The Real Herriot Way

"I wonder.  Where might James Herriot stay in Hawes?"

During our visit to Hawes in the Yorkshire Dales, I came across a Bed & Breakfast called Herriot’s, which of course I had to photograph.  After returning home, I studied its website.  One feature that drew my attention was “The Herriot Way.”  An Internet search revealed lots of articles on this fifty-two mile walk named after James Herriot.  You can select from a wide variety of guidebooks and maps to navigate the trail.  You can stay in a B&B like Herriot’s, where the staff will pick you up at the end of the day and transport you back the next morning to continue the circuit.  Or you can carry your belongings with you, and stop at other B&Bs, motels, or Youth Hostels along the way.  You can even contract with a company like The Sherpa Van Project, who will make all the arrangements for you in advance.  Just tell them how far you want to walk each day, and they’ll book accommodations for you along the way, and transport your baggage from place to place.

If all this sounds a little plush and easy, at least by Alf Wight’s (the real James Herriot) standards, it did to me as well.  So I decided to do a little more research.  In James Herriot’s Yorkshire, he writes about the time his son Jimmy asked him to go youth hostelling with him over a long weekend.  “It seemed a little effete to spend the night under a solid roof, but I allowed myself to be persuaded and we set off from Leyburn one Friday afternoon.”  On Friday they hiked from Leyburn to the Aysgarth Youth Hostel, where they spent the night.  They spent Saturday night in Keld, and Sunday night in Grinton.  (For some reason I had trouble mapping Grinton, but it’s relatively close to Framington).  Then on Monday they returned to Leyburn.  Despite his reservations, Wight (Herriot) enjoyed his walk, as well as the experience of staying in those Youth Hostels with his son.

The Real Herriot Way, or as close as I could map it.
(Click to enlarge).

Google Maps came up with an estimated distance of fifty-three miles for their walk.  The program is designed to follow roads, not walking trails, and had a little trouble navigating between (J) Keld, (K) Gunnerside, and (L) Crackpot Hall, so the distance is probably off a little.  Still, it gave me an idea of how far James Herriot traveled with his son: roughly thirteen miles each day.  Phew!  Even thinking about that makes me tired!

Remember, this is something they did on a weekend.  Then Alf went back to work!

While the official, advertised Herriot Way is similar in length, it contains a notable difference.  The walk begins at Aysgarth, or at least one of the legs begins there, depending upon where you start the circuit and in what direction you walk it.  But it excludes Leyburn, Wensley, West Witton, and West Burton, while including Hawes as a major stopover.  I find this an intriguing alteration, as Leyburn held “a thousand happy associations” for Herriot.  Alf spent a lot of time working there with Frank Bingley, whom he immortalized as Ewan Ross in his James Herriot books.  He also loved the landscape surrounding the town.  Contrast this with the town of Hawes, which he never mentioned in James Herriot’s Yorkshire, his guide to all the places he loved the most in his adopted homeland.  It would be interesting to learn why The Herriot Way seems to follow the walk he described in his book so closely, yet also differs in such a fundamental way.  Perhaps it has to do with practical issues, such as the availability of accommodations and right-of-way for footpaths.  Whatever the reason, the advertised version gets people out walking, breathing in the fresh country air, and taking in some of the scenic vistas that Herriot loved so much.  And whether they’re walking the official Herriot Way, or the real circuit he described in his book, they’re remembering James Herriot, his stories, and keeping his name alive. 

Someday, I’d love to return to the Yorkshire Dales.  I think I side with his son Jim on the accommodation issue: staying warm, dry, and comfortable under a roof sounds better to me than camping, especially if I've been walking all day.  On the small matter of the walk itself, I'm torn.  I'd like to walk the Leyburn portion, but I'm not sure if I've got a fifty-two mile walk in me, let alone tacking on any additional mileage.  I guess I'd better get in training, huh?  Who knows?  If I began a walking regimen now, maybe I could complete such a long circuit in...how long?  Maybe in around seven to ten days?

Dragon Dave

Related Internet Links

Herriot’s in Hawes

The Herriot Way Route

The Sherpa Van Project

Remembering Old Dreams Above Askrigg

The Road above Askrigg

We climbed a narrow, winding road, passing homes and holiday cottages, and then walked between numerous farms.  Rock walls separated fields for cows and sheep.  Occasionally, we moved aside to let a car pass, but mostly we had the road to ourselves.

