I’m not saying I’m cheap, but I think it was the £3 bus fare that clinched it for me.
£3 from Leeds, all the way to the North York Moors! Cracking or what?
I could pack up my camping gear and be there by…...by……
Okay…..this part wasn’t so appealing.
The 840 Coastliner bus route calls itself ‘the most scenic route in Britain’.
A claim that, should you only stay on ’til Seacroft, you could well take issue with.
Until we get going with the rolling hills and chocolate box villages, I am kept entertained by means of that much underrated pastime, people watching.
‘Danny’, mid thirties, bit of a ruffian, is telling his beloved between swigs of canned cider, that he plans to tattoo his receding hair line.
“Look! See all that on his head? Like hair? It’s tattoos!”
He declares, impressed. He waves a smartphone beneath her eyes and points enthusiastically.
“But I’d want it wavy looking……..so it’s more natural”
“Yeah”
She approves.
At this point, a woman who seems to know them gets on, all blonde, brash n boom with tits that would surely make for a comedy remake of ‘Do your ears hang low?’.
(Yes, new readers, I can be cruel)
“Oh my god! Is that Danneh?”
She calls to the girlfriend, who nods.
“So he’s OUT! Bet you’re so glad he’s OUT now, aren’t yer? Cause yer were writing to him, weren’t yer?”
Out for the day?
Out of hospital?
Or out of……
Hm…..
I know which my money was on.
After a leisurely drive through heath and leaf, followed by a short refuelling stop in Thornton le Dale (and the most disgusting scone I’ve ever half eaten in my life), it was finally time for my hike.
I don’t use AI for writing but see nothing wrong with having it assist me with route planning and had done on this occasion. My experience so far, is that you have to treat it like an overly confident, hugely encouraging yet scatter brained PA. It will swear blind there’s a 10pm bus connection by a desolate turning circle, before you say doubtfully “you do know it will be Sunday, right? Sunday timetables?” At which point it concedes “oh yes, you’re quite right!”.
Back to the adventure.
This time around, being my second trip, I feel relieved of having popped my wild camper cherry. I put on my pack, shuffling my shoulder straps with a playful ‘this ain’t my first rodeo’ glint in my eye. I am no longer clipping the waist buckle à la the ‘Boy Toy’ belt on the ‘Like a Virgin’ album cover with its flirty mixed messages, but experienced outdoors whore.
It’s a delightful hike across to the pitch, given that the bus has covered much of the elevation. Panic inducing signs about wild fires give way to an abundance of bilberries and purple heather. Sadly, some of the moor is an odd, sickly shade I can only describe as ‘Mr Funny of the Mr Men.’
There are highland cattle so caramel, plump and shaggy, they look as though they belong on the front of a visitor centre tea towel. Sheep are everywhere and speckled brown birds emerge briefly from ferns to noisily fuss and flap.
Finally, I see my chosen pitch in the distance, the perfect spot by the ruins that overlook the valley and steam railway.
But wait!
What’s that?
WHO’S that?
Another hiker?
Damn! He’s going to take my spot!
I get a bit of a stride on to an inner soundtrack of the theme from ‘Chariots of Fire’.
As I reach him, it’s as though he’s read my mind.
“Don’t worry…..I’m not staying if you wanted to pitch here”
He says reassuringly. Phew! No duel at sundown after all. He’s maybe in his thirties, tanned and good looking with dark hair, wearing shorts.
“I’ve found somewhere already that I’m going. This is my first time doing this”
He adds
“And I think I’ve taken too much!”
I grin and recount my first experience last month.
“I’ve probably taken too much water”
I say.
“But better too much than too little, I reckon, given the weather.”
Just below the ruins, is a ledge by a massive drop with views down on to the railway and woods.
“Was thinking of here.”
I tell him as I survey the site.
“Hm…….steep drop that, just don’t be getting out of bed in the night…… or sleepwalking!”
I’m very much from the ‘fuck it’ school of thought when it comes to risk, so proceed to pitch it anyway.
“Do you follow Paul?”
He asks.
I shake my head.
“On TikTok and Insta? The camping guy?”
“No, sorry”
“I bet you’re a member of the solo group though? On Facebook?”
“No”
“And you must know about Jay, everyone knows Jay? On YouTube?”
Within minutes he’s rattled off a multitude of accounts and groups before finally wrapping up with;
“Yes, well I’m not really one for social media myself ….…..don’t know why I’m still on it.”
Which makes me chuckle.
Second time around, pitching the tent is a doddle, I don’t even have to read my notes
Once it’s up, however, my eyes catch sight of a small memorial plaque which I am morbidly drawn to read. It’s dedicated to a woman only a year younger than me, who died in 2024. The plaque is right next to my tent.
Shit.
SHIT!
Does that mean she died here at this spot - or did she merely like spending time admiring the view, so her family had placed the plaque there?
Hm…….
I fight the urge to Google her name as the metal glints teasingly in the sunlight. For a moment I contemplate moving, but figure that as the plaque says nice things, her spirit must be an auspicious energy to have around.
Tent up, I stand back feeling quite smug with the little piece of paradise I’ve secured for the night. Until…..(watch to the end).
Yes, nervous laugh before falling arse over tit. Serves me right for trying to film it.
A close call, but I’ll be fucked if I’m taking it down and setting it up again. I’m staying put.
I settle in and lay out my gear, position my sleeping mat and bag, ensuring I have everything at hand ready to cosy up to watch the sunset a little later.
I enjoy the sound of the steam trains stretching up from the valley floor, the eeriness reminds me of a Famous Five book I once read about when the children think there’s a ghost train and end up finding a mysterious underground railway.
Wait a minute……what’s THAT sound though?
That other sound.
Like tiny beads tapping.
Rain?
Surely not. The forecast hasn’t mentioned it and then…..
Omg!
I look up and notice dozens of ants falling down upon my tent. Black flying ants, swarming, raining down upon the taut fabric. I zip the fly sheet quickly, determined none of the little buggers will get in. The noise gets louder and my mind spirals to biblical plagues of frogs and locusts.
What do I do?
I figure that once it’s dark they will go away.
This brings the next dilemma.
Do I nip out for a wild wee at this point before bed……..or wait it out?
Cons of going now - might get targeted by loads of flying ants.
Cons of going later when it’s dark - might accidentally fall off a ledge and die.
I guess it’s now then.
I scold myself for wearing a white top and brace my body to be set upon like a gargantuan sugar lump of an ant’s wildest dreams. Luckily, they seem to be more drawn to the tent than me and I manage to take a piss without them taking the piss.
I’d had plans to watch the sunset before trying some ambitious astro photography, but upon my return, decide it wiser to watch the day fade through the safety of the tent mesh. I guess this must be how prisoners feel, watching each dusk taper off through the bars of their cell. Earplugs in and eye mask on, after some thinking time, I get myself off to sleep.
Next morning I rise bright and early for the daybreak, ready for a coffee. Do I make one? Well, I’ve never been one for Big Brother but will say (*hastily consults OJ’s lawyers) that if I had have lit my extremely tiny stove, I would certainly have placed it on a stone and watched the thing like a hawk. No, like Kes, actually, ’cause he’s more Yorkshire.
As I taste the new day, it seems to crumble like cinder toffee, a delicious amber riddle unfolding before me. From a distance, the animals move as one great blur, opaque scarves of brown cow and white sheep, weaving their way across the patchwork shoulders of a green giant.
I smile down one last time at the memorial plaque, think about the woman who died and how loved she was.
I pack up my belongings, making sure to leave no trace.
Apart from, perhaps, one tiny piece of my grateful heart.
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