Aysgarth and Kettlewell: To Upper Wharfedale and Beyond! Part 2

A Waterfall and an Anniversary Dinner in Our Favourite Village

North Yorkshire

Craven

The 26th of July 2020, our 45th Wedding Anniversary, dawned cool and damp.

Breakfast at the Racehorses, Kettlewell, was appropriately socially-distanced, but that is not difficult when only three of 17 rooms are occupied. Still, I was pleased we were not the only ones unafraid to venture out and cautiously exercise new (and, it turned out, rather temporary, freedoms.

It was not a great breakfast. When we were here in 2017 breakfast included a slab of black pudding, now replaced by a triangle of greasy pap. That is really not what hash browns are meant to be.

Here is a reminder from the yesterday's post (Skipton, Grassington and Kettlewell) of how we were when we came to Kettlewell on honeymoon in 1975 when hash browns (the good and the bad) were still confined to the far side of the Atlantic.

Lynne, Yorkshire Dales July 1975
Lynne's hair is still this colour, and no, it does not come out of a bottle

How we are now will become painfully obvious as this post progresses.

Me, Yorkshire Dales July 1975.
My hair seems to have changed colour

Kettlewell to Aysgarth

It was a dismal morning so we got in the car and set off up the dale. The narrow bottom of the V-shaped valley has to accommodate the river as well as a B-road and I had forgotten how narrow that road is. The four miles to Buckden required several stops to pass oncoming vehicles.

The River Wharfe at Kettlewell, photographed on a sunnier day in 2017

On the valley sides the fields, hay meadows and grazing for cattle, were all neatly divided by dry stone walls. Each field has its own barn, a practice unique to this area. Most are of two storeys with cattle sheltered below and fodder stored above. Farms and farming methods change, many barns are now derelict, though some of the more accessible have been converted into tourist accommodation. The higher ground above, with no barns and fewer walls is rough grazing for sheep.

Another photograph from a finer day. No field barns but plenty of walls. The parallel walls at the top enclose a drover's road.

Changes in national drinking habits have seen vast numbers of pubs close over the last two decades. I am delighted that all three of Kettlewell’s are still in business, as is the Buck in Buckden and the Fox and Hounds in tiny Starbotton half way between. Starbotton has less than 50 permanent residents and over 60 houses, the ‘extra’ accommodation being second/holiday homes.

Richmondshire

Buckden is the end of Wharfedale, the Wharfe here emerging from a side valley known as Langstrothdale. We followed the B-road north through the hamlet of Cray where The White Lion, a former drover’s hostelry, is also still thriving, then steeply up the head of the valley and steeply down into Bishopdale on the other side.

Kettlewell to Aysgarth, 30 miles of Yorkshire's finest countryside (on a nice day)

Bishopdale broadens and runs into Wensleydale near Aysgarth.

Aysgarth Falls

Aysgarth is a small village lining both sides of the main road through Wensleydale. Unlike Wharfedale, Wensleydale is broad and U-shaped, the River Ure having had considerable help digging its valley from glaciation in the last ice-age. Consequently, the Ure is a much wider river than the Wharfe – and there is plenty of room for a much larger road – an A-road, in fact.

The parish church is half a mile down the dale from the main part of Aysgarth, just above the bridge giving access to the Upper Aysgarth Falls.

Upper Falls, Aysgarth

The river Ure drops 30 m east of Aysgarth. In one drop that would be big waterfall, but the Falls are in three sections over a mile of river, and each section has multiple steps. They are renowned for their beauty rather than height; whether the same can be said for two old codgers below, the crumbling remnants (speak for yourself, L) of the youngsters at the top of the post, is laughable debatable.

At Aysgarth Upper Falls

The Upper Falls have been a popular film location. In Robin Hood, Prince of Thieves Kevin Costner’s Robin having travelled to from Dover to Nottinghamshire via Hadrian’s Wall, met Nick Brimble’s Little John in North Yorkshire - director Kevin Reynolds had little respect for English Geography. They fought across the falls, and you can’t do that at Niagara.

