Beneath the Surface: North York Moors

"Beneath the Surface: North York Moors No. 1" 2017

You realize why there are so many writers from the UK when you start walking around the glens, and moors and the wide open spaces that have been inspirational for centuries. You can see how these stories then migrated into the minds the world over. When we stayed with our lovely friends Welly and Rachel up in Rudby, Yarm in North Yorkshire and walked around the Cleveland Hills, my heart quickened its pace when I saw for the first time hillsides covered in heather.

As we finished our three mile hike, we walked down into a rushy glen and I saw before my eyes a place I had seen in my dreams. Perhaps illustrated in a Henry Moore novel or my idea of what a picturesque narrow valley in the United Kingdom would look like but there it stood complete with fern and bracken and emerald green leafy trees.

A new image appeared in the reflection of the water, this time an extension of the trees around the water, an arm reaching out - more human than branch. Or are our arms just an extended branch that has evolved? What ever, I felt deeply connected to this very spot and was fortunate to capture my dream.

Julie Green

November 25, 2017

William Allingham. 1824–1889

The Fairies

UP the airy mountain,
Down the rushy glen,
We daren't go a-hunting
For fear of little men;
Wee folk, good folk,	5
Trooping all together;
Green jacket, red cap,
And white owl's feather!
Down along the rocky shore
Some make their home,	10
They live on crispy pancakes
Of yellow tide-foam;
Some in the reeds
Of the black mountain lake,
With frogs for their watch-dogs,	15
All night awake.
High on the hill-top
The old King sits;
He is now so old and gray
He 's nigh lost his wits.	20
With a bridge of white mist
Columbkill he crosses,
On his stately journeys
From Slieveleague to Rosses;
Or going up with music	25
On cold starry nights
To sup with the Queen
Of the gay Northern Lights.
They stole little Bridget
For seven years long;	30
When she came down again
Her friends were all gone.
They took her lightly back,
Between the night and morrow,
They thought that she was fast asleep,	35
But she was dead with sorrow.
They have kept her ever since
Deep within the lake,
On a bed of flag-leaves,
Watching till she wake.	40
By the craggy hill-side,
Through the mosses bare,
They have planted thorn-trees
For pleasure here and there.
If any man so daring	45
As dig them up in spite,
He shall find their sharpest thorns
In his bed at night.
Up the airy mountain,
Down the rushy glen,	50
We daren't go a-hunting
For fear of little men;
Wee folk, good folk,
Trooping all together;
Green jacket, red cap,	55
And white owl's feather!

William Allingham. 1824–1889

  

The Fairies

  

UP the airy mountain,

  Down the rushy glen,

We daren't go a-hunting

  For fear of little men;

Wee folk, good folk,

         5

  Trooping all together;

Green jacket, red cap,

  And white owl's feather!

Down along the rocky shore

  Some make their home,

  10

They live on crispy pancakes

  Of yellow tide-foam;

Some in the reeds

  Of the black mountain lake,

With frogs for their watch-dogs,

  15

  All night awake.

High on the hill-top

  The old King sits;

He is now so old and gray

  He 's nigh lost his wits.

  20

With a bridge of white mist

  Columbkill he crosses,

On his stately journeys

  From Slieveleague to Rosses;

Or going up with music

  25

  On cold starry nights

To sup with the Queen

  Of the gay Northern Lights.

They stole little Bridget

  For seven years long;

  30

When she came down again

  Her friends were all gone.

They took her lightly back,

  Between the night and morrow,

They thought that she was fast asleep,

  35

  But she was dead with sorrow.

They have kept her ever since

  Deep within the lake,

On a bed of flag-leaves,

  Watching till she wake.

  40

By the craggy hill-side,

  Through the mosses bare,

They have planted thorn-trees

  For pleasure here and there.

If any man so daring

  45

  As dig them up in spite,

He shall find their sharpest thorns

  In his bed at night.

Up the airy mountain,

  Down the rushy glen,

  50

We daren't go a-hunting

  For fear of little men;

Wee folk, good folk,

  Trooping all together;

Green jacket, red cap,

  55

  And white owl's feather!