On Tarn moor
It’s 5am on July 4th. I am sitting at a tiny table at the top of the staircase at the Craven Heifer Pub & Inn on Tarn Moor in Skipton, Yorkshire. Appropriately, or perhaps—as Steve insists—by suggestion, it smells faintly of cow in here. I can hear the distant lowing of them through the clear dawn on the moor, though they are somewhat drowned out by the bleating of sheep, which are literally everywhere you look. (Do sheep even bleat? Or only baa? These are the questions on my mind this morning.)
The sun rises early and sets late here, and I’ve felt my own internal clock responding to these long days of light. My brain seems a bit on overdrive as Steve and I navigate our new surroundings, each in our own ways. This kind of traveling together—by foot, bus, rail—is it’s own kind of relating, and we are rediscovering how to make space for the different ways we process unfamiliar territory.
For as much as we’ve heard the locals here tell us how “tiny” their island is, and how vast the US is, I find the land here wild and wide. Anything outside and green (which are most things), seem to grow uncontrolled. There is emerald pasture in every direction and as far as the eye can see. The woods are crowded with oak and ash, nearly overcome with ivy and nettle. Elderberry grows in great sprawling clumps along the footpaths and road ways, and dense hawthorne bushes twist and claw their way across the fields in oddly straight lines, or are clipped into barely contained hedges that bank the narrow roads.
Having arrived in Skipton on Sunday, we’ve had a little time to explore, finding small pieces of trail that belong to the network of public footpaths that will link us to our walk 100 miles across this northern countryside to Penrith.
Having now been in Yorkshire for 4 nights, it is quite clear that this part of the country is famous for their dairy products. The cream is fresh and relatively untreated, with a shelf life of only a few days. The butter is deep yellow and is served in thick wedges with just about everything, from brown bread to broiled salmon. The crème brûlée I had for dessert last night was served in a deep mug—rather than the ubiquitous shallow custard dish that I’m used to. Better to showcase the cream from which it’s made and it’s textured strata—a clotted top layer giving way to a barely set middle layer that sinks gracefully to a base of yolk-thickened cream.
The locals here are as generous with their time as they are with their dairy products. Open and friendly with broad, rolling accents no one hesitates to offer a recommendation or help with directions when asked. Our host at the Craven Heifer even gave us her phone number “so we have someone to call” in case we get into trouble in-country.
Last night, as I looked through the itinerary for our first day of walking (which starts tomorrow!), I’m beginning to understand what might have prompted our host to make sure we had a lifeline. Our first day’s walk is a meandering 16.5 miles, guided by piles of stones, pasture fences, and public waymarks. Steve and I poured over our maps and guide book in earnest last night, working out the kinks, not only in our navigating of materials in front of us, but also in how we navigate the other’s way of understanding all this new-ness and honor the journey.
