Over Fells and Dales : A national park keeps Yorkshire’s ancient landscape intact for hikers and Bronte fans

We’d been walking across the grassy, treeless fells (hills or mountains) for several hours, with hundreds of grazing sheep for company, when the path dipped down the hillside into a farm. It led us to a fenced barnyard where a scene was playing itself out that could have taken place one century ago--or five.

An old farmer, his face leathery brown and deeply wrinkled, was shearing his sheep. His equally withered wife was painting big blue spots on the near-naked rumps of the animals to distinguish them from their neighbors’ sheep. The farmer wore a jacket so frayed it hung in ribbons off his shoulders. She also was in her sheep-shearing best.

A lot may have changed in England, but not the swath of green hills and valleys in the far north known as Yorkshire Dales National Park, a 1 1/2-hour drive from Manchester airport.

There are few roads--and the ones that exist are only one lane wide for two-way traffic. The villages are tiny and, under national park laws, cannot expand. Mostly, it is a hilly, wide-open landscape of green grass and woolly sheep that have chomped down all possibility of tree life.

A great way to see the Dales is on foot--preferably with a guide. Which is why my husband, Larry, and I were walking with another Philadelphia couple through this sweeping expanse of sheep country with our guide, Malcolm Rhodes, on a fine July day.

As hikers who thrill to the highs of big mountains, we had worried that this kind of walking would be too tame, too lame--in short, boring. A Philadelphia friend who’d taken a walking tour with Rhodes and told us about him assured us that our ramblings would make up in charm for what was lost in challenge.

And our muscles would still ache, she promised.

Our first morning out, we awoke in an ancient stone farmhouse--the Miresfield Farm Bed and Breakfast--to look out the window to see an old farmer calling his cows in for milking. The cows spotted him as he limped along the lane, leaning on his stick, and rushed to meet him at the gate. Then they casually followed him down Malham’s only street, past its dozen homes and two pubs.

No question about the charm.

*

Downstairs, a traditional killer British breakfast awaited us: a choice of cereal, plus yogurt, juice, two eggs, bacon and sausage, a broiled tomato, sauteed mushrooms, coffee.

“It’s what the British on holiday expect,” one innkeeper had told us. “They want their money’s worth.” Good thing we and the Brits aren’t on holiday every day, we thought. But having survived driving the one-track road into Malham, a trek requiring lots of beeping and braking, we felt we could survive anything.

Outside it was gray with a threat of warm summer rain as Rhodes pulled up in his Land Rover, his eyes sparkling at the excitement of sharing with us his favorite part of the world no matter the weather.

Looming over the village is Malham Cove, a 240-foot sheer rock wall where once a waterfall flowed. It’s a mecca for rock climbers and the “fell runners” who race up and down the hills for sport.

With no regrets at passing up that challenge, we struck out across the meadows, walking along one of the characteristic stone walls built centuries ago when, in a giant land grab, the abbey monks were granted whatever lands they could fence in. Today the walls--every single stone protected by the government--serve as dividers between sheep pastures.

After climbing a few minutes, we stopped for the view: green fields dotted with sheep from horizon to horizon.

“Take a look down there,” Rhodes said, pointing to a particularly flat piece of land surrounded by rocks, with five smaller circles of rocks nearby.

“This was an Iron Age village, we think, though it’s yet to be excavated,” he explained. The houses would have stood inside the rock circles. Suddenly, from what had looked like ordinary pasture, we could discern a kind of terracing, “just wide enough to pull the oxen across the hill,” Rhodes said.

Without a guide, we would have walked right through this piece of ancient history, watching our step through the sheep dung and the clumps of sheep wool that fall off the unshorn animals.

We likely would have missed our next stop, as well: Janet’s Foss, a dark leafy place hiding a lovely waterfall tumbling into a swimming hole. The word “foss,” or ditch, Rhodes explained, comes from the Norse who were the early inhabitants of Yorkshire. Similarly, the word “fells”was Norse for “high barren mountains.”

Then it was on to Goredale Scar, a brutal cut in the mountains, as its name implies. You walk into a small canyon that looks like something out of a John Wayne movie, with rocky walls on both sides, then follow it as it curves to the right (will there be Indians around the bend?), and suddenly you’re in a virtual cathedral of rocks.

“There was once a dome covering to all of this, that at some point collapsed to open this roof to the sky,” Rhodes explained, as we gazed up 10 stories or so. “It was once an ancient ocean filled with trilobites and crustaceans that settled and became limestone.”

For the adventurous, the way out is up the scar, a tumble of rock steps bordered by falling water. It’s an easier climb than it looks, with footholds in all the right places, and quickly we were out of the geological aberration and back on emerald meadows.

With the day turning to drizzle, we loaded into Rhodes’ Land Rover to tour northward into “Herriot country.” This is the land of “all creatures great and small,” as Yorkshire native and veterinarian-turned-writer James Herriot described it in his 1972 book of the same name--a softer landscape of rivers, trees and gray stone villages with names such as Kettlewell and Yockenthwaite.

We stopped to walk along a brook and picnic on soup and scones prepared and sent along by Rhodes’ wife, Sue.

Then, with the rain picking up, we drove to Hawes--a bit of a tourist spot, but not like any we were used to. The attractions include a rope factory--where we watched a dozen spinning spools, their separate yarns merging and twisting into cotton clothesline, thick nylon ropes, brightly colored dog leashes and elegant silk opera-house cordons. At a local fair, craftsmen were selling heather honey and beeswax candles, while at the Wensleydale cheese factory, we watched curds and whey going their separate ways, with lots of free samples of this prized sheep’s milk cheese that comes flavored with everything from peaches to port.

