The Countryman’s Daughter

Defoe-ing the odds

Recent storms have been battering the towns and villages along the east coast, including Runswick Bay, seen here (Picture by Alastair Smith)

As we wish November goodbye, we are well into storm season which started in this part of the world on September 1^st. At the time of writing, we have had four so far, starting with Agnes in late September, followed by Babet in mid-late October, then Ciarán in early November, and most recently Debi in mid-November.

The part of the world where a storm originates is the one which has the privilege of naming it and in the US, they have been doing that since the 1950s. Our storms have only been given names since 2015, the idea being to raise awareness of their impending arrival, making it easier for us to be prepared. Originally, the Met Office asked the public for suggestions but now, more often than not, it is the various weather services that choose. Here in the UK, the Met Office collaborates with the Irish weather service, Met Éireann, and the Dutch KMNI agency to come up with them. Norway, Sweden and Denmark collaborate in a separate north European group, while southern countries such as Portugal, Spain and France, join forces to name storms originating there.

Records of storms began in 1766, but it is one that occurred before that in November 1703 that has the reputation as the worst this country has ever known. The south coast was the worst hit, and one of the most famous accounts of the disaster was published by Daniel Defoe, who released his book ‘The Storm’ in 1704. Defoe, most famous to us for writing Robinson Crusoe in 1719, was already well known as a political satirist and commentator. Having lived through the storm, he not only wanted to document it, but was keen to hear the stories of others who had been affected.

He placed an advert in the London Gazette asking for eyewitnesses to get in touch. He had an enthusiastic response, and subsequently included around 60 of the stories in his book, which he describes as follows: ‘A collection of the most remarkable casualties and disasters which happened in the late dreadful tempest both by sea and land.’

The book has since been credited as being the first substantial work of modern journalism, even though it is criticised for sensationalism and exaggeration. But Defoe, just like the tabloid editors of today, understood that attention-grabbing headlines and promises of gory first-hand accounts were what would entice readers to part with their money. ‘No pen could describe it, nor tongue express it, nor thoughts conceive it unless by one in the extremity of it,’ he declared.

When describing coastal towns, such as Portsmouth, after the storm, he says they ‘looked as if the the enemy had sackt them and were most miserably torn to pieces.’ He also describes the lead on the roofs of churches and public buildings being ‘rolled up like a roll of parchment and blown in some places clear off the building.’

Defoe’s enthusiasm for telling the real story coincided with a growth in the public’s appetite for current, up-to-date news, rather than the tedious lengthy ramblings of the partisan editors that they were used to. Although newspapers were being produced a couple of times a week, it was on 11th March 1702 that the first ever daily paper hit the streets. The single-sheet Daily Courant featured two columns of foreign news on the front, with paid advertisements on the back.

The editor, an ‘E.Mallet’, stated that he ‘would not take it upon himself to give any comments or conjectures of his own, but will relate only matter of fact, supposing other people to have sense enough to make reflections for themselves.’ In other words, the paper vowed to be free from bias.

But who was this mysterious ‘E.Mallet’ with such an enlightened, sensible approach to sharing news? It was in fact a woman called Elizabeth Mallet, who hid behind a male persona for fear of ridicule and censorship.

At the bottom of Ludgate Hill in London, just before it turns into Fleet Street, there is a blue plaque fixed to a wall which states: ‘In a house near this site was published in 1702 The Daily Courant First London Daily Newspaper’.

Isn’t it about time that Elizabeth Mallet, a clearly enterprising woman way ahead of her time, had her name added to that plaque, or indeed, a plaque all of her own?

Contact me via my webpage at countrymansdaughter.com. Follow me on Twitter @countrymansdaug.

This column appeared in the Darlington & Stockton Times on Friday 1st Dec and the Ryedale Gazette and Herald on Wednesday 29th November 2023.

Beside myself at the seaside

Will beautiful coastal towns like Scarborough rediscover the status and glory they once enjoyed?

When I visited Scarborough a few weeks ago, I was struck by the size and grandeur of the buildings lining The Esplanade, the main seafront road that spans the South Cliff where I was staying. The properties have spectacular views out to sea and as with most resort towns, some of the houses were well looked after, while others were in need of a fair bit of TLC.

Scarbrough is said to be Britain’s first proper seaside resort, thanks to a woman called Thomasin Farrer who in 1626 discovered a mineral-laden spring trickling down the South Cliff. In 1660, a book written by Dr Robert Wittie extolling the health-giving virtues of this spring led to an influx of people seeking cures for their various ailments. This in turn led to the first ‘Spaw House’, built in the early 1700s on the site of the current Scarborough Spa building, and soon wealthy families from as far away as London were travelling up north to take in the sea air, bathe, and benefit from the medicinal properties of this now famous spring water. Scarbrough became a very fashionable place to be seen and was one of the first to use bathing machines, mini beach huts on wheels that could be rolled into the sea so that the modesty of the well-to-do swimmers could be preserved as they entered the water.

