‘The Sounds of Silence’ 🎶 – Simon and Garfunkel
Traditionally, in the UK, September is viewed as the start of the harvest and foraging time of the year. After a record summer of sunshine and heat, the hedgerows and byways of North Yorkshire are ripe with produce waiting to be seen, snapped and sometimes picked.
This was my principal motivation for heading out once again, on a local trail, though I wasn’t too focused on foraging for edible plunder.
I was more keen to discover some very local places of interest, some of which I had still not seen, despite living incredibly near them for almost six years.
“It’s a dangerous business, Frodo, going out your door. You step onto the road, and if you don’t keep your feet, there’s no knowing where you might be swept.”
(Gandalf: ‘The Lord of the Rings’.)
I had worked hard all week: if the ‘workload of retirement’ can ever be called hard!
‘Winter is Coming’, and I am never 100% satisfied with the quantity of logs I have harvested for those cold months.
All week, I had been chainsawing some thick, overhanging branches on a willow tree in our side garden.
It was a tricky job, dangerous too if I didn’t concentrate, especially as the space for the branches to fall was tight, sandwiched between an easily crushed chicken coop and an equally vulnerable polytunnel.
Additional risk was real as I had needed to work from a securely fixed ladder to reach the branches, some 15-20 feet above ground level.
Thankfully, all ended well and the branches were safely felled and chopped, but my wrists in particular deserved a rest; and for me my chosen diet of resting is to hit the trails.
So, having downed my chainsaw, I packed a light lunch and set off on a local walk.
My ‘Red Hot Date’, Nicky, my long-suffering wife of 36 years, was ‘stripping’ for our local friends David and Suzie.
‘Stripping?’ — a deliberately chosen descriptive, to sate my very childish schoolboy humour!
She was doing nothing of the sort.
More like wallpapering, actually, as the stripping had been done already.
So I jumped at the chance to get dropped off in Darley, some 3 miles down the hill and then walk home on a meandering and spontaneous, ‘defined-in-the-moment’ route.
Suzie and David are amazing friends and, despite being at the age where most people would embrace a ‘pipe and slippers’ approach to life, they have taken on the purchase and renovation of a bungalow, handily placed within 200 metres of the best local inn in Nidderdale: ‘The Wellington’.
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Suzie and David are adventurers in their own right. They are more family than friends.
My wife is a brilliant ‘stripper’ and paperer.
When they asked if she would help them, she immediately said she could.
Local plumber Gary was already there, working his usual magic.
Gary is great: renowned across the Dale, he is hard-working, fun, interesting and great company.
He and I enjoyed a 20-minute exchange before I said my farewells and headed along the main road that bisects Darley.
Within five minutes, I was strolling down a gently descending path that dips down towards the local stream known as Darley Beck.
It was a lovely day for walking: 17 degrees, with a refreshing breeze, meaning that my two layers — a long-sleeved thermal top and T-shirt — were perfect.
I was never cold and never sweaty for the duration of the next three hours.
We’ve had a lot of rain in the last fortnight in North Yorkshire, mostly overnight thankfully.
The fields, previously a dry, creamy colour and never as brown as the drought-ridden fields of the South East, had perked up noticeably.
The ‘Whispering grass’ was green again.
A local farmer had taken advantage of the improved drought conditions, too, to have a fire.
His flames were impressive, both in appearance and in his careful control of the burning.
We exchanged a cheery wave and a mutually hollered ‘Hello’.
After crossing the Beck, I turned west and walked towards the B6165, which cuts up the Nidd Valley towards Pateley Bridge from the RAF listening station (‘Golf Balls’) at Menwith Hill.
The chicken field I crossed was thriving.
Three colonies of chickens, free-ranging from their long-standing, rustic-looking accommodation, clucked cheerfully as I took a peek.
How old were those hen houses?
Why did they look so cool?
Where was the evidence of rat attack that has always been my experience of keeping poultry, and how old were those roosting poles inside?
Amazing!
The BIG question is obvious:
How do the farmers keep on top of rodents?
I could see no tell tale sign of ‘Rolly Rat’ and, given we are all only ever two metres from a rat apparently, I was pretty baffled!
I was tempted to knock and ask that question sheepishly, but no one appeared to be at home in the farm building that borders the main road.
Another day, perhaps? — or maybe someone can enlighten me on rodent prevention in response to this blog?
I crossed over and walked across the front of the former heritage centre that is known locally as ‘Darley Mill’. A serious work of renovation and restoration is being undertaken by ‘Wooler’, a national construction company.
