Just as our resistance to plan and organise has led us into precarious situations many times before, our slow ramble up to Troller’s Gill turned into a steep four hour hike through jagged limestone gorge and deep into the old lead and mineral mines of North Yorkshire. I sometimes wonder if we make these 'blunders' accidentally-on-purpose, to lose ourselves in new places and call it a great adventure.
Like many of our camping trips, this one started on a whim, over oats on Saturday morning. Having last camped on a sub-zero Friday evening in February, we were eager to venture outside in warmer weather. It seemed natural to head for a place high on both our ‘to-see’ lists: Troller’s Gill. Hidden in the Wharfedale valley between Appletreewick and Percevall Hall, at the edge of the Yorkshire Dales, Troller’s Gill carves a deep ‘V’ between the village of Burnsall and the omnipotent peak of Simon’s Seat to the North East.
We left the city at midday, and entered the national park in a light drizzle. As we moved further and further away from Leeds and towards the hills, I watched the veneer of urban life peel away. Framed by the van window, the penchants of rural England arranged themselves before me; an abundance of country pubs, dressed at their thresholds with muddy walking boots, fronds of smoke curling from their chimneys and new lambs teetering on inexperienced limbs under the watchful eyes of ewes.
It took us a while to park as it always seems to, the Dales being mostly hills and our handbrake not very reliable. We then set to pondering our route, scanning backwards and forwards between our maps and the wooden signposts signalling a host of walking trails and towpaths, our waterproofs rustling with each confused turn of the head. We didn’t know it then, but our concentrated efforts would be of little use - possessing unfortunate navigational prowess, we lost our way soon after leaving Burnsall. Turning left from the local inn, we meandered through farmland dotted with new lambs and agricultural apparatus, leaning up the muddy banks every so often to allow passage of huge, spluttering tractors with hot, sour smelling tires.
A couple of hundred yards on, the road forked and we took the steep rocky staircase up the hillside, hoping to find a cut-through for the path to the ravine we’d traveled to see. Instead, we emerged at the heart of Perceval Hall’s grounds, a renowned historical gardens spanning 24 acres, and privy to spectacularly elevated views of the ravine and Troller’s Gill below, albeit on the wrong side of a barbed wire fence. In the summertime, many specimens of plant and flower bloom here, and visitors can pay to enjoy them. Luckily for us, the gardens are deserted in the low season, and we were able to haunt the wide terraces free of charge – a fortune I always make sure to enjoy whenever I can.
In stark contrast to the calm of the gardens, negotiating the wire cattle fence and making our way down the steep, crumbling hillside towards the opening of Troller’s Gill proved more dramatic. Poised like mountain goats, we made our way carefully down under the wary observation of some grazing sheep, digging our heels into the limestone deposits and recalling to one another the myths of trolls and mythical monsters said to have originated from these gullies.
Local legend tells of hostile, rock throwing troll’s along the route, and scarier still, a bloodthirsty black dog, able to turn unsuspecting walkers to stone with one demonic glance, and likely the inspiration for Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s The Hound of the Baskervilles. Looking to the entrance of the gorge, I paused to appreciate Nathan’s reassuring company in a place so isolated and steeped in dark folklore. I snapped a few pictures of sheep, my hands numbing in the cold and covered the last of the boggy ground between the gardens and the gill in a few bounding steps.
The gorge itself has two states: in fair weather you can pass through the wide opening at the fold of the valley and hike its length on a ‘path’ unrecognized by our OS map. After heavy rainfall, Skyreholme Beck flows from its entrance, rendering the gorge impassable, even by the standards of two reckless van campers. We enjoyed a steady compromise, trudging upwards through a light flow of water.
We navigated the slim break with difficulty, easing through the cleft by means of one careful step after another, and a hopeful smear of the hiking boot to test the danger of slipping on the green limestone boulders. Looking upwards, the ravine felt at once claustrophobic and wildly cavernous. Our echoed ‘woahs' rattled from the crooks where perhaps the trolls dwelled, ready to throw rocks at us from the vantage point of large, caved ledges. A little further in, we passed two soggy sport climbers, one hanging from a rope, shoulders hunched, appealing to his belay for ideas and the other gesturing vaguely up the length of rope. We passed quietly, feeling guilty to have intruded on their limestone sanctuary and continued our winding scramble.
