This was in direct contrast to pre-war days. Then, the occasional visitor would pass through a village, perhaps halting for a drink and a chat at the village inn, but by the mid-1960s they were coming in their thousands. Some came by coachload, others came on foot or by bicycle, but mostly they came by car. I think it is fair comment that our villages, and even the charming market towns, were unprepared for this onslaught upon their amenities. There were few car-parking facilities, no public toilets, a definite shortage of places to halt for a soft drink or cup of tea, and a dearth of information directed specifically at visitors.
Many had no idea how to behave in the countryside – they left gates open, which caused cattle and horses to stray, sometimes with fatal consequences; they regarded all fields, whether crop-bearing or not, as common land; they left their rubbish and litter; they picked wild flowers to the point of rarity, and some even chopped up wooden fences to light fires or demolished dry stone walls in their determination to take home a piece of moorland granite to start a rockery. There was ingratitude, ignorance and vandalism on a scale hitherto unknown.
But the people of the moors learned to cope. Some saw the financial advantages of this perpetual influx and opened cafés, caravan sites and bed-and-breakfast establishments, while those in authority were forced to plan for this expanding tourist industry. Car-parks appeared, direction signs proliferated, information packs were compiled and byelaws created, all to regulate the increasing flow of visitors and protect the countryside and its inhabitants.
One pretty dale received more than its fair share; tens of thousands of visitors swarmed along its narrow, hilly lanes. The snag was that most of them arrived at the same time. They were not spread out across the year or even the summer season as were other places – they were compressed into a couple of weekends every year, usually around Easter.
The outcome was that the police were duty-bound to sort out the traffic confusion created by thousands of cars on lanes far too narrow, winding and steep to accommodate the width or length of a bus. It was a recipe for chaos. Just add a stubborn tractor-driver or shepherd with his flock, and the mixture could become volatile. The result could be a traffic jam several miles long – and this was in the days long before the M1 or the M25 and their notorious blockages.
The short-lived attraction was wild daffodils. There were hundreds of thousands of them, even millions, and they grew (and still grow) in splendid and colourful profusion along the banks of the River Dove in Farndale. There are miles of them, and they add a unique charm to this delightful moorland dale. The dale is also known for its thatched cottages and cruck houses, as well as its remoteness and splendid upland views, but it was the wild daffodils which first attracted the crowds.
Topographical books published before the turn of this century omitted references to these flowers, but once news of their presence did circulate, it brought in the thieves and vandals. They all wanted summat for nowt.
Greedy visitors came with scissors, scythes, sickles, trowels, spades and wheelbarrows and began to dig up the bulbs or cut barrowloads of flowers to sell in local city markets. Such was the threat from these looters that in 1953 the dale was made a local nature reserve, with a byelaw to protect the flowers.
And so the police officers whose duty took them to Farndale had two prime tasks – one was to control traffic, and the other was to protect the flowers, although there were also such ancillary tasks as first aid, lost and found property, missing children and wandering old ladies, thefts, vehicle breakdowns, lost dogs, litter and that host of other problems that are generated when crowds assemble.
Daffodil Duty, as we termed it, was one of my regular tasks, although Farndale was not on my own beat. Like the other officers in the area, I was diverted to Farndale from time to time, and it was a busy, if enjoyable task. Five or six constables, a sergeant and some special constables were drafted in when the daffodils bloomed. Our brief was simple – it was to keep the traffic moving.
Fortunately, although the roads were narrow, steep and winding, they did have one advantage: they formed a figure 8 as they wove around the dale. There was a tiny car-park near the central length of that figure 8, and if a one-way traffic system was instituted around the loops, it would prevent blockages. But only half the figure 8 (the lower half) was wide enough to cope with buses – and buses came by the score. On the main approach roads, signs were erected to guide coaches along one specific route: they must drive up the right-hand side of the lower dale, turn left along the link road and disgorge their passengers, and then park on the return leg of the bottom of the figure 8. That lane was wide enough to permit coaches to park, and when their passengers regained them, they could drive out of the dale without problems. Coaches had not to enter the top half of the figure 8.
