#Castleton Moor

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Pengam Moors, Cardiff; 5.10.2024

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🌲 BAYSDALE ABBEY: WALK AND EXPLORE THE NORTH YORK MOORS

🚶‍♂️ Fancy a fantastic walk in the North York Moors? This Baysdale Abbey walk is a 12-mile circular route that’s perfect for anyone who loves beautiful landscapes and a good workout.

🌄 Start your adventure at Hob Hole, where there’s plenty of parking. It’s just a short distance west of Castleton. From here, you’ll head out across Kildale Moor, with the picturesque Baysdale valley stretching out below.

🏰 Along the way, you’ll come across the peaceful site of Baysdale Abbey. Although the original 13th-century Cistercian abbey is no longer standing, it’s still a great place to take a break and enjoy the countryside.

⛰️ Continue on to the Cleveland Way. Walking across Battersby Moor, you’ll be treated to stunning views over the Tees Valley and the Vale of Mowbray. On clear days, you can see the distant hills and mountains of the Yorkshire Dales.

🌅 On the return journey, you’ll traverse Baysdale Moor, crossing charming ravines and following scenic paths. The changing scenery keeps things interesting and makes for a truly rewarding walk.

🏞️ Finish back at Hob Hole, having enjoyed a brilliant day in the peaceful countryside of the North York Moors.

🔗 Want more details and a map of the walk? Check out my website:

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The 9 most beautiful national parks in the UK

The United Kingdom is blessed with an abundance of natural beauty, and its national parks stand as shining examples of this diverse landscape. From the rugged mountains of Snowdonia to the tranquil lakes of the Lake District, these parks offer a sanctuary for wildlife, outdoor enthusiasts, and those seeking solace in nature. Spanning England, Wales, and Scotland, the UK's national parks showcase a range of environments, from ancient woodlands to windswept moors and coastal cliffs. Each park is unique in its features and attractions, drawing visitors from far and wide to explore their pristine landscapes and cultural heritage.

As we embark on a journey to discover the most beautiful national parks in the UK, we'll encounter breathtaking vistas, stunning wildlife, and opportunities for adventure and relaxation. Whether it's hiking to the summit of a mountain, strolling along a sandy beach, or simply enjoying the tranquillity of a forest, these parks offer something for everyone to enjoy. Come explore the beauties of the UK's national parks, each one acting as a reminder of the value of protecting these priceless landscapes for future generations and a monument to the natural resources of the nation.

Here are some of the of the most beautiful national parks in the UK.

1. Lake District National Park: A Haven of Natural Beauty: The Lake District National Park in Cumbria, England, is known for its stunning lakes, craggy mountains, and green valleys. Visitors may go on gorgeous treks, boat cruises across glistening lakes, and leisurely strolls through charming towns. Outdoor enthusiasts and environment lovers are drawn to iconic features such as Lake Windermere and England's tallest summit, Scafell Pike.

2. Snowdonia National Park features majestic peaks and rolling hills: Snowdonia National Park, located in North Wales, has spectacular mountain ranges, gushing waterfalls, and ancient woodlands. Mount Snowdon, Wales' tallest mountain, provides stunning views from its summit, which is accessible by hiking routes or the ancient Snowdon Mountain Railway. Outdoor sports such as rock climbing, mountain biking, and kayaking abound, making Snowdonia a haven for adventurers.

3. Peak District National Park: quaint villages and limestone valleys: The Peak District National Park, located in the heart of England, has picturesque towns, limestone crags, and rolling hills. Visitors may visit lovely towns like Bakewell and Castleton, which are known for their ancient architecture and delectable local cuisine. The park's various landscapes provide chances for hiking, cycling, and animal watching, with sites such as Mam Tor and the picturesque Dovedale Valley attracting tourists all year.

4. Brecon Beacons National Park offers untamed wilderness and dark skies: Brecon Beacons National Park, in South Wales, is distinguished by its craggy moorlands, historic ruins, and vast sky. The highest hill in southern Britain, Pen y Fan, provides panoramic views of the surrounding area. Outdoor enthusiasts may enjoy activities such as caving and equestrian riding.

 5.Peak District National Park: quaint villages and limestone valleys: The Peak District National Park, located in the heart of England, has picturesque towns, limestone crags, and rolling hills. Visitors may visit lovely towns like Bakewell and Castleton, which are known for their ancient architecture and delectable local cuisine. The park's various landscapes provide chances for hiking, cycling, and animal watching, with sites such as Mam Tor and the picturesque Dovedale Valley attracting tourists all year.