When I trained as a journalist in the early 1990s, I was sent to the south coast town of Hastings in East Sussex on a six-month residential training course. My trip to Scarbrough reminded me of my time there, both towns having that air of shabby elegance about them. I knew nothing about Hastings back then, except that the famous Battle of 1066 was named after it.

I found it unexpectedly beautiful, perched on the edge of the English Channel with glorious ocean views from the wide boulevard that spanned the width of the town. And yet, there was an air of abject neglect that hung around the huge and very beautiful Georgian, Victorian and Edwardian buildings, a contrast which was difficult to reconcile in my young head. The term ‘faded grandeur’ could not have been more apt, and I was genuinely saddened to see these beautiful pieces of architecture lapsing into dereliction.

You could tell that this was once a most fashionable seaside destination. It was the Napoleonic Wars (1803-1815) that were instrumental in bringing to an end the tradition of the ‘Grand Tour’, a ‘coming of age’ trip made by English society’s affluent youth who travelled down through Europe and into Italy. This, along with the expansion of the steam railway network, meant that these bright young things searching for fashionable destinations in which to be seen landed in coastal resorts like Hastings. Hastings, which had been a small fishing town until the early 1800s, expanded rapidly, and imposing town houses, along with assembly rooms, dance halls, coffee shops, shopping arcades, theatres and recreation parks began to be built to cater for this influx of the rich and influential, whose bathing machines began lining up on the beach.

The resort thrived until well into the 20^th century, and one of the most striking buildings is where we had our training school, Marine Court, otherwise known as The Ship due to the fact its Art Deco design was based on the recently launched Cunard liner, the Queen Mary. The white building, which at the time of opening in 1938 was the largest residential apartment block in the country, can be seen for miles around, and now, like more than 500 other buildings in Hastings, has Grade II listed status. Our digs were round the corner in Warrior Square, a beautiful green park surrounded on all sides by Georgian and Victorian town houses, most of which were badly run down.

The demise of these once splendid resorts is attributed in the most part to the rise of affordable foreign travel. I haven’t been back to Hastings for years, but a quick look via the trickery that is Street View on Googles Maps shows that most of the buildings are in a much better condition than when I was there. There is evidence of scaffolding on many, suggesting they are being regenerated, which must be a good sign. Will these beautiful coastal towns rediscover the glory and status they once enjoyed?

Contact me via my webpage at countrymansdaughter.com. Follow me on Twitter @countrymansdaug.

This column appeared in the Darlington & Stockton Times on Friday 24th and the Ryedale Gazette and Herald on Wednesday 22nd November 2023.

Never cheesed off in the Dales

A visit to Wensleydale Creamery is a cheesetastic experience

On a recent trip to the Dales with a couple of cheese-mad friends, I went to the Wensleydale Creamery, home of the most famous of Yorkshire cheeses.

I found the whole visit fascinating, learning about the process of cheese-making from a very entertaining chap who made a 500g truckle in front of us during his 20-minute talk. Afterwards, we were able to sample the dozens of varieties, all of which were delicious, and if that wasn’t enough, we then sat down in the café to order from a cheese-themed menu. For anyone with an aversion to cheese a place like this must be hell on earth.

The skill of cheese-making goes back thousands of years, and the very first version of what we now know as Wensleydale was produced in around 1150 using ewe’s milk, the recipe having been brought over by Cistercian monks from the Roquefort region of France. They established themselves at a place called Fors on the banks of the River Ure, about four miles east of the current creamery at Hawes (which has existed since 1897). I couldn’t find it on any map, no doubt because mine are not detailed enough, but after several crop failures, leading to critically low food and animal-feed supplies, the monks were forced to move. A patron offered them better-quality land 16 miles away at East Witton, and it was there that the abbey of Jervaulx was established.

The abbey and its unique dairy product thrived for 400 years until it was destroyed in 1537, victim of Henry VIII’s campaign to wipe out the Catholic faith during the dissolution of the monasteries. But the might of the king was not sufficient to obliterate the Dales’ most precious cheese recipe. The fleeing monks had entrusted it into the care of local farmers whose wives then began to make it. By then, they were using mainly cow’s milk with a drop of ewe’s milk to give it its signature taste, and it is them that we need to thank for preserving and perpetuating the ingredients and techniques that were the foundations of the Wensleydale Cheese we currently enjoy.

The first cheese produced by the monks was not the pure creamy white variety so loved by Wallace and Gromit, but a blue-veined Roquefort-style version. It was only once a commercial creamery was established in 1897 that a more refined and standardised version using cow’s milk began to be produced thanks to a chap called Edward Chapman who set up ‘The Old Dairy’ in Hawes, sourcing the purest and best cows’ milk from local farms. He began to produce on a large scale, ensuring consistency in size, shape, quality and taste.

