Walking the Riding, Part 2 — Saltburn to Staithes. ( August, 2019)

Day 2 of our walk along the coast of Yorkshire’s North Riding began on a sunny morning at  old Saltburn, by the Ship Inn. Before the Victorian resort blossomed on the steep hill above, this was all there was to Saltburn — a small inn and a few straggling adjoining buildings. Like many settlements on this coast, Saltburn was a fishing and smuggling centre. Tucked into a then remote bay, it was far away from the prying eyes of the customs and excise men. As we took the strain, and hauled on our heavy rucksacks, a few small boats straddled the shore and a handful of people strolled on the beach. Out alongside the pier, a group of wet-suited surfers were trying to catch the waves. Catherine and I lingered for a short while and took our start of walk selfie.  Then we set off on the 9 mile coastal hike to the little fishing village of Staithes. We hauled ourselves up a steep, twisting set of steps  on to the top of the tall cliffs that lay just beyond the town. It was the first of numerous climbs. Once at the top, we looked back. Saltburn by the sea was now spread below us like a map — its beach, pier, cliff lift and grand Victorian terraces. Looking inland we saw the wooded slopes of the Cleveland Hills including the familier collapsed cone of Roseberry Topping. Originally a perfect cone shape, it partly caved- in when ironstone miners tunnelled into its side. Although only a hill, it’s distinctive shape has led to comparisons with the Matterhorn.

Ahead of us led a clifftop path just set back from precipitous drops, making one nervous to venture too close to the edge. This is the mighty Huntcliff, so called because people used to hunt wild-cats there. We passed the site of a former Roman signal station. Cliffs were great places to site beacons. Near to it were several warning signs of the dangers of the unstable, sandstone cliff. A few years ago, a couple of 17 year olds were taking selfies on the cliff edge near here and fell to their deaths on the rocks far below. The cliff path is bordered by wild flowers and grasses and so we were constantly accompanied by bees, birds and butterflies. Sand martins darted around and when we dared to peep down, we spotted kittiwakes and other gulls nesting or resting on the cliff ledges. A hill started to appear to the right ( Warsett Hill) and our path was squashed tightly between it and the edge. A railway also bizarrely appeared. Its trains carry potash from an under-sea mine at Boulby to the chemical works of Teesside. Some people are so nervous about the vertinigous drop, that they they take a chance, slip through the fence and walk on the railway track.

Saltburn had now disappeared from view behind us and ahead lay new headlands, bays and beaches. As we neared Skinnigrove, a striking steel art- piece appeared on a grassy knoll in front of us. It consists of a steel circle or bracelet. From it dangle 10 steel “charms”, each representing a local tradition, folk story or feature of the area. There are: miners’ tools, a pit pony, a fanciful mermaid, a racing pigeon and pieces of seaweed such as bladderwrack that could be discovered on the shore. It made for some eye-catching photos especially when the upcoming beach and headland was framed within its circle. It was the first example we had come across of cliff path art, something we had seen a lot of in County Durham 2 years before.

We started to gently descend between gorse bushes with a field of rape seed waiting to be harvested, on our right. An interesting piece of industrial archaeology now appeared on the far side of the field. A handy info board explained. It was the ruined shell of a fan house. A large engine had powered a giant fan that had provided vital ventilation for the Alum mines that had been dug into the base of the cliff. Alum used to be an important ingredient of the dieing industry, helping the colour to stay fast. It increased the strength and permanance of the dyed cloth. At one point in the 19th century it worked most effectively when mixed with human urine. Large sloshing vats of the smelly stuff were thus collected and taken along so that the required chemical reaction could be brought about. This is possibly where the expression “taking the piss” originated from! We now negotiated a steep path down the cliff-side made slippy by loose stones. We proceeded gingerly but Catherine came a cropper and ended up on the floor. She got no marks for style! At last we made it to Cattersby Sands and walked on to Skinningrove with its disused jetty dating from 1880 when this was a busy mining area. Large quantities of ironstone and alum used to be shipped out from here.

Skinningrove’s name is Viking influenced and mean’s a skinner’s grove or pit. Today it is just a small, quiet village by-passed by the main road. It has an ironstone mining museum which is good but we didn’t have time to visit. We took off our heavy packs and rested for a while on a convenient bench. Next to us was a life size wooden sculpture of 2 fishermen launching a coble. This was a small, flat-bottomed, high bowed,one sailed fishing boat that could be launched straight from the beach. Also nearby was a carving of a local pigeon fancier releasing his bird. Pigeon racing was and still is a very popular pastime amongst the men of these parts. Homing pigeons are transported to far-flung corners of the country and invariably their remarkable navigational  skills enable them to find their way home. The hillside above Skinningrove is littered with pigeon lofts. Our climb out of the village was steep and tiring so we rewarded ourselves with a sandwich and a drink when we finally reached the top.