The property is being developed into apartments, with new housing accommodation to the rear.
A serious bit of work, with a budget of £10 million at least, I would think.
It is fantastic to see a crumbling historic building slowly returning to life.
Sometimes, in our modern but testing world, 21st-century progress is especially good to report.
A huge, barn-sized window frame was leaning casually against the wall, awaiting installation.
A roofer cheerfully posed as I stopped to take a photograph, before returning to his own ‘foraging’ efforts as he allowed a low-loader to deliver his next supply of roofing slates.
Those apartments will not be cheap, though!
It was here that I discovered my first safe forage of the walk: a cooking apple: lying innocently on the trail.
“Eat what you are given and be thankful” was my mum’s mantra as I grew up.
Stewed and baked apples were regulars in our family menu: just not my thing sadly!
Whilst I’m not a fan of cooked apple, my son in law Will, is a cooking whizz kid.
So I took it home for him.
I continued onwards, making for Thornthwaite.
Earlier this year, I had led my monthly walking group along the same route.
We had all exited that section of footpath with ‘bog feet’. It was seriously wet: surely too wet for all that new house building I had previously mentioned?
To see the path so dry underneath was surprising.
Not for long, I wager.
The winter rains will be here soon enough, and the soggy sponginess of that valley will return.
A fallen tree, already seasoned, had landed across the footpath.
More ‘teasing timber’:
‘Thou shalt not covet thy neighbour’s wood’.
Honestly? I always do!
I strolled up the footpath that leads to Thornthwaite Scout Camp, past a flock of staring sheep and a sole, forget-me-not-blue, trumpet flower.
Its name?
Harebell of course!
My ally ‘Mr Google’ helped me to discover that.
More sheep stared me out.
Sheep are such ‘starers’!
Why?
They obviously don’t realise that, convention-wise, it is rude to stare.
As the elevation increased, I tried to distract myself by thinking of sheep-related boys’ and girls’ names. Sean, Shaun, Shaunette….. I soon ran out of ideas.
A later search on the internet provided a whole plethora of names: those old names, always so wonderfully quirky!
I reached the elevations known locally as ‘Dacre Top’ or, on the Ordnance Survey map, as ‘Dacre Pastures’.
The Thornthwaite campsite is really well maintained, although I have never actually seen scouts camping there.
It has a fantastic looking adventure play area.
When do they use this site?
Perfectly flat terraced pitches, with sizable grilling points, equally suitable for cooking and a nocturnal campfire.
The facilities were amazingly clean and well maintained.
I’d happily pay to camp here for sure.
At this point, I still had untapped walking energy, so I chose to extend my walk further by strolling further upstream and then dropping back down to the upper reaches of Darley Beck.
I passed through some beautiful Nidderdale woodlands, with those stunning autumnal colours of green, rust, orange and brown starting to appear.
A conker tree had started to shed its load.
Nosy horses, neighed their greeting.
Beautiful Nidderdale longhouses and more traditional Yorkshire stone dwellings were dotted along this stretch of woodland.
All with stacks of stored and dried logs!
There is always serious ‘eye candy property’ wherever I walk in this locality.
I passed the best rope swing in Nidderdale: now transformed into a tyre swing.
We had swung there in February on our group walk.
Ava, the youngest daughter of my friends Terry and Cynthia from Barnsley, had loved it. Her smile of appreciation was even wider than the arc through which she swung. (‘Should that be ‘swing’, ‘swinged’ or ‘swung’? My head says the latter, but it never seems to sound right.’)
We passed Kildbeck House, where a beautiful renovation by local builders Dave and Martin ‘Robbo’ was completed two years ago.
Stunning!
That greenhouse is a ‘wowzer’ too!
I reflected on the strength of these local connections: Dave and Martin have been, and still are, the main contractors on David and Suzie’s bungalow renovation.
Martin’s wife, Kelly, is one of the staff at my granddaughter’s nursery in Pateley Bridge.
She loves Honor to bits.
Three great people, and all brilliant and talented at what they do!
That house has been rebuilt with its historic internal organ intact and still functioning.
Amazing!
I took a more wretched stretch of footpath after Kildbeck:my self dubbed ‘Nidderdale’s Worst’ — definitely the worst footpath I have ever walked locally!
Overgrown, unmaintained and strewn with clawing brambles and toxic nettles, I had to resort to what I don’t like to do: scrambling over fences and walls as I tried to navigate that jungle responsibly.
It made me think again: landowners, (some of them at least): why don’t they make life easy for themselves and protect their assets?
