A Sunny Walk By A Yorkshire River

In this second episode of my series of walks and journeys in Yorkshire, we go for a two-mile walk along the River Wharfe, noticing everything we see on the way and recording sounds, textures, and scents too. It's interesting - but hopefully not so interesting that it keeps you awake!

Do check out episode one - A Peaceful Walk In A Yorkshire Town.

Transcript

Hello there,

It's Mandy here.

Welcome to the second in my series of walks and journeys which I describe to you in some detail in the hope that they will make you nod off comfortably to sleep.

These details are hopefully interesting but not too interesting as we don't want anything that's likely to keep you awake.

Tonight I'm going to take you on a circular walk along the River Wharf between two bridges in the little town I live in in Yorkshire.

I don't know if you came on walk number one which took you through the town and up to the train station but if you didn't do feel free to check it out.

It's called a peaceful walk in a Yorkshire town.

In that walk you turned out of my garden and walked south into town but tonight you're going to walk through the five barred gate at the bottom of my garden and go north towards and then along the River Wharf.

It's an amazing river,

It can go from a sluggish narrowish trickle to a raging flooding torrent overnight.

Don't worry though,

At the time of our walk the water level is quite low so you won't get your feet wet.

For much of its course it's the county boundary between west and north Yorkshire and its valley is known as Wharfdale.

Before we begin do make any preparations that you need to.

The walk is about two miles and will take about half an hour.

It's a walk you can easily do in shoes rather than boots so don't worry about your footwear.

It's a sunny day so you won't need a raincoat or an umbrella.

So having had a cup of tea at my house you make your way down my garden towards the gate.

Depending on whether you like dogs or not you might have offered to take my German Shepherd dog for a walk and if you have she leads you down the stone flagged path past the leafy gooseberry bushes on the left and the arching plum tree on the right down past the pink tulips in their large tubs and the terracotta planter full of herbs thyme,

Sage,

Oregano,

Mint to the bottom of the garden.

You pull the cool iron handle of the heavy wooden gate towards you noticing that the gate is in bad condition and needs work doing to it or even replacing but you walk through it onto the unmade road where you turn left.

If the dog is with you she tugs you towards a cream coloured mini parked outside my neighbour's house.

She sniffs both its back tyres thoroughly then looks up at you.

If dogs could frown that's what she'd be doing now wondering why you're starting to walk past instead of opening the door and letting her scramble up onto the back seat.

She thinks every parked car belongs to her and she'd much rather go for a drive than a walk where she is bound to encounter every single one of the numerous and highly excitable small dogs that live in this neighbourhood but you and I are the only ones who know that and we'll keep her secrets safe.

Once you've encouraged her past the cream mini she puts her best paw forward.

You walk on down the lane together past a chocolate brown fence with a mixed hedge above it of hawthorn with its bright green shoots known locally as bread and cheese even though they don't taste anything like that.

Yellowy privet and ceanothus its bright blue flowers still tight buttons and holly spiky leaves new and soft.

You pass a big sprawling stone house that has two smaller houses in its garden.

It was once owned by a builder called Malcolm or so I've led you to believe but now his extended family live there occupying the large and small houses alike.

There are numerous adults plus a baby,

A toddler,

A very large grey dog and a very small white one.

Now a young man comes out and gets into his van.

You know this to be the man that nearly ran me over a few weeks ago when I managed to get into his blind spot while he was reversing but nevertheless you exchange a nod with him as you pass.

Beyond Malcolm's buildings lie eight lockups garages rented out to small local businesses.

Some of their doors are open.

In one you spot planks of wood,

A pair of sawhorses and some joinery tools.

In another gleams a powerful looking motorbike.

The biggest business stretches over three garages and has an upstairs floor with windows.

Various cars are parked here and there outside it on the hard standing waiting to be mended.

You glance into the dim interior and hear the murmur of voices and the oily rattle of a car being hoisted on a ramp for its undercarriage to be inspected.

Stacks of sun-warmed old tyres tower on your right,

A faint smell of rubber rising from them.

Now you face a path.

On the other side of it stands the low wall and iron railings of the local funeral parlour,

A low modern building of bright cream stonework and double glazed doors and windows.

