England: The Moors, Whitby, Leeds & Cheshire
There’s Only One Film for Wild Camping on the Moors
I insisted we watch American Werewolf in London during our night on the Moors. It had been our first full day not spent in Scotland in the best part of three months, and a timely reminder that the land formerly known as Caledonia isn’t the only member of the UK to boast areas of outstanding natural beauty. We were parked up at the top of a small village, in a highly picturesque little spot consisting of many moist and mossy knolls of green and purple. After an invigorating couple of hours spent listening to ‘’nasty music’’ - a label Rach gives to anything that includes any kind of singing other than a smooth croon - we settled in to watch American Werewolf. It always amazes me how well they got the balance right between the comedy and the horror in that film. It’s a perfect blend. It was Rach’s first time seeing it. She loved it.
Whitby
The inadvertent horror tour continued with a trip to Whitby, the holiday destination of none other than Draclea himself.
Whitby is great. It’s got such a buzz. Maybe a little too much, in fact. Place was fucking rammed while we were there. We had a cracking fish and chips whilst sat on the steps overlooking the harbour, keeping our eyes peeled for thieving gulls. People were crabbing nearby. I used to love crabbing when I was a kid. The fishing rods, or whatever you call the crab version (crabbing strings?) are such satisfying tools, and it was so exciting when you reeled it in with one caught on the end. I say ‘caught’, but really all a ‘caught’ crab needs to do, at any point on its ascent to the buckets and poking fingers above, is let go of the bait. It would then immediately splosh back down into the revolting looking edge water from whence it came, presumably to the tearful and relieved embrace of a loved one. Okay, I’m almost certain crabs can’t cry, but they can surely hug, so I’m not talking complete bollocks.
Anyway, that was Whitby.
75mph?!
As we left Whitby the van accelerated up to 75mph, which is supposed to be impossible - I thought we might be about to jump into the future leaving two flaming trails behind us, like in that film with that nutter who keeps shouting about how great Scott is.
I had a disgusting shock during a quick stop to chuck a couple of bin bags of rubbish. I opened a large dumpster to find it full to the brim with dead sheep. That was quite a headfuck. How did they die? And why was there a whole bin of them? And couldn’t whoever put them in there have given them a nice burial, like how I assume they do in Wales? It should go without saying, the smell was nose-wrecking.
Test Match, Snake Woodland & Cheshire
While Rach was away on a hen do in some place or other, I spent a few days in Kirkstall, near Leeds. I was meeting up with the old man and my brother to watch England v India at Headingley. Wasn’t the best day weather-wise but we got through it.
I had to leave Moo on the van while I was at the cricket, so I made sure I was quick to return after the end of the day’s play, stopping for just two pints and a Chinese to take back with me. Moo was fine and chilling upon my return. Quite keen to go for a stroll though. I shoved all her gubbins on - sports bra (lead) and necklace (tracker) - and walked her around the car park and along the canal in the dark. After the walk, I let her scurry about in the leaves at the back of the van - checking periodically that she hadn’t dragged anything furry in - while I ate my Chinese.
I think that's how it happened, but there's a chance I may have walloped my Chinese down before even noticing Moo.
A day or two later, Rach returned and we moved on. We stopped for the night at the edge of a place called Snake Woodland. Great name but no snakes. Good walk though through a lovely little mossy, stream-infested woodland in the heart of the Peak District. It had recently rained, so everything was glistening pleasingly as we walked. Jesus fucking Christ, the Peak District is beautiful.
After that came Cheshire - a great little town full of Tudor style buildings, with a cracking cathedral. The 29,878th cathedral of our travels.
I insisted we watch American Werewolf in London during our night on the Moors. It had been our first full day not spent in Scotland in the best part of three months, and a timely reminder that the land formerly known as Caledonia isn’t the only member of the UK to boast areas of outstanding natural beauty. We were parked up at the top of a small village, in a highly picturesque little spot consisting of many moist and mossy knolls of green and purple. After an invigorating couple of hours spent listening to ‘’nasty music’’ - a label Rach gives to anything that includes any kind of singing other than a smooth croon - we settled in to watch American Werewolf. It always amazes me how well they got the balance right between the comedy and the horror in that film. It’s a perfect blend. It was Rach’s first time seeing it. She loved it.
Whitby
The inadvertent horror tour continued with a trip to Whitby, the holiday destination of none other than Draclea himself.
Whitby is great. It’s got such a buzz. Maybe a little too much, in fact. Place was fucking rammed while we were there. We had a cracking fish and chips whilst sat on the steps overlooking the harbour, keeping our eyes peeled for thieving gulls. People were crabbing nearby. I used to love crabbing when I was a kid. The fishing rods, or whatever you call the crab version (crabbing strings?) are such satisfying tools, and it was so exciting when you reeled it in with one caught on the end. I say ‘caught’, but really all a ‘caught’ crab needs to do, at any point on its ascent to the buckets and poking fingers above, is let go of the bait. It would then immediately splosh back down into the revolting looking edge water from whence it came, presumably to the tearful and relieved embrace of a loved one. Okay, I’m almost certain crabs can’t cry, but they can surely hug, so I’m not talking complete bollocks.
Anyway, that was Whitby.
75mph?!
As we left Whitby the van accelerated up to 75mph, which is supposed to be impossible - I thought we might be about to jump into the future leaving two flaming trails behind us, like in that film with that nutter who keeps shouting about how great Scott is.
I had a disgusting shock during a quick stop to chuck a couple of bin bags of rubbish. I opened a large dumpster to find it full to the brim with dead sheep. That was quite a headfuck. How did they die? And why was there a whole bin of them? And couldn’t whoever put them in there have given them a nice burial, like how I assume they do in Wales? It should go without saying, the smell was nose-wrecking.
Test Match, Snake Woodland & Cheshire
While Rach was away on a hen do in some place or other, I spent a few days in Kirkstall, near Leeds. I was meeting up with the old man and my brother to watch England v India at Headingley. Wasn’t the best day weather-wise but we got through it.
I had to leave Moo on the van while I was at the cricket, so I made sure I was quick to return after the end of the day’s play, stopping for just two pints and a Chinese to take back with me. Moo was fine and chilling upon my return. Quite keen to go for a stroll though. I shoved all her gubbins on - sports bra (lead) and necklace (tracker) - and walked her around the car park and along the canal in the dark. After the walk, I let her scurry about in the leaves at the back of the van - checking periodically that she hadn’t dragged anything furry in - while I ate my Chinese.
I think that's how it happened, but there's a chance I may have walloped my Chinese down before even noticing Moo.
A day or two later, Rach returned and we moved on. We stopped for the night at the edge of a place called Snake Woodland. Great name but no snakes. Good walk though through a lovely little mossy, stream-infested woodland in the heart of the Peak District. It had recently rained, so everything was glistening pleasingly as we walked. Jesus fucking Christ, the Peak District is beautiful.
After that came Cheshire - a great little town full of Tudor style buildings, with a cracking cathedral. The 29,878th cathedral of our travels.
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