearances, are of a like mind to get amongst the stones and celebrate the day. Which brings us back to the old religion of this land: There is something drawing people, of all races and creeds, to Stonehenge. Forget the rubbish that the journalists report, forget the claims of some neo-pagans who believe that the Solstice at Stonehenge should be exclusively theirs, if you have never ventured to the site at this time of year but feel drawn, then go and feel it. It is for you.

HOLES BAY PART 2: SCANDAL AND RUMOUR. THE STUFF OF LOCAL LEGEND.

The tarmac path ends abruptly, as does all sign of the four lane commuter route. Here a narrow wooded walk leads through mainly Oak and Beech interspersed with some fine Holly trees. To your left a low steep bank leads down to the shore-now dominated by reed beds which stretch to the small island in this part of the bay-whilst to the right are fields. Or, from a more feathered viewpoint, seabirds to the left and Buzzards and Kestrels to the right. Growing so close to the sea the Oaks are very gnarled and stunted, their lower branches sweeping the ground. As their trunks are growing out at the top of the bank and with their branches heading down to the shoreline, they create a screen in their leafy season which increases the effect of walking into a green haven. The road noise subsides, at the end of this path lies Upton Country Park.

This is a spread of over 100 acres of public gardens, parkland and woodland surrounding a late Georgian manor house, built in 1816 upon the profits of cod from the New Found Land-though the estate has a history dating back many centuries before this time. It is also home to a scandal which was big news in the Victorian era: The Case of the Tichborne Claimant. These legal battles started in 1871 and lasted for a total of 288 days, with evidence presented to the court so complex that the final summing up by the judge took 18 days. They were instigated by the disappearance of one Sir Roger Tichborne in the early 1850s and his subsequent reappearance in 1866 to claim his, not inconsiderable, inheritance. The court cases centered around a simple case of identity: was he Sir Roger, as he professed himself to be, or was he an Australian butcher's assistant by the name of Arthur Orton as some of the Tichborne family alleged. It was a case that divided the Tichborne family as well as public opinion and each side of the debate still has its protagonists even to this day. It is a tale which has been used as the subject for many books, plus a couple of films, and they all document how Arthur Orton failed in his fraudulent claim. The cad was sent to prison for 14 years hard labour-a verdict which caused a small scale riot on the streets of London-but this did not stop him, upon his death in 1898, from being buried with the name 'Sir Roger Charles Doughty Tichborne' inscribed upon his coffin. What is pertinent to this whole affair, and is not even touched upon in books or films, is why Sir Roger done a bunk in the first place: He had fallen in love with his cousin, Katherine Doughty, but the families of both feared a scandal were they to marry and prevented the liaison. So off he went and so ensued many years later a court case which (in today's figures) cost ten million quid, which is a totally disproportionate expense in preventing two young people from playing 'Hide the Sausage'.

So much for Sir Roger: it was a fair cop but society was very much to blame. Now jump forward a hundred years to hear a local legend-some of the loot from The Great Train Robbery was buried in the grounds of Upton House. More than this, it was never recovered and is still there. Ladies and gentlemen of the Jury, I ask you to consider the facts of the case;

At the time of the robbery Upton House was the residence of the exiled Prince Carol of Romania and Hohenzollern, which all sounds very grand but he had only got the tenancy because Poole Council, who had granted him the lease, were under the delusion that he had a lot of money. In fact he had none to speak of though, fair play to him, he was doing his best to support his family and maintain a fully staffed mansion (including gardeners for the estate) by setting himself up as a carpet salesman. I should point out, before you all throw up your jobs to become carpet salesmen and women, this line of work did not appear to be a total success and Prince Carol was running up a lot of debts.

Quite why the Boys in Blue suddenly took an interest in him in 1965 has never been fully explained, but they certainly felt it necessary to raid two properties that he owned-one in Nice and the other in Surrey-after they were given a tip off that the Prince was aiding Ronnie Biggs, at that time on the run following his escape from Wandsworth nick. They did not find any sign of their quarry, but that did not stop the locals around Upton House from making a few, extremely tenuous , connections between their poverty stricken neighbour and the train robbers.

Perhaps they were a little envious of nearby Bournemouth which had a train robbers legend of its own, namely the belief that, after dividing up the swag, the robbers went on a celebratory binge in that seaside town (though this, if true, would have been a fairly stupid thing to do: at that time Bournemouth was clinging on to its image as a 'Bathchair Resort'. Any strangers arriving in the town who were under the age of 120 would have stood out like a sore thumb). But there must be some thread of truth in that town's connection because one of the gang was arrested there. So, the Great Train Robbers were known to have possibly been in the vicinity, the Bluebottles had been sniffing around the Prince and, finally, the most damning piece of evidence pulled all of these threads together. At least two locals remembered seeing, shortly after the robbery had taken place, a strange car driving down a road not far away from Upton House! Ladies and Gentlemen of the Jury what further proof could you possibly need? I put it to you that, when we simple Mudhoppers are enjoying our walks around the grounds of Upton House, we are unknowingly walking over the spot where bags of ten shilling notes still lie concealed. Such is the local legend.

Oblivious to these unimaginable riches we head towards the bird hide, a good place to rest our foots and to look out over the part of the bay which attracts many nesting seabirds. Amongst the more obvious species, such as the Shelduck, there are lots of others which we do not have a clue what they are. Actually, this is not strictly true: there is a big information board in the hide which tells us bad birdwatchers exactly what we are looking at out there, which is more than a clue. A bit of a dead giveaway in fact, certainly enough to cause us to feel jolly clever when we manage to identify one of the little buggers correctly. There are a few places around the shores of Poole Harbour where bird hides are to be found, but this one at Upton House is by far the most easily accessible. Couple this with the part of Holes Bay which it looks out upon being rich in the variety of birds which can be seen at any given time, it is always a relaxing place to rest awhile. Being able to name each and every species is not essential, enjoying what is there is enough.