I’m certain they wouldn’t want me clambering on their fences, but I had no real alternative in this prickly reality.
A couple of hours of regular bush-cutting would mean that I could have stayed on the path, rather than straying from it.
Thankfully I reached the beautiful old church of ‘St Saviour’s’.
It was open and is still on the local Anglican circuit for regular Sunday worship.
We have been there ourselves, but it is a bit too small for our own spiritual and social needs.
A typical Sunday congregation normally numbers 12.
St Saviour’s is a ‘time warp’ inside.
I was reminded what this church would have looked like 200 years ago.
No different.
I took some time out to reflect and remember.
Nine years ago, we lost my middle sister, Anna.
I always sense her presence in old, beautiful churches like this. I remembered and mourned her memory once again and quietly played ‘Love on the Line’ by Hillsong, the closing song that was played at her funeral nearly nine years ago.
Golly! Nine years.
I remembered the beautifully written single line of my younger sister Lizzie’s writing, as she mourns the tragic death of her 24-year-old youngest daughter: Hannah, who was mown down by a driver three times over the drink-drive limit, near where they live in south western France.
Lizzie often writes about the healing aspects of walking, where she tries to “turn a mourning walk into a morning walk”.
Grief is the most painful of human experiences.
But the passing of time does provide a soothing salve to that most horrible of human emotions.
I miss my sister and my niece a lot.
We all do.
A large book featuring ‘The Church of England’s’ 365 prescribed ‘Scriptures of the Day’ lay open on a lectern.
The old wooden noticeboard, next to the organ signposted me to Psalm 119, one of the longest psalms in the Bible.
There are 150 psalms in total.
I found relevant and comforting verses as my musical accompaniment played gently in the background.
Uplifted in my spirits, with my grief salved a little, I left the church and wandered down the hill to the historic packhorse bridge of Thornthwaite.
Such a lovely and peaceful spot.
The river had pooled in places. Even the river that always flows, had slowed down in this hot summer.
I’d last walked here as the daffodils flowered, a week before I had headed out to the Algarve to walk the 650-mile length of Portugal and Spain, concluding my journey on the famous and iconic ‘Camino Portuguese’ in Santiago de Compostela, the finishing point for ‘The Camino de Santiago’.
That was only four months ago!
Woweee!
Time flies!
I passed the bridge, which fords the river – today, a very gently rumbling brook.
In its winter surges, this point on the beck can become a raging torrent after just a few hours of heavy rain.
That rain will return soon enough, I am sure — ‘but not this day!’
It was 11.15: damn, I had missed my ‘11.11 gratitude moment’ by four minutes.
Unphased, I took a moment up be grateful.
I was grateful for Hannah and Anna.
I was grateful for Janice back over in Halifax and Dot in Harrogate, both showing great fight, dignity and determination with their recent challenging cancer diagnoses.
We don’t get to choose whether we get this nasty condition or not: but we can choose to decide how we try to navigate it.
I made a final navigational decision as the farm owned by ‘Big and Bigger’ came into view.
Kenneth and Alan farm Dacre Top. They have done for years.
They still observe a centuries-old local tradition.
When Nicky’s mum had lived with us, Kenneth would turn up each Christmas with an envelope containing £30 for the ‘widow of the parish’.
‘The old ways (definitely) remain the best ways.’
I chose to extend my walk once again, clearly I still needed more walking.
I’m in a group of friends who have signed up to a monthly challenge to see who ends up walking the most steps in September using the ‘Step Up’ App.
I currently lie around 4th out of 40+ participants.
I’m going to win it!
But nothing is won in early September.
So I’ll bide my time: then strike!
Least of all, I’m going to try to!
So I chose to walk in. After all I needed more steps.
I started heading east towards the fringes of Dacre Top to try to finally locate the Quaker burial ground marked on a local footpath sign.
I had previously attempted the discovery of this historic site, but never with real intent:
Until now.
I passed cows on both sides of the road. The Nidderdale cow is a thing to be respected and feared.
Don’t be fooled by that serene image!
They frequently intimidate local walkers, charging towards them before veering off to the side at the very last minute.
I remembered that I was wearing a red T-shirt as I passed a field of young bulls.
Does the colour red actually and truly antagonise a bull?
I was grateful for the dry stone wall that stopped me finding out: it offered me protection,
A short scramble off the road led me to the burial site.
An easy find, actually, less than 30 metres from the road.
It has an iconic ancient gateway heralded by the date of 1683.
