While we were staying in Yorkshire we spent a great deal of our time walking in the countryside. We were fortunate that there were so many wonderful spots to walk to and the fact that there were also several pubs scattered around the countryside made our walks even more enjoyable.
Our first venture was just to the village closest to where we were staying, that village was Burythorpe.
The first thing we found there was village cricket which just seems so quintessentially English. The sound of leather on willow.
Burthorpe can lay claim to having Eric Clapton as one of the residents. He lives at this particular establishment.
You can visit as the house is also home to the Priory Restaurant.
Burythorpe also used to have a pub called The Bay Horse. Unfortunately the Pub is non functioning at present as there is some dispute as the owner is trying to sell the property for housing development. Even though the community has raised enough money to buy the property the owner will not sell to the community. The issue has gone to council and the community is waiting to see if the council will back them by disallowing the property to be sold for housing development rather than as a pub.
Burythorpe also has a lovely old church.
It appears that there is a serious problem in the UK with theft from churches. Apparently the lead in the roofing is one of the things the thieves are after.
We spent some time reading the old gravestones in the graveyard. Some of the stones are clearly showing the ravages of time.
There was a beautiful chestnut tree in the graveyard and it brought back memories of my dad. He used to quote poetry and had a poem for almost everything. This one was The Village Blacksmith by Longfellow I remember the first few lines but my dad could recite much more.
- “THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH”
- Under a spreading chestnut tree
The village smithy stands;
The smith, a mighty man is he,
With large and sinewy hands;
And the muscles of his brawny arms
Are strong as iron bands.His hair is crisp, and black, and long,
His face is like the tan:
His brow is wet with honest sweat,
He earns whate’er he can,
And looks the whole world in the face,
For he owes not any man.Week in, week out, from morn till night,
You can hear his bellows blow;
You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,
With measured beat and slow,
Like a sexton ringing the village bell,
When the evening sun is low.And children coming home from school
Look in at the open door;
They love to see the flaming forge,
And hear the bellows roar,
And catch the burning sparks that fly
Like chaff from a threshing floor.
He goes on Sunday to the church,
And sits among his boys;
He hear the parson pray and preach,
He hears his daughter’s voice,
Singing in the village choir,
And it makes his heart rejoice.
It sounds to him like her mother’s voice,
Singing in Paradise!
He needs must think of her once more,
How in the grave she lies;
And with his hard, rough hand he wipes
A tear out of his eyes.
Onwards through life he goes;
Each morning sees some task begin,
Each evening sees it close;
Something attempted, something done,
Has earned a night’s repose.
Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
For the lesson thou hast taught!
Thus at the flaming forge of life
Our fortunes must be wrought;
Thus on its sounding anvil shaped
Each burning deed and thought!