Above is the view from the bird hide looking out towards Pergins Island, another place of local legend which will be the subject of Holes Bay, Part 3-coming soon.

HOLES BAY, PART 1: MUD, GLORIOUS MUD!

More or less wherever you live in this country it is possible to escape the urban areas and get out into the open spaces. We Mudhoppers are fortunate in our location as the choice of escape is wide-we have within very close proximity the sea, countryside, hill ranges, woods, the New Forest, heaths, in fact whatever takes our fancy at any given time is there within a very short distance. But this is the first in a series of posts about a place which is, literally, right outside our front door; Holes Bay, a more or less neglected backwater in Poole Harbour. For many years it has been used as the dumping ground for old boats and the evidence of this is in the wrecks which are rotting or rusting away in parts of the shoreline. Also in places around this shoreline are the reed beds which collect all manner of flotsam, jetsam and old supermarket trolleys-all of which is never cleared away and create a constant eyesore. When the tide goes out this bay virtually empties (apart from a main boat channel through its centre) exposing vast areas of mud which, on a hot day, proclaims by its odour the amount of pollution that was at one time discharged into it mingling with the usual acrid smell of backwater mud. In short: look beyond the waste and it is a beautiful place, largely undeveloped, a haven for wildlife plus it is possible to walk around practically the whole of it-a walk which takes a couple of hours or so, starting and ending in the town, but which will take you through ever changing scenery along the way.

The walk proper starts where the Old Town ends, level with an area which used to be the only landward entrance to Poole. Now overdeveloped with the type of buildings which conceal the borough's 'Historic Town' claim, there is suddenly a great sense of space as you look out over the bay which dominates your vision. Close to are the lumps of Purbeck stone jumbled down to the waters edge (evidence of where you are stood being reclaimed land) with sporadically spaced concrete blocks. These latter house the pipes which drain water into the harbour and, though not pretty in form or structure, they are very popular with the seabirds. It is not unusual to see a pair of Swans leading their Signets here to feed and they are also attracting the ever increasing numbers of Little Egrets-until recently a rare sight in the harbour. Like the Swan, the Little Egret stands out as magnificent looking creature. There is something about pure white birds in the natural environment, contrasting vividly with Mother Nature's grubby reality, which is breathtaking. The Little Egret, of course, is a close relative of the Heron-a bird whose numbers in the harbour have been decreasing over recent years. Why this is so is uncertain, but we would not mind betting that the rise in Little Egret numbers has something to do with it-they are showing the Heron up for what it truly is: a joke bird which Mother Nature plonked onto the planet for our amusement. Y'see, the Heron is the epitome of gracefulness, whether in flight or stood at the water's edge feeding. Until, that is, it opens its beak at which point all gracefulness flies out of the window. Its cry can only be likened to the sound that Rod Stewart might make if he was to be suddenly garroted whilst in the throes of expelling a particularly reluctant turd from his body.

Where were we? oh yes, Holes Bay. This first part of the walk is like treading between two worlds: on your right are four lanes of main commuter route with houses and factories laying beyond. To your left the wide open space of the bay where everything moves at a slow peaceful pace and which causes you to forget whatever else is around you. When the tide is up the V shaped ripples of the larger fish disturb the water close to the shore whilst the sand eels-their prey-panic in the shallows creating the illusion of the water boiling as they thrash about. The Gulls are overhead to take advantage of the ease with which they can pick off this small fry, screaming at and squabbling with each other constantly as they do so. It is a place which never sleeps; we walk along this part of the bay day or night when we need a good leg-stretch and there is always something happening on the water. A mile further down the path it climbs over the Waterloo-Weymouth railway line and shortly after that it veers around the top of the bay taking us away from the busy road and into another world, one with a Victorian scandal and a Local Legend.

More to come in Part Two.

2009 GOES OUT IN STYLE!

It is New Year's Eve and we are at Avebury-to Mudhop, certainly: but we also have an underlying reason to be here on this day.

Our first stop though is West Kennet Long Barrow for a good stretch of the legs after the drive up here. It is a day that can be described as 'crisp', though not so crisp as to involve frost. Mind you, it's not far off this level of crispiness-we are both throwing fashion sense to the wind (not that we seem to have any of this commodity in the first place) and displaying ourselves to the world in all of our winter wrappings-essential against the freezing wind which is cutting across the Marlborough Downs. So; crisp in the sense that without our thermals parts of our bodies would be shrivelling up!

The walk up the hill to the long barrow sufficiently jump-starts our circulatory systems to ignore the aforementioned wind and, as ever, the stones give us a warm welcome. The short time we spend here this afternoon charges our batteries ready to fill the rest of the daylight hours with trudging through muddy fields, up and down hills, surrounding ourselves with this most enigmatic of landscapes and building up an appetite.

And due to a rather devious bit of forward planning we have ensured that the apex of this appetite building will coincide with our arrival at 'The Red Lion'. Here, for a small fee (actually about twenty quid), our Mudhopping metamorphoses into New Year's Eve relaxing, warming up and stuffing our faces full of food. All in preparation for our underlying reason to be here today......