In recent times, I have discovered a lot about Quakerism.
Back in the spring, my wife and I completed some special-needs support and advisory work for the Quaker independent school near Pontefract.
During our week on site, we experienced a 20-minute whole school ‘silent assembly’.
An amazing experience to witness as 500 young people and their staff sat, fidget- and whisper-free, in the old Quaker meeting house that is attached to the school.
Despite unsympathetic and often untrue allegations, modern teenagers can do undistracted silence: not a gadget was to be seen.
‘The Sound of Silence!’ The title for this chapter was forged. I’ve always liked Simon and Garfunkel.
I actually still own that classy album.
That burial site had a calming atmosphere.
It hosts 7 Quaker gravestones.
The name and simple inscription barely legible.
Powerful stuff.
What a peaceful spot, and less than 30 minutes’ walk from my doorstep.
I retraced my steps to rejoin the minor road down to Dacre Banks and took a side track towards a small cluster of buildings, including what we have come to call ‘Tidy Farm’.
Nigel and Sarah run this family farm. The tidiest I have ever seen.
Believe me, there are several far less tidy farms in this area too, but both of our immediate farms, theirs and that owned by Steve, Malcom and Steve’s son Paul and their family are well kept, well managed and owned by really friendly families.
I chatted to Sue, Nigel’s mum, who lives multi-generationally with her family.
Such a nice lady.
Just 300 metres earlier, I had chatted to her neighbour Jill. Equally lovely.
I chuckled: there was me mistakenly feeling a total sense of disconnect when I moved here in 2021.
Now?
I couldn’t be happier and would not want to live anywhere else.
My retired life has ‘balance’ now!
“Find balance” was the regular encouragement my great local friend Roger had promoted during my significant bout of ‘retirement, relocation, renovation and bereavement-inspired depression’.
A last few elderflower trees, heavy with their unharvested fruit, waymarked my way home.
I passed my newly named ‘Charlie’s Corner’ where the son of some other local friends Jonny and Helen, had smashed into a wall as he took a tight corner in his car.
Whilst the wall took a hit, I’m pleased to report that ‘Cheerful Charlie’ walked away uninjured: he just needs to retrieve his missing hub cap though.
Just after ‘Tidy Farm’, I passed their equally tidy and clear ponds.
Even their farm vehicles are parked ……………………………..🤔
T I D I L Y😜
I thought with gratitude one more time:
I, (WE ALL actually), have so much to see and do on our own doorstep.
We just have to look for it and try hard to connect.
I resisted repeat temptations to forage the fungi growing in the trail.
I am pretty sure that the last image was wild mushrooms.
But my self confidence wasn’t prepared to be tested by the eating!
But I did forage my second find of the day: a 1 tonne builder’s bag hanging from a tree.
Perfect!
Just right for gathering and storing the sun dried hay growing in our paddocks which makes free chicken and duck house bedding over the winter.
I just hope the rats don’t like sleeping in it!
My local ‘Camino (Way) had provided for me, once again!’
I mused again for the final time:
‘It is good to be home.’
The gladioli growing in our garden swayed in the breeze in their appreciation and agreement with my newly reinforced perspective.
Home?
There’s no place like it!
Thanks for the read.
Martin x
Ps: Massive thanks to my Derbyshire based Editor in Chief, Sarah Cross, who I’ve actually known for one year longer than Nicky. We all met at university.
Sarah can spot a typo a mile off.
Hopefully her attention to detail has helped me to go ‘💯% typo free!’ in this blog.
Sarah sent me an interesting quote after reading this blog: “I am 100% with you on the salve received by spending quiet time in old churches…… one of my favourite things to do wherever I am in the world. 🥰🥰”
She came to stay with Nicky and I last month.
She is such great fun!
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Please note:
All of my photographs are ‘seen as ‘scene’. I really want you to see what I saw when I pressed my shutter: not a touched up version that then becomes a non reality. Just my own quirky ‘creative’ perspective I guess.
Life in Nidderdale is definitely quirky: I guess it’s catching!
QUESTION: When is a photograph a photo or a piece of art embellished by its taker? 🤔
My own hunt for the perfect photograph continues! 🤷🏼♂️
Martin Moorman is a 61 year old retired Headteacher who lives with his wife Nicky, daughter Rosie and her family in North Yorkshire, UK.
Martin and Nicky have 3 grown up children, Rosie, Harry and Jake, all happily married too. In his spare time Martin loves walking, photography, blogging, football, renovating, cooking and chatting to anyone who will listen!
Martin Moorman 