The origins of cheese lie much further back in history, and although it is generally accepted that it was around 7,000BC in the Middle East that this wonderful and versatile foodstuff was first produced, how it was discovered is still unclear. Like many amazing inventions, most versions agree that it was a happy accident. One suggestion is that it was discovered because milk was stored in containers made from the stomach of animals such as sheep and goats. These stomachs contained the enzyme rennet, which is essential in the production of cheese because it causes milk to separate into Little Miss Muffet’s favourite meal – cottage-cheese like curds, and translucent liquid whey.

Another theory is that milk was stored in terracotta pots, which were only recent inventions themselves, and this combined with the Middle Eastern hot climate led the cheese to coagulate. Other ancient preservatives included salt and acidic fruit juices, both of which could cause milk to curdle in the right conditions. Perhaps all of these theories are right!

The art of cheese-making spread across the Near East and Europe, with murals from 4,000BC Egyptian tombs showing the practice. In Homer’s epic 8^th century BC poem, The Odyssey, the one-eyed giant Polyphemus (otherwise known as Cyclops) made his own cheese by pouring curdled milk into baskets which drained off the whey, much in the way Greek Feta is made now. Feta is very salty, so perhaps that is the explanation of how the Greeks came to discover how to make cheese. The clever Romans developed techniques for making harder varieties of cheese that were longer lasting, easier to transport and therefore easier to trade.

And cheese fans across the globe have never looked back.

Contact me via my webpage at countrymansdaughter.com. Follow me on Twitter @countrymansdaug.

This column appeared in the Darlington & Stockton Times on Friday 17th and the Ryedale Gazette and Herald on Wednesday 15th November 2023.

Babet’s seaside frenzy

Evidence of Storm Babet’s displeasure could be seen all over Scarborough the next day.

There are hundreds of memorial benches along Scarborough’s seafront.

I was fortunate a few weekends ago to spend a couple of days in a friend’s flat on the Esplanade in Scarborough which overlooks the South Bay, just above Scarborough Spa. Unfortunately, it happened to coincide with the weekend that Storm Babet decided to visit too.

The reason for my trip was to go and see a long-awaited concert at the Spa. My friend and I had planned a gentle afternoon walk on the beach followed by fish and chips overlooking the ocean view before heading to the show.

Well, very grumpy Babet had other ideas, didn’t she, descending on the town and causing absolute mayhem wherever she went. She whipped the sea into a boiling frenzy, sending huge waves crashing over the wall in front of the Spa, battering the building and flooding the car park. The concert was cancelled.

Obviously, we also abandoned the beach walk, but were determined to have our fish and chips. We headed out, opting to take the car as the shop was a fair bit away, and by then, Babet was at the peak of her incandescent rage. Away from the sea front, we were protected somewhat by the buildings, but as we turned the corner back on to the Esplanade, Babet powered up her giant wind machine and pointed it right at us. We had to park quite a way from the flat, and it was a battle to stay upright when we got out of the car. I hung on to my friend for dear life for fear of literally being swept off my feet. I don’t think I have ever felt wind like it, and the deafening roar of the sea just below us made any kind of conversation impossible. Once we’d battled our way back inside, we felt like we’d just survived a polar expedition. It meant we enjoyed our fish and chips even more from the safety of our warm and cosy cocoon as we listened to furious Babet battering the windows and brawling along the sea front.

By the next morning, Babet had grown bored with Scarborough and moved on, but had left plenty of evidence of her displeasure, with dozens of broken branches littering paths and a trail of sandy scum along the seafront roads. She’d even tossed a van onto its side on Marine Drive. I was glad to see the back of her.

I took a walk around the Spa gardens, determined to get some sea air into my lungs and grateful that the wind and rain had subsided. What struck me most on my ramble was just how many memorial benches there are. It is understandable that this stirring view out to the North Sea is a favourite for many, as it is undeniably beautiful, and seeing the rows and rows of benches, each with their own little memorial plaque and moving personal dedication to whomever had passed away, made me feel just a wee bit sad for those left behind. But when we lose a loved one, we all appreciate a special place go to remember them, and a bench is a fitting way to do it, especially when it is placed in a favourite spot.

My dad was not a big fan of such benches though because, although he acknowledged it was a lovely idea, he declared that it might not occur to people that the bench would need to be maintained and kept sound, especially if it is in a popular public place. Who would repaint it when needed and who would pay for its ongoing maintenance in the years to come? He had seen too many neglected benches that had fallen into disrepair and gone rotten.

