walking – The Countryman's Daughter

Does this ring any bells?

I always make sure my bicycle bell works to warn people that I am approaching

I had a bit of a ‘to-do’ yesterday when I was walking a dog on a path that was shared between pedestrians and cyclists.

The dog (lets call him Fido) is young and led by his nose which means that he is genetically programmed to not walk in a straight line. He zig zags with every fascinating scent that lands in his nostrils, which is about once every 10 seconds. He is also strong, so I am dragged about on the end of his lead like a ribbon hanging from a kite (Please note, I walk other people’s dogs, so am not responsible for the lack of doggy decorum).

Yesterday, captivated by an irresistible whiff, Fido suddenly pulled to right, and of course I went with him. At that, the noise of screeching brakes and skidding tyres came from behind as we stepped into the path of a bicycle.

Thankfully no-one was hurt, and because it was raining and I had my hood up, I had not heard him coming.

As a cyclist myself, if I am approaching a dog walker, I slow down, ring my bell several times and as I pass, thank the thoughtful owners for bringing their hounds under control. If we respect other path users, then we can all enjoy our outing, however we may be transporting ourselves.

Sadly not everyone thinks the same, with some cyclists pedalling as if they are trying to win a sprint at the Tour de France, and walkers who believe that their dogs running dangerously loose in front of them is a hazard not of their making.

I like to think I am a responsible walker, and make a point of gathering in loose pooches at the approach of anything on wheels. Dogs – and animals in general – are unpredictable, and can be spooked into bolting by things unseen or noises unheard.

I have to admit that I was a in a bit of a grump yesterday and one of my bugbears is cyclists not using bells to warn you they are approaching from behind. I did apologise for stepping into his path, but explained that I did not hear him coming. When he grumpily moved past us, I mumbled “If you’d rung your bell, I’d have heard you.”

Seconds later, he stopped again and gave me such a dirty look that it lit a touch paper within me. “He’s a dog, he moves about! How can I move out of your way if I can’t hear you coming?” I asked angrily.

That sparked a heated debate about whether it was a cycle path or a footpath (it was both) and why he should he get a bell when he said most people can’t hear him anyway, and why I was being so miserable.

The funny thing is, I started to giggle inwardly at the ridiculousness of it all, and chastised myself for my rash response that triggered the confrontation. If I had said nothing, he would have simply cycled on, and we both would have been a bit annoyed, but that’s all.

It reminded me of a course I was sent on for work many years ago. The tutor asked why, when we get behind the wheel of a car, we transform from calm, rational individuals into reactive, fist waving banshees.

She reminded us that the person at whom we are gesticulating could have a machete in their glove box. If someone annoys you, it is much safer to curse inwardly at them and send them a choice manual greeting from below the cover of the dashboard.

This was in the late 1990s, around the same time that the ruthless gangster Kenneth Noye was convicted of the fatal stabbing of 21-year-old Stephen Cameron after a road rage incident on an M25 slip road. Whatever happened to spark the fight, it cannot have been worth a young man losing his life. It demonstrates that you have no idea who the opposing driver might be.

Thanks to that tutor’s wise words, I became far more tolerant behind the wheel. I was forced to admit to myself that I am not a perfect driver, that I too make mistakes, and occasionally might annoy other road users with a selfish manoeuvre.

Despite that, I always make sure my bicycle bell works.

Do you have opinions, memories or ideas to share with me? Get in touch with me using the ‘Contact’ button on the top right.

This column appeared in the Darlington & Stockton Times on Friday 26th and the Ryedale Gazette and Herald on Wednesday 24th June 2026

Water engineering marvel

19th century Thirlmere Aqueduct is the longest gravity-fed aqueduct in the country, ending almost 100 miles away in Manchester

I spent a wonderful weekend with friends in the Lake District recently, staying a cottage near the beautiful Grasmere. It’s a lovely, though very small, village and we took time to visit the graves of the famous Wordsworth family found in St Oswald’s churchyard. We walked around the peaceful shores of the lake and also managed a challenging climb up the short but steep Grey Crag to Alcock Tarn.

On the way down the fell, our route guide told us to look out for Thirlmere Aqueduct, a gravity-fed pipeline built in Victorian times that takes fresh water all the way from Thirlmere Reservoir to the city of Manchester. This reminded me of hydro engineer Joseph Foord whom I wrote about in this column a couple of years ago. In the mid-1700s, Foord came up with a groundbreaking system of channels that used gravity to feed fresh water to remote villages high on the North York Moors.

The aqueduct was easy to spot, and took the form of a grass-topped masonry bridge over one of the many streams that tumbled down the hillside. I assumed the stream formed part of the aqueduct, providing plenty of gravity as it raced down the hill, but I was confused about how the system worked. In my head, an aqueduct carries water over or through an obstacle, and upon first sight, this little bridge went over the stream but was not connected to it. Another question was why was it called Thirlmere Aqueduct, when Thirlmere was a good six miles away.

