Bolton Abbey to Grassington, Yorkshire Dales

After an excellent night’s sleep (it must have been down to my new, improved roommate) we had an enormous full English breakfast courtesy of Angus (as we were all now calling her). We needed the fuel as we were starting the trip with an ambitious eleven mile walk from Bolton Abbey back to Grassington.

We headed down the road to the Yorkshire Dales National Park Centre, where we planned to catch the local bus. We had plenty of time, so welcomed the diversion of visiting the state of the art local mobile library in the car park. Wow, it even had a satellite dish! Inside our enthusiasm was slightly curbed by a cynical library assistant. Apparently the locals in Grassington still haven’t forgiven them for closing their library and no flash super mobile is going to placate them. And just for good measure, the impressive satellite dish on the roof has never worked!

The Graves ... looked like a herd of grazing coffee tables!

This didn’t leave us with much time to look around the Centre. Soon we had to dash out and onto our bus. We filled the back row with ourselves and our various backpacks. The journey was a real treat, following the River Wharfe first on one side and then the next. It was typical Dales country; a wide broad valley with a meandering river at the bottom and slopes covered in a network of dry stone walls and sheep.

Occasionally we would see a steep, distant hill draped in purple, heather moor land. But our focus rarely left the river and the route we would shortly be following.

That was of course provided we got there. The problem with Dales buses is that they don’t leave much room on the wall-lined roads for cars. When we did meet a car, bumper to bumper, the car usually backed up with very little fuss. But one driver first tried and failed to squeeze past us, then exchanged a few choice words with the bus driver, before violently throwing his car into reverse and pulling into a nearby driveway. He clearly wasn’t a very happy bunny!

We arrived at Bolton Abbey in glorious, bright sunshine. Having been here several times before, I led the others through a hole in the nearby wall and everyone was genuinely impressed by the beautiful view on the other side. As we walked down towards the river, Bolton Priory was slowly revealed on our left (strangely the village is called Bolton Abbey, whilst the building itself is actually a priory).

As we made our way towards the ruins a harassed looking granny with a child in a push chair was coming up the hill towards us. She looked like she was in a hurry and seemed oblivious to the fact the child was scattering a trail of toys behind her. We managed to attract her attention, but she assured us that Mum was follow on behind collecting them all.

Although most of the Abbey is now a rather picturesque ruin, one wing managed to escape Henry VIII and has continued to be used as a rather attractive parish church. When we entered, the bright sunshine was streaming straight through the stained glass windows, painting the floor with vivid colours. It was a stunningly beautiful interior and it gave us a flavour of how wonderful the original Priory would have been.

We stopped to chat with the attendant on duty before heading off on our walk. Apparently she lives in Grassington and often walks to work along the river. Worryingly she thought we were going in the wrong direction and cheerfully predicted we would be walking against the wind all the way. Oh well, it was too late to turn back now!

After leaving the church, we headed down through the graveyard. It was full of strange graves with horizontal headstones balanced on four legs. They look like a herd of grazing coffee tables!

At the river we had a choice of crossings. There were the stepping stones I had crossed last year or a nice safe bridge. After a quick inspection we realised that the river level was extremely high, with some of the stepping stones underwater. It was scary enough doing it last time; I really didn’t fancy slipping on wet stones as well. So in the end we took the bridge. This was lucky because that was where we found the notice warning us not to use the stepping stones because they were loose!

At last we were off, cutting across the first big loop of the River Wharfe, before climbing up the wooded banks. Although walking on this bank was a bit more strenuous than the other, it was by far the most attractive option, as the flat green stretch on the other side is used as a large sprawling car park. Perfect for a typical British picnic!

Before long we came across a strange fallen tree. Every square inch was decorated with silver and bronze coins, hammered into the soft, rotten wood. I’ve never come across a tradition like this before, but of course we couldn’t walk past without adding our own offering. That proved to be much harder than we initially though – as indeed the wood was! Eventually I found a gap where a coin had clearly fallen out and hammered mine in with a handy rock. I’m not convinced it will still be there, but at least I had a go.

Y was keen to get moving and set a cracking pace with instructions that we were not to stop for another 10 minutes! Personally I prefer a more sedate style of walking. But I can’t deny that we do tend to spend too much time dawdling at the start of a walk and then having to rush at the end, usually before it gets dark!

However we didn’t quite make our target. We were distracted by a pretty little café called the Cavendish Pavilion. Well it’s important to make time for a nice cup of tea (and a cake). Even Y got into the spirit of things. I caught her nipping into the nearby gift shop when she was supposedly going to the loo!

We’d crossed the river again and were now following the route of last year’s sculpture trail. I had hoped that it would still be there, but apparently they change it every year. This time there was a trail of green men to follow. We became competitive about spotting these brightly painted masks, in the surrounding woodland.

Less than half an hour earlier we had been sitting outside the Pavilion, drinking our tea in the warm sunshine. But as we approached the turbulent waters of the Strid, the heavens opened and we had to scrabble to put on our waterproofs. I couldn’t believe my luck; this was exactly what had happened to me last year when I got drenched! But this time we did get one lucky break. Another path branched off of our own, heading up towards the main road and the Strid visitor centre. Less than 10 metres up it was a rather handy little shelter. We didn’t mess about; we dived in and sat it out.