Ten minutes walk downstream through the National Park car park and some pleasant woodland…

Near Aysgarth's Middle Falls

….are the middle falls. This is the biggest drop, though it is divided into seven steps, each so sharply cut they look artificial, though they are not.

Middle Falls, Aysgarth

The rain was holding off so we were happy to make the ten or twelve minutes stroll down to the curved lower falls.

Lower Falls, Aysgarth

Hubberholme

Craven

Leaving Aysgarth we headed back up Bishopdale, over the top and down to Buckden where we turned right for a short trip along the smallest of minor roads to the village of Hubberholme. It was a sentimental journey; we lunched at the George Inn on the first full day of our marriage and I was delighted to see the pub still thrives.

Tiny Hubberholme is also, slightly oddly, the site of Buckden parish church. The pews are the work of Robert Thompson of Kilburn who started carving mice into his work in 1919. Thompson died in 1955 but Robert Thompson Craftsmen Ltd continue the tradition of ‘mouseman’ furniture on the edge of the North York Moors.

The 13th century Parish Church of St Michael and All Angels, Buckden - in Hubberholme

The mice are small, discreetly placed and integral to the furniture, not stuck on like an afterthought. In 1975 we spent some time locating as many as we could but that is not possible now; these are the days of Covid and the church was firmly locked with the mice on the inside and us on the outside.

Kettlewell

Back in Kettlewell we had lunch – a sandwich and a cup of tea - in a café much frequented by cyclists. Here we encountered careful social distancing, disposable plates, and cutlery lobbed straight into a bowl of disinfectant after use. We are getting used to not being able to buy a beer or a cup of tea without giving a phone number, but I will be glad when that eventually disappears along with other Covid inconveniences. It is true, though, that apart from the return of the single-use plate, the effects of Covid – less driving, less flying, less generally - have often been environmentally beneficial. Even a grumpy old git must occasionally pause to appreciate a dark cloud’s silver lining.

Kettlewell

We spent much of the afternoon wandering round the village – apart from a short spell standing in the doorway of the village shop (closed on Sunday) hiding from the rain. Dale’s villages, like everywhere else, look best in the sunshine, but the relatively light-coloured limestone means they do not look overly depressing in the wet.

Kettlewell

There have been changes since 1975, the plethora of parked cars in the pictures above is an ugly but inevitable consequence of increasing affluence. Other changes are for the better. Most buildings today are in good condition and there are several that were once tired, or even on the verge of dilapidation. that have been rebuilt and updated. They look good from outside, while I would expect the comforts and convenience of the interior are beyond the imaginings of the original builders.

Restored Building, Kettlewell

There are spots without parked cars…

Kettlewell without parked cars

…but even road signs can take you down memory lane. A metal post near where the village roads meet the ‘main’ road may carry four modern signs, but the top one to Burnsall and Skipton is a 'pre-Worboys' as road sign aficionados (yes, they do exist) call them. The Worboys committee reported in 1963 on the shortcomings of the road signage of the day and suggested a complete overhaul and re-design. Their suggestions were put into effect from January 1965. I passed my driving test in 1967 so there were still plenty of pre-Worboys signs in those far off days when a gallon (4.5 litres) of petrol cost 5/11d (just under 30p) but they are vanishingly rare now.

Pre-Worboys road sign, Kettlewell

The (almost) famous and (almost) infallible Kettlewell weather stone was not, I think, here in 1975, but it is hardly new. You do not have to smile, as they would say in Yorkshire, but most people do.

The Kettlewell Weather Stone

At the east end of the village, where the path sets off to climb Great Whernside, (the summit is 3.5 km beyond and 450 m above the ridge in the photo)…

The eastern corner of Kettlewell

…there is a bridge over the Kettlewell Beck. Tradition demands we stop here for a game of Pooh Sticks. Tradition was maintained and I was, as ever, a magnanimous loser.