6. Dartmoor National Park: Ancient Landscapes and Mysterious Moorlands: Dartmoor National Park, in Devon, England, is known for its untamed landscapes, granite tors, and expansive open areas. Visitors may stroll over windswept moors, see ancient stone circles, and see Dartmoor horses wandering freely. The park's rich past, which includes Bronze Age towns and medieval remains, contributes to its attractiveness, making it an intriguing destination for both history fans and outdoor enthusiasts.

 7.Cairngorms National Park, Scotland's Highland Playground: Cairngorms National Park, located in the Scottish Highlands, is the UK's largest national park, containing breathtaking mountains, ancient forests, and calm lochs. In the winter, visitors may go skiing, snowboarding, and mountain biking, while the summer provides hiking, animal watching, and fishing. The park's different ecosystems sustain a variety of animals, including red deer, golden eagles, and Scottish wildcats, making it an ideal destination for nature lovers.

 8.Pembrokeshire Coast National Park has dramatic cliffs and sandy beaches: Pembrokeshire Coast National Park, located on Wales' western coast, is known for its craggy cliffs, sandy beaches, and hidden coves. Visitors may explore the Pembrokeshire Coast Path, a 186-mile route that provides breathtaking views of the coastline as well as the opportunity to see seals, dolphins, and seabirds. Picturesque communities like Tenby and St. David's provide a beautiful setting for exploring the park's natural beauty and historic maritime heritage.

 9.Northumberland National Park: Wilderness with Dark Skies: Northumberland National Park, in north-east England, is a huge area of moorland, undulating hills, and historic woods. The park is home to notable monuments, including Hadrian's Wall, a UNESCO World Heritage Site, and the beautiful Cheviot Hills. Northumberland's title as a Dark Sky Park provides unique chances for stargazing and astrophotography, making it an ideal visit for both astronomy aficionados and wildlife lovers.

 Conclusion

  The beautiful national parks of the UK offer a captivating escape into nature's embrace, showcasing the country's rich biodiversity and stunning landscapes. From the majestic mountains of Snowdonia to the serene lakes of the Lake District, each park holds its own unique charm and allure, inviting visitors to explore and discover the wonders of the natural world. For travelers seeking to experience these breathtaking parks, obtaining a UK visa from India is the first step towards embarking on an unforgettable journey. Whether applying for a UK visit visa from India or a UK tourist visa from India, it's essential to follow the application process diligently and provide all necessary documentation to ensure a smooth and hassle-free experience.

Once granted a UK visa, visitors can immerse themselves in the beauty of the UK's national parks, indulging in a myriad of outdoor activities such as hiking, wildlife spotting, and scenic drives. Whether it's wandering through ancient woodlands, picnicking by tranquil rivers, or marveling at panoramic views from mountain summits, there's no shortage of adventures to be had within these pristine landscapes. Moreover, exploring the UK's national parks offers travelers a chance to connect with nature, unwind from the hustle and bustle of everyday life, and create cherished memories with loved ones. It's a journey of discovery, of awe-inspiring beauty, and of appreciation for the natural world that surrounds us.

In essence, visiting the UK's national parks is not just a vacation; it's an opportunity to nourish the soul, rejuvenate the spirit, and forge a deeper connection with the wonders of our planet. So, apply for your UK visa from India, pack your bags, and set off on an adventure of a lifetime amidst the breathtaking landscapes of the UK's national parks.

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If you are looking for the Best Crown Reduction in Castleton Moor, then contact Fernando's Landscaping Ltd.

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Rainbow over Castleton, N York Moors.

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The Flying Scotsman (1929) Castleton Knight

