Bob Adams sets out to walk the entire length of Ryedale's River Rye

OF all the rivers to choose from, why, you may ask, the Rye? Well the scenery speaks for itself but with planning applications going through at present to frack in Ryedale, the decision was simple. I wanted walk the length of the river to see the district before fracking starts.

Day One: Fields of Rye

One of the villages that might be affected is Kirby Misperton and nearby is situated Alma Farm which, if Third Energy has its way, will soon become the first site where fracking will commence in what Lord Howell of Guildford, called the ‘desolate’ lands of the north.

The only indication at present that anything is going on is a planning notice pinned to the gate post giving members of the public six weeks to object to a ‘37 metre tower’ and the rights to ‘hydraulically stimulate’ below ground to extract gas.

If the planning application is successful there will soon be lorries tearing up the country lanes producing clouds of dust and deep wells will be sunk creating a legacy underground that could pollute the water table for many years to come.

The proposed fracking site at Alma Farm

I parked on a layby near Howe Bridge and headed west towards the sun past rusting silage towers lying on their side and an old corrugated Citroen van, sans engine. In the distance to the north I could see the metal spaghetti of Flamingo Land.

I have to admit I failed to get to the confluence of the river. My excuse is there were no footpaths and lots of signs saying no entry and private property. I didn’t want to get shouted at – or worse.

Fields of straw bales

Passing through fields recently harvested, I noticed straw rolled and tied into huge bales and dumped at regular intervals across the fields. They loomed up all around me like chess pieces lined up for battle. I passed a clutch of houses with lovely cottagey gardens and walls. I saw an over-hanging branch weighed down with little green apples. Of course I had to pick one. The first bite was sour. It sent tangy signals all around my cheeks. It reminded me of childhood, crab apples, scrumping, walking to school, and even those green sweets you could buy that had that tangy, apple flavour.

A family passed with two black labradors who circled me, jaws dripping. ‘It’s the apple’, the chirpy lady suggested.

I eventually reached Ryton Bridge and gazed west along the Rye in the direction I will be taking on day two. Clouds pass and beams of light radiate out like a fan picking out cows having their last meal of the day and hares running the gauntlet between hedge and field.

River Rye at Ryton Bridge

Day Two. Never Mind the Bullocks

The train to Malton was packed. I was standing upright, sardined in with nothing to hold on to. Two students, one from Taiwan, the other from Spain, stood next to me discussing the cost and unpleasantness of English food. But they did appreciate our castles. ‘Like Harry Potter,’ they said. I left the station and walked north up the River Derwent past the site of the Roman town, Old Malton and its priory, Eden Camp and eventually reached the river back at Ryton Bridge.

Then it was mile after mile along minor roads, fields and cornfields, heading west. I was fortunate to be able to observe all aspects of modern day mechanical wheat production from a safe distance. Huge combine harvesters followed their set routes up and down the fields spouting chaff and dust from under their wheels. Tractors homed in alongside to catch the golden flow of corn like jets refuelling. Convoys of trailers then went to and fro to the base farm disgorging the corn from where it was conveyed upwards to fall onto the peak of a huge mound, enough to make millions of loaves of bread. I had lunch by the River Seven, not to be confused with Severn, where I saw my first kingfisher, just a joyous flash of translucent blue, like a shooting star.

A less pleasant encounter with nature took place after I passed the tiny hamlet of Butterwick. I saw a group of bullocks lurking at the far end of a field. Of course they spotted me and advanced to surround me. I retreated to the riverbank and jumped across to a small muddy island and settled down to wait it out. The huge beasts snorted and jostled each other for a better view of their red-shirted invader. I feared a frontal assault down the bank but they seemed content to wait and wait…and wait. There was no way for it I had to escape.

An encounter with bullocks

The best route was unfortunately back the way I had just come. I found a large stick and waving and shouting I ran up the bank. It worked. Excitement over, they seemed content to stay where they were. I had to take an alternative route northwest to the village of Salton.

Hours passed as I trudged along more lanes, safer than the fields. There were wonderful views of the hills and the sun came out too. The wet road glistened in the light as if it had become the river itself. I crossed the Rye at Ness Hall.

By then I had walked nearly sixteen miles and Nunnington was still over a mile away. However I was distracted from my aching limbs by the beautiful site of the low sun streaming along Caukleys Bank, picking out the furrows railing up the field as if making tracks for the giant straw bales to roll down the hill on top of me. Then I passed Nunnington Hall and ascended the hill to the Royal Oak Pub, where I was meeting my wife.

Nunnington Hall

Day Three. Here be Dragons

I started at Nunnington Church because I'd heard about a dragon. Two friends accompanied me. We discovered that the dragon was actually slain in the churchyard itself, but sadly the intrepid knight’s faithful dog licked his master’s face and they both died of poison.

After leaving this fascinating church we headed down the hill to follow the river along its southern bank. On a more pleasant day I would have delighted in watching the river bubble over lush water crowfoot that in the spring burst into flower, just like the famous pre-Raphaelite painting of the death of Ophelia by Millais. We passed a very rickety bridge that neither of my friends would agree to stand on for a photo.

Crossing later by a more solid footbridge we followed the path to Harome, the gourmet capital of Ryedale. This tiny village has no less than two posh restaurants and we consumed our meagre sandwiches within sight of one by the duck pond, while rooks noisily went about their business in the trees opposite.

Then it was back to the Rye again by the fish farm and a short walk along a muddy path to Helmsley via the sewage farm and sawmill. It seemed very practical to situate a joinery business next to the sawmill, next to the undertaker.

Helmsley castle vuiewed from the walled garden

Entering Helmsley is a bit like going back in time. The towers of the castle gaze down across the roofs of houses built of stone from the ‘quarry’ of the ruined castle. Helmsley grew up around an attractive market square now popular as a stopping off point for bikers on the Stokesley to Helmsley ‘TT.’ Sadly the second hand bookshop has just closed down, so we found a teashop instead. There were many to chose from.

I have now completed the first half of my journey along the Rye. Next time I will be going up into the hills past Rievaulx Abbey and beyond.