Pooh sticks bridge over Kettlewell Beck

Late in the afternoon the village became jammed with cars. The ‘main’ road to Skipton was closed at the Wharfe Bridge and the police were attempting to funnel southbound traffic onto an alternative, single track, road. Police at the southern end of the closure were attempting to do the same with northbound traffic. They were co-ordinating their efforts, but hold-ups were inevitable. Summer weekends always bring out the bikers, largely groups of middle-aged men attempting to re-capture their youth. Tragically, one had fatally misjudged a corner between Kettlewell and Kilnsey causing a temporary road closure.

Dinner at the Blue Bell

We may have been staying at the Racehorses, but it was at the Blue Bell we spent our honeymoon, so we had dropped in there earlier and booked our anniversary dinner. In 1975 there was little choice, regular pubs did not serve food, beyond a bag of crisps; those who stayed at the Blue Bell dined at the Blue Bell, those who stayed at the Racehorses dined at the Racehorses and nobody wandered in from outside.

Blue Bell Inn, Kettlewell

Social-distancing currently limits the number of diners so booking was essential, but there is still a problem for those eccentrics who wish to dine on a Sunday evening. Sunday lunch is big, but many pubs and restaurants close their kitchens late afternoon. Fortunately, the Blue Bell was serving in the early evening.

Pubs are all different and have been left to work out their own Covid salvation (or not bother, in some well-publicised cases). At the Blue Bell drinkers were outside, diners inside, and we had a room to ourselves. ‘There are no individual menus,’ we were told, ‘photograph the blackboard, go to your table and we will come and take an order.’ Now, that would have been a problem in 1975!

Blue Bell menu, Kettlewell

I lack the patience to go right through the menu listing everything unknown or unavailable in 1975, but the starters are:- garlic bread! 45 years ago garlic was irredeemably foreign (though the pretentious could buy it in our local supermarket – by the clove): Carrot and coriander soup (coriander? fancy foreign stuff, what’s wrong with parsley?): sweet chilli sauce (spicy foreign muck): haddock goujons (what in God’s green Yorkshire is a goujon?). British food was among the worst in the world, it is not yet among the best, but it has come a long way in the 45 years of our marriage.

Dining at the Blue Bell

The Blue Bell appeared to be trying much harder than the Racehorses whose menu was marooned in the 1990s. I had belly pork with apple purée, black pudding croquette and cider sauce, Lynne had a lamb kofta with feta and olive salad, yoghurt dip, flat bread - and chips (some things will never change). It was good pub food and we enjoyed it; the menu had been written with thought and imagination and the food prepared with care. Was it perfect? No, but we were not paying Michelin star prices. Was it value for what we paid? Yes. Would we go back? Yes.

27/07/2020

We had enjoyed a good weekend in a place of happy memories, and although both days had been disappointingly overcast, we had not been rained on that much. Our return journey was another matter. Dire from start to finish.

A lovely day on the M6

Skipton, Grassington and Kettlewell: To Upper Wharfedale and Beyond! Part 1

A Medieval Castle and a Honeymoon Village

Sunday is our wedding anniversary (45, since you ask) and for the last ten years I have assiduously reported our celebratory excursions into the world of ‘fine dining’. But not this year. Restaurants are opening up, those that survive anyway, but hedged around with so many rules that the ‘special experience’ they offer would be ‘special’ for the wrong reasons.

‘Poor you,’ I hear you say under your breath, with varying degrees of sincerity.

But we had to go somewhere. Much as we like Swynnerton, we were desperate for a change of scene, so we struck out for the Yorkshire Dales, more specifically the village of Kettlewell in Wharfedale.

Skipton was marked on the original map, but Kettlewell or Aysgarth are far too small

And why Kettlewell? Because on the 26th of July 1975 we left our wedding reception in Solihull in the late afternoon and drove north to Kettlewell where we spent the first week of our married life.

Lynne, Yorkshire Dales July 1975
Lynne's hair is still this colour, and no, it does not come out of a bottle

We looked so young, but time has corrected that failing.