Of course, my column-writing brain kicked immediately into gear, and once I got home, I set about finding out more about this engineering conundrum.

It turns out that what we were looking at was indeed the aqueduct, but the water that was being transported to Manchester was inside the bridge, not running underneath it. The ‘bridge’ was not a bridge at all, but a tunnel.

The aqueduct was the brainchild of engineer John Frederic La Trobe Bateman who was a big name in hydroengineering and established the foundation of today’s British water industry. As the Industrial Revolution took hold, Manchester grew increasingly important as a commercial centre and as a result, the population rapidly grew too. To continue to be successful, the city would need far more water that it was currently getting.

Bateman identified the Lake District as a potential source because it had more far more water than its inhabitants needed, and also plenty of rainfall to ensure a continuous supply. After deliberating over which lake was most suitable, Thirlmere was chosen. There was plenty of opposition from locals understandably wanting to preserve it just as it was. But they were overruled.

I’m a little confused as to the date the ambitious project began, as some online resources suggest it was Queen Victoria who gave the go-ahead in 1890. But I found an obituary published in the year of Bateman’s death (10th June 1889), in which it states work had begun by 1880.

The initial stage involved increasing the size of the lake. Bateman calculated that they had to raise its height by 56 metres to provide the 50 million gallons a day needed, and, which they would achieve by building a dam at one end, and flooding the valley behind it to create a large reservoir.

The next engineering feat was to transport that water across 96 miles and 28 valleys using gravity alone. A series of tunnels totalling around 50 miles were dug out of the rocky hills, some large enough to fit a small car through. The ‘cut and cover’ method was used whereby a ‘D’-shaped trench was dug, lined with brick, and covered with earth. Cast iron pipes were used for the remaining 46 miles and a gentle gradient of 1 in 3000 ensured a consistent southerly flow of water.

In various places, they had to cross fast-flowing streams tumbling down the fells, some of which ran below the level of the aqueduct. In such cases, the tunnels were constructed within small masonry bridges built over these streams, which is exactly what we saw on our descent from Alcock Tarn.

Thirlmere Aqueduct remains the longest aqueduct in the country, and continues to provide Manchester with its supply using gravity as its main mode of transport.

Those Victorians weren’t half clever.

Do you have opinions, memories or ideas to share with me? Get in touch with me using the ‘Contact’ button on the top right.

This column appeared in the Darlington & Stockton Times on Friday 22nd May and the Ryedale Gazette and Herald on Wednesday 20th May 2026

A house with no name

Clare’s house has been called Ivy House Farm for more than 200 years, even though the farm is long gone

Ivy House Farm back in the 1940s when it was still in operation.

I had some interesting comments about house names following my column that mentioned the fact that Old Pond House in Newton-on-Rawcliffe had no name until reader Paul Ireson bought it in the mid-1980s. He’d wanted to call it Pond House (the village pond lay not far from their front window) but a neighbouring house had already used that name, hence they called it ‘Old Pond House’.

Reader Andy Long says that when he moved into his house in the late 1990s, although it had a number, there was also a name on the gate. “The gate was rotten so was removed and the name was never replaced or used. Maybe we thought a house name was too posh for us!” Andy isn’t completely sure he’s right but thinks the name was ‘Ingleside’. “The Gaelic origin or link to an open fire possibly went over our heads…or the pending birth of our first child seemed more important!”

And Lynn Catena says her sister’s first house was called Brae Side, but as it also had a number, they never used it. You often see houses on numbered streets that also have their own name, but it used to be seen as rather pretentious, the point being that you don’t need a name if your house already has a number. If such a house does have a name, would you use it when telling someone your address? And if you choose to name a house that already has a number, does it ever become recognised by Royal Mail? Can you ditch your house number altogether and change it to a name?

I grew up in a North Yorkshire village where most of the houses, including ours, had names rather than street numbers. When I was a teenager, we moved to a new house in the same village, and Mum and Dad were able to choose what to call it. They romantically named it after a wood where they would go for walks before they were married. Claire Dunstan-Elliott, who originates from Yorkshire, has spent many years living and working in Wales. She says: “I’ve named every house I’ve owned after the previous place I lived which has worked out quite well.” But she found visiting some small Welsh villages for work quite taxing: “There are no street names, no house numbers, and every house in the village is just named – it is really hard work, especially when they are in Welsh!” Imagine how hard it must be for a new postman or postwoman in these small country villages. Let’s hope they get paid per hour and not per round!