Now it was more cliff top rambles accompanied by birds, butterflies, bees and wildflowers. I lay flat on my stomach to photograph lovely pale blue harebells fluttering in the breeze. Cow-parsley, purple thistles, banks of beautiful heather and a host of swaying grasses decorated our way. At the tiny hamlet of Boulby the coast had been re-sculptured by the now abandoned alum mines. Spoil heaps, once an eye-sore, have been smoothed over by the tides and merged with the adjoining rocks and cliffs. In the village we admired a butterfly smothered buddleai bush and munched on some juicy blackberries in the hedgerow. We now angled away from the cliff tops and  strolled through a golden field of wheat. Soon it would be harvested, signalling the end of summer. To the right was the aforementioned Boulby Potash works, not the prettiest sight but providing vital employment for the locals. Ahead, at last, was the entrance to Staithes. We passed the twin stone terraces of Cowbar and then dropped steeply into the old quaint, fishing village, now a popular holiday destination.

Staithes’s old village nestles between two cliff headlands or Nabs which hide it from view until the last moment. Thus when it suddenly appears, it comes as a wonderful surprise. It sits at the bottom end of a deep, narrow glen created by a wide stream known as Roxby Beck. Its name is Old English for “landing-place.” Its red roofed little houses descend, higgledy-piggledy down the steep slopes, scattered like confetti. They cling to the hillside in tight terraces, the floor of one being on a level with the chimneys of the one in front. It is mostly negotiated via a confusion of alleys ( called “nicks”), stairs and tiny squares. Every now and again you can spot on old “nettie” or outside toilet. The village is alive with the raucous cries of herring gulls. As evening approached they seemed to colonise every roof-top and chimney, noisily and constantly defending their territory. A narrow cobbled high street leads to a small bay and beach, overseen by the towering cliffs. Our little guest house the “Endeavour” is named after Captain James Cook’s famous ship. Staithes too claims its chunk of Cook heritage. Apparently he worked in a shop here and, seeing the boats going back and forth, got the taste for the seafaring life that made his name. An old Methodist chapel has been converted into the Captain Cook museum which attracts at least 5000 visiters a year. We got this info from our guest house owner, Dave, who is fighting to keep the museum open as it has recently been inherited by new owners who want to turn the building into more lucrative holiday apartments. In its hey-day, Staithes had 5 chapels and 7 pubs. They were nicknamed, the “5 Virtues” and the “7 Deadly Sins”!

Staithes today is a busy, summertime holiday destination. It has no amusements, gimmicks or conventional tourist attractions, but it does have history, quaintness and atmosphere. Cars are banned from the old village at the bottom of the hill ( except for deliveries) so, to use the old cliche, a visit to Staithes is like stepping back in time. The village is very photogenic. It’s no surprise to find that it was the centre of an artists’ colony in the 1920s and 30s. The so called “Northern Impressionists” were attracted by the pretty village and coastline, plus the fine quality of the light. Their most famous members were Dame Laura Knight and her husband Harold. It’s also its “lost in time” quality that attracts so many visiters. Up to the 1960s, many of the women wore traditional dress including white bonnets, the men sat around in their knitted guernsies mending the herring nets and the cobles were scattered picturesquely on the beach and beckside waiting for the next high tide.

The problem with Staithes’ popularity is that many of its old, charming little cottages are snapped up by outsiders for use as holiday lets or second homes.Thus, in winter, the place is more like a ghost village. Local people have been priced out and so many have had to move away. This is a serious issue in several places on the North Yorkshire coast.

After settling in to our bolt-hole for the night, we set out on a pre-dinner stroll. Up and down the confusing tangle of lanes we went and then we crossed the little bridge over the beck to take a closer look at the cliffs of Cowbar Nab. The air was filled with the raucous cries of herring gulls which were constantly flying back and forth. But as the cliff turned a corner we were met with the higher-pitched shrieks of kittiwakes. Hundreds of them had taken over the rock face and greeted each other noisily whenever one of the pair returned from a fishing trip out at sea. They created a constant cacophony. We walked out to the breakwater and flood defences and dodged the large waves that occasionally crashed over on to the path. In the past Staithes has been very badly flooded and a lot of money has had to be spent to protect it.