Me, Yorkshire Dales July 1975.
My hair seems to have changed colour

Skipton

North Yorkshire
Just a part of God's Own

Craven

So, on Saturday 25th of July 2020 we enjoyed the rare experience of a free-flowing M6 to Preston, (courtesy of Covid and recently completed roadworks). From there we headed to Skipton, in what the locals call God’s Own County. The small town (pop 15,000) lies just outside the Yorkshire Dales National Park, but stakes its claim for tourists’ groats by dubbing itself ‘Gateway to the Dales’.

Skipton is not in Wharfedale, and describing it as 'Beyond Wharfedale' when coming from the south is stretching the fabric of reality, but there is no word with the exact nuance of  'pre-yond'.

With a poor weather forecast and many attractions closed, we had taken the precaution of pre-booking a timed ticket for Skipton Castle. Skipton Market fills the High Street four days a week, in non-covid times that could have caused a delay with parking or finding a café for a socially-distanced cup of tea and a tea cake (with a wedge of Wensleydale), but not today.

Skipton Market

Skipton Castle

The entrance is through the Gatehouse in the curtain wall. It's at the top of the High Street next to the church. Despite it being flanked by two stout towers, if I were a medieval warlord, I would look at this flattish, unhindered approach and lick my lips. The gatehouse is crowned with the Clifford’s motto ‘Desormais’ (‘Henceforth’), described as a ‘proud challenge’ in the guide book, but sounding to me more like an admission of being rubbish and a promise to try harder. Not being warlords we gained entry by meekly showing our ticket.

The Gatehouse, Skipton Castle

Inside the gate is a grassed area with the medieval castle straight ahead…

Skipton's Medieval Castle, with the entrance and Lady Anne's steps on the left

…and to the right a 16th century extension which is the home of Sebastian Fattorini. Antonio Fattorini migrated to Yorkshire from Italy in 1826 and set up a jewellery company. The family firm prospered and expanded. They bought Skipton Castle in 1956 and although they now operate from London, Birmingham and Manchester the castle is their registered office.

Skipton Castle and its 'modern' extension

A wooden motte and bailey was built in 1090 by Robert de Romille. Little is known about him, but he is believed to have been an adventurer who came over from Normandy to fight for the new Norman kings and was rewarded with a chunk of Yorkshire. In 1102 that became quite a large chunk when Henry I gave him Upper Wharfedale and Upper Airedale as well.

A stone castle was later deemed necessary to deter marauding Scots – though the nearest corner of Scotland is 80 miles away. The Romilles ran out of heirs in 1310 so finishing the job was given to Robert Clifford who was made 1st Baron de Clifford. He just about got it done before being killed at Bannockburn (1314). So killed by a Scot while marauding in Scotland - a fatal case of irony.

The Clifford’s held the castle for the next 350 years; it is their motto over the gatehouse, their flag flying from the watchtower and mostly their work visitors see. After the Civil War, Lady Anne Clifford (1590-1676), gained permission to restore the badly damaged castle. We entered by climbing Lady Anne’s steps and passing under her stone tablet.

Lady Anne's tablet, Skipton Castle

The Great Hall is beside the kitchen. It was here medieval life was conducted, all ate in the Great Hall and all slept in the Great Hall on the same rushes. The castle is well equipped with windows, which makes it unusually light, but the glazed skylight running the length of the hall must be a modern intrusion.

Great Hall, Skipton Castle

As castle life became more sophisticated, serious dining required a banqueting hall - though I am not sure a banqueting hall required a brace of early 19th century naval cannons. Business meetings would also have taken place here, but it would have been a dark and gloomy place before the addition of the bay window in the late 15th century.

Banqueting Hall (with Culverins) Skipton Castle

And the lord and lady would also require their own withdrawing rooms and bedrooms. The windows have a fine view and show how despite its level access from the town an attacker would find the approach from the north daunting. These windows were probably added by Lady Anne, after the threat of war had passed.

Looking north from the Lord's withdrawing room over Eller Beck, Skipton Castle

The muniment tower is less altered. Here all the documents and deeds concerning the administration of the castle were kept safe behind thick walls and hefty padlocks. Unfortunately, nobody thought to keep them safe from damp and mice, and most were lost.

