Yorkshire Day Out

A friend of ours, Terry, decided he wanted to do a race in a small village in North Yorkshire and invited us along.  I hadn't been in top form for the last couple of weeks and so wasn't fit to do even a short race (especially not one as hilly as that), but thought it would be a good day out.  

 
There were several races planned for the day, for varying age groups, but Bill and Terry were only going to do one.  My first job was to see them off at the start. 

Terry had recommended I should go see the 14th century village 

church where they had a list of men who died at Culloden. 

You always hear about the losses of the Scots - who lost the battle - more than Englishmen who died.  

I was surprised to find that the church inside looked almost identical to the one Jane and I had seen in Kettlewell a couple of years ago.  

 

Given that Kettlewell is very close, Bill surmised that a single architect will have been responsible for building Anglican churches.  

 

Even though the site of the church has remnants going back several centuries, the main part of the building is in fact 19th century.

Having duly visited the church, I went back to the village fete (pronounced FATE; I say that as I was never sure, having never attended one until I came to England; for all that, it's a French word.) 

 

I found table upon table of books and magazines.  I've been really good of late, but couldn't resist the Country Living magazines.   

I was proud of myself at bargaining them down from 50p each to 3 for a quid.  

 

Mind, I probably could have had the whole lot for a couple of pounds, but I didn't want to carry them around while I waited for the guys.   

Everyone and their dog, literally, seemed to be out on the village green.  I thought these pooches were so lovely I approached the lady to ask about them.  The beige dog is an Italian Spinone (I didn't catch the name properly and thought about spaghetti or a musical instrument); 

the charcoal coloured dog is a Bouvier (I restrained myself from asking if it was named Jackie).

Terry and Bill both came in about the same time and we went back to the car so they could change out of sweaty clothes.  Don't ask me how this happens, changing clothes in a field in broad daylight; it's just one of those things runners learn to do.  I never gave it a thought until writing it here. 

Then we got hotdogs from the stand that had been throwing delicious scents at me ever since we arrived.  Then to the pub so they could have a pint.  

The pub turned out to be one of the last in the country that serves ale in jugs.  The guy behind the bar stooped down to draw the requested beers out of the kegs into a jug and then into the pint glasses.  I had a plain tonic as I figured I'd be driving home, but we ended up staying several more hours to watch the fell races and all so the pint didn't matter after all.

At some point I pushed the wrong button on my camera and either the shutter speed or the aperature setting are demanding to be set.  Will have to look up how to set them and what to set them to.  Anyhow, we stayed to watch the fell race, run in two age groups and by a subset of the people who had run the previous race.  

 

The term 'fell' is one I only met after coming here.  It's not because when you've done the race you fell down a lot, though that is generally speaking the case with me.  It was amazing to watch these people run straight up and straight down this horrendous cliff.  It must be genetic, as they included mere kids and old gadgies alike.  

 

Just watching wore me out, so I was glad to get into the car and tackle my magazines and my knitting project on the way home.

Funny enough, Vivien and I had planned another day out, to Corbridge, and in one of the magazines there was an article about two former fashion industry types from London who had moved to Slaley and opened an eclectic shop in Corbridge.  

I was meant to buy those magazines, obviously.