The North - The North York Moors National Park
For years and years I've been "the planner". Everything we did, everything we ate, everywhere we went, I had to plan it. Well life had other plans (haha, get it?) and whilst it didn't really bother me having to plan my own solo holiday, I figured, why should I?
Sure I planned which weeks I'd be off. I even planned a rudimentary itinerary. And by rudimentary, I mean the very basics. "I think I'll go North. Never been North."
So I've gone North! No reservations. No real venues in mind. I prepped and packed for many different outcomes but wanted to rely mostly on myself and what felt right to me at the time. If I wanted to stay longer somewhere, I would. If I wanted to leave, I could. I didn't want to book things in advance because too often I've booked things in the past two years and I've had to cancel due to You-Know-What so everything was completely up in the air!
I stuffed as much as I could into my borrowed car, Monty, on Monday 25th October 2021. The night before I'd booked two nights in a holiday caravan park in the North York Moors National Park in one of their "Glamping Pods" which I don't think they really fully understood the concept of glamping, but I digress.
The weather was mild, the car full of petrol and away I went. I'll admit the first stretch was harrowing. I don't normally go on the motorway because I never have much need, but to get to the national park quickly I decided to brave the M1, M18 and all the Ms from there to York.
It wasn't fun.
It's good going, honestly. But, for you Florida folks, you know how you can get a groove going, like travelling those long stretches of I-75 in between towns where it's just you, some good tunes and your highway buddy (aka the car you've been more or less following for the past 30 some odd miles)? Well you don't really get that on the motorways. You are speed. You are either the hunter or the prey. Do not allow your brain to wander or sixteen high speed lorries will be up on your cootchie faster than you can spell Loxahatchee.
Eventually I start getting to calmer A and B roads and the scenery begins to change. The hills start rolling and the ratio of sheep to people begins to lose all rhyme and reason. After a few narrow, switchback-ridden roads as the sun started to get low in the sky, finally I came across where I was trying to get to: Rosedale Abbey Caravan Park. I checked in at reception, got my keys and drove allllll the way to the back of the park where the glamping pods were situated in a neat little row.
The design is rather adorable and functional, but glamping is just a stupid amalgamation of glamorous and camping, so you'd have thought there'd be a few more frills involved to make it "glamping." Sadly it was a bare bones pod, but it did have a small heater and a couple outlets, only you had to use under a certain amperage or you'd possibly blow the circuit. But they were relatively cheap per night so I thought I'd give it a whirl. Only my air mattress had a hole somewhere in it which resulted in my mattress completely deflating every 1.5 hours. So the first night I barely slept. To make matters worse, there was zero mobile reception. Nada. So for two days I couldn't talk to anyone except all the voices in my head saying what a dumb dumb I've been for going on this trip.
Oh, did I mention that this trip has no budget either? So I've got no itinerary and no budget. Thought I'd squeeze in that little tidbit.
I did make friends with my camping neighbour, a Yorkshire chap and his son who would go on bike rides. And the local caravan bird man was fun to talk with regarding all of what he's seen on his daily walks around the park. He insisted there were no foxes on account of all the sheep (???) but I heard foxes barking on the hillside so go figure.
For you UK peeps, what is it about pheasants and their desire to have themselves run over at every possible opportunity? I swear to frog that those bastards chase car tyres hoping to end their flavourful yet colourful existence. Even chickens have more sense so it's a wonder really that pheasants still exist at all.
So yes, that first night was pretty awful. I didn't sleep as my nerves were very jittery. Not having any internet for someone like me is kinda a jittery-inducing feeling. And not getting any sleep on top of that? Yikes.
I woke up Tuesday, 26th October to dreary, grey skies that had already drizzled over the land that morning. I had planned to visit a nearby abbey but with no sleep and one-lane roads with rolling hills and suicidal pheasants I thought I'd just stay in that day. I went on a couple little walks around the small village of Rosedale and I ended up reading most of the day. My stomach was still in knots but I knew I needed to eat something. I wandered down to the pub across the street but came two hours too early. I guess it makes sense. Not many places can justify being open at 3pm if most of their clientele don't eat until 6. Well I didn't want to wait until 6 so I went back into the small village and visited the local tea shop which was still open. By that time it was nearly 4 and I knew they were shutting at half 4 so I politely asked if they still had anything to serve and they said I could have some soup and a cold sandwich, so I did. I also had a pot of Yorkshire tea which always hits the spot, even with jittery stomachs.
I loved eavesdropping on all the little conversations going on around me. One of the tea shop proprietors would come out, red faced and a big ol'round belly but with a slightly crooked smile from ear to ear, and he would chat up the little old ladies in the corner and they'd start cackling and giggling and it was lovely to hear. When he said that the last gent to roll up to Parliament with a good idea was Guy Fawkes I nearly choked on my soup. Of course that set the old ladies off again hooting and laughing and genuinely, aside from the meh sandwich and the eels still in my stomach, it was a lovely atmosphere.