Scarborough Borough Council, however, have already solved that problem, and have a system in place where you can order a bench with a plaque which they will install, and part of the cost goes towards future maintenance. No doubt they receive so many requests that establishing a formal system was inevitable.

Another favourite spot for memorial benches is undoubtedly Sutton Bank near Thirsk, arguably one of the finest views in England. It is one of my all-time favourite places, as it was for my late sister, Tricia, who requested that some of her ashes be scattered there.

We haven’t gone as far as buying her a bench though. I’m not sure Dad would have approved.

Read more at countrymansdaughter.com. Follow me on Twitter @countrymansdaug

This column appeared in the Darlington & Stockton Times on Friday 10th and the Ryedale Gazette and Herald on Wednesday 8th November 2023.

Do you hike, or saunter?

John Muir (1838-1914) was the founder of the modern conservation movement

Whether it was a saunter or a hike up Wansfell Pike in the Lake District, the views from the top were worth the climb

Some of you might recall that during the first lockdown in 2020, I set up a Facebook group called ‘Picture That Walk’ where people could dump all those photos they were taking while they ambled about their local area on their permitted daily hour of exercise.

The group now has around 1500 members who continue to share their lovely pictures from all over the world. A regular topic of conversation is the various terms we use to describe a walk. For example, we have had bimble, potter, meander, stroll, ramble, amble and mosey to name just a few.

It was a member of the group who gave me the inspiration for this column after she posted a quote from the legendary John Muir (1838 – 1914) regarding the word ‘saunter’. Muir was objecting to ‘hikes’.

“Do you know the origin of that word ‘saunter?’” he says. “It’s a beautiful word. Away back in the Middle Ages people used to go on pilgrimages to the Holy Land, and when people in the villages through which they passed asked where they were going, they would reply, ‘A la sainte terre,’ ‘To the Holy Land.’ And so they became known as sainte-terre-ers or saunterers. Now these mountains are our Holy Land, and we ought to saunter through them reverently, not ‘hike’ through them.”

Muir was a Scottish-born mountaineer who was passionate about nature and the founder of the modern conservation movement. He was an active campaigner for the preservation of our wild places and wrote extensively about the physical and emotional benefits of immersing oneself in the countryside. His ideas were radical for the time and were based around the premise that the earth was not to be used simply as a resource for humankind but should be looked after, enjoyed and preserved in all its glory. He was instrumental in coming up with concept of national parks, his first being Yosemite in California (Muir’s family had moved to the USA when he was 11).

If you search for his name online and look up some of his more famous quotes, you will find that his words on nature are quite beautiful despite him declaring he wasn’t a particularly good writer. One that struck me was this one, encouraging people to get outside:

“Nature’s peace will flow into you as sunshine flows into trees. The winds will blow their own freshness into you and the storms their energy, while cares will drop off like autumn leaves.”

How lovely is that?

This weekend, I was party to quite a debate about the difference between a walk and a hike. I was spending the weekend in the beautiful Lake District for the ‘hen’ celebrations of my niece, who is due to get married this month. It was superbly organised by her sisters and mum, and on the itinerary for Saturday morning was a walk. ‘It won’t be too intense, don’t worry,’ we were told. It must be noted here that my niece is super fit, and recently completed the Yorkshire Three Peaks Challenge where she climbed Pen-Y-Ghent (2277 ft), Whernside (2415 ft) and Ingleborough (2372 ft) in one day.

Bearing in mind we’d had a rather heavy night the night before, many of the 17-strong-party were slightly jaded on Saturday morning, and the weather was cold, windy and rainy. You can imagine how delighted we were to discover that this ‘not too intense’ walk was a three-and-a-half-hour circuit starting at Troutbeck and climbing up and over the not inconsiderable 1600-foot Wansfell Pike.

There were a fair few mutterings about the description of this as a ‘walk’, when for some it was most definitely a hike. Despite the grumbles, the groans, the breathlessness, the cold, the wet, and the general pain, once we’d struggled to the top of the fell, we were handsomely rewarded. The views of Lake Windermere, Ambleside and the mountains beyond were absolutely stunning. By the time we got to the end a couple of hours later, the sun had come out, our hangovers had gone, our grumbles had stopped, and we were ready for a good old pub lunch.

I must confess, on the way up Wansfell Pike, I was definitely in ‘hike’ territory. But once I got to the top, and took in the fantastic view, I took a deep breath and gave the landscape the due reverence that John Muir declared it deserved.

Read more at countrymansdaughter.com. Follow me on Twitter @countrymansdaug.

This column appeared in the Darlington & Stockton Times on Friday 3rd and the Ryedale Gazette and Herald on Wednesday 1st November 2023.

