We left the Georgian buildings of mid 18th century Ingleby behind today. A cottage we passed on the way...
A lovely trek of 19km over the North York Moors followed. This was a 7 hour 19km trek - a welcome break after yesterday's marathon. It was still a significant walk though, with beautiful scenery and challenging peaks.
Mr. Wainwright's way is 'the high way.' Meaning we climb the hills, drop down to the valleys, and climb another hill. A walk along a ridge is a welcome respite. The photograph below was taken just before we reached The Wainstones (the fluffy white mounds are sheep). In his book Wainwright says, 'You will enjoy the Wain Stones.' Some of us enjoyed them more than others. Sherbet Lemon misplaced Acid Drop and had to backtrack to search for her. Her response to his distress and admonitions when he finally caught up with her? "The Americans said I should keep going."
The Water Tank took the rest of us on a diversion up a treacherous slope. Coconut Water almost curdled at one point.
We were picked up by our inn keeper and driven to Chop Gate (because there is no accommodation on route) and will be driven back to where we left off tomorrow morning. As you will have noticed, the flat route of yesterday was laid out in a wonderful patchwork of colourful fields. Great weather again - sunshine and a light breeze.
In tomorrow's blog I will give some equipment advice for aspiring walkers (hats and thermi (plural of thermos?), boots, socks and backpacks). For now, here is another scenery shot.
We didn't see Emily Brontë's Heathcliff striding on the moor today, but Yorkshire has brought to mind many of the characters created by the Brontë sisters. Here is a quote from Charlotte Brontë's Jane Eyre. Her first impression of Mr. Rochester...
Something of daylight still lingered, and the moon was waxing bright: I could see him plainly. His figure was enveloped in a riding cloak, fur collared and steel clasped; its details were not apparent, but I traced the general points of middle height and considerable breadth of chest. He had a dark face, with stern features and a heavy brow; his eyes and gathered eyebrows looked ireful and thwarted just now; he was past youth, but had not reached middle-age; perhaps he might be thirty-five. I felt no fear of him, and but little shyness. Had he been a handsome, heroic-looking young gentleman, I should not have dared to stand thus questioning him against his will, and offering my services unasked. I had hardly ever seen a handsome youth; never in my life spoken to one. I had a theoretical reverence and homage for beauty, elegance, gallantry, fascination; but had I met those qualities incarnate in masculine shape, I should have known instinctively that they neither had nor could have sympathy with anything in me, and should have shunned them as one would fire, lightning, or anything else that is bright but antipathetic….