...... Which is the Moon. For not only is it New Year's Eve, it is also a full moon and not only is it a full moon, it is a blue moon. As we both seem to possess a somewhat slightly off the elliptical approach to life, we had decided a few days ago that we wanted to view this moon whilst we stood on top of West Kennet Long Barrow. With this in mind we had been keeping an eye on the weather forecast every day of the preceding week, noting its predictions waver between snow, sleet, rain, dry, clouds and clear skies with each changing hour. By the the time we had left the house that morning only one thing was for certain; it might or might not be too cloudy to see the moon that night. So our campaign slogan for the day was 'Sod It, We Are Going Anyway'!

When we finally wrenched our well fed bodies out of the Red Lion to head towards our Sod It the moon was well up and playing peek-a-boo with us from behind broken clouds, clouds which were thickening fast. So much so that by the time we make our second walk up the hill to the Long Barrow the moon was completely hidden and we could tell that there was little chance of us seeing it that night. Boo! But there was other magic in the air for us; stood on that mound, with the great stones which screen the entrance to the tomb below us, we looked up at the patch of sky which was illuminated by the moon. Even from behind this thick cover she made her presence known as the light caught the edges of the huge black cloud giving it the sheen of burnished steel. Further away, where the cloud was patchier, this same light was giving the appearance of a foam flecked sea washing across the sky. Back on Earth we were surrounded by the darkness, a stillness and great calm as the wind, though still cold, dropped to a breeze. It was a very primitive atmosphere, a rare moment to stand and enjoy-and if some barrow wights had crawled out of the tomb to join us we would not have been at all surprised. But the best bit was saved for when we tried to leave.

We were sixty miles from home and the temperature was dropping, not wishing to run the risk of icy country roads it came time when we knew we must leave. But when we started to make our way back down the side of the barrow our legs suddenly made it clear that they were reluctant to do this-there was something more for us here tonight. Not knowing what this something was, and needing to get our bodies moving again, we decided to take a walk along the top of the barrow to its far end. Once there we turned to walk back (there being little else we could do) and then it happened. Rather like the cheesy ending straight out of Hollywood, at that moment a great split appeared in the thick cloud and the Moon was fully exposed in all of her glory. For a few minutes she did her 'doth shine as bright as day' bit, casting her full light upon us and creating long shadows over the countryside. This is why we came and, unexpectedly, we were not to leave without seeing it-giving rise to two loonies on a hill on a cold dark night, grinning for the fun in it all.

Happy New Year Folks!

Yule Greetings: We Didn't Go To Buzbury Rings On Christmas Day.

We didn't go to Buzbury Rings; it is completely fenced in with no public access at all.

After days of freezing rain the 25th dawned bright with little or no wind and, as your Mudhoppers have been stuck indoors for too many days, we went and had a good squelch through the muddy lanes around Badbury Rings. It was a beautiful day to be out of doors and we joined the many who were taking advantage of a bank holiday to get away from the glittery madness.

And afterwards we didn't go to Buzbury Rings-a little known earthworks a couple of miles away from Badbury. If we had we would have needed to park the car in a lay-by and walked along the B3082 until we found the overgrown bridleway which borders the western end of the site. This we would have had to follow, alongside that dense (and more than a little inviting) woodland until we reached a gate at the end. Here on the southern side of the site the barbed wire gives way to an electric fence-and far be it for us to even consider scrambling underneath it.

Had we done so we would then approach the Rings with that feeling that most people get when walking into part of our history, the fascination with what those who went before have left behind. In most instances of this, e.g. with a Saxon church or an Elizabethan merchants' hall, there is written history which, although it does nothing to dispel that sense of awe, gives a fairly detailed account of life in those times. But, with so much unknown of the folk who constructed the ancient earthworks, sites like Buzbury have that edge of mystery, of excitement and even, dare we say it?, of magic.

Had we walked into the Rings we would have been treated to the rare sighting of a hare, a hefty example of its species darting around in the centre. The kestrel too, flying low over the field not a hundred feet away from where we would have been stood. And all around the peace of the countryside on a warm winter's day would have given our spirits, already high from our day's Mudhopping, that extra lift. Probably enough to cause us to decide to climb through a barbed wire fence to get back to the car.

But we did not go to Buzbury Rings, that would have been trespassing.

Our seasons greetings to you all. We hope you enjoyed the festivities in whichever way you celebrated them. 2010 here we come!

Dartmouth (Come Rain Or Shine)

Dartmouth we first explore on a cold, wet November night, none of which can hide this Devon town's quirky magnificence. This magnificence does not exist on the grand Georgian scale of our island's cities, for Dartmouth it is the layout of a town, established as a deep water port on the River Dart, which has been built ad hoc over many centuries and which retains something of each period. The oldest building dates from 1380 whilst, at the other end of the scale, the Flavel Arts Centre is surprisingly unobtrusive in its surroundings for such a modern structure. So as we wander around the narrow streets and alleys we never know what gem from the past we will encounter around the next corner or, as Dartmouth is built into the side of a very steep hill, at the end of one of the many flights of old stone steps which connect the various levels of the town.

Having read virtually nil about Dartmouth's history before we came here (we prefer to explore places 'cold', rather than have a list of 'things to see and do'-it's much more fun!) it was with big grins on our faces when we suddenly found ourselves walking into Bayard's Castle. One minute we are walking along a stretch of quay which is a film makers dream (i.e. The Onedin Line) and the next we are stood in one of Henry the VIIIs coastal defence forts with the gun ports open to the sea lapping just below. The atmosphere within buzzes whilst the smell and the sounds of the cannons still hang in the air - at least, it does in the Mudhoppers' somewhat fertile imaginations on a wet night in Devon.

