Coverdale is
the best Dale of all; tourists just don't know that,
and that would be a good thing. From the well-heeled
market square at Middleham, through the scattered
dairy and sheep farms in the in-bye land, through
the lovely villages of Carlton and Horsehouse, up
to the wild windswept upper reaches around Coverhead,
this is a lovely, characterful, personal dale.
Horsehouse is
but a kink in the road, boasting a post office, a
church, a dozen or so houses and of course the Thwaite
Arms. The main level is tiny, with room for maybe
fifteen people to stand shoulder-to-shoulder, with
a lower level that is used less but has more room.
Twenty years ago when I lived here, I saw the Thwaite
Arms bulging at the seams for a dominoes or darts
night, with maybe a hundred or more people crammed
into the establishment. Then the landlord, Stan at
the time, would have to open the 'lounge', a small
additional room to the left of the bar, but he did
not like to do that, because he only liked his pub
when there was hardly anyone in it.
The landlord these
days is Bruce, a very amenable fellow, running the
place on his own, cooking and all. Bruce made us feel
very welcome and when we returned at the end of our
walk, it felt like coming into our local.
The Thwaite has
no cider on tap, so we had to buy it in bottles, which
were half the quantity for the same price as a pint.
But I understand why he cannot provide cider, and
I accept it. Beer outsells cider 12 to 1 nationally
(209 pints per capita per year against 17 pints per
capita per year) and most of that would be in the
south and southwest, up here it would be even less.
You do the math on this, and see if he can look after
cider sufficiently well. Say there are fifty people
who regularly come into his pub. Fifty times seventeen
pints per year is 850 pints, which is 106 gallons,
or about twelve firkins, the smallest barrel most
pubs use. Twelve firkins a year, so on average it
would take him a month to get through a barrel, which
once opened, is good for a few days. The less he sells,
the worse it tastes. The worse it tastes, the less
he sells.
If you go and
want to see locals, do not expect much to happen before
about 9:30 at night. Before that you may find someone
grabbing a swift half on the way home, or some walkers
replacing fluids, or some tourists passing through,
but the locals only come out much later on.
And what a crowd
they are!
Some walk across
the street in the village, but others come from up-dale
and down-dale and even across the tops from another
dale. Some have stopped in at the Foresters in Carlton
for one before coming up to Horsehouse. These are
farming folk mostly, with some move - ins from the
towns but not many, with some of the same family names
repeated across generations: Suttill, Lister, Johnson,
Atkinson, all names evocative of history.
And a great evening
was had by all. When we described the next day's walk
route to people and signed off with a, "Well,
we had better be off to bed, since we are doing a
walk tomorrow that would worry Chris Bonnington,"
the low voice of a Dales farmer could be heard from
the back of the huddle, out of sight and only just
within earshot, "By 'eck, Chris Bonnington wouldna
even attempt it lad." Chris Bonnington, incidentally,
has conquered Everest.
And again, the
huddle fell about when the wife reacted with considerable
concerned surprise when her husband commented: "There's
nowt more exciting than a game of cricket."
There is not much
really in Coverdale to draw tourists, other than the
scenery, not like Wensleydale that caters to the hoards.
It does have the ancient Coverham Abbey, built by
Radulphus, son of Robert Fitz Ralph, for white Canons
of the Praemonstrantensian order, about the year 1213.
He died in 1251 when he was attacked by a ram. The
house itself is styled as a Priory, but the experts,
whoever they may be, say it was an Abbey.
By an inscription
in Latin that is now placed over the door of a house
now belonging to a long-time local resident, it appears
that this Monastery was either thoroughly repaired
or rebuilt about the latter end of the reign of King
Henry VII. It bears the date of 1501, and states the
Abbot "finished this house".
In building some
out-houses this century, two large statues, dressed
in the armor of knights-templars were dug up. These
statues were placed on each side of the door leading
into the garden of the house, and are said to be the
figures of the founder of the abbey, and Robert Fitzrandolph,
who was also the founder of Middleham Castle.
More on the Thwaite
when we return at the end of the walk. For we now
had five days ahead of us, five days of backpacking
through our favorite scenery in all of England, stopping
at pubs, admiring views, talking to each other, battling
the inclement elements and at the end of each of those
days, sleeping soundly. A circuitous, challenging
route through Coverdale, Wharfedale, Wensleydale and
Swaledale, setting off on a Monday to return (if all
went to plan), weary & triumphant on the Friday.
What a sending off this night was. When we actually
hit the road the following morning, everyone in Coverdale
must have known of our adventure. I can hear them
now: "That lad what worked at Atkinson's nigh
on eighteen years ago, he's come back. Aye, goin'
walking! Got himself an American wife. Aye, she's
goin' too! Bloody mad if tha' asks me."
As we walked up
the Dale then next morning, people we met in the pub
came out to greet us, with their dogs barking at us.
Wonderful. A perfect walk up Coverdale in beautiful
weather, that was soon to change. The rain set in
and was to be our unwelcome and over-bearing traveling
companion for three straight days.
We returned to
the Thwaite Arms at the end of our circular walk some
five days later. Bruce welcomed us warmly as we wandered
in through the door, and regaled us with stories and
questions throughout the entire lunchtime. We were
in good spirits anyway, having thoroughly enjoyed
a beautiful walk over Fleensop from Bishopdale in
glorious weather and perfect scenery, so Bruce just
compounded our demeanor.
The Thwaite is
a threatened species. Trade is seasonal to begin with,
and although I know from personal experience that
the citizens of Coverdale are enthusiastic drinkers,
business is slow in winter when the tourists stay
away. Recently, this problem has been compounded by
the Foot & Mouth outbreak which dramatically affected
the summer procession. A third factor is the 1989
Beer Orders legislation which, while well-intentioned,
has severely damaged the financial prospects of thousands
of pubs, and changed the industry, in my opinion,
for the worse.
