Yes! 'Gunner's-side' is characteristic, gaunt, grey, grim,
hard-featured, but a place of old time that grows upon one.
The grey walls, grey as the hill crags rising above them,
crest after crest, tier upon tier, with green-grey slopes
intervening, are set at every angle along the stream bank
and higher up on terraces, or let in as it were into the
upsweeping fell slopes. As yet the place
WILD BORDERLAND OF RICHMONDSHIRE
page 91
has escaped the hasty hand of the modern jerry-builder,
who would plant inartistic incongruous brick buildings on
the ruins of Pompeii or Babylon itself.
No! Gunnerside is as yet unaltered, unspoilt,
in the primitive beauty that is all its own. The beck bridge,
with the village grouped about it, is the hub or pivot of
the scene, the gossip ground where the dalesfolk gather
and linger makes a complete picture, and one full of light
when the sunshine is upon it, as full of awful warning and
threat when the skies are "of lead" with the hills,
and the north-wester winds its horn of wail or requiem,
or the ruder blasts of Boreas shoot sheets of hail across
it. The picture is eloquent too, if one of human kind is,
peradventure, in it: a shepherd home-driving his flock of
'yowes' through the street; or an old dalesman leaning heavily
on his stick against the wind, after four score years experience
of it, here, 'early and late,' as they say (though what
would be late for him would be early enough in the towns
of the busy plain) in "Owd Gang"; or, yet again,
a lad of sturdy youth astride a rough-coated galloway driving
cows to pasture, or a bowed-figure with a can of milk strapped
upon his shoulders. Such vignettes always give finish and
add the touch of human interest to the scenes
Here are two inns - the "Miners' Arms"
and the "King's Head," which should perhaps have
been mentioned first, as it is long established, and quite
a noted 'house of call' by reason of the kind-hearted landlady,
Mrs. Shaw, who is an excellent hostess and caterer. Apart
from the licensed premises she has other accommodation at
Troutbeck House. Many notable people have stayed at the
"King's Head," and Mrs. Shaw is one of the characters
in Beatrice Harraden's story of The Fowler. In by-gone
times at the east end of the bridge a chain barred the way
between Lodge green on the east of the stream, and Gunnerside
on
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the west. The local version has it, that from
the fact of sportsmen passing over it of necessity, with
their guns, on to the 'side' where the deer roamed, the
name of Gunner's-side came into use: the north of Swale
west of the village being the side of the gunners. This
bit of etymology may be taken for what it is worth
George Reynoldson,
one of the "Old Gang" Miners
[Ernest Forbes |
Among the 'originals' who now live only in
the memories of the old, is Awd Deborah Metcalf, and Awd
Helkanah the coal dealer, who kept donkeys (pack-beasts)
to carry coal from Tan
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RICHMONDSHIRE page 93
Hill to the dale villages; and whose custom
it was to blow a mighty blast on his horn to apprise the
far-apart farm-folk and 'gaarders' (gaard is still
Norse for a farm dwelling) of the villages of his approach.
Another interesting 'old habitant' is George Reynoldson,
now in his 83rd year, who began work at the age of ten as
a miner at "T'awd Gang" mine, wherein he toiled
for 63 years. George was summoned to London as a witness
in regard to certain Shooting Rights - an action between
the Lord of the Manor and the Broderick family, yeomen of
Spring End and Summer Lodge. If we remember rightly, the
trial ended in favour of the Lord of the Manor, although
the Brad-rykes (Brodericks) lineage in the dale dated from,
if not before, the Conquest. Another ancient witness was
Jimmy Calvert, whose age was 90 years. To some question
put by the judge to Reynoldson, anent shooting, he is said
to have answered, "Yer honour, it isn't shutting noo-a-days,
its on'y modder (murder)! When ah wer a lad, gentlemen used
to shut ower points (pointer-dogs) - that's wat a' call
spoort. Nooa-days, t'gents hire men to draave birds tit
guns, which is nowt at all but modder." George clearly
proved a tough nut for the London barristers to crack- "no
gowk, but real Swaddle." During his cross-examination
he replied, hand to ear, "A's varry deaf - ye mun speak
up - ah ave already said all at ah noo t' t'other side,
an' ye heeard it all, an' a've nowt else to tell ye."
To the writer's question, "And what did you think of
London?" he made answer, "Ah reckon nowt at all
aboot Lunnon - they're onny pup-heeads there; it's a faane
place eneaf, bud theer's sadly too mich sparkling abaat.