After playing at being soldiers for a while we head off up a nearby flight of the aforementioned steps, from the top of which we look over the roofs of the houses below and across the wide River Dart to Kingswear on the opposite bank. It was from there that we had caught the ferry to get into Dartmouth, a scarily exciting experience for the one of us who is not used to waterborne travel - being, as it is, a small floating bridge which is manoeuvred by a tugboat tied along one side of it. Even the one of us who is used to waterborne travel felt his sphincter twitching a bit at first. But this is enough of climbing upwards for one night, we make our way back down through the streets, diverting off to the left or the right as the fancy takes us, until we reach the railway station.

Ah yes, Dartmouth Railway Station. Dartmouth has a lot to recommend it to all sorts of people - except trainspotters. This is because, having built a railway station in the 1860s, a decision was then made that this is as far as Dartmouth was willing to go in respect of this mode of transport and no railway lines were ever laid into the town. This is ironic considering that Thomas Newcomen, a native of Dartmouth, was the first person to build a steam engine - which gave rise eventually to the development of steam locomotives. Back in the 1860s this fact was of no concern to the boatmen and the merchants of Dartmouth who saw the railways as a threat to their nautical way of life and who successfully resisted the incursion of the new-fangled technology into the town. It is a very nice railway station though.

Dartmouth in the dark is all very fine and dandy, but it gives us the itch to see it in the daylight too - though for this we have to be patient. Having arrived here on a Saturday evening our day on the Sunday is taken up with an indoor event so our next proper sight of the town is not until the evening again. This is not without its compensations as our first bit of exploration then was to hunt down some food, which can always be a hit-and-miss venture in a strange town. But we were in luck (unashamed plug coming up here) with the first place we walked into: The Windjammer Inn on Victoria Road is a family run truly independent free house, good food, good beer and no bloody television spoiling the friendly atmosphere within. We recommend it.

Monday morning gives us our first chance to wander the town in daylight and, bonus, a change of weather has chased the rainclouds away. The morning is spent revisiting places that we had only seen at night and discovering all the bits that had been hidden in the darkness - it really is a fascinating town where its 1000 years of history blends in with all the modern trappings of a holiday resort. Having explored awhile around the river and backstreets us Mudhoppers then decide (some would say foolishly) to go for the birds eye view. As noted above, Dartmouth is built onto the side of a hill-a very big, steep, hill-which we make our way up determined to reach the top. It's a hard climb, though made easier at first by the flights of steps, but rewarding as the fantastic views increase with the height. Away to the right are the two castles, one each side of the rivers entrance, built in 1481 to guard the port. To the left more and more of the river becomes visible as it snakes inland while below and in front are the towns of Dartmouth and Kingswear and the hills of Devon beyond. It is breathtaking (and not only 'cos of the hill-climbing involved to see it all!) Our climb starts with the much used steps, then goes into the little used and overgrown steps before finally leading us up a muddy country lane to the intriguingly named 'Jawbones Hill' (as yet we have not been able to discover the origin of the name, any clues?) Any ill effects that we may be feeling through having to spend the previous day indoors are blown away as we stand at the top of this hill-it is a beautiful part of the country.

Postscript:

This is probably none of our business, as we are not residents of the town, but there was one rather worrying sign that we noticed in Dartmouth-several signs in fact. These are the little notices in the windows of the small local shops protesting about a proposed rise in the, already high, business rates. One trader is quoted as saying that his bill is set to rise from £5,400pa to £18,000pa in one leap. It would be a shame to see Dartmouth's atmosphere changed (as in too many other places) by the loss of local shops-driven out by overblown rate demands-to be replaced by endless rows of Starbucks, Subways and others of their ilk. At the moment one of Dartmouth's strengths is its uniqueness.

Brean Down

At one time, and not so very distant in the past, the land around Brean Down was mainly marsh and subject to frequent flooding, which would turn this 320ft high headland into an island. But then came sea defences and land drainage which in turn stabilised the marshes and, some may say unfortunately, gave an opportunity to create caravan parks. Not one caravan park, nor even two, three or four caravan parks-there are loads of them in unending procession blotting the landscape with that particular ugliness which is found in static caravans. It seems to take forever to drive the few short miles from the village of Brean to the Down with static caravans closing in on all sides, causing tunnel vision to a mind-numbing degree. But then, just as it starts to feel as if the whole universe is permeated with the stench of suntan lotion, the caravan parks are left behind and in front of you is the huge lump of limestone rock extending one and a half miles out into the Bristol Channel: Brean Down.

It is a steep climb up, but made easier by the steps which get you up the sheer hill which takes you most of the way to the top;

"A poor life this if, full of care,

We have no time to stand and stare"*

But once you have climbed the 150 steps and reached the spot where the ground evens out you will then find yourself standing and staring. Looking inland across the Somerset Levels Glastonbury Tor stands out some twenty miles away. Closer to stands that edifice which is a shrine to the mighty John Cleese: Weston-Super-Mare. When you turn your back to the land the view is dominated by the sea and the gentle rise of the top of Brean Down ahead. From the spot where you now stand there is about a mile to walk to the tip of this headland; during this walk you are surrounded by evidence of human activity stretching back to the Bronze Age and reaching up to WW2. There is a choice of two paths to take. The lower path is a gravelled single track road which was cut in order to make easy passage for the horse and carts (and, later, the horseless carriages) carrying supplies to the fort. The higher path takes you through grazing cattle, remains of a Romano-Celtic temple, an Iron Age hill fort, various cairns and barrows, until finally you reach the ruins of a Victorian fort which was further developed and re-armed during that spot of bother we had with old Adolf. The Mudhoppers decide on the higher path out and the lower path back.