Private cars, on the other hand, could cope with the steep, narrow lanes around the top half of that figure 8 (even if some of their drivers couldn’t!). However, this could operate only on a one-way system. There was no space for large numbers of cars to pass or overtake each other. We created a system whereby they entered the dale via the same route as the coaches and were directed by a policeman on traffic duty across to the left of the dale. They then drove up the left of the top of the figure 8 and circled the dale to return to the centre, where they encountered the same policeman. There they were fed into the incoming stream of cars to cross the 8 in the middle, and then they could leave the dale down the left hand leg. (They could not leave via the right-hand leg because the incoming buses filled the roads.) And with good nature from all, and a capable policeman on that central road of the figure 8, it worked. Traffic on that central stretch must be kept moving.
Understandably, some of the local residents and farmers did not relish a full tour of the dale to post a letter or gain access to their own premises. In time, we got to know them and their foibles and so would halt the traffic to allow a local person to go against the flow.
This was not always a success, however, because inevitably some obstreperous motorist would demand to go the same way, having seen us treat the locals with some sympathy. Initially, we explained our actions to those who grumbled, but too many wanted special treatment. After a time our patience was exhausted, so we never explained or argued with such drivers – if they were very awkward, they found themselves doing a longer than usual tour. The total round trip was in the region of eleven miles, but with a spot of collusion from other constables, awkward and inconsiderate drivers could find themselves doing a long second trip.
The truly tricky bit, from a traffic-control point of view, was the central part of that figure 8. All traffic used that short stretch of road whether entering or leaving the dale. Traffic new to the dale, both buses and cars, was channelled along it, but cars which had toured the top of the dale were also channelled along it as they were guided to their exit route. So long as everyone kept moving, knew where they were heading and did as they were told, there was no trouble. Even so, it required a good and patient constable to cope with the never-ending problems at that very important point. A blockage there would halt the entire dale, something of no great consequence to tourists but of very serious consideration if it prevented access by emergency vehicles, such as ambulances, fire appliances and doctors’ cars.
I recall one such problem. A coach had overshot the junction by about ten yards and needed to reverse in order to get around the bend into its correct route. But in those few moments other cars had arrived and were now queuing behind it. If each one reversed a short distance, the problem would be solved – the coach could move backwards, giving it space to turn the corner and then be on its way. But when I put this to the lady driving the car immediately behind it, she said haughtily, ‘Officer, I never reverse!’
‘But, madam,’ I replied, ‘if you don’t, the entire dale will be blocked. All I’m asking is for you to move back to that gate … a few yards … then the bus can proceed.’
‘I have told you, Constable. I never reverse. Never!’<
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I could have argued all day and threatened her with prosecution for obstructing the highway, but none of that would solve the immediate crisis. Already more cars were heading this way – if we didn’t get her moving soon, there would be a massive blockage.
‘Would you mind if I moved it for you?’ I asked.
‘Not at all.’ She was a picture of charm and, I suspect, some relief as I reversed her little Austin for the necessary distance.
That hiccup was of little consequence in comparison with the traffic jam created there one Easter Sunday afternoon at the peak of the influx of vehicles.
We had a new constable with us. He had transferred from Leeds City Police because his wife hated town life, and he had been posted to Eltering. His name was David Parry; he had about eight years service and was soon trying to impress us with stories of his daring exploits in policing a city, especially around the Saturday night trouble-spots as the pubs turned out. We got the impression he had controlled the entire centre of Leeds single-handed, and he adapted his boasting to the situation when he was earmarked for Daffodil Duty in Farndale. As we assembled in the village hall for briefing and allocation of points, he boasted that this traffic duty was nothing compared with rush hour on The Headrow at Leeds, one of the busiest thoroughfares in the city.