"Wait, let me show you my best side."

Rarely did we glimpse a farmer.  The animals seemed content to watch over themselves.  The young cows were friendly and inquisitive.  The sheep ignored us, or scampered away as we approached.  We made ample use of the benches we found, watching the animals and the village of Askrigg below.  At times, I wondered if the locals might look askance at us, despite the messages of welcome and invitation carved into the wooden benches, or inscribed on a plaque.  Still, that didn’t stop us from using one particular bench set against the side of an outbuilding, at face level with young cows only a few feet away.

"Uh, I don't suppose you brought us any food?"

I wondered if James Herriot visited these farms.  As mentioned in “The Road to Kilburn,“ it’s hard to know how far he ranged.  Certainly he spent time located away from Thirsk, such as when he worked with Ewan Ross in Leyburn, or when he carried out tuberculin testing (such as on his honeymoon).  But it was impossible to gaze at these animals, and not feel affection for them. 

A big "Thank You" to everyone who helped provide all
those benches.  They gave us wondrous views. 

James Herriot may have intended to live in Glasgow and treat household pets, but on his trip down to Yorkshire, he fell in love with the landscape and these larger animals.  His stories cured us of the desire to someday own a farm.  Nevertheless, it was pleasant to remember what had awakened that dream in the first place.  

Dragon Dave

Related Dragon Cache entries

The Purple Cow of London

The Road to Kilburn

Hijacked by Cows in the Yorkshire Dales: Part 1

Hijacked by Cows in the Yorkshire Dales: Part 1

A passenger's view of the Yorkshire Dales

Driving in England can prove trying for the keen, amateur photographer, as the roads weave more than they run straight.  For American unfamiliar with their road system, the passenger must also aid the driver in following the instructions from TomTom, or whatever satellite navigation system one uses.  But by far, the greatest trial for the passenger who wishes to photograph the surrounding scenery is the sheer fact that the roads have no shoulder areas wide enough for the driver to stop so he can capture that perfect shot.

On our drive west through the Yorkshire Dales National Park, I had wanted to stop in the town of Leyburn.  Unfortunately, we arrived on a market day, and cars crammed into every available foot of curbing.  As the market was set up in the town’s sole parking lot, this meant that we spent precious vacation time crawling through the town, and then, reluctantly continuing on. 

As Alf Wight wrote in James Herriot’s Yorkshire, Leyburn held “a thousand happy associations” for him, but most of them concerned Frank Bingley, whom he immortalized in his books as Ewan Ross.  Not only did the older man (and his wife) show the young veterinarian great kindness, but he learned much from Frank, who “knew the practical as well as the theoretical side of the business, which most of us don’t.”  

In Herriot's books, and in the British TV series "All Creatures Great and Small," Ewan possesses a mystical quality, using little tricks of the trade he spent a lifetime learning, and concoctions he has developed on his own.  He easily accomplishes jobs that usually take a huge amount of effort, single-handedly accomplishes feats that others need muscular assistants for, and arrives at solutions to problems that would defy many vets.  I knew, deep down, that I was unlikely to find any lingering traces of the man’s life.  Still, as Leyburn had not lain too far out of the way, we had charted a course that included the charming, country town.

Alas, that pleasure would be denied us.

A long drive lay ahead of us, as we were traveling from Thirsk to a resort outside Lancaster, which lay south of the Lake District along England’s western coast.  We had planned our route carefully, knowing we couldn’t take in all the locations we wished to visit.  With Leyburn lost to us, we drove onward, the narrow road twisting from left to right, rising, and falling constantly.  

While my wife drove, I kept a watchful gaze on TomTom, and glanced out the side window as much as it and my stomach allowed.  Beautiful vistas swept into view, only to be swallowed up by trees and hedges seconds later.  To make matters worse, the stone fences separating the road from the farms seemed designed especially to spoil a photographer’s day.  They usually rose high enough to allow the eye to take in breath-taking vistas, but prevented the camera lens from capturing more than a thin horizontal slash of green between rocks and sky. 

At one point, TomTom announced that we would be turning left at the next intersection.  As we rolled to a stop, we found a blue BMW had stopped ahead of us.  From its flashing indicator light, it seemed as though it would also be turning left.  Approaching us, from the other side of the intersection, rolled a tractor, followed by a herd of cattle.  

Forced to journey at a cow's pace.