Most people who are going to name a house often, like my parents, have some meaningful reason for the one they choose. Judging by the most popular house names in the UK, though, you can tell that most go with far more practical and obvious choices. At the top of the list is Rose Cottage, and close behind are Orchard House, The Coach House, The Cottage, The Bungalow, The Lodge, The Barn, The Stables, The Gables and The Willows. Hillside and Hillcrest are also up there as are Sunnyside, Woodlands and Meadow View.

Clare Proctor says naming can be a weighty responsibility. “We were hoping to buy a lovely house called Corner Cottage (old house; newish name). I hated the name and was going to change it, but to what? For the few months we were in the running we debated new names. It was worse than trying to choose a baby’s name, or even worse, a pet’s name!” Clare and her husband eventually bought a house called Ivy House Farm, but the farm had long gone, so they pondered changing it, but again, couldn’t think of a suitable moniker. “We eventually decided that as it had held the name for nearly 200 years it was not for us to change it. I just tell people it’s a retired farmhouse!”

Paul Ireson, who lives in Rosedale and whose house-naming sparked this column, might be interested to know that Clare once ran a hotel there: “We used to own the White Horse Farm Hotel. It also was not a farm, but the previous owners bought some sheep and chickens and thought the name would give it a more rustic appeal!”

Have you ever named a house, and if so, what name did you choose and why?

I’d love to hear from you about your opinions, memories and ideas for columns. Use the ‘Contact’ button on the top right of this page to get in touch. This column appeared in the Darlington & Stockton Times on Friday 29th March and the Ryedale Gazette and Herald on Wednesday 22nd March 2024.

A walk of wonder

The Hanging Stones Walk in Rosedale is a fantastic celebration of land and art

The Hanging Stones Walk has given new life to derelict farm buildings

It may not have escaped your notice that I am rather fond of walking on the North York Moors. I only need half an excuse to head over there for a gallop in the heather. I recently gave a talk to the lovely people of Rosedale WI and someone there mentioned a walk that sounded absolutely fascinating.

Known as the Hanging Stones Walk, it is much more than just your average bimble. It is an art project sponsored by the Ross Foundation (an organisation that supports initiatives related to art, community, sport, music and education). The foundation commissioned renowned sculptor Andrew Goldsworthy who is famous for his spectacular pieces of land art located in both rural and urban settings.

The idea of the walk, which starts in Rosedale Abbey, is to create a living and experiential artwork using existing neglected or derelict farm buildings dotted around Northdale. The land belongs to the Rosedale Estate and a series of ancient pathways have been resurrected to link each building. Although the circular walk is not quite finished (there will ultimately be ten buildings to visit), the current series of nine buildings can be visited in four to six hours, depending on how fast you walk and how long you spend in each one. You have to be fairly fit, and able to read a map to locate the buildings. If you do find it a bit strenuous, you have the opportunity to take a breather at each stopping point.

These old structures have been given a new lease of life, with the original stones being reused as far as possible. They have been constructed in a way that is sympathetic to their original use, and to the land that surrounds them, as if they have always belonged there. They are padlocked shut, so you have to book in advance, and places are limited, but it is well worth the effort. You collect a key and a map, and are let loose to find your way.

Each installation has its own name, such as ‘Bog’s House’ and ‘Job’s Well’, and as you head towards each one, you begin to wonder what you might find when you arrive, to wonder about its past history and how it was used. What stories would the old building tell if it could speak? The anticipation grows as you put the little key in the lock, because from the outside there are very few visible clues as to what’s going on on the inside. I’m not going to say what is in each, because finding out is part of the enjoyment, but I can say that both of us who went declared ‘Wow’ several times. It was so impressive, and wonderful to just sit by ourselves inside these once neglected buildings to marvel at what they have now become. None of them had any electricity or mains services, and we were often sitting in near darkness with little sound except the calls of birds and the trickling of water. But it gave us some sense of what it must have been like back in the day, back in the times when the residents of these remote dales were not blessed with electric lights, or modern gadgets. It was incredibly peaceful, and a real tonic to be able to switch off from the constant sensual harassment inflicted upon us by everyday life.

The walk in between each building was a delight in itself too, with expansive views down the valley towards Rosedale, which just served to highlight why it is one of the most beautiful dales in the whole of North Yorkshire.

It was a privilege to be able to visit, and I marvel at how the creative mind of Andrew Goldsworthy has managed to conceive this amazing, breathtaking art, while at the same time pay homage to the nature and function of the old buildings and the land in which they sit.

The day we went was overcast, so I plan to go back again on a warm summer’s day and do it all over again. The thing is, if it hadn’t have been for that tip-off resulting from my visit to Rosedale WI I would never have found out about this walk.

What other wonders are hidden in North Yorkshire that I have yet to find?

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

This column appeared in the Darlington and Stockton Times on 12th and Ryedale Gazette and Herald on 10th May 2023.