Osmotherley Hostel 2017
Day One
It
had been pouring with rain all the way there and it was still pouring down as
we turned south from the National Park Visitor Centre along the minor road to
our start point. A car was hurtling down
the middle of the road towards us and as it approached we recognised Haydn at
the wheel, heading the wrong way. We
pulled into the car park, where Alan was already waiting, and in a few moments
Haydn joined us, having turned around somewhere, to drop Ray off while he went off
for the day.
With
wet-weather gear on we set off down the White Horse Bank road, which was acting
more like a channel for all the water that was coursing along the tarmac. Heads down, we plunged on.
At
the bottom of the hill we turned through woods and met some people coming the
other way. ‘Too warm for a hood,’ one
man said, ‘but rain’s too heavy not to have it up.’ He was right.
On the far side of the trees we emerged to attractive views of the
cliffs above us and the sodden fields below.
This path led us eventually to Gormire Lake, nestling beneath the
cliffs. It was reed-rimmed and populated
with a few swans. The rain thankfully
eased off at this point and, near the splendidly named Huggon Howl, we ditched
most of the outer layers in preparation for the big climb of the day onto the
moors again. The steeper part of the
climb was up through woodland composed partly of native trees – ash, birch, oak
– and partly of plantation spruces.
Martin and I paused a moment while the others, having had more clothing
adjustments to make, caught up. A woman
on a horse passed. ‘You’re not lost, are
you?’ she asked, as if finding some folk in the woods in the rain wasn’t an
everyday occurrence for her. I assured
her we were just waiting.
The
top part of the climb opened out and became muddier underfoot. On the plus side the weather was good and the
views over the Vale of Mowbray spread out to the west. Having gained the Cleveland Way path, we
stopped for something to eat and enjoyed the scenery. One feature of our vantage point was that we
could see dark clouds, trailing skeins of water, heading towards us across the
lower plains. We all seemed to feel an
unspoken thrill at the raw natural spectacle we were witnessing and were
exposed to. We set off walking again at
a scamper but soon stopped to put the waterproofs back on.
Thankfully
the shower didn’t last long and by the time we got to the viewpoint above
Gormire Lake, perched on the edge of the Whitestone Cliff, it was all clear
again. All that was left was a level
thrash along the Cleveland Way, following the edge of the escarpment, and a
long circuit round the gliding club.
There were a few more people out here, near the visitor centre, and we
watched a glider being towed into the air in the improved weather. The path passed over the top edge of the
White Horse, sadly not giving us much of a view of it, and we were then back at
the cars, glad to remove damp boots. It
had been a surprisingly heavy morning with claggy ground and uneven terrain,
and a long afternoon’s slog, so we were all a bit more tired than we might have
expected.
Next
call was Osmotherley. It was strictly
speaking too early to check in at the hostel so we stopped in the village to
find the pub. In theory there were three
in the village – not a factor in my having chosen the venue, of course – but
the Three Tuns was closed for refurbishment and the Golden Lion was a bit of a
posh gastropub. This left us with the
Queen Catherine. As we were going in
Alec asked a bloke coming out if the pub had Sky TV. He said it did, which pleased Alec with his
plans to watch the footie match.
However, on asking at the bar they said, ‘What channel?’ ‘BT Sport,’ he answered. ‘Oh no, we don’t have that. We’ve got Sky though.’
The
beer was Marston’s brands and I chose a pint of Aragon. The barmaid told me the pub was named after
Catherine of Aragon (and was the only one in the country to be so named), who
was reputedly a benefactress of Mount Grace Priory up the road, hence the beer,
brewed specially for the pub. It was a
decent pint, reminiscent of Pedigree. We
booked ourselves in for dinner that night.
At
the hostel, Alan, who had skipped the pub, was in reception with Haydn. He had checked us all into a six-berth room,
despite my having booked a four and a two.
Slightly affronted by this, and annoyed that we might have paid more
than we should have, I complained to the bloke on reception, who unfussily said
of course we could have a twin – and we retained the six-man room too. Result!
Martin and I went in the twin, replete with an en-suite bathroom, as we
were bound to be late back from the boozer.
Alan
and Haydn stayed at the hostel, drinking wine, and eating pie and peas, while
Alec drove the rest of us back to the village.
The food was very good and I enjoyed my lamb shank, plus a few pints of
Wainwright. Getting close to finishing
one pint, I stopped a passing waitress and asked for another. She immediately grabbed for my as yet
unfinished pint, to my dismay and everyone else’s amusement. I didn’t let her get away with it.
After
Alec and Ray called it a night (they were hoping to see Match of the Day but found
the TV room occupied), Martin and I crossed the road to the Golden Lion. It was a bit smarter inside. ‘It’s like walking into a pub in Cheshire,’ Martin
said of the candlelit interior. A group
of girls near the fire were sharing a bottle of Prosecco. Luckily they served decent beer too and I had
a pint of Oktoberfest-related ‘Halt deine Lederhosen fest’ (‘Hold onto your
trousers’). Nice it was too. Wondering about a second pint as the clock
had already passed 11pm, I hesitantly asked the barman whether they were still
serving. He grinned and said, ‘Might
be.’ Excellent. Later we walked back to the hostel along the
starlit lanes.