This walk is one to be taken at a leisurely pace, the views are stupendous; to the left is the sweep of Bridgewater Bay facing towards the Atlantic while to the right is the start of the Bristol Channel. In the distance before you is the Welsh coastline and, not so distant, the two small islands of Steep Holm and Flat Holm. With this panorama it is easy to miss what is underfoot, so we stop frequently to take in the more immediate scenery. The ridge is dotted with the remains of the cairns, the great number of which are an indication as to the importance of Brean Down to its earliest settlers; to see burial mounds atop high hills is by no means unusual but, to date, we have rarely encountered so many in such a relatively small area. As you reach the highest point on the down the trail of cairns is broken by the lines of the Iron Age hill fort. Just beyond this the path dips sharply, leading down to the ruins of a much later fortress.

At the very seaward tip of this spit of land a fort was constructed in Victorian times in response to fears that Napoleon the third was about to send shiploads of French soldiers over here to rampage across the countryside, invading these isles and eating all our slugs and snails. Brean Fort was built between 1864 and 1871 and most of it still stands today, though only as shells. In the early 1900s, following an explosion in one of the underground gunpowder magazines, the garrison was moved out of the fort (as the aforementioned Napoleon had died some thirty years previously the danger had long since passed) and the fort changed from military use to a more genteel incarnation: it became a cafe, afternoon teas and dainty fancies for the daytrippers. But then came Himm Hitler and the Nasties so once again the army marched in to defend this bit of coastline. The legacy of this later use is a Victorian Fort/WW2 Outpost blended together, the decorative flourishes and brickwork of the earlier buildings being in stark contrast to the 20th c. functionary and flat reinforced concrete.

Enough of technical details, skimpy though they are: the Mudhoppers are here to have fun. This involves one of our (frequent) lapses of memory concerning our actual ages and climbing amongst the ruins with childlike glee. Looking in one direction fills the imagination with images of the scarlet tunics, pill-box hats and waxed moustaches of the Victorian military man defending the Empire. Clambour over a wall and scarlet is replaced by khaki, the hats by steel helmets and the dreams of Empire are replaced by the radio, broadcasting songs by Vera Lynn and Bud Flanagan to soothe the nations' frayed nerves. We leave no stone unturned in this "What's-around-the-next-corner" playground and we pout sulkily at the iron bars which the grown-ups have put at the entrances to the gunpowder magazines to stop us from going in. We also couldn't get into the searchlight post, pictured below: the sea is well on the way to claiming that one!

Eventually it is time to head back home so we wander off in the direction of the lower path, which takes us along the northern side of Brean Down. Where the southern face is the steep rise, here the land falls more gently to the sea and is almost a complete forest of Hawthorn in places. The windswept trees grow amongst the dense braken and the scenery of the Down has changed once again. This is a walk on the wild side with the knolls rising above and the sea lapping below. With such diverse aspects to this small promontory, and with its wealth of pre-christian history, it is easy to see why Brean Down provided the perfect setting for Dion Fortune's classic work of occult fiction, "The Sea Preistess". There is magic in the air.

*From "Leisure" by WH Davies.

Wistman's Wood, Spinsters' Rock and Wistman's Wood.

The path to Wistman's Wood

We are on Dartmoor to seek out Wistman's Wood-a quest which begins fairly easily as there is a sign pointing out the footpath that leads to it from Two Bridges. But this is Dartmoor and a path which is easily defined at the outset can sometimes peter out into a fan of well trodden paths spreading out in all directions. Today this wouldn't be too much of a problem-the wood is only a mile or so along this path and should be easy to spot from a distance (it being the only wood around here and thus easily distinguishable from the Tor above, the river below and the sheep all around) but then we encounter another of Dartmoor's idiosyncrasies: the weather. Fine summer rain is all very fine and dandy in its own way but halfway between Two Bridges and Wistman's Wood, where the aforementioned path peters out, it creates a haze which hides all around which may help us into the right direction. But, we agree, Wistman's Wood has been there for dozens of centuries and probably longer so it aint going to go away. We can find it another day and, in the meantime, we shall go and find Spinsters' Rock instead. It is a place of legends.

OK, so which legend fires your imagination more? The one which insists the rocks were placed there by Noah and his boys who, having parked the Ark atop a nearby hill, wandered down to erect the stones after which they wandered away again? Or do you prefer the one that tells of the three spinsters? These spinsters were of the original breed for this title-i.e. those who spun rather than unmarried women-and this paticular trio are three of the twelve Nymphs of Valhalla of Norse mythology-the Choosers of the Slain in battle. These Nymphs were known as the Valkriur and they rode around the battlefield on horses, waving great swords around as they decided who should live and those that would die. To our minds this is far more stirring stuff than the namby-pamby Noah theory, and two of the spinsters had really cool names befitting their status: Mista and Sangrida. (the other one was called Hilda-which is almost as silly as calling a bull Alan: see earlier post.) Anyway, the story goes that these three erected the stones one morning before breakfast.

Whichever legend suits your thinking it is a place well worth seeking out. A peaceful spot, a magnificent cromlech standing alone in a field of grass that couldn't be any greener if it tried.

A few days later we are once again setting off up the path from Two Bridges to Wistman's Wood-this time without attending rain to baffle our inner lodestones once on the moor. The path to the wood is well defined at the start and at the end, in the middle there is just a few hundred yards which is difficult to follow. The problem that we had earlier that week was, without any visibility, getting past those few hundred yards and onto the track again is a matter of pure luck-we were wise to abandon the attempt because now we can see that we were heading the wrong way completely-we had been heading towards Crockern Tor. No such worry today, our path is clear and we take a stroll up to what has been described as "the most haunted place on Dartmoor".