Now it was pouring, and we were glad to be driving back to Malham in Rhodes’ dry vehicle, hearing of his various careers as police officer, pub owner and outdoorsman; of his Euro-skeptic worries that Britain will be hurt by economic consolidation; of his views on Charles and Di and Steven Hawkings’ book “A Brief History of Time.”

By evening, we were ready for the pub (or “poob” as they pronounce it). At the Leicester Arms--a big name for one of Malham’s two little pubs--we squeezed onto worn wooden benches and ate lamb, almond and apricot stew, and “summer pudding” of fresh berries and cream, washing it all down with brews such as Old Peculier and Black Sheep.

As we chatted with the locals, we realized we were the only Americans there. And the Miresfield Farm guest register supplied proof that few Yankees come this way.

We were hungry for both hiking and history, and Day 2 of our Yorkshire Dales adventure turned into a double helping.

Loading up again in the Land Rover, Rhodes drove us to Haworth, a tiny hillside village about 40 minutes south of Malham. While the village is sweet, with pubs and tea shops and an old-fashioned store selling castor oil soaps, herbs and remedies, the major attraction is the Bronte parsonage, now a museum. It is here that Parson Bronte, a widower, raised his brood of six children, including Emily, who wrote “Wuthering Heights,” and Charlotte, author of “Jane Eyre.”

Behind the modest parsonage is the moor that Emily made famous in “Wuthering Heights.” It is a treeless piece of highland covered in low-growing gnarly heather, a plant that blooms a gorgeous purple in August, but was now (in July) brownish green. We set off for the spot where the house of the enigmatic Heathcliff supposedly stood, about an hour’s walk. It was gray and a cool wind blew, but there was an exhilaration in the fast-paced walk across this huge sweep of landscape.

We picnicked on provisions bought in Haworth--Double Gloucester, Cheshire and Wensleydale cheeses, granary bread, fresh fruit and McVities chocolate-coated biscuits; hiked a bit more and then reentered the 20th century at a pub on the way home, where we watched the telly: Wimbledon, of course.

*

Our last day dawned sunny at last--perfect for the “slow walk” that Rhodes had promised us.

“Lots of people go from A to B,” he’d explained, “but few people remember anything in between.”

By then, we’d moved out of the Miresfield B&B;, a bargain selection that we’d made, to the more intimate and even cheaper Coachman’s Cottage down the road from Malham, where a room was just $72 for two, including breakfast.

At 9 a.m. we set out along a footpath, of course. It’s hard in England not to walk along a footpath. You can literally point yourself in almost any direction and find a footpath marked with wooden signposts to take you there. These rights-of-way date from the days when everyone walked on foot and the straightest route was to cut across someone else’s fields.

Today the British regard the footpaths as a right of passage--even when they cross private property. Landowners must not only keep them open but also maintain them.

But how to keep the goats and sheep from wandering off if people are walking through your pasture all the time? The answer is stiles. And these clever little gates come in as many varieties as British beers.

There are wooden ladders leaning against stone walls (you can get over, but the sheep can’t); narrow stone steps set into walls; wooden gates with chains or latches; and tiny “kissing gates” that are like turnstiles, except you have to squeeze around the bar.

So we took our slow walk across the fells and the dales and through sheep pastures, watching our step for their many shiny black pellets, and looking at the tiny flowers Rhodes pointed out--the yellow-buttoned pineapple weed that does taste like pineapple and the purple-flowered wild thyme. At a heather patch, we tromped through the heavier stuff and were rewarded by seeing some grouse fly out. One, though, kind of limped along, inviting us to follow. When she had drawn us far from her chicks’ nest, she ended her ruse and escaped into the dense heather.

By 4 p.m., our now weary legs had carried us to the village of Threshfield, where Rhodes had parked his car early that morning, and we enjoyed big beers at a pub, then hunted down a place to eat.

Almost anything would have tasted great, but as far as Rhodes was concerned, we hit the jackpot.

In the window of a small cafe, the daily special was listed: “Pork pie with mushy peas, mint and gravy.”

“That,” said Malcolm, “sounds orgasmic.”

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GUIDEBOOK: Yorkshire Tarrying

Getting there: Connecting service only (one change of planes) LAX-Manchester on American, British Airways, Delta, Air Canada, Continental, KLM and Northwest; round-trip fares begin at about $1,060, including tax. Yorkshire Dales is a 1 1/2-hour drive from the Manchester airport, or a four-hour drive from London.

Where to stay: Miresfield Farm B&B; (Malham near Skipton, North Yorkshire, England BD23-4DA; telephone 011-44-1729-830414; about $80 for a double with breakfast.

The charming Coachman’s Cottage B&B; (Hanlith, Malham near Skipton, North Yorkshire, England BD23-4BP; tel. 011-44-1729-830538); about $72.

Guided tours: Malcolm Rhodes (Hollygrove, Kirby Malham, Skipton, North Yorkshire, BD23ABS; tel. 011-44-1729-830581) will custom-design tours; daily rate for B&B; lodging and Rhodes as private tour guide averages about $450 a day for two. Reservations handled by Ann Litt, Undiscovered Britain, 11978 Audubon Place, Philadelphia, PA 19116; tel. (215) 969-0542, fax (215) 969-9251.

For more information: British Tourist Authority, 551 Fifth Ave., Suite 701, New York, NY 10176-799; tel. (800) 462-2748 or (212) 986-2200, fax (212) 986-1188. Ask for the brochure “Britain for Walkers.”

--D.B.