‘I can do the Headrow with my eyes shut,’ he said that Easter Sunday morning. ‘Multiple lanes, traffic lights, junctions to cope with … crowds … lorries and buses … that was a piece of cake. What have you here, then? A few buses and cars – mebbe a tractor or two? All on the same road? It’s a country lane – it’ll be a doddle.’
‘I’m delighted that we have such an expert amongst us,’ beamed Sergeant Bairstow with his customary good nature. ‘So, David, maybe you’d do the central stretch? That bit definitely needs the skills of an expert point-duty man.’
Bairstow explained the requirements and the likely problems, then showed PC Parry the link road at the junction of the figure 8.
‘Nothing to it, Sarge!’ beamed Parry as he warmed to the task of showing us country cousins how to do a proper job.
‘Nick.’ The sergeant turned to me. ‘You’ve done this before; you take this car-park. Stop ’em parking here except for disgorging passengers. And relieve David as and when necessary. Explain your job to him before you hand over. OK?’
‘Fine, Sarge,’ I smiled.
After a cup of coffee, we went to our posts. It was a dull April morning, with clouds threatening rain, and we wondered if the weather would deter the visitors. We felt it would not. Many would already have made plans or even left home by now. For the first hour or so, however, very few vehicles arrived, and I knew that PC Parry would find this boring in the extreme. But as lunch time approached, the clouds evaporated, a warm breeze appeared from the west, and the April sun beamed upon the dale. And the daffodils opened their trumpet-shaped blooms to welcome the incoming visitors as they began to arrive by the hundred and even the thousand.
Quite suddenly, the dale was transformed. From my vantage-point on the car-park, I could see the procession of oncoming buses and cars. It stretched way out of sight. The constable at the first junction was feeding them across to PC Parry, who in turn was dividing the buses and cars. The cars were being sent towards me; some disgorged their passengers and went on to park higher in the dale. Others completed a circular tour before returning later for their passengers.
By two o’clock the dale was filled with moving vehicles, but I began to realize that their progress was slowing. Quite suddenly, things went wrong. Within minutes traffic in the dale was grinding to a halt. The queue of buses waiting to disgorge passengers was growing, and then, as I looked across the dale to the junction at the far side, I could see that the traffic was stationary for a long way back. Nothing was moving. No cars were passing my point. They were backed for miles down the far side … and there was a queue from both the upper and lower dale … outgoing cars had been brought to a halt and so had incoming vehicles. The entire dale, miles and miles of it, was at a standstill and the air was was beginning to fill with the ghastly music of the great British motoring public – they were tooting their car horns. It sounded like the centre of Paris …
The blockage could only be at PC Parry’s point. Sergeant Bairstow was up the dale, so I decided to investigate. After all, Parry’s point was only a few yards from mine, although beyond my line of vision. When I arrived, I found mayhem. Cars and buses were jammed at his point; a bus was stuck across the road, there was a tractor and trailer trying to manœuvre past them, and cars were queuing patiently to get past them all. Some drivers were out of their cars, arguing, others were blowing their horns, and some bus passengers had disembarked to march steadfastly towards the daffodils. And in the middle of the road there was PC Parry.
He was on his knees. His hands were covering his head, which was bare. His cap was lying a few yards away, and he held his head close to the surface of the road. I could see by the movements of his body that he was in great distress and appeared to be weeping. I ran to help him, assisting him to his feet and placing him momentarily in a house doorway as uncontrollable tears flowed down his face. Then, with the aid of two bus-drivers, I organized some shunting of buses and cars, a telling-off for the tractor-driver, and after some ten minutes and a lot of shouting, we got things moving again. Eventually the cars filtered towards the higher dale, and the buses went to their parking spaces. The horn-honking faded away as the traffic began to move.
But I had David Parry to deal with. I asked one level-headed motorist to give PC Parry a lift to the village hall, and as he did so, I radioed for Sergeant Bairstow to come and look at his ailing constable.
