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Published: November 11th 2011
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There was a knocking on the door. It was an impatient knock, and it was no surprise to discover that on the end of it was the hotel owner, rushing around letting everybody know that the kitchen would be closing soon. Fortunately we were ready, for it was 9.00, the exact time we had agreed to have our breakfast during the owner’s very brief introduction the night before. Her husband was much more relaxed, and cooked a good breakfast, which we enjoyed while we listened to husband and wife arguing somewhere in the kitchen, one being too slow, the other too fast, quite possibly.
As the weather had turned out so well, it almost felt a waste to be away from home and not go for a big random walk somewhere, so we arranged for Mark to meet us once more, this time out in the dales. Before we left York, though, we took in a few more sights. The Jorvik Viking Centre is almost a must-see when in York, so this was our first port of call. It is a fascinating place, built on top of a huge archaeological dig and managing to be part museum, part family-friendly tour
through a remodelled Viking city. We listened as the experts talked us through how they knew a manky skeleton from the best part of two millennia ago was a warrior who had died a particularly unpleasant death on a battlefield, and viewed in awe a sizeable, perfectly preserved human poo.
After Jorvik, there was just time to walk around the city once more, grab a quick drink and head to the car, from which we headed west for an hour, through Harrogate and on to the ruins of Bolton Abbey, not far from Skipton and nowhere near Bolton. Here we met Mark once more, and he took us for a lengthy walk through the countryside, in what was probably going to be the last good walking weather of the year. The abbey itself is, like most abbeys, a ruin, although a section of it is still used as a church to this day. We walked past the abbey and crossed the river over stepping stones, not the most sensible option when there is a perfectly good bridge right next to it, but certainly more fun. We followed the river around until we reached a junction, one direction leading to
the strid, a narrowing of the river that led to strong currents and rapids forming, the other to a place known as ‘The Valley of Desolation’. As much as I like river rapids, you can’t turn down the option of going to a place with a name like that. The valley wasn’t particularly desolate, the name coming from a great storm that had ripped it apart in the 19th century, but the intervening years have shown what a remarkable rebuilding process nature has. After walking over a few cow-patted and occasionally muddy fields to get there, we sat on a bench at the edge of the valley and relaxed in the wonderfully peaceful tranquillity of it all for a while, before turning back and heading in the direction of the rapids.
By the time we made it back to the abbey, the sun, now just lazily hiding behind a bank of cloud, was well on the way to setting, and so we decided it was probably time for home. Not long after parting ways with Mark it was getting dark, and by the time we hit the post-football match traffic in Manchester it could have been midnight, except that
it was just eight o’clock and the darkness was brought on by the rapidly shortening days at this time of year. The weekend had done me more good than I could possibly imagine; for weeks leading up to it I had been working long days, sometimes late nights, sometimes weekends, and when I hadn’t been working I had been taking part in some DIY building project or another. Until I took the time to relax, take in the sights, share good company and take a long afternoon’s blow of fresh air, I didn’t realise just how much I needed it.
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