Kristle Pallace is a faane place, an' might dea (do) well
eneaf. There was lots a portraits of kings and queens"
which seems to have pleased the old fellow mightily; but
"the finest place on earth" to George's thinking
is Melbecks Moor and T'owd Gang Mines!
WILD BORDERLAND OF
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Yet another figure of pathetic interest was
that of Sarah (the Angel of the Inn), whose mental vision,
sad to say, had become wholly impaired. A pitiful sight,
indeed, giving pause to all levity from the forceful way
in which it pointed the human and
The Angel of Gunnerside [Ernest Forbes |
divine connexion linking body to soul. The
beauteous habitation was there without its holy tenant.
Her wondrously striking "raven's-wing" locks,
her glossy and long black hair, her darkly liquid almost
luminous eyes, without the vital spark of understanding,
contrasted with a face whose skin was of ivory delicacy,
WILD BORDERLAND OF
RICHMONDSHIRE page 95
made up a picture of sweet, too sweet, docility
over which one might fancy a fairy angel typifying Womanhood
weeping, since naught but an infinite pity might be felt
for the fair blighted bud. On our first visit - and indeed
at subsequent ones - we were strangely impressed by that
"vacant chair" of feminity. It was night when
we entered the old inn, where the huge banked-up fire allowed
deep Rembrandtish shadows to be cast by intervening furniture,
and we were barely seated before our attention was rivetted
by poor Sarah sitting idly, hands on lap, in meekest pose.
She appeared to live in a beautiful spiritual world of which
we common mortals could have no conception. Then, suddenly,
yet without violence, she would seem to arouse herself from
reverie, and commence weaving with her hands and a graceful
curve of arms a skein of wondrous imaginary threads: such
a pose and play in dumb show as not even the greatest of
actors could emulate, such delicacy and grace of movement
was there! The ethereal loveliness of the poor girl's face,
her shining lights of eyes that yet shot forth no message
beam; her intricate waving of hands, has not even yet been
erased from the writer's memory, though difficult to convey
in words. But our attention was suddenly taken from her
wonderful shadow play of the invisible skein, and brought
back to the work-a-day world by the kind voice of Esther,
good woman, conveying the welcome intelligence that our
"Supper was laid in the parlour" awaiting that
justice being done to it which is the best compliment to
pay a good meal.
GUNNERSIDE TO KELD.
GUNNERSIDE GILL is an interesting feature
of this rock-bound village. We are looking from the bridge
on this bright spring morning, listening to the warble of
the peat-dyed water laving the rocks and uttering its untutored
chant of unfettered existence. On the west bank of the beck
is the far-spreading green side,
WILD BORDERLAND OF
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where children dot the sunlit slope in parti-coloured
skirts a-scamper with a like unfettered joy of young life.
On the east bank, just up the grey walls and moss-tinted
flag roofs, end to side and in divers lines; here and there
a human figure to enhance the life of the picture. Further
up the zig-zagged ravine we note the broad channel of the
beck strewn with water-worn boulders, telling its tale of
tempestuous chutes in seasons of storm; even
A Noted Cobbler [Ernest Forbes |
now the beck brawls and frets in chains of
grooves and runnels of diverse widths. The gillsides are
steep and a glorious golden green in the sunlight-bushes
shew as purple patches, hollies glisten darkly, the lambs'
tails of the hazel hang from their twigs a pale glistening
gold, the 'palms' of the saugh bushes too, gleam yellowly,
and the stems of the whitethorn are crusted with silvery
grey lichens. There is infinite variety in colour form and
details throughout the enamelled rocks and the grey screes
laid about in
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picturesque confusion: ruin-like yet beautiful.
The yellow stars of the coltsfoot show among the heather,
and the old-gold or rusty brown of last year's bracken;
a multitudinous point of colour prick out the outlines of
everything, alive or dead; whilst the air is ever full of
the croon of water, the babble of infant life, the stressed
chant of maturer existence. It leaves its impress on the
mind, to return after many days, when the season is changed
and the eyes that saw it are afar off in other scenes. Small
wonder that the dalesfolk grow up loving their fastness,
and think none else is like it.