March 21st 2022

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Monday 21 May 1838

9

12 ¼

bowel complaint  had a large motion and went to bed again for an hour and two or three motions on getting up again – not very fit to go to the cavern de Remouchamps but kept quiet and resolved to try – breakfast over at 10 ½ at which hour F57° and fine day – A- and I and the 2 servants and Henri d’Amey the valet de Place off in the caleche of yesterday with another coachman and another pair of horses at 7 7 – in 12 minutes turn left into by road over a little run of water and put on a 3rd horse!!! and Henri asked us all to get out to see the views – A- preferred getting out – I soon saw the humbug and got rather cross about it and in walking weak as I was for 30 minutes up hill and the sun hot (the rest walked 35 minutes to the top or very nearly – we had the house ½ hour) got so heated I had not a dry thread on me – no good precursor  of the cavern – thought I this wont do – so jolted or not resolved to sit still in the carriage and get cool – most terrible road – a very bad cart road – A- could not bear the fright and jolting – her shoulders quite sore – and she walked down the greater part of the hill and into the village (walked above ½ hour) it was indeed a terrible jolting alighted at 2 43 at the little auberge at Remouchamps (very picturesque village wood, rock, and river, and little rock-seated wood-[?] chateau with tower very like the west tower at Shibden) – the woman of the hose furnishing A- and myself each a round straw hat and Oddy a red handkerchief for her head and each of us a blue blouse and thus comfortably and very appropriately costumes we entered the grotte at 3 10 – very little was formerly known – the 2 bridges – the little steam – the height and extent of the cavern, and the quantity and beautiful (tho’ much blackened and occasionally broken of the stalagmites and stalactites  make the cavern an object well worth seeing – much superior to that at Castleton in Derbyshire? saw what they called the old grotte first and then descended 2 ladders (the passage cut thro’ 12ft. deep of rock) into the grotte modern, or new cavern – perhaps the more interesting of the 2 – was it here or about that Henri pointed out one stone of the roof 320ft. long – I was incredulous tho’ it did indeed look a very long stone – but 320ft. I could not quite take in – I can imagine the people do not always shew but the grottes more especially when they have many parties 1 after another – a party of 2 gentlemen and a French girl or French woman went immediately after were out again in an hour or less, and probably did not see both the avenues we entered the grotte at 3 10 and were out again at 4 20 – washed hands etc. left the servants to get bread and butter and A- and I strolled out at 4 ¾ for an hour – into the village – saw cap-shop – went into – it was cap-shop (café) grocers’ and linen-drapers’ shop – nice little jack of all trades village boutique, a civil respectable blue bloused home being salesman – ‘tuille Grecque’ filled cap 2/75 and A- put it on under her bonnet – we had had a little light shower or 2 on the hills (bleak heathery moors) and now a few drops sent us back but cleared up and we walked up the singular picturesque narrow rocky gorge to within ¼ hour of the village of St. Mauve (as pronounced by the peasant we met) – then back to the auberge off home at 4 52 with a cheval de Renfort again to the top of the hill 1 10 hour till 6 2 – home at 7 374 – terrible jolting

SH:7/ML/E/21/0105

yet the mountain air had done me good, and I felt no worse for the cavern – the best-roaded most comfortable cavern I ever was in – only 3 or 4 times to stop, and that merely for 2 or 3 yards at once – home at 7 ¾ - dinner at 8 and sat over it (1/2 bottle food white champagne mousseux) and then slept (A- and I) on the sofa till 10 ½ - fine day (the 2 or 3 little light showers nothing) F58° at 10 ¾ pm – sat up airing our linen by our good wood fire

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Danby Low Moor by Yorkshire Lad - Paul T This is the road down Danby Dale to the village of Castleton and the hill is called Danby Low Moor. It is located in the North Yorkshire Moors National Park, England If you look carefully on top of the hill you can see the new telephone mast (wrong company for me) Happy Fence Friday (HFF) https://flic.kr/p/2n5zqsP

[wrotetheaboveoftoday]

1825 Mon. 3 October

In which AL gives a charming account of Alton Abbey to Mr. Duffin

5 20/60 10 50/60 Went into the stables - at 6 3/4 went into the stables again - then walked to the new Brighouse road to see about an ash tree to be cut down in Mark’s field - in returning went to Lower brea - some time talking to Mr. and Mrs. Robinson - he seems determined to be by himself in business - wants a card-setting shop building for him at the mill - all he wants would cost £300, not more - would pay 7 1/2 p.c. for what should be laid out

Got home and came upstairs at 9 1/2 - read over my letters extracted from that to Mr. D- Duffin the account of Alton abbey - ‘a picturesque drive of 8 miles (charged 9) from Ashbourn to Alton Abbey, the perfectly unique creation of the present Lord Shrewsbury - the house, gothicized and abbeyized to deserve its name, is not shewn - the tower, full of admirable wax-models by Percy, is shewn to “persons of distinction” - i.e. to those whose respectability of equipage and appearance prevail with the host of the Shrewsbury arms, at Farley, to lend you the private ticket submitted by his lordship to his discretly use - But it is the grounds, the gardens you go to see - we had heard of them - yet still we fancied grounds and gardens such as we had seen before - we walked along the former (1/2 mile from the village of Farley) to the abbey, or, rather, the guidepost which forbade our going nearer, and directed to the gardens thro’ a gothic archway piercing a snod mown, grassy mound, or terrace, at a little distance’

