I sat at the back of the ruined nave of Fountains Abbey and tried to imagine the place as it must have been 800 years ago, before Henry VIII, in a monarchical fit of religiosity, destroyed it and scattered its monks, as he did over most of England. The massive arches at the side stretched (I’m guessing) about 100 yards toward the chancel gable wall, now a spindly arch of stone against the sky above an empty opening that must have held a huge stained-glass window. The nave, once paved with stone, is now a perfect green lawn. Far away, a couple of people poked about the space that once held the altar, and now and then a leashed dog or two led an owner across the distant scene.
Pigeons flew across and perched on top of the walls. Smaller birds flitted back and forth on nervous little errands. It was all very peaceful. The rest of my tour group were off on exploration walks with guides and docents, and I had at least an hour to enjoy the rare Yorkshire sunshine. The single slat across the back of the wooden bench where I say chewed into several vertebrae, but by turning this way or that I could ease the pain enough to allow my mind to wander. How much more painful it must have been for worshippers in the Middle Ages to stand or kneel on the stone floor during long services and sermons in a language that few, if any, understood.
About 45 of us are here on an eight-day tour of the Yorkshire Dales, sponsored by New Hampshire Public Broadcasting. Almost all of us have watched the Public Broadcasting System show “All Creatures Great and Small,” its title taken from a perpetually best-selling book of the same name, its name taken in turn from a popular 19th-century children’s hymn, “All Things Bright and Beautiful.” We’ve always sung that hymn in our church on a Sunday designated Children’s Sunday.
The author of the book, Alf Wight, was a local veterinarian who wrote under the pen name James Herriot. His gentle humor, combined with a compassion for his patients — his favorites were dogs, followed by cats — and an amused appreciation of unique Yorkshire character and characters, make reading the book or watching the television show a decidedly warm, fuzzy experience. This, along with the rural beauty of the Dales, probably explains the unusual size of our group.
We’re staying in the grande dame of hotels in the town of Harrogate (rhymes with Farragut), once popular for its mineral springs, believed to possess healing properties.
The wealthy, and even the royals, sojourned here, which accounts for its restaurants, beautiful gardens and elegant period architecture. We take daily bus trips with a local guide and a genial young driver named Harry, who can somehow, and with complete aplomb, squeeze a 10-foot-wide bus through a nine-foot opening.
The Dales are magnificent, with long, rolling vistas, winding roads, mile after mile of neat stone walls, and occasional castles. Little rivers trace the bottoms of the dales, with brown trout and grayling in them. We’ve clambered through rough medieval castles, wondering at both the stone-walled, dark living inside and the threats outside that made them necessary. We often forget the troglodytic living conditions before even the advent of whale oil lamps. I’ve looked in vain for a wooden house. Everything is built of gray limestone.
The main delight of the trip, for me, at least, has been the people. I’ve never experienced such a friendly atmosphere. Folks stop and talk at the slightest provocation. The accent is, for me at least, inimitable, droll, and occasionally unintelligible. We’re also here at the end of summer, the time for festivals and fairs.
We got a chance to visit the 1940s-themed street fair in Grassington, a cobblestoned village on a hill where over half the people were turned out in clothes — frocks, painted-on nylon stockings with seams done in Sharpie, vests, and World War II American uniforms (available at a tent sale at the top of the main street). I chatted genially with a major and his floral-hatted wife at the next table in a tiny hole-in-the-wall pub with a few tables out front. A series of musical acts filled the air at a wide spot, As we walked past the second time, some intrepid dancers were trying to polka on the cobblestones. And dogs! They were everywhere. Mostly small — spaniels, Jack Russells, whippets — well-behaved, and welcome almost everywhere. Bea found me a bag of dog treats so I could return the friendliness of the Dales.
