THERE was a loose plan fluttering about this morning like a threadbare flag above a roadside burger bar. But the wind changed and the plan got blown across fields and was last seen snagged on a fence alongside a ragged length of black plastic silage bag and other rural detritus. It wasn???t much of a plan anyway . . .
The plan was quite simple: drive to Britain???s highest pub, the Tan Hill Inn; leave my wife in the van with a good book and a hot kettle; wander off across miles of Pennine moorland with the sun on my back; then dine and drink in the Tan Hill before repairing to the van for a night beneath the stars.
All has gone well up to the wandering across the miles of moorland bit. Within two-hundred metres of leaving the van I???ve stumbled across an abandoned transmitter station and taken lots of pictures ??? thinking I???m recording the industrial archaeology of the future. And who???s to say I???m not?
It was a rubbishy plan anyway. All I did was glance at a map and decide to head towards various dips and rises in the landscape, doing a circuit via Great Punchard Head, Water Crag, the interestingly named Wham Bottom (must be a George Michael joke in there somewhere), Rogan???s Seat and Long Rigg.
This might look like a band of grass in the heather but it???s actually an old colliery roadway. Old roads like this are not uncommon in the area
The Tan Hill stands at an elevation of 1,732ft (528m), making it Britain???s highest pub. It dates from the 17th Century and was built as a barracks, or hostel, for colliery workers. Although its official address is North Yorkshire, three counties converge just outside the back door ??? North Yorkshire, Cumbria and Durham.
With the local government boundary reorganisations of 1974, the pub found itself in County Durham, but after noisy protests the authorities moved it back into North Yorkshire. Sounds like a load of fuss over nothing, but there you go. Yorkshire folk always know best, apparently.
So long as there???s rain in the clouds and wind on the moors, the Tan Hill will be associated with radio and television personality Ted Moult, who, in an iconic 1980s TV advert, famously scattered feathers inside the pub windows during a howling gale to prove the effectiveness of Everest double glazing. Besides being credited with inventing the pick-your-own-strawberries concept at his Derbyshire farm, it was his finest hour.
Moult committed suicide in 1986. It is said that on stormy nights, when the wind rattles the slates of the Tan Hill Inn, a ghostly feather can be seen drifting past the windows. It???s true.
These conical depressions are quite common on the moor. They are collapsed colliery shafts. The shafts were quite narrow ??? about five feet (1.5m) in diameter. But without regular maintenance they just collapsed in on themselves, the result being the surrounding ground disappearing egg-timer fashion. Not a good place to be standing at the wrong time
Old boundary stone
So I???ve suddenly found myself among the remains of Tan Hill???s impoverished coalmining industry. I say ???impoverished??? because these pits were nothing more than shallow scratches a few fathoms deep, troubled with bog-water and with little more than horse power to pump the workings and raise the coal.
During their productive peak, which appears to have occurred during the early years of the 19th Century, the miners would have been using methods and equipment that had changed little since the days when the pits opened in mediaeval times ??? while forty miles to the north-east, in the Durham coalfield, engineering pioneers were laying the first railways, designing and refining colossal pumping and winding engines, and constructing the first steam locomotives.
Old survey of the Tan Hill mines on the wall of the Tan Hill Inn
All notions of retrieving my walking plan are blown away when I stumble upon the remains of a horse gin. I???ve mention these contraptions before, but just to refresh your memories I???ll go through it again because this is one of the best examples I???ve seen.
A horse gin (gin being a corruption of ???engine???) was a capstan around which a horse was led in a continuous circle. The capstan wound a rope and the rope hauled a kibble (large bucket with a rounded bottom to prevent it snagging) from the nearby shaft. In this way minerals, spoil and water were removed from the pit.
Horse gins marked on the Tan Hill survey, one shown as coming into production in 1829
Look at a large-scale map of any mining area in the country and you will probably see evidence of their existence in old names: Gowerdale Windypits, on the North York Moors, is one ??? ???windypit??? being a corruption of winding pit, as in horse-winding pit. Gin pits, horse-winding pits, windy pits, whim pits, horse whims, whim shafts ??? they were everywhere. And here???s one in the heather a few hundred metres from the bar of the Tan Hill Inn.
Old colliery road crossing the moor to a pit
Horse gin on the horizon beneath a moody sky
Colliery shaft
Flooded colliery shaft. Not suitable for paddling in, no matter how hot your feet get
You had to watch where you put your feet up here two hundred years ago. No telling what you might stand in. Colliery shaft craters are everywhere
This one???s got a fence around it. Must still pose a threat
Closer inspection reveals it???s only a few feet deep. Still, enough to break a leg or worse
I could have spent a few fruitless hours wondering how these circles had been formed if it hadn???t been for the timely appearance of a retired gamekeeper from an estate in Wharfedale who was on what he called a ???busman???s holiday??? day-tripping on the northern grouse moors. This is the modern way to burn old heather to promote fresh shoots for the grouse to feed on. You drive a quad bike in a circle, cutting the heather to produce a circular fire break, then burn the centre. Apparently, during the London 2012 Olympics it was fashionable to link these heather circles to form the Olympic rings ??? public art on the moors. Can???t say I noticed them myself, but the grouse were really impressed and cheered on Team GB gold medal winner Peter Wilson in the shooting events
An idea springs to mind. What if I gather a bag of coal to make a fire? Will it burn? Coal is coal, but this has been weathering in a harsh environment since the mid-19th Century, possibly earlier. What the hell. I pick among the heather and soon have a Sainsbury???s bag full of the stuff.
Back at the van I show Anne my haul. She says: ???That???s nice.??? But I can tell she???s not over impressed. It???s my male intuition. Women don???t seem to share the same enthusiasm for the important things in life. It???s like when you try to explain the subtle differences between early, second-early and early-maincrop potatoes. They listen politely but you suspect they have no intention of retaining the knowledge.
I proudly stash the bag in the back of the van. My hunter-gatherer instincts have been awakened. I am man, the provider of warmth and light. With this bag I intend to create fire. But first, let???s see if the final stage of the plan can be retrieved ??? the stage concerning eating and drinking in the Tan Hill Inn.
Yes. It burns
AND FINALLY . . . Old railway goods wagon No 15
Hmmm. Just thought I???d mention it. Tyrosemiophiles collect cheese labels, for heaven???s sake.