Mindful of the fading daylight and nervous of being late for our friends, who we’d arranged to meet on the Bolton Abbey estate some 8 miles away, we made the decision to cut from the main gully and began a steep climb up one side of the ravine, pulling at the damp rocks and heaving our legs up behind us. Under a fading grey sky, we crawled, at times using our hands to grasp thick handfuls of moss and weed. Nathan climbed ahead, musing aloud on the recklessness and simultaneous ‘adventurousness’ of our current activity. Nervous glances exchanged, we both set our eyes on the middle distance, turning our attention away from the height we’d reached and the treacherous drop now below us.
We ‘summited’ panting, peeled our thermals from our damp skin and rejoiced for having lived to see another day. Giddy with accomplishment, we stood looking over the drop and out towards the valley below. 'It’s kind of Eerie isn’t it?' Nathan said as I poked at a small pile of bones by my feet, a rodent perhaps. At least, something with huge front teeth and a small, alabaster rib-cage, now half buried in the dirt. It was, eerie. The entrance to the old mine sat abandoned and rusting on the hillside and we pondered what it might have been like to walk through those hills to work each day before we set off down the hill to join the path back towards Burnsall to meet Faye and Archie.
There were two major obstacles facing our camping trip. First: we hadn’t booked a campsite. Being happy - maybe even preferring - to wild camp, this was the lesser of our problems. The bigger was that Archie and Faye didn’t have a tent and our van 'bed' only just fits Nathan and I, and that’s if Nathan lies at an angle. We ran a quick search of camping spots in the area, called a few dead phone lines and agreed to try one last spot before bedding down in a lay-by, where Archie and Faye would brave a night in Archie’s Fiesta.
We pulled into a local campground in the fading light of dusk, crawling past empty pitches and scanning the static caravans for signs of life. We quickly reached a clutter of farm buildings we guessed might be the main house and Faye and I exchanged furtive glances at the doorstep, silently communicating the uneasy feeling of trespass. Looking back to the boys for their sage counsel, it was decided with a couple of jerks of the head and some grimaces that the lay by would do nicely, and we retreated, stopping en route to re-hydrate (and keep warm) at a backwater country pub.
Nathan and I woke early the next morning and set ourselves to brewing coffee on the camping stove, taking it in turns to pull on our clothes in the 2×2 meter boot space. The dim textures of bracken and heather stretched as far as we could see in the bright morning light and we whispered our appreciation to one another, as though to speak any louder might shatter the illusion of a fresh day, yet untouched. Emerging from the boot of Archie’s car, Archie and Faye greeted us a sleepy ‘Good Morning’, arching their backs to stretch out the stiffness that inevitably sets in on a night in small car. We settled into the familiar rhythm of packing away our bedding, pulling our breakfast supplies from their containers and bartering our goods like members of some Neanderthal tribe: coffee for a camping mug, oat milk for a slice of banana loaf.
The first warm streams of sunlight seeped through the back window of the van as I sat, propped up against the bench, sipping at my mug of coffee. In the sleepy haze of morning, I brought the individual items of my tableau into focus: this camping mug, the fresh March air, the steady hoot of a woodland creature greeting the day; things in themselves, the world responding to the rhythms and calls of the natural environment. The little things are everything. They remind me that life is just that. Little thing upon little thing. If I were to collect these moments in a cardboard box and stash them away in the dusty attic of my mind, I would one day have shelves and shelves of pure appreciation for the moments like this in my life. An archive of the day to day chatter of camping spoons stirring coffee and oats tumbling from their plastic sacks.
Mornings are slow in the van. From our first restless stirrings to sliding shut the van doors and heading down the road to the crag, the sun had inched its way higher into the sky and the air was almost warm. As we sauntered up the trail to the rocks, I noted the unique feeling of beginning an adventure with friends, of heading out into the countryside with our pads and our snacks and our psyche.
There’s a special part of my heart reserved for these days. Getting lost in a maze of rocks and thistle, feeling the smallest of people in a sprawling mass of fields and trees and jagged peaks. Whole days spent exploring the woods and bouldering in the sunshine. It’s these moments spent feeling carefree and content that feel the most valuable to me. In-between thumbing our guidebooks and slapping the scrittle from our top outs with our t-shirts, if I sit back on my mat before pulling my shoes on and pause, my world seemingly stops spinning. The pressures of my inbox and work appraisals cease to exist. The experience of being simply a person, scrambling up boulders in nature feels timeless in the way that as long as these wild spaces exist, the experiences enjoyed in them will always retain their raw, refreshing power – to clarify ones outlook and cleanse ones soul.
It’s this which I love about this sport and the places it takes me. After a cold winter, to spend the day climbing among the budding flowers and the sounds of new life from the fields surrounding us felt to me the tipping point - the arrival of a new season and with it, a different energy and the anticipation of Spring adventures.
Comments