Wolds Way Day 2

South Cave - Goodmanham

Thankfully the Fox and Coney were happy to upgrade our breakfast to a cooked one, for a small extra fee.  Apparently we had only booked for cold continental breakfasts.  With this fuel inside us, Jill dropped me at the top of the village and I set off into the warming day.  A climb up to a Woodland Trust forest led to classic Wold countryside of steeply curving valleys and rolling hilltops.  One hillside provided the site of an unexpected vineyard, Little Wold.  I wonder what Yorkshire wine tastes like?  Beyond here Drewton Estate signs warned passing walkers to behave themselves.  As if we wouldn’t.  A bloke walking the other way said hello and just as I was replying a hen pheasant burst squawking out of the undergrowth, surprising us both.  ‘We’ve just missed lunch,’ he said.  Over the fields of oilseed rape, skylarks were singing incessantly, and in the valleys butterflies, including a common blue or two, flitted about in the sun.  Along one field I passed a couple from Kirkby Stephen who had also been staying in the Fox and Coney.  They were walking the Way and were staying in many of the same places as us.  We expected to see each other quite often.

Hessleskew farm has a particularly unattractive farmhouse, like a sprayed-concrete, plastic-windowed version of a traditional farmhouse.  The grim industrial sheds were at least livened up by the swallows that flew in and out but they couldn’t quite bring me out of the mood that was settling on me.  My foot, sore from the day before, wasn’t feeling too good.  All I could comfort myself with was the fact that this was going to be the shortest day of the week and therefore I would have the most time to recover.

Beyond Arras farm was a rather long, dull stretch of walking alongside a cornfield, rising up to the horizon on the left, and a high hedgerow to the right, leaving no view but the monotony of the path in front.  The next field was also huge, this time full of oilseed rape that hung over the path, whipping my arms with seedpods and smudging my trousers with pollen from the flowers.  At the bottom of the valley I popped into Rifle Butts Quarry.  An exposed section of hillside shows an interesting arrangement of rock strata.  Interesting if you’re a geologist, I suppose.  I passed on.  It wasn’t far from Goodmanham, but it was all road walking, meaning my foot was giving me a certain amount of trouble.  I almost limped into the village, with its pretty church, and up the road to the welcome sight of the Goodmanham Arms.  Jill had just arrived and was sitting at a sunny table in the yard.  Brewery equipment was strewn over a number of the tables – they had just returned from a beer festival – and the air was heavy with malt from the next batch.  Inside, the pub was contrastingly dark after the brightness outside.  The walls were wood panelled, the floors were russet and black tiles, and the place was split into little snugs by wooden partitions.  It looked a wonderful place to spend some time.  The Goodmanham Ales dark mild was offered at £2 a pint and, though it perhaps wasn’t the appropriate drink for a warm day, I couldn’t resist.  Sadly the Gooders Gold pale ale had just gone off.

Our accommodation for the night was in Shiptonthorpe, a village which didn’t offer much in the way of pubs or restaurants, so we called into Market Weighton to see what there was there.  Not a lot, it turned out, but one pub, the Bay Horse, was doing food that evening.  First we went to check in at the Shiptonthorpe Arms (not a pub, just a B&B).  There was no one around so we called the advertised number and a bloke turned up almost immediately.  The rooms were all freshly decorated and very nicely done, with every facility you might need.  There was also a kitchen and lounge area for use by the guests.  With everything being so neat and nice, the price was a certain fussiness.  ‘The cardinal sin is locking your key in your room.’  ‘Don’t eat takeaways in your room: they are smelly, greasy and stain the upholstery.’

We had no intention of doing that.  The Bay Horse served a good pint of Great Newsome brewery beer, Frothingham Best, and a decent, pub-grubby meal.  An oldish couple complained about their meal – the pigeon inedible, the baked potato uncuttable – and made a bit of a fuss about it, insisting on paying despite the landlady’s offer not to charge.  She seemed a little upset so we reassured her we were happy with our food.