Andy’s Yorkshire Rambles

Ask to hear people’s initial perceptions of Yorkshire and they’re sure to depict images of Heathcliff striding over barren moors or the farmers of Emmerdale tending their flock before a pint in the Woolpack.

Whilst most non-fictional Yorkshire folk are better acquainted with the county’s vibrant cities and industrial centres, we do occasionally venture into the natural beauty that is on our doorstep. Donning muddy walking boots, packing my backpack with unappealing sandwiches and a cagoule, and setting out to trudge through fields for a few hours is a hidden passion of mine.

When I was young I would go on walks with my family; I am sure I protested about getting up early, having to stop watching the TV and not being able to ‘play out’ with my friends. However, I secretly associated ‘going on a walk’ with being grown up, and I definitely wanted to be grown up. Consequently I was often found up hill and down dale on my childhood weekends.

Being at university has given my walking exploits a new lease of independent life. I convinced a Southern friend of mine, who just happened to have a car, that he had to see some of the more picturesque parts of Yorkshire, and then got out my guidebooks and planned a trip. Since then our group has expanded to four people and my love of walking has, at least in part, infected my friends.

Associating walking with adulthood has left me with some rather peculiar habits which are due to the fact my dad always did them and I thought this was the only way to be: I insist on tucking my jeans into my walking socks, no matter how dry the terrain, I only wear the most traditional solid leather walking boots, I always bring a guide book, no matter how well trodden the walk we go on is and I bore my walking partners with interesting scrap of local trivia from said guide book, just as my dad did when I was younger.

On my most recent trip we began in the quaint village of Burnsall, that traverses the River Wharfe, walking along the river before crossing some fields and climbing to the village of Appletreewick where we stop in a conveniently located pub, just far enough away that we feel we deserve a drink.

No walk in the Dales is complete without a few well earned pints in a country pub, sat next to a roaring fire, resting your tired feet. The pub is also the place to share the thoughts that have been running through your mind while you walk, and as such relaxed conversation inevitable ensues. I find myself, ordering a pint of Carling. This would shame my dad, who would suggest I should try one of the local real ales, but alas my taste buds have not matured to that level of ‘grown up’ yet, so lager it is.

As we left the pub and climbed the next hill, there were some interesting mining sights, that my guide book told me had a fascinating history, but my walk companions have begged me not to repeat it in this article.
Rising to the crest of the hill, with a view over Wharfedale, we could review our progress and decided this was a good place for sandwiches. Again, the picnic stage of a walk exposes my lack of ‘grown-upness’. Although I am happy to pack myself some sandwiches and Kit-Kats in my backpack, I still don’t feel grown up enough to have brought a thermos of coffee, as my dad, and seemingly everyone else, does. Instead I stick to my trusty orange squash.

The real joy of walking is that there is certain serenity in the activity. Walking in the countryside creates an atmosphere of peace, whether it is the silence (apart from the gurgling of a river), the fresh air or the metronomic rhythm of footsteps. I can walk for hours, surrounded by friends, lost in thought and reflection, with nothing to distract me other than a strangely shaped tree.