Wistman's Wood is indeed a strange place. There are numerous stories of supernatural happenings in and around these ancient stunted oak trees, all of which have great credibility once you are stood amongst them-even in broad daylight. The trees (mainly oak but also rowan and willow) grow from between boulders that litter the hillside upon which the wood stands and everything-boulders, trees and the ground, is covered by a thick layer of moss. It is certainly an eerie place, which is a good reason to explore it fully-but slowly. It is not easy terrain to walk over as the moss disguises the crevices underfoot and in places can be slippery. But it is compulsively inviting to walk from one end to the other.

Apart from the various spectres which are known to wander here after dark Wistman's Wood is also believed to be the home of the Wisht Hounds, those terrifying beasts which roam the Moor at night chasing sinners, scaring seven shades out of the unbaptised and doing the voice-overs for "The Hound of the Baskervilles". (There is another canine spook in the woods-a small terrier called "Jumbo". The story goes that this little feller was hunting rabbits amongst the rocks when he got fatally bitten by an adder. His unfortunate moniker suggests that he was more than a little domesticated and this was presumably why he was unable to tell a rabbit from a snake. Perhaps his demise was the kindest thing really.....)

When you spend time in Wistman's Wood the spectres become real: everywhere through the wood unseen eyes are watching you, you can feel them and out of the corner of your eye there is...........something? or perhaps your imagination is playing tricks on your vision? It is a feeling that cannot be conveyed in words, nor can our photographs fully do Wistman's Wood justice. You will have to go and see it for yourself.

MUDHOPPERS ON TOUR

Day two sees us taking thirteen hours to cover a distance which we should have completed in just four hours, an early reminder that embarking upon a tour of these isles is only for those prepared to take the rough with the smooth: Our road network is at saturation point anyway and our one car, small though it is, is only adding to the problem. When we hit the traffic jam on the outskirts of Newcastle, where it took three and a half hours to cover just eight miles, we could only be thankful that this had not happened on day one-a sweltering hot day not conducive to the fine old tradition of sitting in traffic jams. Day two was a lot cooler and, though tedious, more bearable as we inched slowly toward the Tyne tunnel and the clear roads beyond. But Newcastle was not going to let us out of its clutches so easily. When we did finally escape the jam and saw one of these aforementioned clear roads stretching out before us our alternator burnt out-resulting in a tow back to the city to get it replaced. But we were lucky-late on this Friday evening the mechanic located a new alternator, fitted it and had us back on the road in under two hours, at a total cost of just £57. 50.

So, as planned, we awoke the next morning in Edinburgh for a weekend of exploration slightly off the tourist trail (though a few bits of the obvious places could not be left unseen.) People visit cities for any number of reasons, our weekend here is to mudhop on paving slabs: just as we might go for a long walk through woods or over green hills, with no particular plan other than to head in any direction which takes our fancy, so we approach Edinburgh. The kilt shops and castle tour were forsaken in favour of the back streets and lanes where history is more hidden from the public gaze. Cities can be magnificent places and none more so than this one, mercifully devoid of the '60s tendency toward ripping the heart out of centres in order to build ugly shopping malls (the one blot in Edinburgh is the Scottish Parliament Building-it has all the appeal of a multi-storey car park which was designed by an architect having a bad day!) If you are heading to Edinburgh seek out the Stockbridge Colony houses, dwellings erected after the formation of the Edinburgh Cooperative Building Company Limited-a group of craftsmen engaged in all aspects of the building trade who banded together to build decent homes for their families at the latter part of the 19th century. This co-operative spirit was born of a need to provide healthy and affordable living conditions for themselves and the buildings, quite apart from being attractive in their own right, stand as a monument to what can be achieved when folk work together.

There are two abiding memories of this weekend which will stay with us-in their own way they best sum up the city; We were looking around a graveyard, Greyfriars Kirk, where there are many old tombs enclosed in ornate stone and ironwork cages. The reason for these secure final resting places is quite simple-it was to keep the mortal remains safe from graverobbers who could earn a few shillings by keeping the Edinburgh Medical School supplied with fresh corpses and no questions asked. One of these tombs was for the most part underground with a small iron gate set into one side and steps leading down into the darkness. Crouching down to peer inside, one of us (it's ok Leon, we wont tell them it was you) had the fright of his life when a voice suddenly spoke to him from within. Moments later one of the local winos, can of Special Brew in her hand, climbed out of the crypt and proceeded to assure us, in a thick Scottish accent, that;

"Y'a'right pal, et's ooonly me, y'a'right there pal.... etc"

And the other abiding memory? It has to be the sight of three Japanese tourists who had kitted themselves out in the full Scottish regalia of kilts and blouses and were stood together posing as their wives took photographs of them. Hoots mon and och aye tha noo!

From this beautiful city, and by complete contrast, we drive down to Lindisfarne, an island off the Northumbrian coast which is only accessible by road via a causeway when the tide is out. The island is small, measuring just a mile and a half long by a mile wide, with a population of 170-most of whom live in its one village. Having located our B&B-not easy when none of the sreets have name plates to identify them-and dumped our gear, we set out to explore. Whereupon we walked straight into what can only be likened to a scene from a Hammer Horror movie. Making our way through the graveyard (yes, we do seem to like graveyards) we suddenly heard the sound of dozens of wailing voices being carried in the wind. Moaning and wailing they were, in a low eerie manner guaranteed to conjour up images of The Night of the Living Dead: but it was still broad daylight and Ghosties and Ghoulies and Long-legged Beasties, by tradition, only walk abroad at night. If we had encountered this sound for the first time during the hours of darkness a good supply of clean nappies would have been essential but, as it turned out, the daylight served to help solve the mystery. Walking out of the graveyard and towards the shore we could see, about a mile out into the bay, scores of seals on a sandbank moaning and wailing for all they were worth. It had been a trick! It certainly fooled us simple Mudhoppers!

