Up Hill and Down Dale in God’s Own Country.

Two cameras, Two Tweed Suits, and a Glorious Sunday Roast: A Journey Through the Yorkshire Dales:

There are few things more ridiculous than deciding that the best way to experience the green, rolling hills of northern England is to set off from Provence in a car that has just been washed and waxed by a French auto lavage with a questionable sense of geometry. But this is exactly what we did, pointing northwards with only two things in mind: (a) not being run over on the French autoroutes by a Peugeot travelling at the speed of light, and (b) eventually finding ourselves somewhere near Reeth with a plate of roast beef in front of us.

Getting there involved that most peculiarly Anglo-French invention, the Le Shuttle — or, as it is officially known, the Channel Tunnel car-mover. There is nothing quite like driving your car into what looks like a mobile cattle pen, being sealed in with hundreds of other drivers (most of whom have expressions that suggest they, too, are not entirely convinced the thing won’t leak), and then being whisked under the English Channel in thirty-five minutes. It’s essentially the future as imagined by someone in 1973.

Emerging into Kent, we began the long crawl northward. England does an excellent job of ensuring that driving feels less like travel and more like penance. There are roundabouts the size of small planets, endless stretches of roadworks protected by orange cones as far as the eye can see, and service stations where one can purchase a “meal deal” that tastes like despair in sandwich form. Still, the further north you go, the more beautiful it gets, until at last, you find yourself among the stone walls and undulating green of the Yorkshire Dales.

And what green it is. After months in Provence, where the palette is chiefly “dust beige” and “olive grey,” Yorkshire comes at you with a green so vivid it could be sold as a health supplement. Leica (and for this trip, Nikon as well) in hand, I found myself pointing the lens at everything that wasn’t moving, and a few things that were. Sheep, for instance. Sheep in the Dales have perfected the art of looking at you with an expression that says: “You’re not from round here, are you?” This, incidentally, is the same expression you get from most Yorkshiremen.

Hawes: Tweed, Tea, and a Wonderful Tailor:

Our first stop was Hawes, a village that seems to exist primarily for the purpose of ensuring outsiders purchase more tweed than they could possibly need. I stumbled into a tailor’s shop with the vague idea of “just looking.” Minutes later, I emerged, dazed and slightly poorer, clutching a suit bag containing not one but two Harris Tweed suits, along with brogues and belts that will no doubt ensure I look like an eccentric Oxford don when I next appear in a French café.

The tailor was one of those Yorkshiremen whose charm lies in his ability to be simultaneously helpful and cutting. When I tried on a jacket, he gave me a look that suggested he was weighing up whether to let me have it or call social services. “Aye, it’ll do,” he said eventually, which I took as the highest form of praise. Yorkshiremen, as I came to discover, are men of few words. They are not given to gushing. A Yorkshireman will not tell you your Leica is impressive, nor will he admire your new tweed. He will, however, nod at your shoes in a way that suggests he is grudgingly aware you’ve done something right. This is what passes for rapture in these parts.

Dent: A Village the Size of a Teacup:

From Hawes, we made our way to Dent, which is less a village and more a very enthusiastic collection of stone houses huddled together as if for warmth. Dent is the sort of place that looks like it was built by people who were allergic to straight lines. The streets are narrow, the cottages slightly lopsided, and everything smells faintly of woodsmoke. Leica sensors adore such places, and I spent an indecent amount of time photographing doors, windows, and the sort of moss that only grows in villages where time itself appears to have slowed. The locals, as ever, were friendly in that brusque Yorkshire way. Conversations are brisk, practical, and usually about the weather, which is a sort of national sport. I was told more than once that “summer had been last Tuesday” and advised to always carry a coat, even if stepping into the shower.

Reeth: Where Roast Beef Restores the Soul:

If Hawes gave me tweed and Dent gave me moss, Reeth gave me what I had been truly longing for: a Sunday roast. After months of Provençal meals involving delicately shaved fennel and olives that look like they’ve been hand-polished, I was desperate for a plate of meat, potatoes, and gravy heavy enough to stun a small horse. The Black Bull in Reeth provided just that. It was a carvery of such magnificence that angels could have descended and started carving the beef, and no one would have blinked. Roast potatoes with the perfect crunch, Yorkshire puddings the size of grapefruits, and gravy so rich you could practically invest in it. I ate with the kind of joy that only comes from prolonged deprivation, and by the end, I was both deeply satisfied and mildly comatose. Yorkshiremen, I should note, take their roasts seriously. There is no ironic detachment, no fuss. It is simply roast beef, done well, eaten with quiet determination. I watched one man methodically construct a Yorkshire pudding sandwich out of beef and gravy, and I swear he looked happier than most newlyweds.

Leica Notes from the Dales:

Photographically, the Dales are a delight, provided you can stop eating long enough to lift the camera. The light is soft, even when the skies are dramatic, and stone villages reward every composition. I carried my Leica as though it were an extra limb, snapping farmhouses, dry-stone walls, and locals who had perfected the art of pretending not to notice me.

The Journey Home: Back Under the Channel:

All too soon, it was time to head back south, retracing our steps via the Channel Tunnel. Once again, we drove into the great metal caterpillar that shuttles you under the sea. Once again, I found myself wondering what would happen if someone accidentally pressed the wrong button. And once again, we emerged in France, where olive groves awaited and where wearing Harris Tweed in public is considered somewhere between eccentric and tragic. Still, I have the photographs, the memories, and the suits. And whenever I look at them, I’ll be reminded not just of the beauty of the Dales, but of the warmth of its people — blunt, thrifty, and welcoming in their own uniquely Yorkshire way.

And of course, I’ll remember that roast in Reeth, the meal that reminded me that sometimes the simplest things in life are the best. Especially when served with gravy.

Live well!

Mark

The Somersby is 0.0 for those doubters out there.

Hamish is a big Buzz Lightyear fan.

Hamish likes trains.