Goin' Underground...

No new stations today, but keeping with the railway theme, Faux-Bro and I went out for an adventure, exploring the innards of the Yorkshire coast.

First of all we walked the length of Ravenscar tunnel - luckily this time round I had brought a torch. Faux-Bro had a torch too - his was a proper big manly torch, with two beams, all in black, from a hardware shop. Mine is small, pink and white, and if you press the button more than once it turns into a pink flashing glow-stick...

Looking out of the south portal

So anyway, the pair of us and my Homosexual Torch clambered down the side of the cutting, into the undergrowth. Sensibly, for once I was actually wearing jeans so the nettles didn't affect me, and for a change Faux-Bro was the one in shorts - but his legs are so hairy (practically knitted!) he didn't seem to be affected.

Ravenscar tunnel is in surprisingly good condition inside - all the guidebooks and websites advise against going in, because the bricks are reportedly falling out of the ceiling, but personally I think they just say that to put people off, as it doesn't really lead anywhere in particular, so you have to come out the way you came.

With our appetite for dripping gloom whetted, it was just a quick drive up the coast to Kettleness, to inspect the tunnels there. After parking up on what was possibly somebody's lawn, we had a short stroll - half a mile or so - along the clifftop path (part of the Cleveland Way) to the tunnel mouth. The path turns inland by a disused railway overbridge, and then climbs up some new-ish steps cut into the side of the embankment, onto the trackbed. Or that's what I first thought - the embankment at that point is actually the old route...

When the Whitby Redcar & Middlesbrough Union Railway was being constructed, back in Victorian times, the original plan was to run the line on a shelf cut into the cliff face, overlooking the sea, but before it was even finished, there was a big storm (or maybe a landslide) and the whole lot fell down on to the foreshore, so the plans were redrawn and the route burrowed underground instead. The embankment the aforementioned steps lead onto is actually part of that original failed line. The newer route is further inland, across a field of cows (or at least, a field of their shit).

Kettleness tunnel is longer than Ravenscar - with a lot more refuges constructed along the sides. Several of these have now got graffiti adorning them, which kept me entertained. Like a really dark modern art gallery, designed by Hell's Angels perhaps.

I was quite saddened that their wasn't more vintage litter scattered about - the main items seemed to be empty Carling cans, and Capri-Sun packets. There was nothing even half as interesting as the bones we found in Burdale... Perhaps the local residents are just less weird?

At the far (southern) end of the tunnel, the railway used to run on a shelf for a few hundred yards, before entering the much longer Sandsend Tunnel, emerging into daylight once more at - trumpet fanfare please - Sandsend... Alas, we couldn't go any further towards that, as the foliage and vegetation was just too jungley. And anyway, apparently the north portal of Sandsend tunnel has partially collapsed, and I have no wish to get crushed under several hundred tons of finest Yorkshire sandstone...

There being no alternative - except perhaps abseiling - we turned back and headed once more, through the darkness to the car.

Back in the sunshine I think we entered some sort of alternate reality, where the world seemed to have slightly shifted - perhaps the darkness had messed with my mind, but everything seemed just a little surreal. Or maybe it was when I lobbed the dead partridge over the cliff? Who knows?

 

We drove a bit further north and ended up in possibly the least politically correct scarecrow festival ever, in Hinderwell. It was like travelling through some sort of Little Britain episode, crossed with The League of Gentlemen, but entirely made of papier-mache and straw. I suppose that's the great thing about rural Yorkshire villages - they're far enough away from civilisation that they can embrace their weirdness!

Sadly the butchers had run out of normal pork pies, but the pork and apple ones I bought instead were an adequate substitute, and, of course, who can fault a place where you're greeted outside the fish & chip shop by a nightmarish vision of a shop dummy, blacked up to look like Diana Ross (presumably?) wearing a cheap jokeshop Afro-wig?

This will haunt my dreams...

We abandoned the car for a while, and walked along the main street towards Port Mulgrave - pausing to admire a rather splendid scare-octopus perched on top of a privet hedge.

Port Mulgrave is virtually a suburb of Hinderwell these days, but originally it was built to house the miners who worked ironstone out of the cliffside quarries. The ironstone was then shipped off from the harbour to be taken to blast furnaces elsewhere in the country. The quarries are all abandoned now, so the harbour is now falling to ruin.