‘We entered this archway - we passed it, and stood looking in silent wonder at each other and the scene before us, doubting whether some genii had not caught us up, and dropt us in the valley of Rasselas. So strange, grotesque a medley of muses, flower margined waters, scalloped walls, high domed conservatories, chinese terraces, eastern pagodas, grecian temples, rustic arbours, groups of statues, dried tolmen, wood covered hill, and lofty rock frowning on all below form such a scene as bids defiance to description and even cheats imagination - we were nearly 4 hours there, and might have been 4 times 4, and scarcely seen enough - the eye looks round for bound and limit, yet can find none, save the valley itself which winds so gracefully, that its own woods appear to close it in, unless [?] wanders onwards till they open at right angles into a rich and more extensive valley on the opposite side of which stand the village and ruined castle of Alton - we returned to Farley to dinner at half past 5 - slept at Leek, and got home the following morning, all the better for an excursion - It did M- Mariana good, and rid me of all disagreeable remembrance of the caverns near Castleton’ -

Sealed my letters and came down to breakfast at 10 1/4 - made up the parcel, and at 11 gave it to George to send by the mail (George drove my aunt to H-x [Halifax], and along part of second road, and along the moor) - it contained my letter to Mr. Duffin (Micklegate York), to Miss Marsh (York) to Mrs. Belcombe, Lou, and Steph (all at York) - stayed down talking to my uncle till 12 - said that, if he chose, I would advance the £300 to built the cardshop for George Robinson - went upstairs at 12 - 35 minutes dawdling over 1 thing or other then wrote 1 1/2 pp. very close and small to M- [Mariana] (to be ready for Thursday) and then wrote 3 pp., the ends, and under the seal small and close to Mrs. Norcliffe which took me till 6 1/4 - dressed - dinner at 6 40/60 - on coming downstairs found M- [Mariana] had sent a box containing 2 brace of partridges etc. and a long letter (2 sheets) very affectionate from M- [Mariana] (Lawton) - after dinner wrote all but the 1st 3 lines of this journal of today - Very fine morning till about 7 - afterwards showers, [grte] or less, Barometer 2 3/4 degrees below changeable F. 57º at 9 1/2 at which hour came up to bed - read, as I walked this morning, from p. 113 to 127 Tom. 1. Nouvelle Héloïse - after coming up to bed read from p. 127 to 136 i. Nouvelle Héloïse - E..O.. -

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Sooner or later, somehow, anyhow, I was bound to write a novel. It seems vain to ask why. Men are born with various manias: from my earliest childhood, it was mine to make a plaything of imaginary series of events; and as soon as I was able to write, I became a good friend to the paper-makers. Reams upon reams must have gone to the making of ‘Rathillet,’ ‘The Pentland Rising,’ ‘The King’s Pardon’ (otherwise ‘Park Whitehead’), ‘Edward Daven,’ ‘A Country Dance,’ and ‘A Vendetta in the West’; and it is consolatory to remember that these reams are now all ashes, and have been received again into the soil. I have named but a few of my ill-fated efforts, only such indeed as came to a fair bulk ere they were desisted from; and even so they cover a long vista of years. ‘Rathillet’ was attempted before fifteen, ‘The Vendetta’ at twenty- nine, and the succession of defeats lasted unbroken till I was thirty-one. By that time, I had written little books and little essays and short stories; and had got patted on the back and paid for them — though not enough to live upon. I had quite a reputation, I was the successful man; I passed my days in toil, the futility of which would sometimes make my cheek to burn — that I should spend a man’s energy upon this business, and yet could not earn a livelihood: and still there shone ahead of me an unattained ideal: although I had attempted the thing with vigour not less than ten or twelve times, I had not yet written a novel. All — all my pretty ones — had gone for a little, and then stopped inexorably like a schoolboy’s watch. I might be compared to a cricketer of many years’ standing who should never have made a run. Anybody can write a short story — a bad one, I mean — who has industry and paper and time enough; but not every one may hope to write even a bad novel. It is the length that kills. The accepted novelist may take his novel up and put it down, spend days upon it in vain, and write not any more than he makes haste to blot. Not so the beginner. Human nature has certain rights; instinct — the instinct of self-preservation — forbids that any man (cheered and supported by the consciousness of no previous victory) should endure the miseries of unsuccessful literary toil beyond a period to be measured in weeks. There must be something for hope to feed upon. The beginner must have a slant of wind, a lucky vein must be running, he must be in one of those hours when the words come and the phrases balance of themselves — EVEN TO BEGIN. And having begun, what a dread looking forward is that until the book shall be accomplished! For so long a time, the slant is to continue unchanged, the vein to keep running, for so long a time you must keep at command the same quality of style: for so long a time your puppets are to be always vital, always consistent, always vigorous! I remember I used to look, in those days, upon every three-volume novel with a sort of veneration, as a feat — not possibly of literature — but at least of physical and moral endurance and the courage of Ajax.