Muniments Room, Skipton Castle

From here we climbed the watchtower which gives a view of the other side of the Gatehouse and then descended to Conduit Court. Across the court is a ‘new’ kitchen and beer and wine storage.

'New' Kitchen, Skipton Castle

The castle saw little active service until the Civil War, when as the last royalist stronghold in the north, it was besieged for three years. Badly damaged, it was surrendered in 1645.

Lady Anne Clifford was the only surviving child of the 13th Baron who died in 1605. After forty years of legal action, and the death of her uncle, who claimed the title, she was recognised as the 14th Baroness in her own right and took possession of the castle in 1649. Having not been involved in the siege she eventually gained permission to restore the stonework, provided the upper towers were thin and the roof too weak to bear cannon. She completed her restoration in 1659 and planted a yew in Conduit Court to mark the event.

Lady Anne's Yew, Conduit Court, Skipton Castle

Skipton

The, probably apocryphal, story of fleece being hung over the castle walls to lessen the impact of Parliamentarian cannonballs has been described as the origin of the fleece on Skipton’s coat of arms. The fleece actually refers to the derivation of the town’s name and the green background to its pastoral setting. The white roses represent Yorkshire, the chequer pattern and the wyvern come from the Clifford’s arms while the bars on the banner held by the wyvern comes from the de Romille arms.

Anne Clifford would be the last Baron(ess) Clifford to bear the Clifford name. She had four children from two marriages, but both her sons died in infancy. Living to the then remarkable age of 86, she outlived both her daughters, so it was her grandson Nicholas Tufton who become 15th Baron Clifford. The current (28th Baron) is called Miles Russell and is a distant relative of Andrew Russell the 15th Duke of Bedford. Anne Clifford's mother was Margaret Russell, daughter of the 3rd Earl of Bedford. So unmerited privilege rolls down the centuries along with a good dollop of in-breeding (I know nothing about the current generation of Russells, so this is a general point not aimed at anyone in particular).

The 12th century chapel of St John the Evangelist in the inner ward is in a poor state of repair. The most interesting features are the mason’s marks. Medieval masons were paid per dressed block, and this how they claimed their fee.

Mason's Mark (a crossed z), Chapel of St John the Evangelist, Skipton Castle

Leaving the castle, we took a circular walk starting on the footpath over the Eller Beck earlier seen from a castle window.

Walking above the Eller Brook, Skipton

From here the castle certainly looks formidable.

The curtain wall of Skipton castle from Eller Beck

Before moving on, I have to include a picture taken at the end of the walk. I am as delighted as anyone by a well-made pork pie, and it was good to see the people of Skipton queuing for their theirs, properly masked and (almost) obeying the new 1m social-distancing rule.

Queueing for a good Yorkshire pork pie, Covid style, Skipton

Grassington

If Skipton is the Gateway to the Dales, then Grassington, 10 miles to the north is the Gateway to Upper Wharfedale. Its industrial and agricultural heritage are illustrated on a stone in the square.

Welcome to Grassington

Lead mining became locally important in the 17th century and in the 18th century water-powered corn mills on the Wharf were converted into textile mills which flourished until the growth of Yorkshire’s industrial cities made isolated Dales mills uneconomic. The story is told in the Grassington Folk Museum, but the volunteers who run it have decided to give the remainder of 2020 a miss and return in 2021, hopefully under better circumstances.

Grassington Folk Museum

Grassington’s 'Devonshire' was the third 'Devonshire' or 'Devonshire Arms' we had seen locally. Robert de Romille, builder of the first Skipton Castle, also held the village of Bolton some 6 miles to the East. In 1159 Lady Alice Romille gave the Augustinian order land in Bolton to build a Priory (we visited in 2012, click here for that post), so the village became known (a little illogically) as Bolton Abbey. The Cliffords duly succeeded the de Romilles and in 1748 William Cavendish, Duke of Devonshire married a Clifford heiress, added the Bolton Abbey Estate to the vast Cavendish portfolio and precipitated the local glut of Devonshires.

