Brimham Rocks

A Day on the Moors

Brimham Rocks.

This morning we went to the Harrogate Train Station and bought our tickets to Norwich at the counter. In passing we mentioned how much we loved public transportation in England. The clerk winced and gave a sour face, but I insisted: compared with Amtrak and our fragmented municipal bus systems back home, British public transportation is a dream. You can get to just about any city on the train (our trip from Harrogate to Norwich, 180 miles, only requires one transfer), and to just about any town on the bus. We have not found a situation where we needed a car to get from Point A to Point B, and we’ve never been in a situation where we wished for a car.

OK, maybe just a little bit yesterday afternoon. Hot and tired from a full day hiking the crags and moors around Brimham Rocks, we looked forward to being whisked home in air conditioned comfort. Our bus hobbled into the stop, late, and then wheezed to a dead stop. Our bus wasn’t going anywhere and the driver announced its replacement wouldn’t be by for a couple of hours. Shadows were lengthening; what to do?

Last night excepted, we’ve never seen a bus service so prompt, clean and easy to understand. I’m an old bus warrior, having commuted into downtown Portland for years. There is nothing here in Yorkshire close to the grim, head down, shoulders hunched, squinty-eyed determination needed to endure Portland’s TriMet buses. Harrogate buses are new, shiny, all electric, with LED screens inside the bus clearly displaying upcoming stops. There is free wifi and plugins at each seat to charge your device. The cheery speaker voice even has varied ways to announce upcoming stops. One will say, “Next stop is…” another will say, “Get off here if you want…”, or sometimes, “Get ready! … is coming up!” Some buses are double-deckers, so if you get a front row seat up top it’s like a carnival ride. Will we scrape the farm tractor we’re squeezing by on this one-lane country road?

Heather on the moor.

The Brimham Rocks, on the edge of a moor, take on fantastic shapes carved by wind and sand and glaciers over time. (We were reminded a little of the Bisti/De-Na-Zin badlands of Navajo country, New Mexico.) Our hike through the rocks and the two surrounding moors were surprisingly colorful: hot pink with blossoming heather and lime green ferns. The views across the countryside to the farmland beyond were spectacular.

The rocks are irresistible for climbing and the place was crawling with happy children trailing fathers panting to keep up with them and calling out warnings. Families brought picnic lunches and treated youngsters to iced lollies (popsicles) from the concession stand for dessert.

Many of the rock formations have fanciful names like the Druid’s Writing Desk, Blacksmith’s Anvil and Dancing Bear. Some of the figures we could see, others were too obscure for us make out.

We were told that National Trust employees and volunteers were spending way too much time finding and chopping down invasive birch trees that threatened to overrun the native moor plants until an enterprising sort suggested bringing in local Belted Galloway cows to do the work for them. These cows love birch saplings, don’t bother the native plants, and fertilize the moor. The cows are also very docile, meaning visitors are safe as long as they exercise the sense that God gave geese.

This Belted Galloway cow refused to lift its head for Penny’s camera.

We hiked miles in the moors, past the Belted Galloways, and then back again in a full circle. We had some time to spare before the one and only bus was scheduled to arrive, so we dropped in the little Visitor’s Center at the far north end of the park. To our surprise, it also housed a large National Trust used bookstore.

As I was poking through the treasure trove of dusty books, Penny chatted with Dan, the young employee behind the counter, wondering out loud that Brimham Rocks would have such a complete used bookstore on site, in the middle of nowhere. On the contrary, he said. “British people expect to find a used bookstore at National Trust sites.” In fact, he concluded, business was actually pretty good, though on this warm sunny day we were the only customers.

Dan went on to tell Penny it had been a busy day all around for him, as he attended to two visitors who, independent of one another, broke their ankles jumping off rocks, and a third who got a concussion when he fell. As if anticipating her question, Dan explained it was typically young adult males who injured themselves on the rocks — by falling or jumping, or getting wedged between a rock and a hard place. We bid the friendly young man farewell and went to catch our bus.

Your correspondent attempting a smile uplon learning that our next bus would come in two hours.

We waited and waited and then learned the bad news. Our fortunes were as forlorn as the steaming, leaking bus next to us when ‘round the corner came Dan, our National Trust friend in his car heading home to Harrogate. He poked his head out the window: “Need a lift?” Yes, Dan, we do, and you are an angel.