A few fishing boats appear to be still based there, and the fishermen's huts are a curious collection - if they were taken away and reconstructed at the Tate Modern people would pay a fortune for them as works of art - but thankfully, here they remain, paint bleaching in the sun and salt-air, slowly collapsing into the bracken.

Fyling in a gap

The problem with some stations, is that once they are closed, they become a severe pain in the arse to get to by the remaining public transport. Yesterday's quest proves that. My destination was Fyling Hall - a location on the former Scarborough to Whitby line, serving nowhere in particular. From Ravenscar southward, the route is closely shadowed by a bus service, as is Robin Hood's Bay northward. Unfortunately, due to the local geography, Fyling Hall finds itself in a gap, caused mainly by the pesky North Yorkshire Moors, but I was not to be defeated...

I boarded the 10:15 bus from Scarborough - a single decker, packed full of freeloading pensioners, and after 45 minutes of standing up (for which I paid £5 for the privilege), listening to the inane conversations of Ethel and Fred from Stevenage, I was glad to disembark at the bottom of Thorpe Bank - I'm not sure if the bus made it any further, as it smelled like the brakes were about to burst into flames...

After passing a small council estate (I assume it was a council estate, as one of the gardens had a barking

dog and a trampoline), and a caravan park, I left what passes for civilisation in those parts swiftly behind. I joined the old railway path, at the landscaped remnants of an overbridge, and was quickly engulfed in trees. The old station was soon before me - not that it's very obvious to the casual observer. The stationmaster's house still stands - complete with platform bench - but the platform is almost totally camouflaged, unless you know where to look. What appears to be the trackbed is actually a lane, so to be totally historically accurate I had to hurl myself into the undergrowth, where I was rewarded with some ivy covered fenceposts, a bit of collapsing brickwork, and not a lot else. Still - at least it's better that Scalby... *spit*

Fyling Hall - not so bad

Job done, I continued my journey south. After a flight of steps down to the road - another missing bridge - and back up again, trackbed towards Ravenscar passes over a couple of fairly substantial embankments in quick succession. The views out to sea would probably be quite impressive if it wasn't for all the trees in the way! Eventually, however, the trees gradually disperse, and the whole expanse of Robin Hood's Bay is

revealed. In fact, as the line is on a curve, Robin Hood's Bay can be seen for what seems like miles, and it actually gets a bit boring, but I took a photo anyway. 

A confused deer

It's very remote round here, with just a few farms scattered around. Some of them seem to be only accessible from the trackbed - it makes me wonder how the residents got there when trains still ran. Did they pull the communication cord, and hope the train would stop near their front garden? Or have the roads disappeared back to nature? Either way, I didn't pass a soul for several miles - just a deer, which seemed just as surprised to see me as I was to see it!

My arrival into Ravenscar was preceded by a party of schoolchildren eating sandwiches in the Old Alum Quarry. One of them had dropped a load of Opal Fruits (I refuse to call them by that stupid American name) all over the floor (still in their wrappers) so I gathered them up for sustenance - gotta love a freebie... 

At Ravenscar, the railway footpath makes a brief diversion, as the tunnel is closed to pedestrians, so I meandered through the village, and rejoined the track at Station Square... 

I won't repeat old ground, having covered the next ten miles in a previous post or two. Suffice to say, I carried on all the way back to Scarborough, and got home after about 4 and a quarter hours of walking, and then went to the pub.

A Magical, Misty Tour

Was undecided where to visit yesterday - torn between somewhere on the main-line to York, or heading up the disused tracks towards Whitby. After much deliberation - and realisation that the former would require a bus trip (a feat for which I was not mentally prepared) - I decided that, despite the light sea-fret I would opt to have a gentle stroll up to Cloughton and back.

After a hearty breakfast, of an out-of-date bagel and cream cheese - seriously, do those things ever go off? - I headed out, via the shop for the required pack of fags, and onto the abandoned trackbed behind Sainsbury's. The first section out of Scarborough is populated mainly by dogwalkers, of both the old-lady variety and the chav-towing-an-evil-killer variety, so consequently there tends to be a liberal sprinkling of turds to watch out for. Watch your step...

