Day Out To West Burton

Blog Date - 29 July 2013

Ride date - 15 July 2013

Eeeeeee by gum lad. When I were a lad there were no exotic holidays, we used to make do with a few days in a tiny caravan in a field. There were no electricity we had a gas stove, gas light and to keep things cool we'd put food and milk in the stream at the other end of the field. It were my job to pick my way through the cow pats to place or retrieve food and drink from the water cooled Tupperware boxes.

All this is true. It was nowhere near as grim as I make out though. We had regular holidays like most families along with occasional weekends and short weeks at the caravan in West Burton, a tiny hamlet in The Yorkshire Dales National Park. I used to look forward to it. My memories are of sunshine, helping the farmer by sitting on his tractor, playing cards in the evening and making damns in the stream. I'm sure I've conveniently forgotten heavy rain, getting told off for being naughty and chilly nights. Memories do that.

When the caravan fell apart and the farmer retired we stopped going. It must be around 35 years since I last went to West Burton. I've been all around the area on the bike but as the hamlet is on a dead end I've never made the effort to detour there. Just this last week I'd talked of those holidays and memories with my Mum and the following Monday the gf and I with nothing important to do were looking for somewhere to ride to.

We use the motorway to bypass all the nonsense that makes up the towns and cities around here to get to Colne and then the A roads to Skipton. It's only when we turn off the A65 towards Grassington that things become more interesting. Finally we're in the Dales and the countryside. At last green fields and grazing cattle. Considering it's a Monday and everyone should be at work there's still a fair amount of traffic though.

Grassington is as picture postcard a village as you could hope. It's also full of day trippers like ourselves so we can't park, even with a bike, in the centre. We end up parking at the National Park Centre on the edge of town. We're only here for a pee stop and there's toilets so that's perfect. When I return from my visit the gf is chatting to an elderly couple. They're reminiscing about their bike trips of yesteryear and jealous of ours. As we sip tea from the flask we remind ourselves to make the most of this, it won't last forever.

Toilets...such a relief! 

We pass through Kettlewell. I recall vividly being sat in the back of my Dad's car and knowing that once we're at Kettlewell we are not far away at all. I could then stop with the "are we nearly there yet?"s because we were definitely nearly there.

Memories are a funny thing. I distinctly remember West Burton being a one horse hamlet. A large triangular village green surrounded by stone built ancient houses. On one angle of the triangle was the Post Office where my Dad knew the shopkeeper and his wife. We'd go there first for a few hours and while Mum and Dad played catch up my brother and I would pester for sweets and something to pass the time. 

The Post Office...or is it?

At the village sign for West Burton on the main road there's a few houses. Don't remember these. Off into the village we go and through more houses. Don't remember these. I find the Village Green. Typically as a kid everything is bigger, when you see it as an adult you realise it was tiny. Today everything is quite the opposite. The Green is massive, there's a lot more houses and ever more houses beyond those. Don't get me wrong it's not a big place, but it's a whole lot bigger than I recall. I tell the gf. We can see it must be my memory at fault and not expansion over the years. None of the houses are new build, they are all original with plenty of weathering that even a well crafted replica can't re-create. Everything I remember is here but a lot more besides. Even the Market Cross on the Village Green is a lot bigger than I recall.

It's not exacly a little stone cross is it...in fact it's not even a cross.

The post office has gone, there's merely a post box now. The shop is now a tea room and on this day it looks very closed. Otherwise the hamlet is a bustling place, if you count a couple on a bench eating sandwiches while their dog sniffs around and a truck filled with sheep passing by. Although different from what I recall it is still a beautiful place. It's easy to imagine farmers with flat caps, ladies scrubbing doorsteps, children in shorts and chickens roaming the village green. It's trapped in time if you ignore the modern cars and my motorbike. Being on a dead end road there's very little traffic. I guess it's the dead end that keeps the hamlet the way it is.

The sprawling metropolis and bustling centre. Chaos!

Apart from the road in there are 2 roads out of town that lead nowhere. It was down one of those roads we used to travel a few miles to the caravan. The problem is I can't recall for the life of me which one it is. I'm tempted to venture down each one and see if anything at all comes back to me. I guess over 30 years that things have changed and I'll recall nothing. Also time is against us. It's not late but if we're to avoid rush hour it's probably best we start to head off rather than spend a few hours doing U-turns in narrow country lanes. I say goodbye to West Burton once again but I can't think of any good reason NOT to return.

Back on the road again we stop in Hawes to make use of the toilet facilities then head south along the B6255 and to the Ribblehead Viaduct. My tummy is rumbling by now so when I spot a butty van in a little layby I pull in. It takes a while for our sausage butties to be completed but we don't mind and the lady in the van is very chatty. It's also raining. This is something of a shock as the last few weeks have been wall to wall sunshine and so warm. It's not hard rain, in fact I'd say it's more like we're in cloud than rain. It's not wet enough to spoil the day and the cool air makes the hot sausages even more welcome.

Butty van, the Ribblehead Viaduct and sausage butties. Life's not all bad is it.

Apart from the ride home, mostly motorway, that's then end of our delightful afternoon out. Memories are strange things aren't they? Looking back things can be distorted by the passage of time. I'm glad West Burton hasn't been ravaged by development and industry, it means I can correct my memories. West Burton's not what I recalled but it's still lovely.

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