Richmond North Yorkshire May 24th 2013

RICHMOND  on the River Swale

 Friday May 24th 2013

It's officially summer, the Spring Bank Holiday - only three weeks till the longest day. Forecast: a good sunny weekend. Out come the maps, the trip is planned...
       The day of travel dawns: threatening clouds, 6C. Marvellous. And according to the Radio 4 it will feel like 1C. On with the thermals.
        Equipped with six layers of clothing and looking and feeling like a pair of reet Derbyshire Onions, we hit the motorway northbound just as the heavens open. It isn't so much the rain, driving into the windscreen with the force and purpose of a glass etcher, it's the winds, north winds, that succeed in thwarting the Duchess from achieving even 40 mph, downhill.
        As you will know, owing to the well-known tilt of our island, in travelling north, all roads are pretty much uphill. Southern and Eastern coasts are slowly sliding into the sea -you can almost hear the distant crumble and cry from cliffs and home owners - whilst to the north, accompanied by cheers from the SNP, Scotland rises like a breaching whale out of the Atlantic. So, it's a mammoth struggle against wind, weather and topography but we are made of stern stuff. Besides, we have a  whole B & B outfit on board: kitchen, toilet, 87 pillows and more wine than the South of France.
The gale is buffeting us from side to side, lorries with flapping tarpaulins thunder past and in doing so, for some reason, very unkindly push us backwards. Do they know something we don't, about The North?
        On the southbound carriage there is an ever-stretching queue of stationary vehicles. One of their lorries has blown over, and they will be kissing each other's bumpers for hours. We wonder if they'll have time to form new friendships, perhaps spread a few STDs along the lines... There's a lorry parked in the outside lane. BB says it's to prevent people from trying to jump the queue, I think the driver's just  jumping someone himself... We pray to any god who's listening, that the same thing won't happen to us. It turns out Northern Gods are as under-employed as their worshippers, so we're in with a shout, and our prayers are  answered. The windscreen wipers begin to make headway against the spray, and the tiniest patch of blue sky peaks through. We celebrate by stopping for a pee, but then can't get out of the lay-by for 40 minutes as traffic thunders past. The Duchess needs a longer runway than a jumbo jet and there aren't many gaps that big. We finally growl back onto the A1 and as the wind drops reach the dizzy heights of 50mph. Oh still, my beating heart!
      Next stop Richmond - not in Surrey, we went north remember, keep up. We're in North Yorkshire. A breathtaking little town, even with storm clouds rolling above its castle. With multiple layers of clothing and a waterproof on top, it still feels colder than midwinter. Sorry Richmond, but we can't face paying to go inside the castle on a day like this. There is something less than inspiring about the prospect of climbing an old ruin to be exposed to an arctic buffeting. We look at each other and shake heads in unison, offering the irrefutable excuse of "knees."  With no break in the cloud to ensure panoramic views worthy of Best Beloved's new camera (Wash your mouth out Canon lovers, it's a Nikon) it will have to wait for another day.
 We have parked down by the river, the centre of town being occupied by a ghostly funfair. Now, if you are seeking a way to kill off your town centre, park thirty garish, mechanical vampires smack in the middle of it, and only let them loose after the hours of darkness. We didn't stay to see either the  shops or the sunset resurrection. Instead, we went looking for the theatre. BB was 'encouraged' to forego his fieldcraft and ask someone the way. I've worn out too much shoe leather in the past to retain patience after seeing the same street more than twice.
'The theatre? Let me see, if you make for Madame Vasari's Vonderland, go round the coconut shy, past the huge memorial obelisk, cant miss it, duck between the kiddie karts and the dodgems, find the pavement on the other side, turn left, go down the hill...'
We find the theatre: joy, it is open. The Pirates of Penzance plays tonight. What are the chances.... We saw it last summer in Buxton, and seriously doubt we could see it again without  curdling. Never mind, we're told, there's an ex-Railway Station at the bottom of the valley with a cinema.

So down we trot  past a very fun-key church. No idea what their poster means, but it's kind of quaint. We are in time to eat at the wonderful Station cafe, Seasons Restaurant, a real find with delicious gluten free cakes and soya hot chocolate. Lulled by the friendliness of the folk and the cosy warmth of its deep leather sofas, we decide to stay and watch Star Trek: Into the Darkness, in 3D. The theatre fills with six other denizens of Richmond, (all over 40.) Where are the young residents, the children? Did the Pied Piper whip them off across the Swale? There were none in town, nor in the cinema, maybe along the beautiful river valley ending in some broad falls near where we parked the Duchess? No, they've obviously been eaten by the funfair ghouls.

     The weather is still windy and grey, not a soul in sight as we step back into the world. Captain Kirk has saved the day and we can sleep safely if we can find our way back to the Duchess. Which way was it? The car parks are empty of people, ice cream, even the toilets are shut. We walk the length of the river and pass a lay-by which will do very nicely for our next visit, but for now, we've paid £4 for a ticket that takes us through to 8am, so will stick with that. No one likes to waste their parking ticket, even if the view is ten times better elsewhere. Two other camper vans are in our carpark but no one in sight.
Nuts! Our leisure battery is out of juice, so we turn in early and sleep well to the distant thump of the funfair up in the market square. No one disturbs us, apart from one camper leaving at 4 am, probably a fair-man having stowed away the fun.
By 8 am we're on the road, all the way down to the car park by the falls to eat a cooked breakfast - with the storm quite spent, and the sun shining in a clear blue sky.
Ah! We forgot. No leisure battery - therefore no water pump. No water pump - no coffee, no coffee - no smiles. Best Beloved takes the kettle and tries the Gents, now open. He returns, bereft. It's only got an all-in-one water-and-pink-soap-sprinkler. Not very macho I know. I take the kettle, shun the Ladies, go straight for the jugular - otherwise known as the  Disabled. Well, I reason we are effectively disabled until BB has had his coffee, and it does sport a very nice old fashioned tap with no soap, and lashings of unsprinkly water.
Coffee and breakfast achieved, we are still alone in this beautiful spot, and the river Swale is in full glory, chucking itself over the broad rock falls with the sort of abandon that only a soggy country can afford.
Gallons and gallons of the clear brown wet stuff surge past the Duchess sparkling in the sun. (That's the water sparkling, not the Duchess. To be honest, she could use a full body wash, but our local garage only rises to a stool, doesn't do ladders, so she only gets a midriff sponging. We suspect there might be rare mosses on the roof. Quite exciting when you think about it.)
In the absence of the water pump, washing-up is a paper towel job. We might be wasting trees, but by 'eck, we're saving on water. Feeling mightily refreshed by a grand morning, grand breakfast and a grand, unspoiled-on-an-unBank Holiday little town,we programme Molly, our intrepid onboard computer, point the Duchess in the direction of Durham and think we might return one day. High praise indeed. We're very picky...