The Devonshire, Grassington

The Earls, later Dukes of Devonshire are all descended from the formidable Bess of Hardwick, 1527 – 1608. We visited Hardwick Hall in Derbyshire, click here for that one in 2018. The family remains immensely wealthy and the 12th Duke, Peregrine Andrew Morny Cavendish, still lives in Chatsworth House (Bess’s bigger and grander Derbyshire pile) and still owns the Bolton Abbey estate – and more besides.

Before leaving Grassington I must mention this splendid stone pineapple. It stands outside Grassington House, once a Georgian gentleman’s residence now describing itself as ‘fine-dining restaurant with elegant rooms.’ The pineapple appears to have been one of a pair and looks a little lonely on its own.

Stone Pineapple, Grassington

We drove up the dale, past Kilnsey where the huge limestone crag had the usual complement of dangling climbers, to Kettlewell…

Kettlewell, a Tale of Two Hotels

...where we checked in to the Racehorses Hotel.

The Racehorses Hotel, Kettlewell

A surprising choice, maybe, as we spent our honeymoon at the Blue Bell just across the road.

Bluebell Inn, Kettlewell

At check-in they asked if we wanted dinner. Given all the covid restrictions it felt wise to say yes.

Back in 1975 neither had tables outside and licensing laws would not have allowed them to open in the afternoon. In 2020, Saturday afternoon with pubs freshly re-opened,  drinking was popular (my photos were not taken on Saturday afternoon). All drinking was al fresco, despite it not being the warmest of July days.

If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em. After a promising start in my youth, the brewing industry must consider me a great disappointment. I ordered my first pint since last December (sorry second, click here for Bodiam and Rye) and we went to sit on the ‘riverside terrace’. The only free table was more ‘car park’ than ‘terrace’, but I must admit a pint of Timothy Taylor’s Landlord is a thing of beauty and a joy for 20 minutes (as Keats almost said).

We ambled round Kettlewell, which has changed remarkably little in the last 45 years. Many old buildings have been smartened up, and there have been a several barn conversions, but despite (I suspect) many houses being second/holiday homes, the village’s soul appears blessedly intact. But more of that tomorrow.

The 'new' Kettlewell, soul intact

We might be eating at The Racehorses, but we visited the Bluebell for a pre-dinner drink. Their Covid rules (and every pub has to make its own) decrees that inside is for diners only but it was still warm enough for a drink outside. In 1975 a pint of Theakston’s and a gin and orange cost 50p. Times have changed, Theakston’s became part of Scottish and Newcastle in 1987 (though it has been back under family control since 2004) and Lynne no longer puts orange-juice in her gin. Two large gins and a shared bottle of tonic (I am ever thrifty) with not too much ice were served exactly as requested. And a good gin it was too, if slightly more than 50p.

A G&T outside the Bluebell, Kettlewell

Back in the day the Racehorses was more upmarket than the Bluebell and out of our price range. We returned in 1995 (20th anniversary) and found the Bluebell not what it had been. We stayed there but ate, and ate well, at the Racehorses. In 2017 we brought guests and booked the Racehorses which gave us a decent pub dinner, and had a drink in the Blue Bell, which again failed to impress.

This year we booked late, we might have chosen the Blue Bell, but it was full and the Racehorses was not. Could we have learned something from that?

Diners at the Racehorses were impeccably socially-distanced. The menu was not particularly interesting but at least offered a steak and ale suet pudding – I am a succour for anything encased in suet. Lynne ordered scampi, she does that when feeling nostalgic for the 1970s.

We had a long wait for our food, though I doubt much time was spent cooking it. I do not expect everything in a pub kitchen to be cooked from scratch, they do not charge Michelin star prices, but I could see little, possibly nothing, on either plates that had not come out of a packet and been either microwaved or popped in a deep fat fryer. Was, I wondered, my disappointed at being served frozen peas unreasonable when at home we are enjoying sweet, fresh peas from the garden? And my overly dry suet pudding was unredeemed by a bowl of generic gravy. Covid excuses can be made and it was not expensive, but even so we were unimpressed.

Tomorrow will be our wedding anniversary (next post), and we had intended to dine at the Blue Bell, whatever the Racehorses had served us.