A bimble round Robin Hood's Bay

Who he of the Lincoln green?  Miles from here.  I can vouch for that after my journey across the North York Moors. Robin Hood is not just a Notts hero but a mythic figure of a swathe of the frozen North, liberating wealth from the nobs and rousing the downtrodden peasants. I imagine Sean Bean down on the beach singing sea shanties with the smugglers saving casks of sack from the surf. The story put forth is that smuggling was so rife in this precipitous outcrop on the Cleveland shore that a basket of silk could be moved from the quay to the top of the village in less than five minutes without ever being seen in the street.  A close knit fishing community isolated from the rest of Yorkshire by inaccessible roads and tall cliffs would have been an ideal bolt-hole for legendary smugglers.  Many a ship has foundered in these treacherous waters and smuggling or 'salvage' would have been a lucrative sideline.

Tucked into the hillside, sheltered from the worst of the North Easterlies, it is clear why it has become a greta escape destination.  Just enough interest for a week's exploring has led to the entire village consisting of second homes and holiday rentals. IN the maze of cottages ranged up and down the hillside the ubiquitous cottage for rent sign evinced the plethora of options.  It must be abut with visitors in the summer months and once there you wouldn't want to climb back up to the car park too often.  Whatever the arguments about short term rentals it seems to have kept the pace alive. Im not sure what industry would keep the place afloat otherwise.  Perhaps this is the inevitable future of such chocolate box destinations.

Harder souls once lived here eking out a living from the sea. Idyllic fora a visit this would have been a harsh place to live in the depths of col winters and there is a memorial to the bravery of the Whitby lifeboat crew. It tells a tale of the stranded Brig 'Visiter' and the people and horses who helped transport the Whitby lifeboat across the cliff heights reaching 500 feet in snowdrifts to save the sailors.  Legendary feats pitting some Klaus Kinski figure directing stout yeoman to overcome all obstacles raising the boat over the moors and into the bay.  

The weather held out for us and as the sea receded the full glory of the beach and the wide stretch of sand and rock-pools became visible stretching out to Ravenscar. What view for these tiny cottages ranged up the hill, tumbling over one another, competing for social status as the street rises. 

 Theres not much cat swinging going on and neighbours must have been on good terms. I can see why locals sold up after having half of Yorkshire poking their heads into your living room. In't it cute, 'compact and bijou'.  It is a great place to bimble around the terraced cobbles, musing on the living history. Shades of Dylan Thomas' Llaregub rife for a Yorskhire revision.  Mog and Captain Cat were to be found in the Laurel Inn which quickly became our favourite pub, all wooden chairs, open fire and snug warmth in the glow of Timothy Taylor Landlord. The village is probably more Landlord swilling Madonna these days than Polly Garter but there was warmth in the welcome both here and in the Dolphin where local musicians blasted out Dylan covers with a Brexit twist.

press gangs  excise men poldrak tv drama scaurs limestone and blue shale whitby jet fossilised monkey trees fossils ammonites 

  

A bimble up and down the Cinder Path

 Mighty steeds mounted and lycra clad we knights of Boggle Hole ventured out in early sunshine to hit the trail that had beckoned us.  The Cinder Path is part of Sustrans route 1 and runs along the old railway line that ran from Scarborough to Whitby from 1885 until its closure in 1965.  Imagination runs wild as one imagines the sight of steam trains puffing up to the heights of Ravenscar 190 feet above the sea with the wild moors on t' other.

There is a heritage railway nearby running to Whitby across the North York Moors but this route had the sea and the destinations.  Locals can still remember the white smoke and whistles and the area would be so much richer with this backdrop. Maybe one day when England is a post Brexit theme park and the beaten pound encourages rich tourists from the colonies they will re-instate these lost jewels but for now we had the track to ourselves.  Each turn of the pedal afforded a view and the coconut aroma of gorse filled the fresh morning air.  Filled with spring we sprang up the incline to Ravenscar passing aluminium pits and brickworks which hinted at the history of a  town that never was.  Perched on the edge of the cliffs of Cleveland a town had been laid out by prospectors eager to match the grandeur of Scarborough. Streets and sewers were laid out but the idea was abandoned before the war as the pure folly became clear.  This spot was known to be cut off by snow for months at a time and you would have to make a concerted effort to get there now that the rail line has gone.  It is a tidy little village with a majestic hotel dominating the hillside.  The remnants of a station are a reminder of the Victorian vision and the high point of the trail.

 It was, worryingly, all downhill from here to Scarborough. As much as we delighted in freewheeling for several miles, defying the laws of topography, we sensed the pleasure may not be recquited on the return journey.

Scarborough was vast and it seemed like all of Yorkshire had run to the sun. We ducked and weaved from the imposing mansions on its escarpment to the faded splendour of its backstreets; Regency terraces to the teeming harbour we whizzed along passing the hordes on the heaving promenade.  It was all a bit overwhelming and too much to take in on this visit. We had to stop though and the promise of an afternoon tea to allay the calorific bonk drew us into an ubiquitous tea shop.  We were not prepared for the sweet feast presented but Rob stoically assisted in demolishing the cream tea, cake, sandwich and crisp combo.

