Day 4 – Paradise / Hail to the Real Ale

I woke up around 6.50am, more like normal time, and brought Ellen some breakfast and tea in bed.

After a quick cooked breakfast for all, we set out to complete our postponed journey from the day before to the North Yorks Moors.

We headed north along an A-road through Scarborough, flirted briefly with a B-road before leaping ridiculously high onto a precarious but breathtaking unclassified road that took us up and down through the stunning Esk Dale.

This road was mostly single-track with occasional passing points, snaking through the Dale across old stone bridges, working farms, little fords and past a windswept, barren Moorland peppered with purple heather.

We arrived at Goathland around 11am to begin our journey.

I made the naive mistake of stopping at the first car park I saw, paying £2.20 for the privilege. If I’d just waited a little longer, or thought this is Goathland not central London, there was ample free parking on the grassy roadside (pictured, below, right).

The weather was fantastic. Sunny and blue, clear skies.

We were looking for signposting to the Mallyan Spout waterfall, a sixty foot waterfall and the tallest in the Moors.

I’d banned Ellen from using GIS coordinates on her i-phone, as part of the fun of exploring for me is the navigation and if that means getting lost, so be it. And before we knew it, we were lost. I suggested that we go for a ramble on a nearby upland instead (pictured, below right).

I was amazed to read that Britain is home to around 75% of the world’s Moorland, and as we climbed about 150 ft up and were rewarded by some stunning panoramas, stretching miles. We clambered back down again and had some lunch (pack lunch again) on a bench by the roadside just outside Goathland.

After lunch, we found a narrow path leading down to Mallyan Spout, concealed by overgrown bushes beside the Mallyan Spout Hotel car park.

We decided to see how far we could get down with Ciaran in pushshair and Ben. Sound mad?

The path was a heavily nettled, holly and fern-lined stone trail. Several passers-by commented on our ‘bravery’ and we smiled pleasantly but ignored their hidden message – translation – “You’re mad doing that with a pushchair”.

A “rather you than me” comment soon followed and again, this comment was discarded as we made swift progress down the hill and down dozens of steps. About ten minutes later, there was still no sign of the waterfall and Ellen suggested we take Ciaran no further. I reluctantly agreed.

Ellen and Ciaran waited why the “big boys” made the rest of the journey to the foot of the hill and the rocky spring (pictured, below right).

When we got there, it was worth the effort.

I did a little rock-climbing with Ben and he then threw some (lots) of stones in. We didn’t quite make it to the waterfall though as Ben was knackered and I decided to take him back up again.

I had to carry him most of the way back up to his Mummy, and then push the plump Ciaran and pushchair back up to the summit over dozens more steps. Predictably, we were experiencing regular bouts of exhaustion when we reached the summit, as we knew we would, but it was a small price to pay for the experience.

We grabbed some much-needed sustenance from the Mallyan Spout Hotel, situated adjacent to the trail entrance.

It was an impressive place. A four-and-a-half star hotel perched on top of the Moor overlooking a valley and set up primarily for wedding receptions as far as I could see. I ordered a pint of Black Sheep from the bar, still catching my breath, and it tasted great. So much better than the bottled stuff – fresh from the cask.

We sat outside in a windy beer garden to make the most of the view, and it suddenly occurred to me, as we munched on our grub, that the caravan was pint glassless.

I’d gone three days tasting local real ales out of a 100ml glass and kept forgetting to pick one up, and it was driving me barmy. So, I hatched a plan to acquire this one.

Several friends and acquaintances of mine had recently acquired possessions from pubs and restaurants in my company, including one distinctly-shaped Peroni pint glass, salt & pepper cellars and linen napkins from Jamie Oliver’s restaurant in Bath.

Now it was my turn.

And this wasn’t just any pint glass. It was a Black Sheep pint glass with distinctive livery – my favourite ale.

I hatched a plan.

When we all finished up, Ellen was to have a fake race to the hotel garden gate with Ben, while I put Ciaran’s stuff away in his nappy bag before quickly catching them up as a fellow competitor in this phony race.

Ellen ran, I slipped the pint glass into Ciaran’s bag and ran.

I lost the race. But I had the pint glass.

I then started getting paranoia attacks all the way back to the car park – a 1 mile walk away on the main road (pictured right) – that the landlady who served would notice the pint glass was missing and come in pursuit, easily spotting us on the pavement with our ridiculously-red pushchair screaming “We’re over here”.

Every car that went by caused me grave concern, and I’d even drafted an excuse in my head. I worry too much.

She didn’t come in pursuit and I’d got away with it. I was now on a par with all my wayward friends acquaintances who had acquired possessions not of their own, just for the hell of it.

I (finally) let Ellen do some driving on the holiday, and she drove us home via Robin Hood’s Bay.

What a day.

Easily my nicest trip in the UK – stunning Moor land, wonderful pint of the freshest real ale, and if Yorkshire could bottle its beauty and sell it – well, you finish that sentence.