The Yorshire Dales and Motorhome Hire

It’s a vanderful life; explore the Yorshire Dales from behind the wheel of a motorhome;
Features

This articles is from The Sunday Mirror, 9th September 2007

By GILL WILLIAMS

IF you were the sort of toddler who could fit a square peg into a square hole then driving a motorhome around the Yorkshire Dales will seem like child’s play.

If, however, you were the type of kid who flew into a rage as you tried to bash the square peg into the round hole then let somebody else take the wheel.

Our motorhome was as long as a bus and about as wide. Forget about double-decker buses, we were three storeys high.

On the ground floor was the garage with adequate parking for bikes and, like all good garages, enough space to lose just about anything you cared to throw in.

The main floor had a living area with table and chairs, a shower room complete with flushing toilet and kitchen with fridge freezer.

In the penthouse suite were the bedrooms, one permanent double with a wardrobe to the rear and another drop-down bed for two above the driver’s seat.

In all, slightly larger than most London flats.

The night before we took delivery I was as excited as a kid waiting for Christmas.

I dreamt feverishly of steering my motorhome across the desert, along a high mountain ridge and, oddly, into my dentist’s waiting room.

The dentist needn’t worry. Not only would the van never have fitted into his surgery, it only just made it up our street - and then only by reversing. I’m still not sure whether to apologise to the neighbours or charge them a fee for trimming their hedge.

I decided to let my husband Steve take control of technicalities. These days, we girls have taken blokes’ jobs, drink their pints and even play rugby. The least we can do is leave them to sort out the plumbing. So while I flitted around the kitchenette like a 1950s housewife, packing napkins into the picnic hamper, the motorhome rental man Dave showed Steve how to fill the water tank and empty the loo.

Steve asked all the right questions, nodded convincingly that he understood and packed his toolkit. Then, as we drove away, we made a cowardly pact to only use the toilets in the campsite.

One of the great things about a holiday in a motorhome is not having to pack a suitcase. My frocks went straight into the wardrobe, no creases. A few minutes later the bathroom cabinet was as overflowing with potions and lippies as the one at home.

There had been scurrilous suggestions in the office that I’d spend the entire Bank Holiday weekend with my motorhome parked in the driveway of a five-star hotel.

So I’d like to point out that we were only parked outside the luxurious Devonshire Arms hotel at Bolton Abbey for drinkies.

And anybody who noticed a behemoth motorhome casting a shadow over the Devonshire Fells Hotel at the other end of the Wharfe Valley must be mistaken. Or perhaps not.

The truth of the matter is that we were bound for Bolton Abbey’s gorgeous campsite in Strid Wood, about three miles from either hotel along a narrow lane.

This back road is fairly quiet most of the year, but this was Bank Holiday when every family in the North was trying to reach Bolton Abbey car park for a picnic beside the river.

As it turned out, most of them spent a great deal of time queuing behind our motorhome. Even with Steve at the wheel - he could do those square peg puzzles - you have to go very slow when the van’s almost as wide as the road. The bridge at Bolton Abbey village was the greatest test of his driving skills with only an inch to spare either side. I jumped out to guide him through, waving my arms, getting my right and left mixed up and shouting instructions - until I noticed he’d rolled the window up.

Despite my help, he managed to clear the gap. Come to think of it, I should be sending another hedge-clipping bill to the Duke of Devonshire, aristocratic owner of the estate (and who, I suspect, has yet to take the wheel of a motorhome).

All the same, there’s something to be said for being larger than any of the other vans in the Caravan Club’s campsite.

And when we drove into the car park at Burnsall village, the farmer taking our £4 parking fee beamed at us. "Magnificent," he pronounced.

We were there for the annual Burnsall Classic Fell Race, the biggest event on the village calendar where sturdy men and women race up a steep fell. We were the largest vehicle in the village except for the police van, who’d been wedged embarrassingly across the finish line earlier in the day.

The Burnsall race day was an annual celebration well before the first Elizabeth wore the crown. Somehow, the community has held on to its tradition without it becoming a totally tourist event.

We were invited to join in the fun but many of the races were strictly for the locals. Small boys practised their wheelbarrow technique while girls warmed up for the skipping race.