In the fated year I came to live with my father and mother at Kinnaird, above Pitlochry. Then I walked on the red moors and by the side of the golden burn; the rude, pure air of our mountains inspirited, if it did not inspire us, and my wife and I projected a joint volume of logic stories, for which she wrote ‘The Shadow on the Bed,’ and I turned out ‘Thrawn Janet,’ and a first draft of ‘The Merry Men.’ I love my native air, but it does not love me; and the end of this delightful period was a cold, a fly-blister, and a migration by Strathairdle and Glenshee to the Castleton of Braemar. There it blew a good deal and rained in a proportion; my native air was more unkind than man’s ingratitude, and I must consent to pass a good deal of my time between four walls in a house lugubriously known as the Late Miss McGregor’s Cottage. And now admire the finger of predestination. There was a schoolboy in the Late Miss McGregor’s Cottage, home from the holidays, and much in want of ‘something craggy to break his mind upon.’ He had no thought of literature; it was the art of Raphael that received his fleeting suffrages; and with the aid of pen and ink and a shilling box of water colours, he had soon turned one of the rooms into a picture gallery. My more immediate duty towards the gallery was to be showman; but I would sometimes unbend a little, join the artist (so to speak) at the easel, and pass the afternoon with him in a generous emulation, making coloured drawings. On one of these occasions, I made the map of an island; it was elaborately and (I thought) beautifully coloured; the shape of it took my fancy beyond expression; it contained harbours that pleased me like sonnets; and with the unconsciousness of the predestined, I ticketed my performance ‘Treasure Island.’ I am told there are people who do not care for maps, and find it hard to believe. The names, the shapes of the woodlands, the courses of the roads and rivers, the prehistoric footsteps of man still distinctly traceable up hill and down dale, the mills and the ruins, the ponds and the ferries, perhaps the Standing Stone or the Druidic Circle on the heath; here is an inexhaustible fund of interest for any man with eyes to see or twopence-worth of imagination to understand with! No child but must remember laying his head in the grass, staring into the infinitesimal forest and seeing it grow populous with fairy armies. Somewhat in this way, as I paused upon my map of ‘Treasure Island,’ the future character of the book began to appear there visibly among imaginary woods; and their brown faces and bright weapons peeped out upon me from unexpected quarters, as they passed to and fro, fighting and hunting treasure, on these few square inches of a flat projection. The next thing I knew I had some papers before me and was writing out a list of chapters. How often have I done so, and the thing gone no further! But there seemed elements of success about this enterprise. It was to be a story for boys; no need of psychology or fine writing; and I had a boy at hand to be a touchstone. Women were excluded. I was unable to handle a brig (which the Hispaniola should have been), but I thought I could make shift to sail her as a schooner without public shame. And then I had an idea for John Silver from which I promised myself funds of entertainment; to take an admired friend of mine (whom the reader very likely knows and admires as much as I do), to deprive him of all his finer qualities and higher graces of temperament, to leave him with nothing but his strength, his courage, his quickness, and his magnificent geniality, and to try to express these in terms of the culture of a raw tarpaulin. Such psychical surgery is, I think, a common way of ‘making character’; perhaps it is, indeed, the only way. We can put in the quaint figure that spoke a hundred words with us yesterday by the wayside; but do we know him? Our friend, with his infinite variety and flexibility, we know — but can we put him in? Upon the first, we must engraft secondary and imaginary qualities, possibly all wrong; from the second, knife in hand, we must cut away and deduct the needless arborescence of his nature, but the trunk and the few branches that remain we may at least be fairly sure of.