In front of its double garage a hearse is cleaned by two men.

One wields a hosepipe,

The other a sponge.

He wipes wide curves of white foam onto the shiny black bodywork and the other sluices them off.

A third man leans against the garage door holding a cigarette.

All three are dressed like office workers,

Not maintenance men.

They laugh at something and smoke from the cigarette wafts towards you on the spring air.

You turn left on the path.

Instead of walking on as far as the cemetery gates however,

You decide to take a shortcut and walk across a patch of grass to a low wall covered in moss.

It's dry so you're able to sit on the wall and swing your legs over without getting your trousers wet.

A vast patch of nettles lies on the far side but they're only just sprouting from the leaf litter at this time of year,

So you're able to walk through them with only the slightest tickling on your ankles.

This will not be the case in a month or two's time.

The green and brown fronds of ferns are still tightly curled at the base of the wall but they'll soon be ready to shoot up too.

You're in the cemetery now.

You can hear the distant swish of car tyres from the road on the far side of the river.

You also hear a cawing and a flapping of wings high above and imagine some sort of fracas between crows.

The scent of freshly mown grass welcomes you.

It's a scent that evokes childhood,

School holidays,

Times when you lay down on your back on the ground for what felt like hours,

Gazing at the white pillowy clouds above and wondering what it would be like to walk on them,

Watching planes leave white stripes that grew fuzzy,

Spread out,

Then dissolved into the blue.

Back in the present,

A feeling of relaxation and idleness washes over you.

You're visited by the spirit of those long ago days that seemed endless when there was nothing to do and no need to do even that in a hurry.

You slow your pace to meander between the gravestones,

Looking with interest at the different colours they have arrived at over so many decades,

Some still deep grey and shiny,

Some pale and blotched with green,

Some rusty,

Streaked with white.

This is not a manicured graveyard and the headstones list this way and that on the tussocky ground,

Like in a painting of ships on a stormy sea.

Two decommissioned chapels stand in the centre of the cemetery,

Separated by a path.

Signs tell you that one is now a business,

The other a hot yoga studio.

Three women stand chatting,

Each carrying a brightly coloured yoga mat under her arm,

Purple,

Pink,

Blue.

But perhaps the loudest sound in the cemetery now is the birdsong.

You stand for a minute or two,

Listening with amazement to all the different registers of song.

You hear fluting,

Cooing,

Cheeping,

Peeping,

Trilling,

Cheering,

Twittering and calling.

You make your way to the exit on the other side.

The dog comes close and the sound of her breathing underpins the soundtrack of the tweeting above.

You even feel for a moment her hot breath on the back of your leg.

You can see the river now,

Glittering in the sun between the trees and bushes ahead of you.

You pass two Austrian pines.

You know them by the enormous side branches that grow from high up in the tree,

As thick as tree trunks themselves.

They create balls of deep green shade on the ground.

You almost linger to enjoy these cool oases,

But realise that nearly 10 minutes has gone by already and the title of your walk is a sunny walk by a Yorkshire river,

Not a shady walk in a Yorkshire cemetery.

You haven't even reached the river yet.

But at last you turn right onto the river path and sense as much as see the lively rush of water to your left.

The water level is low at the moment and a great beach of pebbles opens up on your left,

An expanse that you imagine is normally covered by the rushing river.

Near the water's edge a couple sit on the stones watching their two little boys throwing pebbles,

Trying to make them skip on the river's surface.

You are shaded by the trees that line the river,

But out on the beach the young family is bathed in bright sunshine.

In front of you to your left is the pedestrian suspension bridge,

Known locally as the swing bridge,

By which you'll cross over to the other side of the river.

It's a beauty,

Painted green and cream,

And as you approach an iron plaque tells you it was built in 1934 by David Powell and Company Limited from Westminster,

Southwest London.

Weren't there any suitable engineers in Yorkshire,

You wonder?

Perhaps not.

You turn left onto the bridge and feel the wooden planks under your feet give just a little as you walk,

Starting to set the bridge off into a gently swaying motion,

But almost imperceptible.