Sisters doing it for themselves

1F0CD95F-1C5F-47C6-950D-7A5868A5A06E — Minnie and Fanny Benson at their garage in Ampleforth

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The twins were buried in the dame grave in the local church yard

I was delighted to be contacted by reader Sallie Halkon who got in touch after reading my column that mentioned the twins Minnie and Fanny Benson, who were notable and well-loved characters from my home village.

Sallie recalls: “We used to get punctures repaired by Fanny. According to my mother (Eileen Kirk) their father wanted a boy but obviously got two daughters but brought them up like boys.”

Indeed, the sisters dressed in what I can only describe as a rather androgynous way, and when I was extremely young, I thought they were both men. It didn’t occur to me that their names were feminine, and Minnie usually wore a skirt, although with thick woolly stockings, woolly hat and boots underneath a heavy coat. Fanny’s usual attire was a well-worn boiler suit, sturdy boots, thick coat, and often a woolly hat too. Their faces were like those of moorland farmers, weathered and lined through years of spending almost every waking hour outdoors. They could have walked straight off the set of Heartbeat and would have looked very much at home in Bernie Scripps’ garage or Claude Jeremiah Greengrass’ rag n’ bone smallholding.

Sallie also recalls: “They had cats as well as dogs. They got a lot of them from us as our cat regularly had a litter. I remember once we had a sweet kitten we wanted to keep but Mum had promised it to Minnie. So we took it up to the garage, showing it the path all the way, lo and behold it came back!”

As well as selling petrol and offering bike repairs, the sisters also sold oil, Calor gas, eggs from their own chickens, vegetables from their garden, plus logs and kindling they chopped themselves. They delivered newspapers, a huge job because in those pre-online days, nearly every household would have a newspaper posted through the letterbox each day, plus weekly or monthly magazines. I remember that they had a hayloft, which has now been converted into a house. In there were piles and piles of newspapers and magazines wrapped up in neat bales tied with twine. They would let me go and root around to find copies of comics that I didn’t have, such as the Dandy, the Beezer and Whizzer and Chips (I was lucky to have the Beano delivered each week). If I am right, I believe that villagers would take their old newspapers to Minnie and Fanny who would arrange for them to be collected and recycled (for which I presume they received a modest payment).

And that’s not all they did, as Sallie recalls: “I think Fanny was for a short time a church warden at St Hilda’s and she definitely used to ring the bell for church on Sunday.” Fanny also drove the school bus and offered a taxi service. They were veritable Jills-of-all-trades.

The sisters were notoriously trusting when it came to money and were taken advantage of more than once by some unscrupulous customers who paid with dodgy bank notes. Sallie recalls: “Mum used to do their banking when they were older, and it never added up. She used to dread telling them.”

As I mentioned last time, they had a succession of border collies, all named Lassie, and Sallie remembers Minnie’s very last one: “It was red and white and had not been handled much so a bit wild. She spent a lot of time gaining its trust and told mum how well it was doing.” This dog was by her side all the time and was allowed to sleep with Minnie on her small single bed, even when it was wet. It was around this time that Minnie developed a bad chill which sadly led to pneumonia and ultimately her death at the age of 74 in August 1998. Fanny missed her twin dreadfully. She died five years later in June 2003 and the sisters are buried together in the local graveyard.

My column about ‘super-sleuth mums’ was very familiar to reader Clare Proctor who said: “When my girls were small they would be in awe of how I seemed to know every little thing they did (even at school). I would use a phrase my sister taught me: ‘I am the All-Seeing, All-Knowing Mummy’! They were not to know that often my info came from a teacher or another parent. Also, the clues they leave…”

Read more at countrymansdaughter.com. Follow me on Twitter @countrymansdaug.

This column appeared in the Darlington & Stockton Times on Friday 27th and the Ryedale Gazette and Herald on Wednesday 25th October 2023.

Flowing up the hill

The outline of one of Joseph Foord’s water races can still be seen at Newgate Bank on the Helmsley to Stokesley Road

I was contacted by reader Ted Naisbitt in connection with my columns on how ancient folk living in dry areas managed to get access to drinking water. Reader Jo Bird had suggested that perhaps wells were constructed, and I wondered if prehistoric humans had the engineering know-how to be able to dig deep wells. My research revealed that indeed they did, as evidenced by a sophisticated drainage system that has been discovered at the 4^th century BC settlement of Skara Brae in the Orkneys.

Accessing fresh water was a continuous battle for people living in remote communities, and Ted mentioned a hydraulic engineer called Joseph Foord who was active on the North York Moors in the 18^th century. He was prompted to find out more after a visit to Thirsk Tourist Information Office (where Ted volunteers) by Coxwold resident Ken Ward who used to live by one of these water channels. Ken was keen to find out about the engineer whom it is said performed ‘miracles’ by making water seemingly run up hills.