Just after the playing fields, which have replaced the Northstead Carriage Sidings, light entertainment was provided by a deceased trampoline, upturned across the path like some sort of alien spaceship- presumably blown out of some council-house back garden - but thankfully, just as I was pondering how to get past it, a gang of burly blokes carrying tractor tyres appeared, and lobbed it into a hedge. I'm not sure if they were from a gym, or the local TA centre, but their muscly thighs provided much needed visual entertainment for a short while before I crossed the viaduct to Scalby.

Scalby Viaduct, from the riverbank below

Ah, Scalby. What a disappointment you are... Now don't get me wrong, Scalby as a village is very pretty, with nice pubs, a nice church, a nice red phone box, a nice war-memorial with nice flowers round it. Unfortunately, the station (Closed in 1953) with it's nice stone buildings and nice little hump backed bridge covered in nice ivy, was purchased by Scarborough Council, and demolished in the 1970s, and now looks like this:

A suitable grimace in Scalby.

I pressed on, away from this disappointing scene, into open countryside, hoping for some rural pleasantness, but alas it was not to be - the light sea-fret was turning into more substantial mist. The lack of view, due to the weather, and the arrow-straight route of the trackbed towards Burniston, combined to make the next section BORING! Luckily, there was a pleasant snail for light relief.

A dull bit, behind the rugby club

A nice snail

My arrival at Cloughton cheered me up - it always does. The station buildings, which closed in 1965, have been turned into a tea-room, with a garden between the platforms, and even a railway carriage to stay in. They even have station cats! The present owners must be commended for making it so lovely, and they do very good teacakes too. If you're in the area, it's definitely worth a visit.

Cloughton makes me smile - and I only look partially idiotic - Double win!

So. Either I'd been walking very quickly, or I had completely misjudged the distance, but by this point it was only an hour and a quarter since I left my house. It wasn't too cold - yeah it was foggy but at least it wasn't raining. I just wasn't ready to just head back straight away, so I checked my handy OS map (absolutely filthy from where I overwatered the geranium and muddy water seeped all over the dining table where it lay) - Hayburn Wyke wasn't much further on.  I've been to Hayburn Wyke several times before - but the actual timings and distance are always a bit hazy in my memory, due to the proximity of the pub. This time though I only had £1.70 in my pocket so didn't get a pint - they do take cards, but only for purchases over a tenner (I made that mistake once before and ended up weighed down with peanuts, scampi fries, pork scratchings, and a cigar, just to make it up to to the right amount...)

Not a great deal left to see of the station, which closed in 1965 - just a platform, covered in weeds and shrubs, a bit of fencing, and the odd lamp post, but still, at least it's not as crap as Scalby.

Hayburn Wyke: Gardener required?

At this point, I still wasn't tired enough to turn back, so once more, out came the grubby map, and again it told me the next station wasn't very far away - just tantalisingly round the next bend! The route took me deeper into the mists - which could probably now be classed as fog - through some woods, and indeed there all of a sudden was Staintondale! The map was speaking the truth!

Staintondale (Or Stainton Dale. You decide...)

Staintondale station is just as attractive as Cloughton, but it's now just someone's house, so don't go knocking on the door asking for a cup of tea, or they'll set the hounds on you. Or maybe an angry chicken.
I'd love to live somewhere like this - it'd be fantastic. Apart from the lack of shops and services nearby, obviously. And the terrible public transport links, meaning I'd have to learn to drive. And the cyclists, horseriders and hikers passing my front windows... Perhaps I'll stick where I am after all...

Bent Rigg Lane overbridge

At this point I thought to myself, "I've come this far, I might as well continue to Ravenscar, and get the bus back" - after all it was only a mile or so to go - almost exactly half-way between Scarborough and Whitby. I trailed on, through the fog (or was it just cloud now? I was after all, several hundred feet higher than at the start), occasionally getting a curious feeling of being watched (just sheep, or the odd horse). Just as I reached the platforms, of the bleak remains of Ravenscar (also closed in 1965) I had a sudden flash of memory - the bus service was to be axed at the beginning of April. What day was it today? The 2nd April... Balls...

The view is lovely. Apparently.

So my only option (apart from a ludicrously expensive taxi, or stealing a horse) was to repeat the 10 miles back the way I'd just come... Oops.