Outside of the village Lindisfarne has a castle high on a rock, a fisherman's dock, ruins of an Abbey and lime kilns and wide open spaces which, all with the sea as a backdrop, stretch out much further than the land and give the illusion of being in a much bigger place. The effect is one which takes away your breath and makes you ready to give up whatever life you live and move here without question. Approaching the fisherman's area there were to be seen a lot of upturned boats on the shore: not unusual, you may think, but these appear to be what were once quite large craft which had been cut in half. Which is exactly what they were. At the beginning of the 20th century the boats which sailed out into the North Sea to catch herring became redundant (the herring fishery vanished for some reason) and were pulled up on the shore, cut in half and the bow section was overturned. This was then converted into a shack, There is no doubt that during times of financial hardship many of these would have been used by the fishermen as homes, but today they are all store sheds-still standing after a hundred years.

We had just under twenty four hours on Lindisfarne, plenty of time to get acquainted with it and to know that we would have to return. It has to be said that our timings for arrival and departure had (quite by chance) turned out to be perfect. We had driven over the causeway to the island at half past five in the afternoon, just as that day's crop of trippers were leaving and we drove away the next afternoon as the next batch were arriving. The crowds number in their hundreds but our time there was spent with very few folk around, so we probably mudhopped Lindisfarne at its most deserted. During the course of our ten days wandering we will see some incredible places but this island will remain the jewel in the crown.

Our next port of call is Whitby, where we go well posh for a couple of days. Our B&B accomodation is in a magnificent guest house called "Number 5" (this is an unashamed plug for them-it ticks every box for comfortable relaxed hospitality, plus a few more boxes that you didn't know existed!)

What is at Whitby? The only answer to that question is that Whitby is at Whitby. Beyond the present day trappings of a popular tourist destination lies a small fishing port with a great history which belies its size. It was from here that Captain James Cook set sail to chart the world and discovered Australia in the process. More well known is that sometime in the later part of the 1800s a certain Bram Stoker was sat on a public bench on the West Cliff looking towards the ruined Abbey-a sight which caused him to go away and write the book "Dracula". (The importance of Whitby as an inspiration to Stoker cannot be underrated, his descriptions of the town in the novel go much further than anything else he describes within its pages-he must have felt a deep affinity with Whitby.) A less well known fact is that it was a Whitby man, one Captain William Scoresby, who invented the Crow's Nest. And that is all the history you are going to get from us-we want to talk about food! There are two local delicacies for which Whitby is rightly noted and proud of; the first being Fish and Chips. The town fries to perfection, so much so that this dish may blind the stranger to that other local speciality, Whitby Kippers. Breakfast time will never be the same again!

Any visit to Whitby has to include the climb up the 199 steps that lead to the Abbey-if only for the fantastic view from the top. The town, both old and new, spreads out in front of you while directly below are the two piers which form the harbour entrance. Further afield is the line of the Yorkshire Coast and the grey expanse of the North Sea-from this position on the East Cliff you feel as if you can hold the whole scene in the palm of one hand. Behind you stands the Abbey ruins and in front of it the Church of St Mary. Given its position high on the clifftop the effect of the dark weathered stone of both church and graveyard give it a slightly forbidding air-and if the outside seems brooding just wait until you go inside the church. St. Mary's has the rare distinction of being far more forbidding inside than out; it is set out with a claustrophobic array of high sided box pews which must cause the congregation to feel trapped once a service commences. No chance of sneaking out for a crafty fag during a long and boring sermon.

A few short miles down the coast from Whitby is Robin Hood's Bay and the cluster of houses known locally as Bay Town, built into the sides of a narrow steep ravine leading down to the sea. The layout of the streets and houses here appear to be random-it's as if they were all constructed high on the cliff above and then thrown over by some giant hand to land where they would in a jumble below. Bay Town grew from a small fishing/smuggling community, situated so close to the sea that on one occasion the bowsprit of a lugger crashed through a window into the bar of an Inn-how the various insurance companies sorted out who was to pay for this particular bit of storm damage is not recorded! To have a seatown built into the cliffs is not unusual around our coasts, but Bay Town stands out for the ammount of buildings squashed into such a comparatively small area-creating a fascinating maze of streets and alleyways to explore. When it was an isolated spot in centuries past it must have been a tight-knit community indeed.

From the coast we head inland to the Yorkshire Dales and the market town of Settle where we are to spend a couple of days staying with a friend. From here we set off to mudhop a landscape startlingly different to any we have yet seen on our wanderings-hills from where water falls down into deep valleys, a lush green outlook of rich pasture which shows its skeleton everywhere with the limestone rock exposed through the grass. Settle itself, though seemingly very sedate and easy-going, has in recent years committed an act which plonks it very firmly into the tradition of English Eccentricity. Inevitably it involves a red telephone box, one of the last strongholds of our inbred idiosyncrasy. On a small area of green, surrounded by houses, stands a red telephone box which BT had decided was no longer keeping in service. So the town council purchased it, the phone and all of its gubbins were removed and the box was handed over to a group of local residents who have turned it into an art gallery-which they proudly advertise as "Probably the smallest art gallery in the world". Whilst it is true that, somewhere in the world, somebody could jump on this slogan and say, "No it aint, I know of one smaller", this cannot detract from this reassuring example of quirkiness: The Gallery On The Green. It is well worth a visit, admission is free, the impressive art on display is ever changing plus, once inside, you have the whole place to yourself!