“Prior to the 18th century the towns and villages along the southern edge of the Moors (roughly the A170) did not have access to fresh running water,” says Ted, “But just a bit further north on the other side of the tabular hills there was plenty. This engineer managed to bring fresh water to these places by surveying for and digging out narrow ‘canals’ around them often for many miles and overcoming many obstacles on the way. In places an optical illusion made it seem as if the water was running uphill.”

Ted pointed me to an article about Foord on a website called ‘Yorkshiremoors.co.uk’, and I must give credit to that website for what appears in this column, as there doesn’t seem to be a great deal online about him. I will also have a look in my dad’s archives next time I go see my mum as I’d be surprised if he hasn’t written about him. What Foord achieved is highly noteworthy, and he deserves to be remembered.

Joseph was born in 1714 in Fadmoor near Kirkbymoorside into a Society of Friends (Quaker) family and at the age of 20, when his father Matthew passed away, he inherited their farm at Skiplam Grange, along with some mills and shares in mines at Ankness between Fadmoor and Bransdale. 1744 was a momentous year for Foord, as he was also ejected from the Quakers for having fathered an illegitimate child.

Foord became an engineer and a surveyor and, having grown up on the North York Moors, was well aware of the difficulties faced by inhabitants of remote villages on top of these limestone hills. They would have to transport heavy vessels of water over rough terrain and up steep inclines, making an already tough life even more so.

In about 1747, Foord came up with the idea of constructing channels, or ‘races’, to transport water from the springs on the high moors to the dry communities. His first experimental race ran for five miles and supplied Gillamoor and Fadmoor. What was particularly unique, though, was that these two villages sat high on the hills, and the task of getting water up the hill was the problem, or so it seemed.

According to Yorkshiremoors.org: “Gillamoor is about 525ft above sea level. The northern, highest, tip of the tabular hill that contains the village is at Boon Hill, about a mile and a half to the northwest. The ground at the base of Boon Hill is 650ft above sea level, and thus 125 feet higher than Gillamoor. Foord was thus able to construct a water course that could run downhill, while at the same time appearing to climb up the steep slopes below Gillamoor!”

In 1759, the water course was extended to Kirkbymoorside, then ultimately to Carlton, Newton, Pockley, Old Byland and Rievaulx, delivering precious fresh water to the residents. As he was so familiar with the geology and geography of the area, in the end, Foord was able to construct around 70 miles of water courses, some of which are still visible today, such as from Newgate Bank on the A1257 Helmsley to Stokesley road.

Foord died in January 1788 at his daughter Mary’s home in Fawdington near Thirsk. Despite never being welcomed back into the Society of Friends, he was interred as a non-member in their burial ground.

Read more at countrymansdaughter.com. Follow me on Twitter @countrymansdaug.

This column appeared in the Darlington & Stockton Times on Friday 20th and the Ryedale Gazette and Herald on Wednesday 18th October 2023.

More than a flight of fancy

A replica of George Cayley’s Governable Glider housed at the Yorkshire Air Museum at Elvington near York. Picture courtesy of Yorkshire Air Museum.

My column a few weeks ago about the village of Brompton By Sawdon being the ‘birthplace of aviation’ drew some interesting and informative feedback from readers.

If you recall, the village is the birthplace of aeronautical pioneer, Sir George Cayley (1773 – 1857). Cayley is credited with being the first to truly understand the scientific principles of winged ‘heavier than air’ flight. In 1799 he had the idea for a fixed-wing flying machine, but died before he could come up with a suitably light engine to carry humans on a sustained flight.

But it was Cayley’s theories that contributed to the famous Wright brothers’ success, which they acknowledged when they achieved the first powered flight carrying a human on 17^th December 1903. Orville Wright piloted the ‘Wright Flyer’ biplane that he and his brother Wilbur had been developing for four years.

Reader Peter Leek pointed out that Brompton Hall School, a grand building in the centre of the village, was Sir George Cayley’s home. “It is stunning,” he says, “The small octagonal building inside the school grounds, which you can see from the main road, was his workshop. It contains many of his ideas and models…He was a true pioneer in the field of flight and aeronautics.”

Peter goes on: “The plaque on the wall outside says: ‘Scientific Aeronautical Experiment was pioneered from this building. Here the aeroplane was defined for the first time. Circa 1799-1855’. How this is not part of our rich history of explorers, builders and engineers is a mystery to me.”

I quite agree, as does Alan Poxon, who points out that although the Wrights made the first powered flight, Cayley was the first to put a human in a flying machine. “His manned glider flew over Brompton Dale 50 years before the Wright brothers.”

And Garry Mills mentions this too: “The first powered flight was the Wrights, but Cayley had the first human flight. Bit remiss not to include this in the article. From what I’ve read, it’s believed he worked out the principles from watching seagulls in Scarborough.”

