On Ilkla Moor Baht 'at

I really must catch up with posting about my latest holiday to the Far North of Scotland before I set off on my next jaunt! A week from now I'll be in South Wales.

It wasn't all Scotland. I did of course see parts of the North of England on the way up and on the way back. On the return journey I spent two nights at the Club site at Bolton Abbey, set in a Pennine valley - that of the River Wharfe - and not far from the West Yorkshire town of Ilkley. 

Ilkley turned out to be a pleasant place with the atmosphere of a traditional spa town like Great Malvern. It was neat and tidy, and had a good sprinkling of upmarket shops and pavement cafés. A seemingly prosperous and bustling place. It didn't have a Waitrose, but it had a branch of Waitrose's Northern equivalent and rival, Booth's; and having endured a relentless diet of Tesco for over three weeks, I felt a spiritual uplift as I entered Booth's and saw things on the shelves, and at the fish counter, that had been denied me for so long. 

With these goodies stowed away in the cold bag in Fiona's boot, I had two hours or so to explore Ilkley further before returning to the caravan. So a quick tour of the town centre, grabbing souvenir shots with LXV in case I never made it back here again. Then I lifted mine eyes unto the surrounding hills, closest and highest on Ilkley's south side. It was all rough grazing and heather. It was Ilkley Moor.

Surely everyone knows the song about this moor - On Ilkla Moor Baht 'at - which (according to Wikipedia) means 'On Ilkley Moor without a hat'. Suggesting that, sans head-protection, the unwary moorland traveller is in for a bad time, and may perish, Pennine weather being proverbially changeable and severe. These are the traditional words, as sung by choirs in a West Yorkshire accent, the kind that the Brontë sisters would have used:

Wheear 'ast tha bin, sin' ah saw thee?

On Ilkla Mooar baht 'at
Wheear 'ast tha bin sin' ah saw thee, sin' ah saw thee?
Wheear 'ast tha bin sin' ah saw thee, sin' ah saw thee?

On Ilkla Mooar baht 'at
On Ilkla Mooar baht 'at
On Ilkla Mooar baht 'at

Then follow further verses, in which the first, third and fourth lines of the opening verse are replaced in turn by:

Tha's been a cooartin' Mary Jane, Mary Jane,

Tha's bahn' to catch thy deeath o' cowd, deeath o' cowd,

Then us'll ha' to bury thee, bury thee,

Then t'worms'll come an' eyt thee oop, eyt thee oop, 

Then t'ducks'll come an' eyt oop t'worms, eyt oop t'worms,

Then us'll go an' eyt oop t'ducks, eyt oop t'ducks,

Then us'll all ha' etten thee, etten thee,

That's wheear we get us ooan back, ooan back,

Moral: if you must go courting up on the Moor, be sure to wear a hat and not die of cold. I especially like singing the verse about the worms, although I had no idea that earthworms behaved like piranha fish. My goodness, you'd scarce want to stand around too long in case they converged on you, and lunged. 

Anyway, I felt impelled to get up on the Moor and walk a bit on it, just to have the experience - all the while making sure I kept moving, of course. Although improving, my right knee wasn't up to a steep climb (nor a steep descent), but there was a good road that took you half-way up. I left Fiona in the car park at the end of this road, already high above Ilkley.

Hmm. Those clouds looked full of rain; but I wouldn't be up here long. I had time only to walk half a mile or so in one direction, then back again. But even this would seem a worthwhile achievement. I felt curiously elated. It must have been the marvellous West Yorkshire air.

Beyond the car park the tarred road became a stony track fit only for serious off-road vehicles, and the slope was ever upwards, but not so much as to puff one out. I soon came to a finger post with a seat beside it. The hardy walkers to be encountered up here would scorn using the seat, but for the rest of us it did offer a view north-eastwards over the edge of the Moor, with Ilkley nestling in the valley below.

Onwards and upwards. A mountain-biker careered past, pell-mell, as if being chased by worms. He was heading downhill. I hoped he realised that the track would become suddenly much steeper, and required very good brakes!

I found myself humming the words of On Ilkla Moor Baht 'at. There were people about and I didn't want them to think me odd by breaking into song. But a song was definitely coming on.

The sun was struggling to break through the heavy clouds, and there was a chill breeze, but it was invigorating and I could perfectly see the point of getting up here and walking one's cares and concerns away. I didn't have any particular worries, but if I had, being up on the Moor would have been an excellent way of forgetting them for a while. 

On a brighter day, the colours of the heather and bracken would be rich and strong. Even as it was, their muted shades gladdened the eye.

The Moor was littered with lumps of hard stone, big and small, called Millstone Grit. It was especially favoured for drystone walling. Off to the west was such a wall, with a gate in it for walkers, and I decided to aim for that, then turn back. In a few minutes I was there. 

Beyond this was the wider Moor. And more distant uplands. The Ordnance Survey map showed various ancient stones I ought to walk to and see. They all called to me, like sirens, but I had almost run out of time.

It was only 2nd October, and it all looked benign, but snow and ice would transform this into a potentially deadly landscape for the unwisely-clad. For now, it was to be celebrated in song. I looked about and checked. I was all alone. So I let rip with a verse of On Ilkla Moor Baht 'at, in my best voice:

Captured for all posterity by LXV. Some day in the far future, an archaeological team from a distant planet (Zog or Malevolor) would doubtless find and examine one of my photo backups and see that shot. 'By gum,' they'd exclaim, 'T'lass can sing reet gradely!' So it's an important picture.

Back again on the path to the car park, I fell in step with an elderly chap who said he'd already walked sixteen miles on the Moor that morning. He looked a bit unsteady on his feet, but perhaps he was tired. Sixteen miles was a long walk, but wasn't at all unlikely for a regular hill walker. At a steady four miles per hour - admittedly quite brisk - it would take four hours, and it was already going on for 1.00pm. He could do it if he started after breakfast. Alfred Wainwright, the famous fell-walker of the Lake District, certainly managed walks of that length until well into old age. We parted at Fiona.

And the worms? Did they attack? I did constantly sense a writhing menace hidden in the heather and ready to pounce, but my stick must have put them off. 

Was it nevertheless a proper, genuine Ilkla Moor experience - the real thing? I claim it was. For I was hatless. I lived dangerously, and got away with it.