Postcard from Yorkshire: On the road
A day out exploring the area, essentially going up hill and down dale via whatever attractive looking coffee shops appear to be open and serving cake. As the dry stone walls run like veins across the fields, so the narrow country lanes that appear to pass for B roads in Yorkshire wind like arteries, connecting villages, usually following the flow of some river or other.
The villages themselves are usually arranged around a triangular green or square and the houses and shops sit huddled together, as if for warmth in a landscape that can be as cold and hostile as the locals are warm and friendly. But these are not abandoned villages only inhabited by tourists at weekends, they are busy and occasionally surprising places, like the place we passed with a racehorse stable on the edge of it, and returning to the stable was one frisky looking horse and rider and one positively manic looking four hoofed menace being led by the stable lad while the diminutive jockey walked alongside, clutching crop and saddle, rubbing an evidently sore arse and looking for all the world like he was not at all pleased with new rules on whipping meaning he could no longer legitimately thrash the beast who had unseated him on the training run.
This makes driving a bit of a challenge, as the scenery is spectacular and, after a good deal of rainfall, dynamic as rivers tumble in waterfalls and cascades, all very diverting which is not a good idea as you try to negotiate a tricky turning which will, in all probability, have something interesting coming the other way.
This could be a local driving at nutter speed in their landie. Or it could be a tractor, or it could be a tractor pulling a trailer piled dangerously high with some sort of root vegetable that could really put a crimp in your day and a dent in your lap if it were to make a guest appearance through your sunroof. These twisty turny uppy downy roads are also home to the lorries that zoom from farm to farm and village to village.
Tiny villages and enormous lorries abound, the latter squeezing through the former sometimes one suspects because sat nab is no respecter of road width but also because this is where the road goes and the lorries have to go on the road. This was certainly the case of the lorry hauling sheep that looked if anything considerably more relaxed than the pedestrians trying to get out of the way in the village of Hawes, as it squeezed down the high street. One often wonders what goes through the minds of sheep at the best of time, but god alone knows what they think when being transported, presumably they are under the impression that are going on some sort of trip, possibly to Alton Towers. This is almost never the case.
As well as lorries and deluded sheep Hawes is home to a rather nice cafe and art gallery, which sells the work of local artist Peter Brook.
It also sells a rather nice print of 'The Butcher's Dog'.
This is a painting of a Westie looking out of the upstairs window of the local butcher's shop. Looking up from my latte, I saw a butcher's shop with a Westie looking out of the upstairs window, life imitating art imitating life.
The villages themselves are usually arranged around a triangular green or square and the houses and shops sit huddled together, as if for warmth in a landscape that can be as cold and hostile as the locals are warm and friendly. But these are not abandoned villages only inhabited by tourists at weekends, they are busy and occasionally surprising places, like the place we passed with a racehorse stable on the edge of it, and returning to the stable was one frisky looking horse and rider and one positively manic looking four hoofed menace being led by the stable lad while the diminutive jockey walked alongside, clutching crop and saddle, rubbing an evidently sore arse and looking for all the world like he was not at all pleased with new rules on whipping meaning he could no longer legitimately thrash the beast who had unseated him on the training run.
This makes driving a bit of a challenge, as the scenery is spectacular and, after a good deal of rainfall, dynamic as rivers tumble in waterfalls and cascades, all very diverting which is not a good idea as you try to negotiate a tricky turning which will, in all probability, have something interesting coming the other way.
This could be a local driving at nutter speed in their landie. Or it could be a tractor, or it could be a tractor pulling a trailer piled dangerously high with some sort of root vegetable that could really put a crimp in your day and a dent in your lap if it were to make a guest appearance through your sunroof. These twisty turny uppy downy roads are also home to the lorries that zoom from farm to farm and village to village.
Tiny villages and enormous lorries abound, the latter squeezing through the former sometimes one suspects because sat nab is no respecter of road width but also because this is where the road goes and the lorries have to go on the road. This was certainly the case of the lorry hauling sheep that looked if anything considerably more relaxed than the pedestrians trying to get out of the way in the village of Hawes, as it squeezed down the high street. One often wonders what goes through the minds of sheep at the best of time, but god alone knows what they think when being transported, presumably they are under the impression that are going on some sort of trip, possibly to Alton Towers. This is almost never the case.
As well as lorries and deluded sheep Hawes is home to a rather nice cafe and art gallery, which sells the work of local artist Peter Brook.
It also sells a rather nice print of 'The Butcher's Dog'.
This is a painting of a Westie looking out of the upstairs window of the local butcher's shop. Looking up from my latte, I saw a butcher's shop with a Westie looking out of the upstairs window, life imitating art imitating life.
Labels: Art, Cars, Driving, Hawes, Lorries, Peter Brook, Sheep, Travel, Yorkshire
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