Osmotherley Hostel Weekend 2017

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.

Malham Hostel Weekend 2016

Malham 2016

Friday

It was sunny in Manchester as we set off but clouds lowered ahead of us as we drove up the M66 past Ramsbottom.  It wasn’t long after that when the rain began and it continued for the rest of the journey, making us all rather apprehensive about how the day’s walking would go.  As we passed through Kirkby Malham, it properly rattled down.  This wasn’t looking good.

The first shock of the day was seeing Jim’s car parked up in the centre of Malham.  He must have set off extra early to beat us to the start.  At the Youth Hostel car park we bumped into Alan too and, although the rain has eased off somewhat, we went into the hostel to get ready.  We wouldn’t be able to check in until 5pm, however there were coffee and cakes in aid of Macmillan’s so we could sit down for a cuppa while we got our gear sorted.

It couldn’t be put off any longer so, despite the drizzle, me, Alec, Martin, Jim and Alan set off on the day’s route.  There were big puddles on our first bit of path along Gordale Beck.  A brave dipper flitted over the surging water of the stream and the roar of the waterfall of Janet’s Foss grew louder ahead of us.  Unperturbed by the people taking photographs or the torrent from the fall was a stock-still heron by the edge of the pool.  It posed serenely for a while before lumbering off on its huge wings.  We admired the falls then moved on up Gordale.

Being term time there were a number of school parties around on Geography field trips, one coming down from the Scar as we approached, another filling the amphitheatre beneath the scar.  Rain still hung in the air and water dripped down the sheer faces of the limestone crags so we huddled down under the overhang and had a bite to eat.  Plenty of water was coming down from the Scar so there was no way we were going to be climbing it (if it was ever considered in the plan).  Instead we retreated a little then cut across to the road around.  Jim and Alan were a little slow up the hill, considering their health situations, but Alan was close enough behind me to steer me onto the right path as I marched on chatting to Martin.

The rain had cleared up during this time so we decided, having all day to walk in, we would extend the route a little to take advantage.  Naturally, as we got to the far point of this extension, the rain came back in force.  It was bouncing down as we passed Middle House Farm and I glanced in envy at the two blokes having a brew in the cabin of a van.  At the farm we turned west and had the storm blowing straight into our faces.  The strength of the wind made talking, or hearing what was said, impossible, so we just trudged on towards the tarn, hoping our waterproofs would do the job.

As perhaps was the way of things, the rain stopped when we got to the tarn so we settled down for lunch.  In fact, it cleared up so nicely that Jim got his sunglasses out.  Never miss an opportunity to pose in the shades.  Out on the water we watched a couple of boats fishing.  It looked rather choppy.

We were now on the way back and soon dropped into the valley of Watlowes.  The going was difficult as it was very stony and wet limestone is very slippery stuff.  Nevertheless we made it safely, if slowly, down to the top of the cove.  The limestone pavement never fails to impress (despite its soapy slipperiness) and the cloud had lifted to give us a splendid view to the fields and hills to the south.  The clints (not to be confused with grikes) gave us excellent seats to take in the scenery while having a last snack.

The final challenge was the steep and wet set of steps down to the bottom.  Again we took this steadily.  With time to kill, we turned towards the bottom of the cliff to have a closer look.  The path was submerged in the outflow but a well-trodden, muddy scramble took us round it.  Despite the weather there were climbers pinned to the rock face, sinewy limbs stretched across the white wall to grip invisible little holds.

It was still too early to check in when we got back to the hostel so we went to the pub, the nearest of which was the Lister Arms.  After one here, and a quick survey of the menu, we changed venues to the Buck Inn.  Jim bade us farewell at the point – he wasn’t staying over and had to get home for his tea.  We had been glad of his company all the same.

In the Buck we were soon joined by Haydn, Ray and Jill, who had been walking up to the cove as we had been walking down from it.  They had spotted us over the far side of the valley and waved but none of us had noticed.  We were probably too focussed on the beer.

The food seemed ok so we booked a table for later that evening.  It was still just a bit too early so we had to have another pint at the Lister on the way.

At reception I started to fill out the form with my name, along with the names of the others.  In a patronising tone the woman behind the desk said, ‘You don’t need to fill your name in because it’s already on the form, isn’t it?’ and pointed to my printed name.  Having half-written it, I completed it with a laugh.  She took the pen from my hand and slowly, deliberately scored through it.  I swallowed my curse words and headed for the room to get changed.

The party in the pub that evening was very jovial.  We were on a long table together, right in front of the bar.  Some had fish and chips, many had ham and eggs, I had sausage and mash.  Mine I thought rather pricey for what it was: £13 for two saussies, mash and Yorkshires.  Alan’s fish and chips was better value, though he couldn’t finish it and, as is traditional, passed it over to Martin.  Apart from the early-to-bed crowd, the night finished with a snifter in the Lister.

Saturday

Given a roomful of blokes of a certain age, you would expect a bit of a nocturnal concert for snorers, but as it was I had a pretty good night’s sleep on the over-hard bed.  It might have been the last pint or two that helped me.  Breakfast was a traditional hostel one: on the small side, overcooked and lukewarm.  The coffee was good though.

Our plan was to walk from the village.  The forecast showed a reasonable morning with showers in the afternoon, which we could cope with.  Ray and Haydn announced that they wouldn’t be staying on.  Neither of them was up for any walking, for medical reasons, and they didn’t fancy hanging round while we were out.  It was disappointing but understandable.  It was a walking weekend after all.