Until Cayley came along, most attempts at creating flying machines involved huge flapping wings. But Cayley had spent many hours since childhood studying birds and noticed how seagulls, rather than simply flapping, subtly changed the angle and shape of their wings to remain airborne. It was these observations that inspired him to develop the fixed-wing glider that was launched across Brompton Dale. Known as ‘Cayley’s Governable Parachute’, it had a huge wood-framed canvas canopy with a kite-like tail and, from above, the aircraft resembled a giant stingray. A wooden boat-shaped basket was suspended beneath, complete with a set of oars that the the pilot would use to ‘row’ across the sky. The silhouette of this machine is what you see on the village sign as you enter Brompton. His first attempt came in 1849, using a prototype of the Governable Parachute, when Cayley (who was not reckless enough to attempt to fly his own inventions) hoisted the 10-year-old son of one of his servants aboard his new machine, and it flew for several yards.

A few years later, in 1853, having made a number of modifications, Cayley enlisted the help of several local youths who pulled the Governable Parachute down a hill while his unwilling coachman, 79-year-old John Appleby, sat anxiously at the helm. The craft launched into the air and flew for 900 yards across Brompton Dale, the first ever manned fixed-wing, ‘heavier than air’ flight.

Once back on terra firma, the distressed coachman immediately resigned, declaring, “I was hired to drive, not fly!”

Cayley, who was already 80 years old at the time, continued in his quest to create a powered flying machine capable of carrying a human, but died just four years later before he could make his vision a reality. It would be another 46 years before the Wright Brothers accomplished that feat.

Cayley wasn’t just interested in aviation. He was also responsible for inventing a self-righting lifeboat, an artificial hand for amputees, tensioned-spoked wheels for bikes and ferris wheels, caterpillar wheels for heavy vehicles, and various safety features of the railway system including brakes, signals and the cowcatcher.

If you want to see what Cayley’s Governable Parachute actually looked like, a life-size replica is on display at the Yorkshire Air Museum near York.

Read more at countrymansdaughter.com. Follow me on Twitter @countrymansdaug (Does anyone call it X?).

This column appeared in the Darlington and Stockton Times on 13th and Ryedale Gazette and Herald on 11th October 2023

Watch out for super-sleuth mums!

Minnie Benson with one of her many ‘Lassies’. Picture by Camilla Veale

I was delighted to hear from reader Andy Brown who was inspired to get in touch after seeing my column featuring the Ryedale Folk Museum and the cobbler’s where my dad took me, not to get my shoes mended, but to get a haircut.

Andy said: “I loved your column…I can just about remember these old village tradespeople where you would get your bike puncture repaired at the garage or something mended at the forge or sawmill. I lost my dad this year and he was a truly frugal Yorkshireman. Utilising the local cobbler, if he had been entrusted to get my hair cut, would have been just the sort of thing he would do – that is if he didn’t resort to the sheep clippers! Your recollections made me smile.”

When I was a child, two sisters, Minnie and Fanny Benson, owned the petrol garage in the village and offered a bike repair service where a puncture could be mended for 10p a pop. They also offered baby-sitting, a service of which my parents took advantage most Saturday nights when they nipped across the road to the pub. The sisters owned a succession of border colliers, all of whom were called ‘Lassie’, the logic being that they only needed to shout one name for them all to come. I used to beg them to bring the dogs with them whenever they looked after us. Minnie would turn up, dogless, because she knew my mum was not a fan. But when the coast was clear, Fanny would often arrive with whichever Lassie it was, and the dog would then bound up the stairs with me to settle on my bed.

Lassie would be taken home before my parents returned, and I kept her visit just between myself and the sisters, or so I thought. It was only later that Mum told me she always knew when the dogs had been because of the trail of hair they left in their wake.

I wonder if you agree when I say that most mothers have superhuman detecting abilities that make Hercule Poirot look like an amateur. On one occasion, when I was very tiny, I was rummaging around my mum’s bedroom drawers when I found a strip of little round sweets, possibly blue or pink, which looked very appetising to me. There were lots in the packet so I was sure my mum would not notice one missing and was mildly disappointed to find that they tasted of nothing at all. You can imagine my shame when Mum confronted me the very next day about the missing pill, warning me about the dangers of eating something that I didn’t know what it was, even if it did look like a sweetie.

Of course, I was too young to know about contraceptive pills, and the fact that if ‘Tuesday’ had been eaten by someone other than Mum, it would be a dead giveaway. Now that I am a mother myself, I understand how unwitting young children leave trails of forensic evidence behind them, and thus we mothers can perpetuate our mythical super-sleuth status.

In the same column where I talked about my visit to the Ryedale Folk Museum, I also mentioned my concern about preserving my dad’s study. Andy Brown had an idea: “I understand your dilemma with your dad’s office. I always picture you leafing through his books and documents either for inspiration or to expand on your own ideas and have always felt you were the best possible custodian of his memory. But life does have a habit of needing to move on.