It is in the Yorkshire Dales where we forgo our mudhopping and embark upon a little bit of Limestone Pavement hopping instead. No sooner had we decided this than the fun began-the six mile drive that took us from Settle to the village of Malham. The road is narrow and its twists and turns are absurdly tight as they make their way up hill and down dale, it's like a cross between two fairground rides combined: the Rollercoaster and the Switchback. But this drive, potentially nerve-wracking to driver and passenger alike, is one that benefits from the forced lack of MPH-who would want to hurry through countryside like this? So when we get to Malham and discover that it is one of the places that the long-distance path "The Pennine Way" passes through we are sorely tempted to wander off on this 267 mile trek straight away, just on a whim. But then we agree to compromise and head to Malham Cove instead-it's only a mile away.

Malham Cove is a natural limestone formation some 263 foot from top to bottom, or from bottom to top when you are climbing up the 400 irregular steps which take you to the Limestone Pavement above the cove. Steep steps. The climb is well worth the effort, not only for the view over this part of the Dales but also to stand on the Limestone Pavement-a rock formation found in very few places in the world. As with a lot of our landscapes it was formed by the good old Ice Age-an era determined to leave its mark throughout the land with sculptures on a gigantic scale cut into the earth.

More evidence of the aesthetic leanings of the thawing ice caps is seen at Gordale Scar where, even in this dry season, Gordale Beck runs majestically down the rock to fall gracefully onto the heads of the school party playing at its base. The walk here from Malham Cove has taken us through a country lane with farmland on each side and where there is farmland in the Dales there are the old stone barns. These structures, and there are thousands of them throughout the Dales, have a neglected air about them nowadays, but when modes of transport and roads were more primitive the barns were essential to the survival of the Dale farmers; a lot of storage space would have been required for the seasons when the scattered and isolated population would have been completely cut off from the rest of Yorkshire. Also, being in a damp environment, cereal crops had to be taken into barns to dry out once cut. Being built of local stone they blend in with their surroundins perfectly, as do the miles of dry-stone walling stretching off in every direction. Little do we realise, as we turm from Gordale Scar to make our circuitous way back towards Malham, that we are about to enter a different world; one of Fairies and Hermits.

Janet's Foss, a small waterfall over which the Gordale Beck falls into a deep pool before rushing and tumbling over a rocky course under the trees. This pool was used in times past by the farmers for dipping their sheep but there is a far older history to this place; behind the waterfall can be seen a cave and it was here that Jennet, Queen of the Faries in these parts, made her home. There is another cave nearby wherein lived a Hermit, as legend would have it, but Jennet's chosen dwelling is by far the more excellent spot. Looking out from behind her curtain of water she would have a view of the lush vegetation crowding on each side of the Beck with Dragonflys dancing in the air before her, their vivid colours changing as they caught the sunlight-a stark contrast to the open dales which surround this oasis. The farmers dip their sheep elsewhere these days but, walking down the valley beside the beck, we know that Jennet lives here still, waiting to entice foolhardy mortals into her dangerous and lovely realm.

After Settle we point our car in the direction of the North Yorkshire Moors, taking a meandering route out of the Dales through Wenslydale and a break in the journey at Aysgarth Falls. This triple flight of waterfalls on the River Ure captured the imagination of Turner, Wordsworth, the producers of "Robin Hood: Prince Of Thieves" and, last but not least, us simple mudhoppers. Stretching your legs is always a good idea on a long journey but beware of doing it in a place like this-you dont want to leave!

Leaving is made easier however because of where we are heading: the Moors have great appeal to both of us. Our B&B is in the village of Castleton, from where we can wander in any given direction and within minutes all signs of civilisation have virtually disappeared. It is little wonder that this national park is so popular but, having said that, there is very little evidence of it being a 'tourist trap' (or a 'honeypot', as they call it in this part of the world) there is so much of it that there is plenty to go round. Even at Goathland, a village made famous as the setting for Aidensfield in the TV series 'Heartbeat' and which attracts many thousands of goggle-box addicts every year, there is not much to differentiate it from any other quiet Yorkshire village: the only thing out of the ordinary here is the Ford Anglia panda car parked up outside the village stores.

As we explored our immediate surroundings Wheeldale was a highlight, and not only for the 1 mile stretch of Roman road with its hard-core and drainage ditches still visible. Walking through the heather with the rich peat soil beneath and Grouse running off in all around us fell firmly into the category of 'Life's simple pleasures'.....

.....as did crossing the River Esk at Lealholm using stepping stones so well made and placed that they give the impression of being a regular throughfare, rather than a haphazard method of getting from one side of a river to the other. Somewhat less reassuring to the ankle department was our walk, or rather clambour, along the banks of a stream which we discovered somewhere along the way and which begged to be clamboured along. No clear path, instead large boulders and tree roots made the going slow and awkward-but fun. And when you have landed in a place with no reason to know nor care where a path might lead you to, nor to worry about how long it takes, then you are well and truly Mudhopping.

One final impression of the North Yorkshire Moors, names and locations deliberately witheld: We had stuck our heads into the bar at a village Inn to ask directions, which we were given by one of the locals within but not before we had noticed that this bar was pretty much unravaged by the modern trend to destroy the 'Good Old British Pub'-it looked real and lived in. The next day, and in the next village, we were talking to somebody who knew the area well and we mentioned the Inn. She looked at us in alarm and said;

"You didn't have a drink in there did you?"

We answered in the negative and told her that we had just popped in there to ask directions. She continued;

"If you ever have a drink in there, have it from the bottle or can-their glasses are filthy, everything in that place is filthy, they don't keep the place clean at all!"

All of this was related to us with her facial expression showing disgust at the thought of this filth but then, after a slight pause, the look softened as she said;

"Mind you, it's not surprising really. The people who own it are very old and almost blind

One day we have just got to go back to that Inn!