We thought it would be easy to eat in the Cod and Lobster, the main pub on the waterfront. But even at 5pm it was crowded out with tourists and trippers devouring their obligatory fish and chips. We surveyed the scene of squealing small children, panting dogs, sloshed beer and spilt peas and chips, and beat a hasty retreat. We squeezed into a corner of the Royal George up the High Street which was also busy and ate tasty Vegetable Lasagnes, a staple vegetarian dish on most pub menus. We had a nice conversation with some friendly tourists from Bourton on Trent who had allowed us to share their table. If we had gone in November, the place would probably have been very quiet.

Finally, after an atmospheric twilight stroll, we called it a day and settled down for the night. You would think it would be quiet in that old village with no cars but our night was constantly punctuated by the shrieks of herring gulls who had taken over all the roofs and chimneys around us. It was liking being in a scene from Hitchcock’s “The Birds” They were to provide the soundtrack to much of our walk. An interesting and eventful Day 2 of our adventure was finally over.

Walking the Riding, 2019. ( Part 1 – Redcar to Saltburn by the Sea.)

I live on the rugged but beautiful north-east coast of England. My official address is in Cleveland but most people still think of it as part of the great county of Yorkshire — “God’s own country.” The Vikings used to be top dogs around here, back in the so-called “Dark Ages.” Many settlements still have Norse names such as my own village of Skelton. The Vikings’ first attack on mainland Britain was at Lindisfarne (Holy Island) on the Northumberland coast just north of here, in 793AD.  Later, when their longships arrived off the coast of north Yorkshire, they were so impressed by the miles of soaring cliffs, that they dubbed it Cleve-Land or Cliff-Land. Politicians and administrators picked up on this ancient name in the 1970s when they were carving up the county to make it more manageable. I like the name because of its history, but just between you and me, I actually live in the north of Yorkshire! Even the Vikings found Yorshire to be too big to manage so they divided it into 3 administrative regions known as “Ridings” They were North Riding, West Riding and East Riding. For some reason “South Riding” never existed except in the famous novel with that title by Winifred Holtby.

So what has all this got to do with walking? Well in 2011 I walked the entire coast of Northumberland from the Scottish border to Tyneside with a friend. Then, 2 years ago, in the summer of 2017, I walked the entire coast of the original County of Durham with my daughter Catherine. We called it the 3 River Mouths walk, starting at the Tyne, finishing at the Tees and taking in the mouth of the Wear at Sunderland on the way. We had a great time ( see previous blogs from 2017) and raised a substantial amount of money for animal charities. Don’t ask me about the missing year — we were probably still trying to get our breath back! Anyway this year we decided to tackle the Yorkshire coast, the next one down from Durham. Due to time and financial constraints we agreed to split the county’s coastline into 2 halves. It has nothing whatsoever to do with me pushing 70! The plan I devised would take us from the south bank of the River Tees at Redcar to the seaside resort of Scarborough, roughly 60 miles to the south. Most of this walk would be along the coast of the original North Riding. I discovered too late that the North Riding actually extended down to Filey, a few miles south of Scarborough. After this the old East Riding began. But, never mind, we will walk that another time. To all intents and purposes we were going to traverse the coast of the North Riding of Yorkshire. We were going to walk the Riding!

I have described the North Yorkshire coast as “beautiful” but the start point of our walk was far from that. When one thinks of Teesside the first word to pop into the mind is ” industry.” Once ironstone and other minerals were discovered in the nearby Cleveland Hills, the area around the estaury of the River Tees became a hive of industrial activity, particularly iron, steel and chemical production. It is officially prohibited to drive all the way to South Gare, on the southern bank of the mouth of the Tees, near Middlesbrough, because it is a private road. However, we got as close as we could at Warrenby, the northern part of Redcar. In the near distance we could see the lighthouse and pier of the river mouth where we had finished the County Durham walk. As we walked our first steps, we were surrounded by car scrapyards, rundown workshops and a barbed- wire protected waste- recycling plant. We took our first selfie in front of the latter and then quickly struck out for the nearby coast. We hoped this would be the scenic low-point of the trip and that soon it would just be a brief, bad memory. We soon spotted the magical sight of a finger-post announcing the English Coastal Path. It led us across a golf links towards high dunes crested with marram grass. This is the northern stretch of Redcar’s long, impressive beach. The sands stretch all the way to the Tees about 2 to 3 miles to the north but, because this is the furthest part of the beach from the car-parks, amusements and cafes, it is usually frequented only by a sprinkling of dog walkers. This was the case now. In front of us reared an eerie- looking wind farm just off shore. To the left, as well as the river mouth, was the now defunct Redcar Steel Works, a sad victim of the recession and cheap Chinese steel being dumped on the world market. The ovens were finally extinguished in October, 2015 after years of struggle. The Warrenby/Redcar Steelworks had been founded by Dorman Long in 1917. Steel from there had been used to build the Tyne Bridge, Sydney Harbour Bridge, Auckland bridge and many more. Now the works have closed, it’s as if the heart has been ripped out of Redcar. The other main employer, ICI Teesside, has also run down its operations. The abandoned, derelict Warrenby Steelworks are a poignant sight. In a conventional sense they are an eye-sore, but so many people’s lives and histories have been centred on them in the past century that anyone with even an inkling of soul cannot help but feel a surge of sadness at this great loss to the local community. A micro-light plane buzzed above us as we turned south to walk along the flat sands to the town.