When you are halfway across you hold on to the rusty railing on one side of the bridge,

Although you don't need to,

And feel the coolness of the iron,

The patches of rust rough under your fingertips.

You stand in the centre of the bridge for a few moments,

Just taking in a great view of the river.

Down river you see the water curve lazily around to the right.

Everywhere it is dotted with exposed rocks and stones.

There is a tiny island covered in long grass.

You turn and look up river,

Past the family on the beach,

To where the river curves sharply to the left.

In the distance you see the outline of the moor rising up behind the town,

With rocky outcrops near the skyline.

Nearer you see white goalposts and the edge of the town's rugby pitch,

Which you will soon be walking alongside.

Above the clouds are fluffy and piled extravagantly like meringue.

The swing bridge leads you to a road.

You have to pass through an iron gate on a strong spring.

If my German Shepherd is with you,

This is the moment to put her back on her lead.

She won't object,

In fact she will nuzzle your hand.

You don't object either,

Enjoying the brief contact with her cold moist nose and the sun-warmed fur of her head.

When you pull the gate open,

It makes a screaming,

Grating noise,

Fit to wake the dead in the nearby cemetery.

You go through and it shuts with a loud clang.

This,

You've been told,

Was fitted to stop rabbits coming down from the woods to feast on all the vegetables at the allotments on the other side of the river.

So now you are on the road.

Directly opposite you stands the entrance gate to the woodland that rises steeply and immediately uphill.

There is a small lay-by with room for a few parked cars.

Today a big green Waitrose delivery van stands with its driver door open.

As you walk past,

The driver pulls the door too,

With a clop.

After the lay-by,

There's a long grass verge and boulders stand all the way along it,

Evenly spaced.

They are there to stop people parking on the side of the road,

A measure that the local council,

Or so you understand,

Started taking during the Covid years,

When people began coming in unusually large numbers to visit the river.

You don't know the full extent of the issues involved,

But the prohibition does strike you as a little mean.

This town is pretty and prosperous,

Which isn't the case for all of Yorkshire,

And you'd like to think they could be more generous to their visitors.

But this isn't a day for disagreeable thoughts.

Banishing the crabby councillors of your imagination,

You walk beside the road,

Which is quite busy today.

Cars swoosh by.

A helmeted group of six male cyclists,

All dressed in orange and black lycra,

Ride past you two abreast,

Shouting to each other.

Within only a few minutes,

You are turning off the road,

Walking through a gap in the hedge to arrive on a rough path.

You are now on the north side of the river.

The dog comes off the lead again and busies herself,

Sniffing a fascinating clump of grass on the left.

You look beyond her to the river,

Sparkling and glittering as it runs past you in the opposite direction to the way you're walking.

It tumbles over rocks,

Widening a little.

Here was once a strong and dangerous whirlpool called the crumwheel.

These days it only swirls gently,

The riverbed having been altered back in the day to make the current less powerful.

You walk along beside the river,

Enjoying the sound of the rippling water.

Green parkland opens out on your right.

Mature,

Majestic trees are the order of the day,

Spaced out to dramatic effect on the grass.

You pass a big red lollipop on your left.

Closer inspection reveals that it's an emergency life buoy atop a metal pole.

Sure enough,

You approach a small weir made up of large stones that cross to the other side of the river in an elongated v-shape.

The water gushes over the big stones and you can imagine it's a thundering spectacle when the river is in spate.

You notice that you are walking on pink and white confetti and that it is sticking to the soles of your shoes.

You look up.

Two large cherry trees tower above you,

The pretty horizontal markings on their trunks a sure identifier with or without the blossom.

There is as much blossom above as there is below and for a moment you feel enveloped in pink and white.

To your left on the riverbank lies a broad swathe of delicate green.

You look closer and see pointed leaves and tiny white stars.

The wild garlic is out in force and you can smell its faint distinct scent.

A few tall bluebells stand here and there among the soft green piles.

Just beyond lies the river,

Slow and rusty looking at this point,

Just above the small weir.

Growing out from the riverbank almost parallel to the bright brown water are the long bowed trunks of crack willow with its fissured bark and whip-like vertical twigs shooting upwards.

These trunks look as if they are ready to drop right down into the water.

