In Skipton we bought waterproofs and upgraded from trainers to boots in preparation for the Pennine Way. We ate a pie by the canal in dazzling sunshine, enjoying the warm hospitality and good humour of Yorkshire once again.
Yorkshire has such pride in itself, its ways and traditions. Britain’s biggest county by a long chalk, it has a big personality to match. This T-shirt we saw stretched across a large belly in a Leeds sums it up:
A short walk took us out to the home of Isabel’s friend Piers. His ancestors have maintained their Catholic faith and practices since Norman times, enduring and evading the waves of reformation, sectarian violence and purges through a combination of luck, tenacity and geographical seclusion in the Yorkshire Dales. On the hillside by their family home there are a cluster of standing stones, one for each generation raised there.
On the morning we set out there were two sun-dogs glowing in the sky, an ancient sign of good fortune. We have dedicated this leg of the pilgrimage to the memory of Isabel’s father Stephen Freer.
We picked up the Pennine way in Gargrave, a charming and friendly town on the banks of the River Aire. We stepped into the church for a nosey around and found an unexpectedly lively scene. Every second Thursday local volunteers cook and serve a two course lunch for the village elders. Men and women who might otherwise be lonely and isolated were gathered together around tables set up in the nave. We were encouraged to sit down and for £4.50 we enjoyed Shepherd’s pie and veg with rhubarb and custard and several cups of tea.
We spoke to Susan who was brought up in a lock-keeper’s cottage and remembered the days of horse-drawn coal-barges where now there are tourists on narrow boat pleasure cruises. Helen told us how she was brought up in London during World War Two. She had been allotted a place on a convoy to Canada, but her mother chose not to evacuate the children, preferring that they face the dangers together. In this way Helen avoided the fate of the children on board the ‘City of Benares’, whose tragic story we had seen portrayed in the play ‘Lifeboat’ at the West Yorkshire Playhouse the week before.
It was wonderful to see a community serving its elders and combating loneliness in this way. As one gentleman said he never went to church except for these lunches (and the mammoth Christmas lunch laid on with donations from local shops). The spirit of generosity behind these lunches was not religious, it was a grass-roots movement to help people in need close to home. As strangers passing through we were also welcomed and fed, and we had the sense of a community blessed by kindness.
We followed the river on towards Malham chatting to one pensioner who reminded us to take our time and enjoy each moment. ‘If you haven’t got a timetable, you can’t be late’ was his sage advice.
We also met a florist called Marie-Louise who was exceedingly pleasant and chatty, but somehow managed to slip in her support for Brexit on the grounds that European intervention had prevented Theresa May from extraditing a terrorist to the USA to face punishment. She spoke in favour of the death penalty as being appropriate punishment for killers, then wished us well for our upcoming wedding. We bought some flowers and moved on.
In Malham we reconnected with Judy Rogers, the representative of People in The Dales who I had heard speak in Skipton a few weeks previously. Though we were recent acquaintances, she unhesitatingly invited us to stay with her and share a celebratory family dinner in honour of her mother Doreen’s birthday. Doreen was about to be honoured with a special award acknowledging sixty years of service with Christian Aid. Doreen and Judy had both spent many years in charitable projects inspired by their faith. Judy’s husband, an atheist, had also worked hard to alleviate suffering all over the world. Through his work with DIFD (Department for International Development) he seeks to find ways to help communities to anticipate and prepare for changes in climate that could affect their livelihoods, preparation being far cheaper than always responding late to crises that bring about famine and subsequent conflicts.
Judy told us more about her work bringing people out of cities to enjoy time out in the beautiful surroundings of Malham Cove. Some Syrian women had recently walked with her and other refugee families for a picnic. Their bags strangely heavy, but Judy couldn’t persuade them to unload them and travel more lightly. When they arrived at the cove the weight was explained as the ladies brought out their contributions- traditional Syrian food lovingly prepared and contained in beautiful glass bowls. Who needs Tupperware?
The next few days saw us traversing the Pennine Way, and for the first time we were surrounded by other walkers. In Horton in Ribblesdale we saw crowds of city-folk who had driven out on Friday night and were planning to climb the ‘three peaks’ on Saturday. Walking 25 miles and ascending three hills of over 600m in just 12 hours seemed a bit extreme to us, but we acknowledged that few people have the luxury of walking for weeks on end. The urge to escape the city and the desk and to seek out clear air and long vistas is strong in all of us, but it seems a shame to turn a walk into a race or a feat of endurance, rather than an opportunity for deeper reflection or engagement with the land.
We were now in the border lands which have long been subject to raids and the ravages of feuding families known as ‘Reivers’. Ancient fortified farmhouses known as ‘bastles’ dotted the land, along with some impressive castles and small-windowed, strong-walled churches where folk could shelter from marauding cattle-thieves. Why are border-lands so often synonymous with conflict and lawlessness? Why are borders so often cause for dispute? The Dry-stone walls that criss-cross so much of England and Yorkshire in particular reminded me of Robert Frost’s poem, ‘Mending Wall’. In it Frost shows us two characters whose characters embody two ways of seeing the world, one sees strong walls as necessary for keeping peace and stability, the other wishes we could live without barriers. In debates about politics and migration we see the same two ideologies still passionately opposed.
Something there is that doesn’t love a wall,
That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it,
And spills the upper boulders in the sun;
And makes gaps even two can pass abreast.
The work of hunters is another thing:
I have come after them and made repair
Where they have left not one stone on a stone,
But they would have the rabbit out of hiding,
To please the yelping dogs. The gaps I mean,
No one has seen them made or heard them made,
But at spring mending-time we find them there.
I let my neighbour know beyond the hill;
And on a day we meet to walk the line
And set the wall between us once again.
We keep the wall between us as we go.
To each the boulders that have fallen to each.
And some are loaves and some so nearly balls
We have to use a spell to make them balance:
“Stay where you are until our backs are turned!”
We wear our fingers rough with handling them.
Oh, just another kind of out-door game,
One on a side. It comes to little more:
There where it is we do not need the wall:
He is all pine and I am apple orchard.
My apple trees will never get across
And eat the cones under his pines, I tell him.
He only says, “Good fences make good neighbours.”
Spring is the mischief in me, and I wonder
If I could put a notion in his head:
“Why do they make good neighbours? Isn’t it
Where there are cows? But here there are no cows.
Before I built a wall I’d ask to know
What I was walling in or walling out,
And to whom I was like to give offence.
Something there is that doesn’t love a wall,
That wants it down.” I could say “Elves” to him,
But it’s not elves exactly, and I’d rather
He said it for himself. I see him there
Bringing a stone grasped firmly by the top
In each hand, like an old-stone savage armed.
He moves in darkness as it seems to me,
Not of woods only and the shade of trees.
He will not go behind his father’s saying,
And he likes having thought of it so well
He says again, “Good fences make good neighbours.”
Coming next: Northumbria, Hadrian’s Wall and crossing into Scotland!
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