Redcar is a down to earth, friendly little town and resort. Despite its economic problems it still manages to keep a smile on its face. I don’t know how Yorkshire people have got their reputation for being dour and unfriendly. Living amongst them, I have always found them to be just the opposite. It’s name refers to its low lying situation where originally there were reeds in a marsh. Even today there is a pleasant wading- birds, nature reserve, at Coatham marsh on the edge of town.We left the beach to walk along the promenade. Redcar  used to be a regular destination for Victorian tourists once the railway from Darlington and Middlesbrough opened in 1846. It used to have amusement arcades, donkey and pony rides, swings, roundabouts and a helter skelter. It also had 2 pleasure piers, one at Coatham and one at Redcar itself. Both are now just memories after being hit by ships, damaged in fires and, in the case of Redcar pier, suffering from a mines explosion in World War 2. It had already been deliberately breached in 1940 to prevent its use by invading enemy forces.

Ironically, considering this war damage, one of Redcar’s more recent claims to fame was when  part of its seafront was dressed up to look like war-torn Dunkirk for the major 2006 film “Atonement.” An important scene from Ian McEwan’s novel featured the epic Allied evacuation from that beleagured French port in 1940. Redcar was chosen among several British applicants to represent Dunkirk, presumably because the Dunkirk of the 1940s was almost completely destroyed by bombing in the war against Nazi Germany. It was a welcome shot in the arm for the struggling town. A facade of bombed out buildings was created on the seafront, while bomb craters were made on the beach and rubble and debris strewn across the promenade. Filming took place over 3 days in August, 2006 and hundreds of local men earned some extra pocket money by acting as soldiers.  A sculpture, “Lost Luggage” was commissioned by the film company and given to the town to commemorate this event. We stopped to look at it on the prom. It consists of a British “Tommy’s” luggage, helmet, crates of ammo and  rifle plus a film director’s camera and chair It takes its place amidst a slightly bizarre collection of sculptures and 3D ceramic pictures of local attractions. These strangely included a group of penguins and a depiction of a crab eating chips! These attempts at modern promenade decorations involved the replacement of the traditional  seats and shelters from the resort’s hey-day with more flashy, streamlined versions.  Many locals have mourned the loss of this tiny part of their heritage.

The most controversial addition to Redcar’s seafront is the Beacon, which arrived in 2011. Approaching it, the Beacon looks like a tacky, grey, white and pink helter- skelter. Described as a vertical pier, it stands close to where the real pier used to be. Apparantly over a million pounds worth of local tax money were spent on it, in an attempt to put Redcar back on the tourist map. It has proved to be very unpopular with many locals and deeply divisive.  It was nominated for the Carbuncle Cup, a competition run by Building Design, an architect’s magazine to find the worst new building of the year. It came third in the whole of the UK! After being hit by Storm Desmond, a couple of years ago, 3 of its panels were blown off and fell on to the beach.  Just past the beacon are glimpses of the old Redcar prom. Small fishing boats and tractors line the top of the beach. A tiny fleet still sails straight off the beach looking for inshore fish, crabs and lobsters. The Zetland Lifeboat museum proudly presents the world’s oldest  lifeboat from 1802. However the old Regent Cinema which once masqueraded as a French hotel is now sadly closed, a victim of Netflix and the multi-plexes. Its dilapitated, peeling walls still display fading sillouettes of Laurel and Hardy, Marilyn Monroe trying to protect her modesty, Buster Keaton clinging by his finger-tips to a high ledge and other Hollywood icons. They are now just mere memories from the silver screen of days gone by.