With fire and sugar in the belly we hit an A road out of town glad to be back on the secluded route.  It was odd how the sudden crowds had suddenly drawn a pall over these seaside destinations. Neither of us felt a desire to dwell amongst the hugger mugger for once and I wondered if this was a coming of age event.

It was all uphill from here and the calorific intake was timely as we rose and rose. Puffing Billy must have burned some coal going up this incline. It was at least 8 miles to Ravenscar and sometimes as much as one in 39 gradient.  My plan to cycle back to fitness the easy way along disused railways was fatally flawed as they are by no means flat.

With abandoned joy we hurled our rattling bones down the slope to Boggle Hole revelling in the virtuous exhaustion of a day well spent.

A Bimble round Boggle Hole

April fools, as ever, we planned a hopeful hiking/biking trip to the North East and our luck was in as we beat the snowfall by a day.  Bathed in sunshine with only a nip in the air we struck gold on the Eastern frontier.  Riding our luck and our iron horses, Lord Robert of Whitley and I reconvened our mounted, quixotic adventures upon the Cleveland Way.

Our castle was the jewel in the YHA crown, intriguingly entitled Boggle Hole, a magnificently converted corn mill, refuge for shipwrecked sailors and hostel since the 1930's. Recently upgraded for modern yoots, peddling food and fun for families, this venue is haven for beachcombers and sand artists. All generations mingled and idled in the snug of the bar with a bit of something for all ages.  Grandad sat with his map and a sprained ankle while kids tucked into mounds of spag bol.

We wilted by the fiery blast of the wood stove and got stuck into the range of cakes; gluten free carrot for me and a lime and zucchini for Rob.

The beach was a sight to behold after months of land locked winter and that first blast of ozone and salt unlocked the spirit as the German Sea unleashed its secrets.   A lower layer of mudstone is being constantly worn away on this coast and the gritty sandstone and shale falls away revealing fossils and Whitby jet treasures.  Limestone caulks stretch into the bay at low tide creating rock pools for miniature bimblers to explore. Oystercatchers needled the seaweed as fear of the Boggle who lives in a cave by the tideline kept naughty children in check.

Upsetting this sea sprite was a bad omen and I reminded a few young sprites of this at breakfast after a few belts in the pubs in Robin Hood Bay caused morning fragility.  The sight of a frantic parent tearing around shouting, 'where are the kids?' and racing down to the beach suggested the Boggle was causing mischief.  We could stem a sigh of relief as we had left such responsibilities inland for the weekend. The hard work of the hostelleers allowed communality and afforded hospitality that would be hard to match in more upscale accommodation.

My something was a library of books on the adult wing which they tucked us away on.  Leather sofas and wooden floors and walls of readable books bequeathed by visitors imbued with the ethos of brotherly love, wanting to leaving something behind for fellow bogglers. The twin room was a bit bleak but functional as we were consigned to the snoring section but that was all we needed and at such a bargain price we almost felt guilty for the riches on offer.

Always prepared I was now shamefaced as Rob arrived. I had a triple whammy of a puncture, the wrong inner tube and no spanner! Determined to be positive we set off, after more cake, to scale the cliffs to the Cleveland Way toward Whitby. We would return to the micro climate of Robin Hood Bay, nestled in the lee of the North East winds and pushed on upward as the cliffs rose and the wind keened on the heights.  We came across an unfathomable device for removing sailors from stranded boats by winching a barrel along a wire to the top of the cliff. We imagined the sailor who was chosen to dangle perilously would have preferred to have taken his chances in the German Sea than undergo this vertiginous journey.  The local engineers must have longed for the chance to rescue stricken sailors to try out their experiment in defying physics.

We pushed on, knees creaking in a walk to beat any stepmaster and came across a fine art deco horn and light house warning boats off these barren cliffs and away from the dangerous waters hundreds of feet below.

Now gentrified into spectacular accommodation this would make a great spot for a weekend away, rather than billeted in the rows of green mobile homes nearby that resembled an internment camp rather than a holiday park.  The isolation of the wild cliffs jarred with the multitude of metal boxes that resembled shipping containers.This was no place to linger in a fret or sea fog and luckily we had an azure sky and a sea I remembered as brown looked almost blue.   This juxtaposition of splendid isolation in nature and the hustle of humanity was to hit us full square as we descended the 199 steps from Dracula's dramatic and iconic perches on the headland into the town.

 Unprepared for the late afternoon revellers we got discombobulated. Another time, we would be in the midst of the revelry but the sight of stumbling stag and hen do's on the cobbled streets caught us unawares.

Funland would have to wait for another visit as we settled for an obligatory fish supper on the harbour wall, warily protecting our chips from beady eyed seagulls and Captain Jack Sparrow having a crafty fag.