We leave Gunnerside by the ancient track, north bank of
the river, which leads us over the 'stray' to Muker. In
this walk we traverse a perfect moorland Arcady, panoramic
views all the way, unfolding and closing to reveal yet another
scene of beauty at each furlong of our progress. The striking
note is the magnificent upward sweep of the side, the ridgeline
sharply defined against the sky, now and again a group of
kine grazing or resting on the short sweet turf make pleasant
vignettes of ease and contentment, giving a sympathetic
touch of feeling to the broad sweep of upland. The twisting
unfenced fell road is besprint with golden flower stars,
crowfoot or ragwort, according to the time of year; and
strings of geese, with a long-necked sentinel gander, make
the air vocal with their not unpleasing gabble about the
laithes and velvety wayside terraced garths; with the figure
of a dalesman or a dalesgirl drawing water from the wayside
well adjoining the homestead 'cote.' Such are the gleanings
of memory, from more visits than one.
Looking south across the narrowing sinuous valley, we note
the finely varied configuration of the bills beyond the
Swale. Eastward, down the windings of the river, we see
Gunnerside, in the middle distance, bathed in sunshine a
burnished grey, the while a rain storm is being driven over
the far-away hills, a mysterious witch-like sky warning.
Deep below are the dull grey
WILD BORDERLAND OF
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walls and roofs of an apparently ruined hamlet,
Satron unique in its place-name, whether connected with
Saturn or Sœta, it has an aspect of the drear and deserted
more than all the villages of this Swale-land.
But during our musings we have reached Ivelet-gill,
a beck that comes foaming, leaping and flashing down from
the moors above in many a cascade of no great size but witching
beauty - a live thing even where only a tinkling trickle-down
to Yew-scar falls, whence it threads its way beneath overhanging
thickets till near Ivelet, when rounding the shoulder of
the hill it fairly flings itself in three leaps over steps
of limestone rock upwards of one hundred feet down into
the valley: a cooling sight to the eye upon a warm summer's
day. The prospects from this north bank of upper Swaledale,
from Ivelet to Muker, are both varied and satisfying. A
high saddle-bridge near Ivelet bestrides the main stream.
Oxenhope or Oxnop gill is of some size, it forks, and in
its intricate clothing of tree and bush appears ideally
picturesque. About it, the moors are scored with lighter
brown lines, the bridle paths leading over to Askrigg, Grange
Gill, Shaw Cote and Sedbusk, and many another group of cots
and farmsteads in Wensleydale.
Three farms on the south side of the Swale
opposite Muker, go by the singular name of Rash - in other
parts of the country the term Rash connotes a young wood
or new plantation. At one of these steadings dwelt a family
named Alderson, the mother there living to a good old age:
in fact her two sons had passed middle age themselves, and
neither had married. When the mother died, in course of
years the bachelor couple found themselves in somewhat of
a dilemma as regards the domestic drudgery that usually
falls to the female on a farm. The younger said to the elder,
"John, thoo mun wed" - the retort being, "Nay,
nay, thoo mun wed!" This shuttlecock sort of
argument was kept up for some considerable time, but at
length John the elder gave way, remark-
WILD BORDERLAND OF
RICHMONDSHIRE page 99
ing, "Ày, if ivver there wor an
awkerd job, I allus get it," and so took upon his shoulders
the burden of that contract the term of which is comprised
in "till death do us part."
Muker from the East [Ernest Forbes |
But yonder west, right ahead, lies Muker,
deep set in the pastureland of the dale. We cross the river
by a foot-bridge opposite the south-east end of the great
table-tomb-like hill of Kisdon, following a flagged footway
through the mowing land of the 'car' over which Swale, and
perhaps also its tributary flowing down from Thwaite, has
washed in bygone ages until it had deposited the alluvial
bed of rich mixed soil which to-day is a fine bay of meadow
land, the summer hay and winter fodder of which
WILD BORDERLAND OF
RICHMONDSHIRE page 100
is as valuable to the present farmers as it
was to the pioneers who were not slow to see the natural
advantages of it for a settlement. It is probable, too,
that this grand stretch of strath and car gave their settlement
its appropriate name, i.e., Meu-Car, the Mowing Car
(Mew, to mow, and Car, a marshy flat of fat
land). Muker is, or was, a small market town as well as
a flourishing mining centre; but when lead became not worth
the delving for, the mining population moved away, and so
the place dwindled until to-day its irregular groups of
dilapidated houses even, with its three inns, wears a rather
depressing and forlorn appearance. One can hardly imagine
any place more dismal and devoid of comfort than Muker in
rainy weather. Yet a short stay here soon dissipates the
first unfavourable impression, and smiling faces and kind,
hearts will become as apparent in "sombre Muker"
as in other places. Then one can see with half an eye how
the sober grey of the old place harmonises with the encircling
hills, and how impressively vast and grand - as if it were
some Pyramid - the huge bulk of Kisdon becomes. It might
indeed be the funeral mound of some Titanic Cyclops. The
best view of the town is to be obtained from the east, either
from the Gunnerside road or the moor track over Oxnop as
approached from Askrigg. The winding down road glistened
in the foreground wet with sleet (on our last visit), and
thence curving up over the antique high-backed bridge, the
church appears imposing and even artistic. A nearer view
dispels this idea, tho' it stands on a commanding site overlooking
the beck valley, and about it the clustering grey old-world
primitive townlet - one may not write village - perhaps
the most compact huddle of dwellings in the dale: a motley
conglomeration in stone of walls and roofs, set higgledy-piggledy
yet in complete accord with the laws of picturesqueness.