‘I think he needs treatment, Sarge,’ I said into my radio. ‘But I’m not sure what his problem is.’
‘I’ll see to him, Nick,’ came the response.
I stood on the busy road, guiding buses and cars to their correct destinations, and then an ambulance arrived. It manœuvred itself through the throng of incoming traffic and eventually rushed off to Brantsford Cottage Hospital with PC Parry inside.
That Daffodil Duty became a very busy one, and as we ended our duty at six o’clock that evening, Sergeant Bairstow thanked us all. It had been a record turn-out, so he thought – but tomorrow was still to come.
‘Same again tomorrow, lads,’ he smiled. ‘Same points. Easter Monday will be busy – the weather forecast says it’ll be fine and sunny, like today.’
‘What about PC Parry, Sarge?’ I asked. ‘How is he?’
‘He’s fine now, thanks, Nick,’ smiled Bairstow. ‘They’ve sent him home. But we’re replacing him for tomorrow’s duties. We shan’t be using him again for Daffodil Duty.’
‘Are our country drivers too much for him?’ asked one of the constables.
‘No, it’s the daffodils,’ laughed Bairstow. ‘It seems he’s allergic to them. The pollen got to him … he sneezed himself silly
‘That’s flower power,’ chuckled some wag as we prepared to leave.
2 Life’s Little Mysteries
Like one that on a lonesome road
Doth walk in fear and dread,
And having once turned round walks on,
And turns no more his head.
Samuel Taylor Coleridge (1772–1834)
It requires the knowledge of a local person to make full use of the interconnecting network of minor roads which pattern the heights and dales of the North York Moors. Businessfolk and visitors tend to use the A-or B-class routes, even though only one A-class road runs north to south across the moors. That is the A169 from Whitby to Pickering. The A171 crosses the northern moors from west to east as it runs from Guisborough to Scarborough; it visits Whitby, then hugs the picturesque coastline as it turns towards the Queen of Watering Places. Another main road, the A174, touches the very northernmost part of the moors between Staithes and Whitby, while the A172/173 lie over to the west. There are no other A-class roads, although the B1257, with its panora
mic views, runs down Bilsdale from Stokesley to Helmsley. This is the only B-class road completely to traverse the heights.
This dearth of main roads is compensated by a bewildering network of unclassified routes. They run down the dales or snake across the moors to link dale with dale or village with village. In addition, there are hundreds of miles of ancient tracks, green lanes, disused roads and bridleways, and these do tend to be well used by the moorfolk, especially when the main roads are busy with summer traffic.
A large-scale map will help identify these, but in general terms they are beyond the sights of the casual visitor. However, one moorland road is centuries older than any of these, and it has been discovered by the tourists.
It is the Roman road which crosses Wheeldale Moor near Goathland. Alternatively known as ‘T’Aud Wife’s Trod’ or ‘Wade’s Causeway’, ancient legend said it was built by the giant Wade and his wife Bell who had to cross the moors between Mulgrave Castle and Pickering Castle. More professional examination proved it to be of great historical importance and antiquity, because it was found to be a genuine Roman road and not the work of a legendary giant. It is the only Roman road known to have entered this part of North Yorkshire and is the finest example of its type in Britain. Six hundred feet above sea-level, the uncovered portion extends about a mile and a quarter, and it is a remarkable feat of construction. Sixteen feet wide and made up of flat stones on a bed of gravel, it is raised in the centre to facilitate drainage and even has side gutters and culverts.
It is even more remarkable when we realize that some of our own roads were little more than mud tracks even into this century. It required a man like John MacAdam (1756–1836) to emulate this style many centuries later. The Roman road has survived almost twenty centuries on this bleak and windswept moorland, and it is sad to record that some of it has been ploughed up, and some stones have been plundered for house-building, while others have been utilized in the construction of the present road from Stape to Egton Bridge. Fortunately, this fine stretch has survived.
Constable among the Heather Page 2