“Maybe the solution presents itself in your column – could your dad’s archive be donated to the Ryedale Folk Museum? I know it won’t be the same as having it with you but as your dad was such a key figure in preserving the folk culture of the Moors it would seem an appropriate location.”

I agree with Andy, and he might be surprised to learn that I did approach the museum several years ago with that very suggestion. Although they looked into it, at the time, they didn’t think they had an appropriate space for it, nor the resources to set it up.

I am looking at alternatives, though, and will warmly welcome any bright ideas!

Read more at countrymansdaughter.com. Follow me on Twitter @countrymansdaug

This column appeared in the Darlington and Stockton Times on 6th and Ryedale Gazette and Herald on 4th October 2023

Wishes going down the drain

Skara Brae in the Orkneys, one of the best-preserved prehistoric villages in Western Europe. Pictures by Kinlay from Orkney Uncovered.

Visitors to kara Brae throw coins into what they think is a wishing wel. In fact it is a sewage drain. Pictures by Kinlay from Orkney Uncovered.

The question about how the ancient residents of Thixendale sourced their water has been brought up again by reader Jo Bird. If you recall, there has been evidence of activity in the Thixendale area since the Mesolithic and the Neolithic periods (Middle Stone Age, 7,000-10,000 years ago and New Stone Age, 5,000-7,000 years ago) as shown by the discovery of man-made tools found in barrows, or burial mounds, dotted about the landscape. Settlements, for obvious reasons, grew up around sources of water, and yet Thixendale lies in a dry valley.

Jo observes: “I suspect that even if there has never been a water course, that in previous centuries when the water table was higher, there were wells…I was brought up in Norfolk where the underlying geology is chalk, as at Thixendale, and the village where I lived had no water course, but there were several wells which were in use until mains water was supplied, I recall in the early 1950s, but there is no sign of them now.”

She adds: “I remember the location of two wells in my Norfolk village, but there has been no trace of them for simply ages. There would have been more, I’m sure. You could perhaps ask anyone who lived at Thixendale before about 1950 if they knew of or used wells…it’s likely that there are lots of villages that once had wells but no trace of them now. People of 80ish or more might recall.”

Jo has a point about wells, and I would welcome any recollections from people old enough to remember how they got their household water before they were connected to the mains. I agreed with Jo’s suggestion that wells would likely have supplied Thixendale in later centuries, but wondered if the ancient inhabitants of the Mesolithic and Neolithic periods would have had the engineering skills to dig down far enough into the chalky layers below ground to access the fresh water lying beneath.

Of course, that set me off digging online and it surprised me to learn that in fact, they did. The oldest well dug by humans to access drinking water was found in the Jezreel Valley in Israel and dates from about 6500BC. Nothing similar from that era has yet been found on our shores but there is a settlement known as Skara Brae, a stone-built Neolithic village on Mainland, the largest island of the Orkneys. It is one of the best-preserved prehistoric villages in Western Europe, occupied from around 3000 BC until 2500BC, and has a sophisticated water and drainage system that includes toilets with facilities to flush waste away from the house through purpose-built channels. Although I can find no mention of a well, likely due to the fact that fresh water was readily available from the nearby Loch of Skaill, it proves that ancient Europeans did have the sufficient engineering skills.

Once I started reading about Skara Brae, I became captivated. We often credit the Romans with educating us about complicated engineering, but it seems the villagers of this remote island were already pretty clued up, establishing a thriving community hidden within a cluster of large middens (mounds of waste). This subterranean way of life ensured precious heat was preserved and homes were insulated from the harsh northern coastal weather conditions. A series of one-room houses of around 40 square feet were built using flat stone slabs, all connected by covered tunnels. As well as a functioning drainage system, each house had ‘built-in’ stone furniture which included beds, seating, a dresser, a central hearth and a tank in the ground which archaeologists believe would have been used to minimise the mess from the preparation of their main food source, fish. Among artefacts discovered were tools, gaming dice, food and drink vessels, stone carvings and jewellery in the form of beads, necklaces and pendants.

As I mentioned, the ancient residents of Skara Brae had no need to dig any wells. Nevertheless, we modern humans do have a tendency to chuck loose change down anything resembling a well while in the hope of bringing us good luck. At Skara Brae, visitors wishing for their dreams to come true have for years been throwing their pennies down what they thought was a well. Sadly, as one witty tourist guide pointed out, they have quite literally been throwing their money down the toilet!

Read more and contact me at countrymansdaughter.com. Follow me on Twitter @countrymansdaug

This column appeared in the Darlington and Stockton Times on 29th and Ryedale Gazette and Herald on 27th September 2023