A certain writer bemoans a lack of power of
musical expression and feeling in the dalesfolk of this
and other adjacent places.
WILD BORDERLAND OF
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Experience of "German bands" or
their like in places abroad must have spoilt the ear of
this traveller; we, at any rate, cannot honestly concur
in his opinion. Every village from Reeth to Keld has its
"band," the fame of whose attainments has spread
far beyond the dales, though, we believe, there are those
who detect nothing soul stirring in the skirl of the bagpipes.
Apart from this, however, here before us is a most antiquated
and primitive structure (of which we give a sketch), and
over its lintel writ in large and ancient characters, so
that even he who runs may read, the magical words "BAND
ROOM," probably the smallest and most primitive Hall
of Harmony in the kingdom.
[Band Room - Ernest Forbes |
As bearing on the notorious love of "Swardal"
folk for their home fastnesses Richard Kearton in his fine
book, "With Nature and a Camera" (page 49), tells
how be knew a little girl living high up Swaledale who was
compelled to accompany her parents and reside in a Lancashire
spinning town. One day some of her relations sent a round
of fresh butter to them wrapped up in the cool-keeping leaves
of the common Dock, whose large foliage tufts grow in plenty
by the stony road and beck-sides from Thwaite to Reeth.
"The little girl's heart," he writes, "remained
so true to the land of her birth, that she seized one of
these (leaves) and cried, 'let me kiss it, mother; it has
come from dear old Meucar.'"
WILD BORDERLAND OF
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Muker formed a part of the old far-reaching
parish of Grinton, and until the 16th century the dead from
the upper Swale districts had to be conveyed to and buried
at the mother church. The Chapel of Ease here was built
and dedicated to St. Mary, in 1580; although from frescoes
discovered under many a coat of whitewash there appears
to have been an earlier place of worship than the one built
in 1580. In confirmation of this, there is mention at this
place of one Alexander Metcalf, 'chaplain,' in 1500. At
the west end of the church is a memorial tablet with an
inscription - "To the Glory of God and in Memory of
Sistine Washington and Margaret Metcalf, this Church was
restored by their son, 1898." The interior is severely
plain, and it is, perhaps, the most uninteresting fane in
all Richmondshire. The God's-acre contains numerous memorials
of Metcalfs, Calverts, Aldersons and Peacocks. The following
record has its value as shedding light on the early history
of the district, proving as well the extended lineage of
most of the family names, whose successors still bear them
and live in Muker and round about. It also proves how strenuously
the dalesmen of four hundred years ago stood up for the
right of 'free Chase':-
"In the year 1500 Sir Ralph Bygod, Knt.,
Lord of Swaledale forest, claimed against Galfred Metcalf
of Mewcre, yeoman; Alexander Metcalf of Mewcre, chaplain;
Ralph Milner of Mewcre, yeoman; John Bradryke of Mewcre;
Richard, George and John Alderson of Keld, yeomen; Thomas
Mawer of Thwayt, yeoman; Christopher Metcalf of Gunnersett,
yeoman; Simon Huchensen of Satorne, yeoman; John Wherton
of Cawnerd House, and James Milner of the same place, yeomen;
for forcibly entering his free chase at Mewcre, Keld, Thwayt
and Gunnersett, without his leave or license; hunting therein,
and taking many beasts of chase which they bore away, besides
committing other enormities."
WILD BORDERLAND OF
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Truly this record shews that the 'forest laws'
were not strictly observed among the yeomen of the upper
Swale; and amongst the offenders is a parson and a Metcalf
to boot
Muker by Moonlight [Owen
Bowen |
Strange to say, every name cited in the above
charge by the Bigod Knight is among the most numerous in
the dale to-day - all save one, that of Mawer of Thwaite.