On a chill September morning, by the cheek of a brisk fire, and the rain drumming on the window, I began The Sea Cook, for that was the original title. I have begun (and finished) a number of other books, but I cannot remember to have sat down to one of them with more complacency. It is not to be wondered at, for stolen waters are proverbially sweet. I am now upon a painful chapter. No doubt the parrot once belonged to Robinson Crusoe. No doubt the skeleton is conveyed from Poe. I think little of these, they are trifles and details; and no man can hope to have a monopoly of skeletons or make a corner in talking birds. The stockade, I am told, is from Masterman Ready. It may be, I care not a jot. These useful writers had fulfilled the poet’s saying: departing, they had left behind them 

“Footprints on the sands of time,

Footprints which perhaps another—”

and I was the other! It is my debt to Washington Irving that exercises my conscience, and justly so, for I believe plagiarism was rarely carried farther. I chanced to pick up the Tales of a Traveller some years ago with a view to an anthology of prose narrative, and the book flew up and struck me: Billy Bones, his chest, the company in the parlour, the whole inner spirit, and a good deal of the material detail of my first chapters — all were there, all were the property of Washington Irving. But I had no guess of it then as I sat writing by the fireside, in what seemed the spring-tides of a somewhat pedestrian inspiration; nor yet day by day, after lunch, as I read aloud my morning’s work to the family. It seemed to me original as sin; it seemed to belong to me like my right eye. I had counted on one boy, I found I had two in my audience. My father caught fire at once with all the romance and childishness of his original nature. His own stories, that every night of his life he put himself to sleep with, dealt perpetually with ships, roadside inns, robbers, old sailors, and commercial travellers before the era of steam. He never finished one of these romances; the lucky man did not require to! But in Treasure Island he recognised something kindred to his own imagination; it was HIS kind of picturesque; and he not only heard with delight the daily chapter, but set himself acting to collaborate. When the time came for Billy Bones’s chest to be ransacked, he must have passed the better part of a day preparing, on the back of a legal envelope, an inventory of its contents, which I exactly followed; and the name of ‘Flint’s old ship’— the Walrus — was given at his particular request. And now who should come dropping in, ex machina, but Dr. Japp, like the disguised prince who is to bring down the curtain upon peace and happiness in the last act; for he carried in his pocket, not a horn or a talisman, but a publisher — had, in fact, been charged by my old friend, Mr. Henderson, to unearth new writers for Young Folks. Even the ruthlessness of a united family recoiled before the extreme measure of inflicting on our guest the mutilated members of The Sea Cook; at the same time, we would by no means stop our readings; and accordingly the tale was begun again at the beginning, and solemnly re-delivered for the benefit of Dr. Japp. From that moment on, I have thought highly of his critical faculty; for when he left us, he carried away the manuscript in his portmanteau.

Here, then, was everything to keep me up, sympathy, help, and now a positive engagement. I had chosen besides a very easy style. Compare it with the almost contemporary ‘Merry Men’, one reader may prefer the one style, one the other —‘tis an affair of character, perhaps of mood; but no expert can fail to see that the one is much more difficult, and the other much easier to maintain. It seems as though a full-grown experienced man of letters might engage to turn out Treasure Island at so many pages a day, and keep his pipe alight. But alas! this was not my case. Fifteen days I stuck to it, and turned out fifteen chapters; and then, in the early paragraphs of the sixteenth, ignominiously lost hold. My mouth was empty; there was not one word of Treasure Island in my bosom; and here were the proofs of the beginning already waiting me at the ‘Hand and Spear’! Then I corrected them, living for the most part alone, walking on the heath at Weybridge in dewy autumn mornings, a good deal pleased with what I had done, and more appalled than I can depict to you in words at what remained for me to do. I was thirty-one; I was the head of a family; I had lost my health; I had never yet paid my way, never yet made 200 pounds a year; my father had quite recently bought back and cancelled a book that was judged a failure: was this to be another and last fiasco? I was indeed very close on despair; but I shut my mouth hard, and during the journey to Davos, where I was to pass the winter, had the resolution to think of other things and bury myself in the novels of M. de Boisgobey. Arrived at my destination, down I sat one morning to the unfinished tale; and behold! it flowed from me like small talk; and in a second tide of delighted industry, and again at a rate of a chapter a day, I finished Treasure Island. It had to be transcribed almost exactly; my wife was ill; the schoolboy remained alone of the faithful; and John Addington Symonds (to whom I timidly mentioned what I was engaged on) looked on me askance. He was at that time very eager I should write on the characters of Theophrastus: so far out may be the judgments of the wisest men. But Symonds (to be sure) was scarce the confidant to go to for sympathy on a boy’s story. He was large-minded; ‘a full man,’ if there was one; but the very name of my enterprise would suggest to him only capitulations of sincerity and solecisms of style. Well! he was not far wrong.