Perhaps the driver of the BMW was as transfixed by the sight as we were, for he lingered at the stop sign far longer than I thought he should have.  Precious seconds passed, and then the tractor turned right at the corner, and his right was our left.  Behind him ambled the cows, each of which might have weighed as much as the BMW ahead of us.  Two farm hands followed the herd, and their shouts, whistles, and the occasional tap kept any lingerers from stringing out the procession.  “Why didn’t the BMW go?” I wondered, amazed that the driver had chosen to wait.  Had he opted to turn, he could have easily sped ahead of the train of ambling beef.  In waiting, he determined not only his fate, but ours as well.

“Great,” I muttered, as we (along with all those who pulled up behind us) followed the BMW at a creeping pace.  We had already missed out on Leyburn.  What else might we miss out on, because the driver of the BMW opted not to speed ahead of the oncoming cattle?

This blog post will conclude tomorrow.

Choking on fumes,

Dragon Dave

Related Internet Links

The Force can aid you in your journey.  Avoid the Dark Side, you should.

TomTom/Star Wars commercials

The Road to Kilburn

A Village with a View.

One of the things I still don’t understand about James Herriot’s life was how far he ranged from Skeldale House on his daily rounds.  He visits remote farms, and mentions rattling around the moorland roads.  He says “Most days I had a puncture.  The tires were through to the canvas on all the wheels; it surprised me that they took me anywhere.”  Even if Siegfried had regularly supplied him with new tires for his beat-up Austin 7, we’re still talking narrow-width bias-ply tires, not the wide, steel-belted radials on our rented Peugeot.  I had hoped to see his old car at The World of James Herriot, but they had sent it out to be restored, and although the car had been returned to the museum, it was covered up, apparently not yet ready to be on display again.

One of the men he and Siegfried worked with quite often, Ewan Ross, lived in Leyburn, which today involves a forty minute drive from Thirsk.  Yet whenever he mentions working with Ewan in his books, the man and his wife provided him with a guest room in order to save James the commute, even though he would have rather spent his evenings with Helen back in Skeldale House.  It’s not as if the cars back then were incapable of traveling at a decent speed: Herriot mentions that Siegfried often took roads at up to seventy miles per hour. 

Perhaps the difference back then was the roads.  My wife and I certainly found driving on English roads quite a shock in comparison with what we are used to.  One of our most fraught trips was the short drive from Thirsk to Kilburn.  While the road was well paved, it was scarcely wider than our car.  Nor was it straight: it often writhed like a maddened snake.  Each turn was blind, as tall grasses and bushes lined the asphalt, growing up around the wood and stone fences to shield the animals and fields from the cars passing by.  When another car approached, we sometimes slowed and pulled over to the side, but often, the road was too narrow for us to feel safe even doing that.  So we stopped and edged into the tall grasses or bushes, waited for the approaching vehicle to crawl past us doing the same, and then continued on.  This road, which wouldn’t rate higher than twenty-five miles per hour in the United States, was rated for Britain’s national speed limit of sixty. 

By the time we reached Kilburn we were nervous wrecks.  Before we left, we consulted Tom Tom, our satellite navigation system, for another way out.  In Chapter 10 of All Creatures Great and Small, when James is doing the Bellerby family a favor by driving them into town to attend The Messiah, he writes: “I could never remember much about that ride to Darrowby.  I had only a vague recollection of the car hurtling down the stony track at forty miles an hour.”  I doubt we reached forty many times on that drive to Kilburn.  We certain didn’t average anywhere near forty!  And this was with a smooth, modern asphalt surface, not some of the rutted dirt or rocky roads (assuming these weren’t washed out by a storm) that Herriot had to travel.  So how far did Herriot range from Skeldale House on his daily rounds?  That’s something I still don’t have a handle on.

As Faith Hill suggests, "Just Breathe."

I’ll say one thing though.  As trying as the drive was for us “soft Americans,” the view was certainly worth it.

Recovering nicely (thank you),

Dragon Dave

For simplicity’s sake, I’ve used the fictional pseudonyms in the books, rather than identifying James Herriot, Siegfried Farnon, and Ewan Ross by their real names: Alf Wight, Donald Sinclair, and Frank Bingham. 

Related Dragon Cache entries

The Mistress of Skeldale House: Part 1

The Bellerbys and Darrowby Church

One Adventure Ends, and Another Begins

Related Dragon Cache entries

The World of James Herriot

The Joys of Owning an Austin 7