Day Two
I
was up at eight, leaving Martin feeling less than well in the room. When he joined us for the excellent
breakfast, he struggled a bit with his food then said, ‘I’m going out for some
fresh air.’ Alec and Ray walked in,
having popped down to the village to retrieve Alec’s car. I pointed out that we were walking through
the village later on so it was an errand for nothing.
It
was a good day outside and the oven-like drying room had done a proper job on
our damp gear. It may have been dry
above but it wasn’t long before we were slopping along muddy footpaths
again. Beyond Thimbleby, and past the
crackle of gunfire from a clay-pigeon shooting range, we entered some woods and
got a little confused with paths near Over Stilton, hopping twice over a
particularly unavoidable quagmire as we sought to find the right route. Further on, between Nether Stilton and
Kepwick, we found the gate for the path padlocked. Naturally we climbed over, only to find the
next couple of gates also padlocked. We pushed
on nevertheless. At a metal gate Martin
spotted a sign, trampled into the mud.
‘Footpath closed,’ it said. It
didn’t look too official so we carried on, ducking through undergrowth and
crossing rotten footbridges until we finally found something more like a path. Nobody makes us turn back.
Outside
Kepwick, in preparation for the day’s big climb, we stopped for some food. The climb was a pleasantly gentle one, though
the ground was muddy again. At one point
it passed through a great clump of rhododendrons, the path sunken into the
earth and dark, bare trunks looming above us.
For those 100m of darkness, the temperature dropped spookily down. It was enough to make you hurry your steps.
Waiting
at the top for everyone to regroup, Alec declared, ‘We’re only a day and a half
in, but I can say this is the muddiest weekend ever.’ It did get a bit drier from there on as the
path lazily climbed up to the plateau. We
were led through a rather magical grove of birch trees whose trunks splayed out
from thick central coppice stools. Tufts
of wool were caught in the twigs and bark of the trees, and small groups of
sheep trotted in front of and around us.
It was a little oasis.
On
the top, I made a quick diversion to a trigpoint, hidden behind a tumulus, then
rejoined the others for some food. We
were back on the Cleveland Way again, following the scarp north on a well-made
path. The area is very popular with
cyclists and we met numbers of them coming from all directions. It got busier with walkers further north,
near the car park at Square Corner, then we dropped down, homing in on
Osmotherley. This last section, past a
number of small reservoirs, seemed to take forever. It didn’t help that the rain returned, even
if it was only a light enough fall to barely warrant a waterproof layer. Finally back in the village we decided to
head back to the hostel rather than go to the pub. It had been a long walk after yesterday’s
efforts, even if there hadn’t been too much climbing or other difficulty.
It
was around 3:30pm and the Macmillan Coffee Morning was still going, or at least
they still had some cake left. After
dumping the gear I tucked into a delicious slice of white chocolate cake. Most of the rest chose to have an afternoon
kip after their showers, but I opted to sit in the lounge with Haydn, reading
my book. Oh, and drinking a bottle of
beer.
In
the evening we all went back to the Queen Catherine – the dining hall at the
hostel was full with a school party from Hull.
I had a splendid steak and ale pie, extra gravy on the side, and quite a
few pints of Boon Doggle. Martin and I
were, as usual, last of the party to leave – though we didn’t call into the
Lion this time. The bar as we left around
11pm seemed to be only occupied by the cellarman (possibly the landlord) and
his mates.
Day Three
When
I got down to breakfast the room was full with the schoolkids. I tried my best to fit in around them and
luckily they left pretty soon after. The
other Strollers, who had been hiding in the lounge, emerged once the coast was
clear. Haydn was heading straight back
after eating so Ray, who was his passenger, went back too. It was only after they had gone that the
hostel warden pointed out that they had forgotten to pay for their
breakfasts. Alec coughed up and rang Ray
to bollock him.
The
final day’s walk was straight from the hostel, initially up to Cod Beck
Reservoir. I had told everyone it was a
gentle, flat walk, but the path immediately reared up to climb through the
woods, for which I got some earache. As
is the way with paths through woods, what’s on the map doesn’t quite match up
to what’s on the ground. We had a bit of
a confusion for a while until we came upon the reservoir. A good path by the water’s edge took us to
the top end, towards the low cloud shrouding the hills ahead. A short stretch of road took us back onto the
Cleveland Way and by the time that had taken us to the woods behind Mount Grace
Priory, it had started raining again, with cloud all around us.
I
didn’t know what to expect of Mount Grace Priory but I thought we should go and
have a look at it all the same. Being at
the top of the woods, this meant we had to drop down the steep bank back down
to the plains. I was slightly amazed no
one questioned this route, despite a few grumbles about the gradient and the
fact that we were going to have to retrace our steps, climbing the bank, once
we had been to the Priory. It was a
pleasant spot, if the path was a bit sketchy in places, and dropped us into the
car park. It was here we learnt that we
would have to stump up £7.60 if we wanted to see the Priory. No chance.
And it looked more like a stately home with fancy carpets that were
incompatible with extremely muddy boots.
We perched on a wall, had a snack and headed back uphill.
As
it was, the return ascent wasn’t that bad, and it wasn’t very long before we
were back at the hostel, ready to say our goodbyes. It had been a good weekend, with some
interesting walking, rather different than what we’re all used to. The hostel had been excellent with modern,
comfortable rooms and good food. And the
company had made the time fly by as always.