They create narrow half bridges across the river,

No use to a human who wants to cross but perfect for birds or squirrels who want a vantage point from which to peer up or down the river.

You've heard that there are two ragged looking grey and white herons who are often spotted standing still as statues at their various different lookout posts along the river but there's no sight of them at the moment.

This weekend as the white H shapes of the rugby posts appear more clearly on your right,

So too do several enormous and strange looking machines that you can see have been towed onto the field by cars.

A tall green cartoon figure in a top hat stands atop one of them,

Its hand raised in welcome.

You pass behind enormous letters towering on a red hoarding.

You read them in reverse.

Rockstar.

In a few days time it is a bank holiday here in the UK and young men are busy constructing the funfair.

Behind the letters Rockstar one works with a power tool that whirs and grates as he sinks screws into the huge display.

Further on is a food stand it shutters down.

On a background of painted orange flames you read the words burgers,

Hot dogs,

Tea,

Coffee.

As you pass the food stand you see the cartoon figure more clearly.

It stands on top of a large mechanical octopus with red cars on the end of its tentacles.

That will be fun for the children at the weekend you think,

For the actual children and also for the inner children of the adults.

Moving on over the grass speckled at this time of year all over with yellow dandelions you pass a small tree held up stolidly by two posts joined by a horizontal bar.

The supports are so stout that they make the tree look weak and spindly.

A black brass plaque embedded in a rock beneath tells you that this tree and oak was planted in June 2022 to commemorate the platinum jubilee of her majesty Queen Elizabeth II.

The queen has since died of course and by the look of this tree it might not be far behind but you hope it does live.

You reach a point of the river that my dog sees as the queue for a paddle and she suddenly takes off running rather gingerly,

She is nearly 10,

Over the big pebbles to get to the water.

I have warned you that this might happen so you're not alarmed.

The river is so low that she has to nearly cross it to get to the deeper water and to get submerged up to her haunches which is what she loves to do.

Once she gets there she stands surveying the path on the other side of the river which is a lot higher up than our side and where there is a man walking with a small white dog.

Once they have been seen off by her hard stare she is content to wade and drink for just a few moments before turning and splashing her way back to you,

Slipping this way and that on the stony riverbed.

The fur on her underbelly stands out in sodden spikes and she waits until she is right beside you to shake it off.

It goes all over your trousers but she looks up at you so joyously that you forgive her in a second.

Together you walk up the bank away from the river,

You spot a group of carefully spaced and staked trees some covered in blossom and walk over to take a look.

On a notice board you read that this is a community orchard planted on the 8th of March 2020,

Just before the Covid lockdown you think and feel glad that the young people shown in the photographs were able to get the work done in time.

You gaze around at the dozen or so trees.

In four years although some of them still look like saplings,

As spindly as the commemorative oak,

Others have grown into sturdy healthy trees.

You recognise the delightful pink and white of apple blossom.

On a few other trees the blossom has already dropped and you suspect that these are pear trees.

You walk across the grass and begin to wander between the different trees.

Their varieties are displayed on little homemade sanded wooden plaques cut from a cross-section of a branch marked with names then wired onto the mesh cylinders that are staked around each individual tree.

You read the names Red Falstaff,

Cox's Orange Pippin,

Ribston Pippin,

Discovery,

Spartan,

James Greve.

Of pears there are Dwayne de Commis,

Concord,

Conference,

Burr Hardy,

Williams Boncletien.

The poetry of names.

You linger for a few more moments then walk on.

You draw level with the town's skateboard park on your right.

It is deserted.

Two parallel ramps go down then up again to end on little fenced-in platforms.

In the middle stands a low curved wall on which you imagine the kids perform various tricks.

The back wall of the park is covered in large black and white graffiti,

So artistic you suspect it was painted on by the skate park designer.

On your left people with dogs stand on another large expanse of pebbles.

One woman's dog,

Large and grey,

Has gone right into the middle of the river and seems to be staying there even though she is still holding the other end of his extendable lead.

She looks as if she has been fishing for dogs and has caught a prize specimen but can't work out how to land him.

Our dog,

Realising that you and she are coming to the end of the park,

Comes back to you to be put on the lead.