This gave us the opportunity to fully appreciate J’s wet weather gear. On our last trip to Northumberland, we had visited the Seahouses lifeboat, where she had bought a bright yellow 99p plastic cape in a tiny pack. She hadn’t needed it during that trip, but had brought it with her this time ‘just in case’. It turned out to be surprisingly sophisticated, with a rather natty clear plastic hood, so that you could still see what was going on around you! And of course the fact it was a cape meant it kept her rucksack dry too.

Although the shower was heavy, it did pass over relatively quickly. This meant we were soon on our way again. In fact the rain held off until we reached the next bridge along our route. It was an imposing stone bridge with crenulations and turrets. It also had an arch over the footpath that gave us some much needed shelter. But looks can be very deceptive. This fine bridge didn’t carry a road or railway over the river. Other than walkers it probably carried nothing more than livestock. Its main purpose was to enhance the view from the great ruined house we could make out in the distance.

At this point I became rather over excited about some of the local bird life. I had spotted some ducks on the water and thought they looked a bit different. A quick look through my binoculars and I was convinced they were a first for me – a Goosander. Unfortunately they didn’t stick around very long and my conviction began to waiver as it so often does. Was it a Goosander; was it a Red Breasted Merganser? The verdict of my friends was ‘who cares, it’s gone now’.

We continued to walk along the river in the rain. But just as we reached Barden Bridge (the first bridge we didn’t need to cross) it stopped and the sun came out. We all frantically peeled off our waterproofs as the sudden heat set to work on the wet grass around us. It was like standing in a sauna, with steam rising off the ground.

The River Wharfe had completely changed character again. It meandered through the wide green valley, leading us through beautiful meadows studded with bobbing harebells. Everything was lush and verdant; presumably thanks to all the rain! This provided excellent grazing for the sheep that surrounded us.

We had covered a fair bit of ground and were just beginning to tire, when we were hit by another shower. Luckily as we rounded the corner, Burnsall Bridge came into sight. We headed towards it, crossing a large, empty green field. Empty that is except for a single tiny building. On closer inspection it turned out to be a public loo! It seemed a bit random, stuck in the middle of nowhere, but it was at least dry and provided much needed facilities. So we took shelter until the worst of the rain had passed. It was only when we reached the bridge that we realised this field was actually a large car park. Presumably heavily used during the peak summer season. As we glanced back over our shoulders towards our temporary shelter – a faint rainbow appeared above it.

Having crossed the bridge, we found ourselves in Burnsall village. We had covered seven miles so far and frankly more tea was called for. Luckily there was an excellent little café on the tiny village green and it was thankfully still open. It wasn’t until we had settled in and ordered, that we realised that the bus back to Grassington was due any minute. Well that was that; we’d have to finish the whole walk regardless of aching limbs.

As we sat in the café, relishing a nice warm drink (and another cake) we were kept entertained by a member of staff who was so deep in conversation with one of the customers that it continued even when she disappeared into the ladies loo. “There’s nowt so queer as folk” as I believe they say in these parts.

Before our break I would have leapt at the chance to catch the bus back. I was tired, aching and frankly I had discovered some muscles that I didn’t know I had. Still the rest had done me good and the thought of another four miles didn’t seem quite so horrific.

And thank heavens we didn’t stop as we would have missed one of the best sections of the river. We had barely made it out of the village when I spotted a Kingfisher. It’s funny but there are some birds that are so special, they can impress anyone. J and Y were so excited; they began to look like real birdwatchers! Several times we spotted the electric blue of its feathers flashing up and down the river. But it was determined to put on a show for its audience. It found a perch, made sure everyone had a good look at it through my binoculars before finally disappearing.

When the wildlife failed to impress, the geography stepped in. The river had to force its way through some impressive limestone scars. In places, where the river cut down through the rock, we could see how the stratifications had been pushed up and folded. The river became wilder, forming white water rapids.

As we closed in on Grassington, we had one final river crossing to make. There was yet another set of stepping stones, but these looked worse than the ones at Bolton Abbey. Luckily an alternative was again on hand. This time we used a rather grand suspension bridge.

There had actually been quite a few sets of stepping stones along the River Wharfe. The final set we came across would have taken us over to the pretty church at Linton. These may be excellent routes to take in the summer, but I wouldn’t like to try crossing them in the winter. Mind you it would be quite a detour for a worshiper trying to reach Linton Church.

Linton was where we finally left the river and it provided an impressive climax to the walk. Linton Falls are well worth a visit. The river crashed down over large rocks and has evidently carved them into a series of interesting shapes and channels. The picturesque building next to them used to be a mill but has now been converted into flats with a fantastic view. A little further on and you could still make out two man made weirs and the remains of the old turbine house, where all this raw power was converted into something more usable.

We turned our back on the water and headed up a rather strange footpath towards Grassington. It was a narrow path, penned in between two large dry-stone walls. What made it unusual were the flagstones that lined its entire route. It later turned out that this was simply a practical solution for a muddy footpath. As odd as the footpath may have been, all I cared about at that moment was getting back to the guest house.

I was absolutely exhausted and left to my own devices would probably have crawled into bed there and then. But having finally made it back, it was time for a wash and brush up before heading back out again in search of food. This turned out to be a curry at the only Indian restaurant in town. The food was fine but clearly we had taken them a bit by surprise. At one point I had to remind them to give me a plate! I may have been exhausted and, as I discovered after dinner, barely able to move but it had been a wonderful day. It was also a good night because frankly I was out like a light as soon as my head hit the pillow!