White farms and waterfalls

[shewhomust]

We went walking yesterday in Teesdale, still in County Durham but in the south of the county, in those parts where the farms which stud the landscape are not the familiar plain stone, but painted white. The story goes that all properties on the Raby Estates have been painted white since the Duke of Cleveland, then owner of the estates, was caught in a storm while out hunting, asked for shelter at the nearest farm and was turned away by the farmer who was not his tenant and under no obligation to him. Now Lord Barnard can spot his own property at a glance, and need not fear the embarrassment of a refusal. Whatever the reason, the white houses were at their most striking in yesterday's changeable weather, vivid in the bright sun against the heavy skies.

We walked west out of Bowlees visitor centre along the farm tracks, past the Ebenezer chapel, now snugly boarded up with red panels dramatic against the fells. On the board across the front doorway, someone has painted, very neatly, the URL www.chapel-on-the-hill.com/ (but the web site to which it leads is enigmatic). West again to Forest in Teesdale, where we had lunch at the picnic site, while the motorcycles howled past along the road. From here it isn't far south to the Tees, and the Pennine Way. We paused by the bridge to put on waterproofs, as another shower had blown in, so we were well wrapped for the scramble up from Cronkley Farm, where the mountain pansies grow among the rocks. At the top we stopped for a drink of water and to take our waterproofs off again.

Then it's a long slope down to the broad plain of the river. A lapwing shouted at us as we passed: surely it can't have built its nest on the Pennine Way itself? Opposite the quarry workings we sidetracked to admire Bleabeck Force, usually a thread of white water tricking down the side of the valley, but after the recent rain a spectacular torrent the colour of creamy caramel. While we were there three young men waded across the Tees and came running up to splash in the waterfall, and when I looked away from them across the beck, I caught a flash of brown and a black-tipped tail: a stoat, though I had to look it up at home, as I can never remember the difference between a weasel and a stoat.*

This was all too much excitement, and we carried on along the Tees. High Force and Low Force were both in full flood; we'd chosen this walk hoping it would be a good day to see the waterfalls, and it was. There may be more photos in due course, but it's hard to do justice to the falls, so maybe not.

We called on friends in Barnard Castle on the way home, for a pleasant couple of hours of good wine and even better gossip; and driving home listened to Bellowhead's set from the Proms, while the setting sun painted the clouds a delicate pink. Which rounded off the day very appropriately.

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*All together now: A weasel is weasily wecognised, but a stoat is stoatally different.

Comments

chapel-on-the-hill.com

[durham-rambler.livejournal.com]

If you can catch and click the butterfly (or is it a leaf?) it becomes less enigmatic, but only slightly so.

[karinmollberg.livejournal.com]

What a lovely survey! How weird that there should be a counterpart to the addictive whitening of absolutely everything from houses to streets, stairs and chairs down in Puglia; so far up north.

[shewhomust.livejournal.com]

Ah, we're not as comprehensive as that!