The rest of us blokes set off up the road while Jill prepared for a walk out to Gordale Scar.  We hadn’t quite left the village when Alan remembered he hadn’t taken his medication that morning and nipped back to dose himself up.  Our route soon took us away from the village and climbed up into the fields.  Quickly there were fine views of limestone crags, the Cove and the ranks of stonewalls enclosing green fields.  The track was a wide stony thing at first but eventually became narrow, wet and overgrown.  It was tough going.  After reaching a broken-down, rusty metal gate I started to have my doubts about our navigation and checked the map.  Oh dear, I had led them all astray.  There was no option but to retrace our steps down the slippery, rocky track back to the main one.  By a barn, just a little way back on the better track, there was a very prominent fingerpost indicating where we should have turned.  It’s amazing that none of us spotted it.

The path continued to climb, steeply, through rocky sections until eventually we emerged onto a grassy plateau.  To the north were the expected outcrops of limestone but to the south, the far side of a valley, was much darker rock, like gritstone.  Some kind of geological thing was clearly going on below our feet.  A pleasant path took us onwards and soon descended towards a farm.  Near here we stopped for a ‘banana break’ and watched the farmer treating his sheep while a radio blared out Pharrell Williams’s ‘Happy’.  Does a valley count as ‘a room without a roof’?

Further down the valley we turned north, up out of it to Attermire Scar.  Climbing the hill around the same time were a ‘dad and lad’.  The dad must have been around 60, with long hair and a well-weathered face.  The lad was perhaps 12 and full of energy.  They bounced on ahead of us as we made our pensioner-regulated pace to the top.  All along the scar, a nick through the hill, walled with limestone crags, are caves but somehow we missed them all and before we knew it we found ourselves at the far end.  Oh well.  As the path turned east and the ground dropped away to the north we found a handy perch on some rocks for lunch.  Ahead of us the hills fell away before rising up in the dark, abrupt promontory of Pen-y-ghent.  Farms and small woodlands were dotted between the fields and the odd area of uncultivated heath.

We were now on a good, wide track again, edging round the north side of the Langcliffe Scar plateau.  The moor here was tall, wild grass that stirred in the slight breeze.  A pair of kestrels quartered the ground before calling and flying of over a plantation of pines.  We made good time, although marching along the same path with the same scenery did start to feel a little repetitive, and caught ‘dad and lad’ up near the far side.  ‘In a hurry to get your pint of Wainwright?’ dad asked with a grin as we passed them.  He wasn’t far wrong.

Originally I had planned the route to take us back down Watlowes and by the Cove but given the trickiness of the wet rock the previous day I did a quick recalculation and found an alternative route that kept us away from there and from the ‘tourists’.  To Alan’s minor disgruntlement it involved a slight climb back uphill but we soon turned towards the village along very good paths.

The promised rain had, thankfully, failed to materialise and it was now a very pleasant day.  In celebration of that we ordered tea at the Lister Arms and sat outside to drink it.  When my Earl Grey was delivered, Alan asked, to much hilarity, ‘Who’s the poof?’  Some people have no taste.

The pub didn’t have any room in the restaurant that evening so their advice was to just commandeer a table in the bar if we wanted to eat there.  After tidying ourselves up at the hostel, Martin and I headed back to the pub to do just this.  Luckily we found a good long table that would accommodate our depleted numbers and plonked ourselves at it.  Dad and lad were sat at the far side of the room but didn’t seem to notice us.  Dad, seemingly not as bothered by the Wainwright as us, left half his pint when they departed.

It wasn’t long before we were joined by Alec and Alan but there was no sign of Jill.  I didn’t have a phone signal so I walked back to the hostel and met her in reception just as she was coming out.  She had had a good day walking round Janet’s Foss, Gordale Scar and the top of the Cove, much as we had done the day before, only in good weather and with a route tailored better to herself.

The meals all seemed to go down well.  My steak and ale pie was excellent, if heavy going.  Alan, worried about drinking too much beer, got himself some wine.  Alec, full from his dinner, switched to whisky.  People started heading back, leaving me, Martin and Jill, but even we decided against ordering a final round when last orders were called.

Sunday

Despite there being fewer people in the room the snorer’s chorus was in fuller effect during the night and I had a less good night’s sleep.  It sounded better than Jill’s all the same.  The drunk girls in her dorm, who we had met the evening before in reception, included one with a cold who was coughing and in-and-out of the room all the time.  One of the girls claimed it was ‘the worst night ever’.  My room-mates were up early and I took the opportunity for an extra half hour’s uninterrupted sleep.  At breakfast we watched on amusedly as a party of 40 Asian Yorkshire Three Peakers tried to get breakfast for all of them.  ‘If you’d warned us beforehand…’ the woman said.

The original plan had been to finish with Pen-y-ghent, but the lads were feeling the efforts of the previous two days so I fell back on my alternative plan, which included less climbing.  Unfortunately I had forgotten the paper map for that area; fortunately I had already pre-loaded my phone with the maps.

                Having waved goodbye to Jill, we drove to Stainforth, the start of the walk.  The Force (Stainforth) was strong through the village (perhaps Yoda lives there) and we followed the river south for a while before turning uphill.  ‘Let’s see if the legs have recovered,’ said Alec.  Shortly afterwards he came up with the answer: ‘no’.  The cloud broke up and there was a certain amount of sunshine around, so the climb wasn’t too onerous.  Soon we dropped back down and into Feizor, which was surprisingly busy, thanks in most part to the tea rooms.  Another short climb took us up to Smearsett Scar.  The sun was out now, though there was still a strong breeze, and we stopped in the valley for some food.  It was a beautiful, tranquil spot amongst the scattered rocks, waving grass and pale crags.  From there we were very soon back into Stainforth and hitting the road home.

                For all that the weather had had its dodgy moments, it had been a great weekend with some excellent walks in gorgeous countryside.  The beer had been spot on and the company most congenial.  Altogether a successful trip.