Inner tube and spanner procured we decided only losers take the bus and indulged ourselves in a ride with Bob's taxi looking for some local knowledge.  Tales of Larpool viaduct and its 5 million bricks which awaited us on the Cinder Path tomorrow segued into a tale of a mine in the distance that bore unheralded riches in some kind of magic fertiliser. There's gold in them thar hills. No locals were employed in this venture according to Bob and the potash found a mile underground was being surreptitiously smuggled away to Middlesborough along a 20 mile tunnel. Top secret information with a suggestion that it was a German company behind it led to the inevitable B word. Google revealed it was actually a spectacularly ambitious and expensive project organised by a spirited entrepreneur backed by an Australian mining billionairess to extract the finest fertiliser in the world with an expectation that China and the sons of the steppes of Russia will pay a fortune for it in the future as soils weaken.  This sounded like the most ambitious project the UK had posited for a long while with Europe's deepest mine and billions in investment.  I thought this Klondike spirit had disappeared and I wished the visionaries of Sirius well in such a risky venture.  Someone must know that this spice from the world of the worms will allow them to control the universe in the future.

We wondered how many minutes it would take for Brexit to rear its head and sure enough Bob had a view, informed by a variety of sources with a bent toward leave.  As a fisherman and now a taxi driver he made an articulate case and who were we to argue on this fine day, even if we could have gotten a word in. Entertained and armed with new facts we wrestled with our consciences back to the safety of Boggle Hole where the smugglers rest with my fisherman's friend.

A bimble around Turville

A Kite’s eye view of the Chilterns would be a magnificent sight, soaring above the beechwoods, top of the food chain.  Hughes 'Hawk Roosting', no sophistry in this body, ‘I kill where I please because it's all mine.’ I settle for a quick spin to get the skull cinema going. Endorphins rush as I imagine the earth’s face upward for my inspection.  The plaintive cries of the circling Kite’s are rejoindered by the inimitable squawks of the countless pheasantry in the fields.  Bursting from hedges and strutting in fields with their feathered harem they are a sight to behold. Cocks proud in their plumage crow their guttural pride. Bred to be shot in the local estates this is the new economy of the area and they are lords of the manor. Their cocksure manner is ill found though as they are more akin to sitting ducks. There cannot be much sport in bagging such a tame bird.  They make for pleasant company though and enliven the combes and valleys of the Chilterns which always seem a bit empty and desolate in winter despite the apparent wealth of the area. There is a sense of isolation and hilly miles can be passed as if there is one secret, unknowable world within these charming valleys, guarded by hedges and security cameras. Or perhaps I am bonking and reaching maudlin capacity in need of a power bar. 

I was slightly concerned about my descending skills as I freewheeled from Ibstone. The valleys are steep and unforgiving and I didn't fancy the ride back. Beyond lay the Thames and this secret area was slowly offering up its jewels.  Someone knew something and Turville was a good place to begin.  A postcard village that can boast of more celebrity references than Love Island.  The Bull and Butcher was my primary research haven, finding a focus group over a pint of Brakspears.  I  had taken a few photos and wondered why they were familiar.  Ten minutes in the bar revealed a treasure trove of information that would keep the squirrels in beech nuts for a year.  

That'll be the Vicar of Dibley's cottage by the church... and another Midsomer Murder happened there.

Then the big reveal! 

Of course, the windmill ! I had just staggered up a ridiculous incline to this Cobstone Mill, home of Hayley Mills no less. Sure enough, Chitty Chitty Bang Bang.  

Keep going... Day of the Triffids?

There was something else though, and they kept me guessing... I was thinking 'Went the Day Well' ...They didn't know what I was on about. 

You'm joking I bellowed in my mother's favourite Black Country drawl. Not really. She visibly recoils at this utterance. 

Goodnight Mr Tom ! I'd just been forced to watch it three times. I had to go and have a look at the village green to get my bearings and sure enough there it was with the flint walls of the Oxon cottages dressed wth wisteria and manicured to a tee. The epitome of rural safety, a safe haven for young Willie from the horror of the war and a vicious mother. I had to get the details from Isla, who is a mine of information about Little Werewold and William Beech. She could contest mastermind about the book and film. Isla even knew the name of the dog, Sammy if you are testing.  A Year 6 staple, the village is burnt into the retina of our youth of today, much like Lennie suffocating dogs in Californian sunshine is for the previous generation. There are no snakes swimming across ponds in the garden of Eden here though, only a picturesque spot drawing the crowds.  Rust coloured rooves and box hedges draw the eye toward the windmill on the horizon.  Hawthorn blossom and daffodils  in the churchyard suggested sheltered climes. Blackened creosote on barns signified the uniform style that is so quintessentially Chiltern.

Storm Freya approached so I set off uphill past a burst water main that had me wading knee deep. There was a ten mile detour on offer but I was on my last, very wet legs.  I hoped the pheasants were finding some shelter. Undefeated I wanted to eke the day out and there was just enough  time for a short walk from Ibstone, diving into the woods and the Worsley Estate looking for Paul Getty’s cricket pitch.  He has created a duplicate of the Oval and I was determined to find it. Even in Storm Freya it was quite an amazing apparition, a manicured lawn of international quality in the middle of the woods. I bet he hosts great celebrity ding dongs with this fine centrepiece ringing with the summer clink of Pimms on the lawn and the crunch of cucumber sandwiches. I could almost hear the crack of willow on leather above the approaching gale.