We walked on past a motley collection of amusement arcades, fish and chip shops and ice cream parlours. Gradually we left the tourist detritus behind us and were just left with the rather wonderful beach, stretching for miles in either direction. It was on this stretch of sands that Donald Campbell made attempts at the British land speed record in his famous streamlined car : “Bluebird.” Decrepit wooden groynes snaked out towards the sea, adding an old fashioned picturesque quality to the scene. In the distance the faint outlines of huge cliffs jutted out into dramatic headlands but were partly obscured by a heat haze. Yes, it was very warm and fine such that we never disturbed the rain gear dutifully stuffed into our back-packs.

We now entered the “Stray”. a 2 mile long stretch of coastal grassland between Redcar and Marske by the sea. Apparantly this part of the coast is famous for fossils called “Devil’s Toenails” but we never spotted any. There were plenty of gently waving grasses in the sea breeze and swathes of flowering thistles being constantly visited by bees and dancing butterflies. We saw the first of many orangy-speckled Painted Ladies which have graced Britain with their presence in such large numbers this year, a once in a decade phenomenum. They have flown in stages all the way from Africa, the longest journey of any butterfly. Also, while strolling along the Stray , we were entertained by the dazzling flying displays of sand martins, twisting and turning, soaring and dipping as they tried to catch insect snacks right there in front of us. That’s something we would have missed if we had travelled the same route by car.

We had a tasty pit-stop at a cafe in Marske, an assuming little seaside village which has not tried to turn itself into a resort. It has a little quirky heritage museum in an old cruck-style cottage ( “Winkies castle”), some picturesque fishermens’ cottages and  old St Germains church tower and graveyard overlooking the beach. Apparently somewhere in there is the grave of Captain Cook’s father. Everywhere in Cleveland, towns and villages are trying to catch a share of the James Cook bandwagon. Unusually and surprisingly, Marske also has a grand Jacobean house built in the reign of Charles I in 1625. Marske Hall began its life as the home of a local aristocratic family, was later a boarding school and is now a Leonard Cheshire Home. A summer fayre was being staged in its grounds when we passed by, so between the bouncy castle and the entertainment stage we got glimpses of its towers, turrets and gargoyles. Also on Marske seafront is Cliff House, a 19th century casselated mansion built as a holiday and retirement home for the Pease family of Darlington. This famous Quaker dynasty owned many coal mines in the area and hired George Stephenson to build the world’s first public railway from Stockton to Darlington in 1825. Joseph Pease retired here and in his old age, after he went blind, he used to get his carer to wheel him out on to the balcony so he could hear the waves and enjoy the fresh, sea air.

We now walked on along a wide stretch of beach flanked by low, boulder clay cliffs towards Saltburn by the sea. We could see its pier in the distance. A grade 2 listed building, this is the only remaining pleasure pier on the North-East England coast. It was Henry Pease, out walking while visiting his brother in Marske, who is reputed to have had a vision of “a town arising on the cliff and the quiet unfrequented and sheltered glen turned into a lovely garden.” It was this that led to the creation of the gentile Victorian seaside resort of Saltburn by the sea in 1850, near where I now live. Up the cliff from the pier is the old Cliff Tramway. Two balanced tram cars climb and descend the steep slope, the top one being weighed down by gallons of seawater poured into special side hoppers. This plus the force of gravity pulls the other car up. This water- balance funicular is one of only 2 in the entire country, the other one being in Lynton and Lynemouth, Somerset.

Gradually the beach got busier with holiday makers as we neared the little town and climbed up to the top of its cliff. Saltburn is getting more and more popular today but still retains its largely Victorian quaintness. Pease’s vision has been turned into a sweet little town and the lovely Valley Gardens where a large stream ( or burn) flows into the sea. The railway was extended here in 1861 and the enormous Zetland Hotel, dominating the cliff top actually had its own private platform. Porters used to meet hotel guests straight off the train and take their luggage up to their waiting rooms. The Zetland is still there but has been turned into rather spectacular apartments. It was of the world’s earliest railway hotels.

Our first day’s hike was now nearing its end. After a quick coffee in Saltburn’s Station Square and a look at the lovely, community garden, we walked through sun-dappled woods to my home in nearby Skelton, about 1.5 miles inland. We were now on the Cleveland Way, the long distance footpath that reaches the coast at Saltburn. Its familer acorn sign was to accompany us for the rest of our trip. Everyone we met assumed we were regular Cleveland Way walkers. They looked a little bemused when we explained we were walking the North Riding coast and had begun in a rundown area of Redcar. This wasn’t an officially designated long-distance trail. It had been an interesting and enjoyable first day. It had also been a gentle breaking- in process as we had encountered few hills and had got away with carrying just one small rucksack. From Day 2, the real heavy stuff would begin as we would leave my immediate home territory and head south, carrying everything with us on our backs.