But where are the great lords, the Bigods and Whartons?
Scattered about east and west, here and there - but not
one single descendent of their house and name remains in
the dale proper! On the other hand, the Metcalfes, Aldersons,
Harkers and Hutchinsons are represented by fifty families
at least.
In the nearer 'old days,' that is to say, sixty years or
so back, very few of the dalespeople got beyond Richmond,
Reeth, Hawes or
WILD BORDERLAND OF RICHMONDSHIRE
page 104
Kirkby Stephen throughout their lives. The
writer was told by an elderly dalesman that during the long
winter evenings they visited each other's houses, and,-
knitted by candle or rush-light. The younger ones would
likewise gather in groups about the ingle; and there would
be singing, the women keeping time with their needles, but
- as our informant put it - the songs were chiefly of the
'dowly' class, all about lasses pining away through unrequited
affection, or over a swain who went "to the war,"
and (of course) never returned; or, peradventure,
of women-folk killing their own little Barnies :-
"She made a grave both long and deep,
An' put them babbies in to sleep;
She rubbed the penknife on the grass,
But more she rubbed, bloodier it was -
Down by yon' greenwood side in Yore."
The stories were mostly of ghosts and fairies,
giants, warlocks, etc., until - as the dalesman put it -"
we used to get so freetened, 'at we durstn't leuk behint
us when we went hoam o' dark neets, an' if anyone by chancy
knockt sharply on t'door, we were nearly flayed oot o' oor
wits."
Judging from the stature of the present representatives
of the old dales' families, there is no sign of racial degeneracy.
For example, there is Christopher Metcalf, or "Gurt
Kit" - because there are, or were, several lesser Kits
- or Christopher Kit (as he is sometimes called), who is
a worthy specimen of the clan. His father was known as "Kaister
John Kit," an original character, apt with quaint sayings
and a prodigal with snuff. Many of the older dalesmen have
an alias or nickname, descriptive or satirical; such as
"Matty Joan Ned"; "Cher Dode" is George
Kearton, uncle of the now famous Kearton Brothers, whose
pen and photo-lens have brought Wild Life on to our room
tables through their natural history books; while "Neddy
Dick" is Richard Alderson, the musical genius of Keld,
and Thomas Metcalf is called "Dicky
WILD BORDERLAND OF
RICHMONDSHIRE page 105
Tommy"; and last but not least of a character,
the old farmer moor-man living in the lonesome 'gaard' near
Shunner fell's northern buttress, is known as "Moor
Close Jamie."
There are three inns in Muker, none too many
when the mining was a boom, but as Professor Phillips remarked
in 1854, "one proper inn" would be preferable
and quite sufficient to-day. Up-dale, a publican has other
occupations; at Thwaite he is a blacksmith as well as a
boniface, or he is a farmer, a mason, or a wheelwright.
Good private lodgings, however, are to be had in Muker.
A little west, where the Keld-Thwaite and
Cliff gill Buttertubs' becks meet, is a large bank of drift,
shingle and sand, and upon it, backed by stately foxgloves,
is a magnificent bed of the orange Monkey-flower (Mimulus
Langsdorffii of Donn). Its history here, as an 'Alien'
much more recent than the pioneer Norsemen, is singular
enough. Its seeds, and the roots of it, which take hold
of the soil at every point, were washed out of the cottage
gardens at Thwaite, a mile higher up, Nature transplanted
it here, through a great waterspout and storm-flood a few
years ago. Its gaping soft orange-throated flowers, inch
across, in mass made a glorious splotch of colour in the
bed of the beck at this 'meeting of the waters,' contrasting
finely with the green leaves of the aquatic water-loving
sour-dock, eaten of children under the name of 'green-sauce,'
and even given to cows to keep them quiet whilst being milked.
A little west, on the left, another beck goes
leaping and flashing athwart the highway road. It has its
rise in lonely and barren Cliff gill at the foot of 'Lunersett'
or Lovely Seat, running between that mountain mass and the
still huger buttressed fell of Great Shunner. Many lovely
and cool pictures its mossed banks show, wherein wild-flowers
bud and bloom unseen of all but the blue
WILD BORDERLAND OF
RICHMONDSHIRE page 106
eye of some dalegirl, or some boy a-hunt for
wild birds' eggs. Laughing waterfalls entertain rainbows
of their own when the sun shines through the spray, and
such glimpses of natural faerie land tempt one to linger
on a warm summer's day, and lave hands and forehead in delightfully
crystal cool "water of life." >Chapter
V continued
