It was sunny when we woke, surprisingly given we are in Northern England. The plan was to do the Gallop Hike as its called. But first we stopped to introduce ourselves to the neighbors – Simon and Olivia West. Those of you familiar with British Race Horses may already know of Simon. I’m more familiar the rodeo sort, given my years of reporting on Pendleton’s Round-Up.

Simon and Olivia could not have been more lovely, which is something I am saying alot about the people we are meeting across Northern England. Whatever notion you have of English being off-putting is just plain wrong. It doesn’t matter where we’ve traveled in the UK, people have been so welcoming to us. That’s expecially true in the Yorkshires. Friendly doesn’t begin to cover it.

To be honest, I was worried about returning to the UK given all the chaos of the Orange Tosser. I feared that his loathesome remarks about Greenland and about British troops might cause us all to be lumped into the same shitepool as his cult. But if anything Brits seem even more sympathetic and welcoming than ever to us. You can tell they feel sorry for us. They almost always reference their own shabby leader of Boris Johnson, to which I alway reply, “Well, but you had the good sense to get rid of him.”

Simon admitted he doesn’t keep up with politics. “Too hard to understand,” he said. What he knows best is horses. He introduced us to each of his horses by name and by owner. The youngest is a calm beauty from Ireland. As Simon talked about his work, I came to think horse training is a lot like being a track coach – you have your seniors and your freshman. You know what your seniors can do and what their limits are, who is a winner and who you can always rely on. But with your freshman, you are hoping that with the right coaching they will be the stars that lead you to state. Only thing is you don’t have to feed your runners in track the way you have to with your horses. Nor do you have to muck their stalls. Horse training is a lot more money and a lot more work. We will get to spend some time with Simon and Olivia over the next few weeks and I hope to learn a lot more.

There were no horses at the gallops by the time we arrived, but we didn’t mind. It was the perfect day for trotting through the Dales. Mind you we didn’t have a map, so we just walk on until we arrive at a footpath and then follow that until we find another. We never found the pub that’s haflway through the Gallops hike, but we did make it to the abbey without much ado. Hiking in the Yorkshires is like being transported to a movie set, one can hardly fathom the beauty of the place.

“Is this what they mean by heaven on earth?” I said as we crested yet another emerald hillside.

“It’s my idea of my heaven,” Tim replied.

Notice I don’t take photos of the muck or the puddles we wade through but those hills are only green like this in February because they are all sopping wet. The sound my boots make is most often akin to the sound of the last suck of a milkshake: a definite “Thwuup.” Hiking in a Yorkshire winter isn’t for everyone but that’s part of what we enjoy most about it – we have the paths to ourselves, save for the hares fleeing and the sheep bleating.

It was just over one of those hills that we happened upon Holy Trinity Church. If it looks familiar to you it may be due to it being featured on an episode “Mending Fences” of All Creatures Great and Small and, yes, Tim and I are fans of the show. Tim, as usual, went on ahead into the church as I stopped to read the gravestones.

Gravestones serve as short stories for me. I can’t walk past a stone without paying respects the life lived or the ones thwarted, the sacrifices made, the hopes fulfilled. On this day I was struck by the story of Thomas and Elizabeth Hancock and all the children they lost:

Martha: Aged 2 years Died Feb. 18, 1860. Hannah: Age 1 year 3 mos. Died Feb. 25, 1861. Mary Ann Martha: Aged 21. Died June 3, 1865. George: an infant. Died July 5, 1865. Martha Hannah: Aged 2 years 11 months. Died March 8, 1866. Mary Ann, Aged 5 years and nine months. Died Feb. 5th, 1875.

Thomas and Elizabeth lived on well past their children, both died at age 65. Thomas in 1884 and Elizabeth in 1889.

But it put me to wondering about the Mary Ann Martha who died at 21 and the infant George, who died a month after her. Was Mary Ann Martha a daughter or a sister or a servant? And was George her son? Had she died in childbirth and he shortly after bereaved of his mother? And the tendency here to name a child after the one who died. Surely it was meant to honor the one that passed but did it not also foretell something ominous for that child? And why so many deaths in February?

The church itself dates back to the 13th century, altho it is believed that a church has been on this same site since around 890. My mind can’t even grasp that. I was struck by a statuary of a mother and children. I love graveyard statuary. The Dawson family has a long history of horse training in this region, and I noticed that several of the stones in this statuary had the last name Dawson. The stained glass window with the shields is thought to be from the medieval ages.

We exited the church yard via a gate, past a spillway and over the Cover River via the stone bridge. The path back even less well marked than the one to the church, we mucked our way over the hills, past fields of shy sheep and a gang of aggressive rams, ducking under barbwire and climbing over wooden platforms designed for access, until we finally came to a recognizable hillside near the road leading back the way we came.

Only I didn’t return that way. Instead, I took off through the gallop course, while Tim took to the asphalt, which meant for the next hour we didn’t see each other and Tim was sure he’d lost me and I was sure I’d lost him. This is not an unusual occurrence. We have lost each other in Amsterdam and in Paris and in Cumbria, and in London (Winston Churchill Musuem, anyone?). In our family, Tim is known as the goat because he goes off on his own so much, especially when hiking that you just have to let him go. To my credit I did stand in the gallop run yelling out Tim’s name like some fishmonger’s frustrated wife, all to no avail. Tim isn’t deaf but he is hard at hearing when he isn’t listening. Know what I mean?

Anyway, we both arrived back at the cottage amused with one another and ready for a cider and something to eat, so off to the pub we went.

A warm pub is the place where we never lose each other.