You oblige and walk with her up two ramps to get to the level of the road.

The ramps are more gently sloping than the vertiginous ones in the skateboard park,

Luckily.

Now you turn left along the road,

A broader and busier road than the one you encountered earlier,

As it is the main thoroughfare heading into the centre of town.

Cars,

Lorries and bikes whiz past you as you walk across the town's road bridge with its green painted railings and superb view of the river,

Which now ripples 30 feet beneath you.

From this vantage point you notice how brown the water is,

Not a dirty colour but a bright amber in its depths and gold in its shallows.

Safely over the bridge you turn left through an opening in the stone wall and release your tight grip on the dog before she pulls you headlong down a long flight of very steep stone steps with iron railings on each side.

You tackle the steps at your own pace,

Reaching the bottom in one piece.

You are now on the path on the other side of the river.

You turn to look back up the steps,

Wondering why they felt so tricky to negotiate,

And you see that they slant strongly to the left.

After walking only a few paces along the path,

You reach another long flight of steps to your right that lead back up again to a road at right angles to the main one.

These steps are very shallow and so long that you would need to take two paces to each.

Because they take a lot longer to gain height,

They stretch out over a far longer distance.

At the top you spot the gable of the town's little theatre.

You walk on,

Now on the return journey.

This path feels more enclosed than its counterpart across the river,

As the grass bank on the right rises and becomes steeper.

At the top of it you see a green mesh fence with allotments behind it.

Walking along you realise that tiny sheds are the order of the day,

Painted a pleasing variety of pastel shades.

You didn't know they made sheds so small.

On your left the river babbles happily along.

Even though it's slow today,

It's matching your pace and even outstripping you.

The river bank on your left is steep,

But not easily accessible unless you are a young nimble dog.

Otherwise you are significantly impeded by large trees,

Mainly sycamores with their bright,

Almost lime-coloured,

Maple-shaped leaves which rustle above you in the slight breeze,

And a tangle of vegetation.

Wild raspberry canes sprout here and there among nettles.

The path veers slightly to the right and a row of large semi-detached houses comes into view.

They're lovely houses with reasonably sized gardens in front,

But delightful though their gardens are,

They must enjoy very little privacy as the river path is busy with pedestrians today,

Nearly all of whom can't resist peering into the gardens as they pass.

Or perhaps that's just you.

Ever curious,

Ever observant.

The trees and tangled vegetation on your left give way,

Quite suddenly,

To a neat strip of lawn on which four benches are spaced,

All facing the river.

One is occupied by a man who sits gazing out.

There's a feeling of coming out into the light and the cool breeze lifts your hair a little,

If you have hair that is,

And if it is of the liftable kind,

You walk just enjoying the feeling of the air on your face and hands.

It has been such a long,

Cold,

Wearying winter.

When you come to the end of the four outward-facing benches,

Railings appear on your left,

With large bushes on the far side.

Ignoring the chance to turn right and walk up to the town's supermarket,

You are guided down a snicket,

Railings still on one side,

And a stone wall that belongs to a house on the other.

You feel the chill from the stone as you walk along beside it.

This cool tunnel soon ends and you are out into the breeze again,

To walk past more houses on the right,

And eventually the cemetery on your left.

You pass its enormous iron entrance gates,

And soon you recognise the mossy wall where you sat earlier,

To swing your legs over.

You have completed a circuit known locally as the Two Bridges,

And you are a stone's throw away from my house again,

Where I am surely waiting for you,

With the teapot already warmed.

Reviews

Of course I fell asleep but enjoyed what bits I did hear. Thanks Mandy and look forward to more of your Night Rambles to fall asleep to..

My new fav story (along with the previous walk from Mandy’s home, The Enchanted April and Ted the Shed)! How lovely to be able to be led on a soothing walk by Dog MS (I would *definitely* choose to have her go with!!) who knows the route and all the interesting landmarks along the way. Thank you for sharing your gifted writing, Mandy, I hope there will be more in this Series. 🙏 ❤️

Thank you Mandy for guiding me on this walk. The detail was amazing! Your dog was so well behaved too. I so look forward to another one, and of course a cuppa! 💜🙏x