Treasure Island — it was Mr. Henderson who deleted the first title, The Sea Cook — appeared duly in the story paper, where it figured in the ignoble midst, without woodcuts, and attracted not the least attention. I did not care. I liked the tale myself, for much the same reason as my father liked the beginning: it was my kind of picturesque. I was not a little proud of John Silver, also; and to this day rather admire that smooth and formidable adventurer. What was infinitely more exhilarating, I had passed a landmark; I had finished a tale, and written ‘The End’ upon my manuscript, as I had not done since ‘The Pentland Rising,’ when I was a boy of sixteen not yet at college. In truth it was so by a set of lucky accidents; had not Dr. Japp come on his visit, had not the tale flowed from me with singular case, it must have been laid aside like its predecessors, and found a circuitous and unlamented way to the fire. Purists may suggest it would have been better so. I am not of that mind. The tale seems to have given much pleasure, and it brought (or, was the means of bringing) fire and food and wine to a deserving family in which I took an interest. I need scarcely say I mean my own.

But the adventures of Treasure Island are not yet quite at an end. I had written it up to the map. The map was the chief part of my plot. For instance, I had called an islet ‘Skeleton Island,’ not knowing what I meant, seeking only for the immediate picturesque, and it was to justify this name that I broke into the gallery of Mr. Poe and stole Flint’s pointer. And in the same way, it was because I had made two harbours that the Hispaniola was sent on her wanderings with Israel Hands. The time came when it was decided to republish, and I sent in my manuscript, and the map along with it, to Messrs. Cassell. The proofs came, they were corrected, but I heard nothing of the map. I wrote and asked; was told it had never been received, and sat aghast. It is one thing to draw a map at random, set a scale in one corner of it at a venture, and write up a story to the measurements. It is quite another to have to examine a whole book, make an inventory of all the allusions contained in it, and with a pair of compasses, painfully design a map to suit the data. I did it; and the map was drawn again in my father’s office, with embellishments of blowing whales and sailing ships, and my father himself brought into service a knack he had of various writing, and elaborately FORGED the signature of Captain Flint, and the sailing directions of Billy Bones. But somehow it was never Treasure Island to me.

I have said the map was the most of the plot. I might almost say it was the whole. A few reminiscences of Poe, Defoe, and Washington Irving, a copy of Johnson’s Buccaneers, the name of the Dead Man’s Chest from Kingsley’s At Last, some recollections of canoeing on the high seas, and the map itself, with its infinite, eloquent suggestion, made up the whole of my materials. It is, perhaps, not often that a map figures so largely in a tale, yet it is always important. The author must know his countryside, whether real or imaginary, like his hand; the distances, the points of the compass, the place of the sun’s rising, the behaviour of the moon, should all be beyond cavil. And how troublesome the moon is! I have come to grief over the moon in Prince Otto, and so soon as that was pointed out to me, adopted a precaution which I recommend to other men — I never write now without an almanack. With an almanack, and the map of the country, and the plan of every house, either actually plotted on paper or already and immediately apprehended in the mind, a man may hope to avoid some of the grossest possible blunders. With the map before him, he will scarce allow the sun to set in the east, as it does in The Antiquary. With the almanack at hand, he will scarce allow two horsemen, journeying on the most urgent affair, to employ six days, from three of the Monday morning till late in the Saturday night, upon a journey of, say, ninety or a hundred miles, and before the week is out, and still on the same nags, to cover fifty in one day, as may be read at length in the inimitable novel of Rob Roy. And it is certainly well, though far from necessary, to avoid such ‘croppers.’ But it is my contention — my superstition, if you like- -that who is faithful to his map, and consults it, and draws from it his inspiration, daily and hourly, gains positive support, and not mere negative immunity from accident. The tale has a root there; it grows in that soil; it has a spine of its own behind the words. Better if the country be real, and he has walked every foot of it and knows every milestone. But even with imaginary places, he will do well in the beginning to provide a map; as he studies it, relations will appear that he had not thought upon; he will discover obvious, though unsuspected, short-cuts and footprints for his messengers; and even when a map is not all the plot, as it was in Treasure Island, it will be found to be a mine of suggestion.