There’s a glorious build-up to the main race of the day with a funfair with Punch and Judy, a coconut shy and a ducking stool. "One for you dear," grinned Steve.

Like all good fairs, it was declared open by a celebrity. This year, it was Miss February, one of the local heroines who bared all behind her current buns in the WI fund-raiser that inspired the movie Calendar Girls.

But it’s the race that draws the crowds every Bank Holiday as men and women with legs of iron storm 1.5 miles up and down the mountainous fell in about 13 minutes.

Afterwards, there are plenty of cheers and beers at the Red Lion, the only pub in town. Thankfully it’s a good one, a 16th Century sprawling coach house serving hearty carb-heavy grub for runners, lighter scoff such as my yummy chick pea fritters for lazybones - and all for about £12 each with drinks.

Beyond Burnsall, the roads narrow still further but that didn’t stop us driving into Grassington, which looks so much like a scene from Last Of The Summer Wine we half expected to meet Compo chasing a runaway handcart.

Grassington’s a bustling little market town, more touristy than Burnsall but lovely nonetheless with tea shops, stalls selling ice cream whipped in the Dales and a gentleman’s clothier where you can even buy a proper flat cap.

There’s also the Grassington House hotel. The 18th Century building overlooks the cobbled village square, and tables in the conservatory catch the last rays of the day. We had a meal for two with drinks for less than a tenner each - go for the fish cakes and you won’t go far wrong (www.grassington househotel.co.uk).

Follow the Dales Way from the National Parks Visitor Centre toward Grass Wood, about a mile along the river past rocky pools where children attempt to catch big crayfish in small nets.

Grass Wood is one of the last big stands of native broad leaf forest in this corner of the Yorkshire Dales National Park.

It’s a haven for wildlife and I’m sure I heard cuckoos as we walked beneath the canopy.

"Nonsense, it’s a chicken," scoffed Steve.

The path from Grass Wood climbs sharply upwards through open heath. Then it opens out to a bleak moor where you can see the weather change from balmy to stormy quicker than you can say "let’s sprint downhill to the pub".

For much of the time we kept the motorhome parked in the campground in Strid Wood because there were plenty of attractions right on our doorstep.

On our first day, I saw a woodpecker at the bird table in the little garden tended by the Muirs - wardens who spend the summer in their own caravan beside the reception.

"We had a chick this summer," said Mrs Muir, as proud as if she’d sat on the egg herself.

This is five-star luxury camping, a spotlessly clean, award-winning site. I’d hate to get caught between Mrs Muir and a speck of dirt.

The Muirs talked us through campsite etiquette, such as marking your patch when you take the van out for a run. If you don’t leave a marker, somebody will snaffle your place, presuming you’ve nabbed the spot with the best views not too close to the loos.

As a motorhoming virgin there are things I forgot to pack. While I’d remembered the picnic hamper, we had no outdoor table to put it on. So while everybody else had their barbies and des-res dining sets, we had breakfast sprawled like Romans on mats and pillows from the van.

But it was rather nice to nibble toast surrounded by friendly mallards who’d decided we were either a soft touch or sloppy eaters, which amounts to the same thing if you’re a duck.

Had the roads been less busy we might have risked the wobbly three-mile rides for dinner each night in the pubs but as it was Bank Holiday we decided it was safer to walk.

Happily, the paths beside the Wharfe River are well maintained and through some of the loveliest countryside in the national park.

Dotted along the path this year, too, are amazing sculptures. You can find a guide to these hidden treasures in the woods from the Bolton Abbey Visitor Centre.

Bats flit across the river that in stretches opens into wide basins where kids splash about in the shallows. We could hear owls calling to each other at dusk. The jury’s still out on whether we really caught a glimpse of an otter - but it was on the way BACK from the pub.

The pubs at Appletreewick, pronounced Aptrick, are the nearest to Strid campsite, about an hour’s hike on a moonlit night.

Steve has spent years working his way through Yorkshire beers which he insists are the finest brews in England. He was therefore bashful about ordering me a girlie glass of dry rose in the New Inn at Appletreewick. "The locals will think we’re soft Southerners," he protested.

When he plucked up courage to ask, the barman recommended a rather feisty Pinot Grigio Blush they were promoting that week.

What’s the deal?

TO join the Caravan Club and to find out about camping sites call 01342 318 813.

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