[johnlinneyphotography]

Somewhere up on the North York Moors between Castleton and Hutton Le Hole #yorkshire #northyorkmoors #moorland https://www.instagram.com/p/BwRcPTUHzMWD1DQ3FgHttTOLYN-NGWVI6-4oxU0/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=st71nx1slk7e

[paulbeal]

🚶‍♂️ New Walk Alert: Castleton Walk in the North York Moors 🚶‍♀️

📌 Hello, everyone! I'm excited to share a new guide on my website: 'Castleton Walk: Trekking Ancient Pathways in the North York Moors.' This circular walk covers 12½ miles and takes about 5¾ hours to complete, offering a splendid way to enjoy the stunning landscapes of the North York Moors.

📍 Starting in Castleton, the walk begins just south of the road bridge over the River Esk. The route crosses a variety of rugged terrains and historic paths, including the Esk Valley Walk, Quakersʼ Causeway, and Panniermanʼs Causeway. Each path has its own unique appeal.

🏘️ On your route, explore the charming village of Commondale. After completing the walk, Castleton itself offers an excellent opportunity for further exploration. The path leads you through expansive moorlands, over the ancient stone slabs of Quakersʼ Causeway, and through the tranquil Danby Park's Silver Birch woodland, which is just one of the many highlights of the walk.

🔗 Interested in this adventure? For a detailed guide and to start planning your walk, visit my website:

[fhithich]

Young Ralph Cross

The old custom of leaving a coin on the arms of Young Ralph Cross.

A breather after riding up from Westerdale. Not the highest part of the Moors — that falls to Round Hill on Urra Moor — but it certainly has that feel about it. Young Ralph Cross has stood for centuries guiding and reassuring the weary traveller. Nowadays, most folk don’t stop on the busy Castleton to Hutton-le-Hole road, so won’t adhere to the old custom of that “every passer-by who is thankful…

[pezski]

A Sunday bike ride on the road and in the woods

I've been on the road bike a lot recently, so decided to take my trusty Kona today to give me more variety - and, hopefully, stay more in the woodland shade. Out through Beeley Woods, then the climb to Wharncliffe and the cinder roads, which then joins the trail made on the route of the old rail line. I used to come out this way a lot, but the trail has been even further improved - the surface, far more seating areas and informational signage, a few "Wild Wood!" trails for kids through areas of coppiced birch. The main trail is mainly gravel packed into the dirt, which has worn away on some stretches and occasionally narrows to less than two metres. My 29" wheels eat it up whatever, and it's smooth enough that I lock out my suspension.

I suspected I'd get the 19 km to Penistone and head back from there by road ( I have an almost pathological aversion to returning by the same route if I can possibly avoid it ) but carried on out on the long curve of the Trans Pennine Trail section of the National Cycle Network until it hit road at Dunford Bridge and then a climb and drop to meet the A628 Woodhead Road.

It took a real effort of will to turn left toward home instead of taking the long, glorious loop above the Bleaklow Moor out toward Manchester, to circle back via Glossop, the Snake and Ladybower, but I sensibly turned left.

A phenomenal fast descent on the road - easily topping 50 kph on the mountain bike, I'd probably have reached seventy had I been on the Tifosi. Not a huge amount of traffic, but some drivers really have no idea about passing. The closest was one tiny hatchback whose wing mirror actually passed below my jutting elbow.

I decided against joining the trails that lead south a couple of km down, as from memory they get pretty extreme, climbing and dipping over the valleys formed by various streams, instead joining a gentler bridleway that lead to Langsett Reservoir, then a mix of trails and glorious back roads past Upper Midhope, Midhopestones and Underbank to Bolsterstone, again unfortunately missing the Male Voice Choir practice.

The long fast drop to Wharncliffe Side ( slightly held up behind a BMW being sensibly cautious inits descent ) and I'm all but home. Feeling it a little in my legs, but managed a final climb up Langsett Avenue which is quite pleasing after by far m longest ride in some years.

It's almost like my summer Sunday mornings as a kid. I'd rise early and head out on my Carlton racer to Castleton, Glossop, Wakefield - sometimes the same trans-moor loop that formed part of my return today - to get back for 2 PM and my mum's enormous Sunday dinner. No wonder people would joke I must have hollow legs from the amount I ate. I kind of wish I'd had this mapping technology then. to see the hours and distance I managed in my early teens, those three and four and five our rides, or other times exploring the city or heading down into Derbyshire. But, had these technologies been around perhaps I'd have been distracted by other things and those rides may not have happened.

Ride and pics at https://www.strava.com/activities/1688872959

[dettebavies450]

Ralph Cross, N York Moors