Afoot In Britain

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Afoot In Britain now known as Seymour Travels - Having spent much of my life living overseas, I now

20/11/2024

It was a cold, wet morning in North Wales when I gathered my small group of tour members around me. The rain had softened the ground underfoot, and the low-hanging mist blurred the line between earth and sky. Despite the weather, our spirits were high. I clapped my hands together and grinned at the cluster of eager faces peering at me through rain-spattered hoods and hats.

“We’re not here for the weather,” I said, my voice rising above the distant bleat of sheep and the soft patter of drizzle. I turned and pointed toward the south, where the Carneddau Mountains loomed dark and rugged against the stormy skies. “We’re going up there.”

A ripple of excitement passed through the group, and a few exchanged glances that wavered between apprehension and anticipation. We were well-prepared, clad in waterproof jackets, sturdy boots, and thick layers. It was clear, though, that the real adventure lay ahead.

Our destination was Gareth Wyn Jones’s farm—a place as deeply connected to the land as the mountains themselves. Gareth, a local hill farmer and advocate for sustainable farming, had a reputation as a passionate, larger-than-life figure. His work had made him something of a local legend, but what truly drew us here were the wild horses of the Carneddau, a rare and ancient breed that had roamed these mountains for thousands of years.

As we arrived at the farmyard, the clang of gates and the bark of sheepdogs filled the air. A tall man in a waterproof jacket and well-worn wellies strode toward us with an infectious energy.

“Bore da!” boomed Gareth, his deep voice cutting through the rain as he approached. His boots thumped against the concrete, and he extended his hand in greeting.

I introduced our group, and Gareth greeted each of us with a firm handshake and a warm smile. Soon after, we divided into smaller groups to begin our ascent into the mountains. Half of our party climbed into a battered Land Rover, while the rest, including myself and my colleague Lorraine, squeezed into a Honda 4x4. Lorraine and I opted for the most adventurous perch of all—the flatbed sheep trailer hitched to the back.

With the roar of engines and the excited barks of sheepdogs, we began our climb.

Into the Heart of the Carneddau we went.

The vehicles lurched and clawed their way over the rough, uneven terrain. The “trail” we followed was barely more than a series of worn tracks etched into the hillside, winding upward through a landscape of mossy rocks and wind-blown grass. Every bump sent Lorraine and me sliding around the trailer, laughing despite the discomfort.

The sheepdogs, unfazed by the rain or the jostling vehicles, darted alongside us, their tongues lolling and their coats glistening with moisture. Occasionally, one would leap into the trailer, shaking itself vigorously before bounding off again, leaving us splattered and grinning.

After nearly an hour of slow, steady progress, we reached the summit.

As we climbed out of the vehicles, the view took our breath away. The peaks of the Carneddau stretched out around us, their jagged ridges softened by mist. To the west lay the dramatic landscape of Snowdonia National Park, its valleys and peaks shrouded in a patchwork of clouds. To the north, the Menai Strait shimmered in the weak morning light, and beyond it, the ancient island of Anglesey rose from the sea like a mythical land.

The only sounds were the sigh of the wind, the distant call of birds, and the occasional bleat of a sheep.

“This,” Gareth said, spreading his arms wide, “is my office.”

The wild horses were the reason we had made this journey. These remarkable animals, numbering fewer than 250, have roamed the Carneddau Mountains since the Bronze Age. Their lineage is ancient, and they are perfectly adapted to this harsh environment—small, hardy, and incredibly sure-footed.

Gareth explained that the horses were not entirely wild. Though they lived freely on the moorland, they were technically owned by the local farmers, who managed their grazing and monitored their health. It was a delicate balance, one that Gareth was passionate about preserving.

As we stood listening to Gareth’s tales of the horses and their history, movement on the horizon caught our attention.

A small herd of Carneddau ponies was approaching from the south. At first, they were little more than dark silhouettes against the misty landscape, their shapes merging with the shadows of the rocks and hills. But as they came closer, their forms grew distinct—the curve of their necks, the powerful muscles in their legs, the way their manes rippled in the wind.

Gareth held up a hand, signaling for silence.

We stood as still as statues, our breaths shallow and our eyes fixed on the horses. Slowly, cautiously, they approached, their hooves barely making a sound on the soft, damp ground.

They stopped about fifty yards away, their heads high and ears pricked forward. For a long moment, we simply watched them, awed by their beauty and grace.

“They’re curious,” Gareth whispered. “But cautious, too.”

The lead mare took a few tentative steps closer, her nostrils flaring as she tested the air. Behind her, a foal peeked out from behind its mother’s legs, its eyes wide and curious.

In that moment, words felt unnecessary. The sight of these ancient creatures, thriving in their wild home, was more powerful than anything we could have said.

Over the next few days, we immersed ourselves in Gareth’s world. We explored the hills on foot, learning about the flora and fauna that made this rugged landscape their home. We visited the farm, where Gareth’s family welcomed us with open arms and hearty meals of lamb stew and homemade bread.

Gareth’s passion for sustainable farming was evident in everything he did. He spoke of the challenges facing hill farmers in Wales—the unpredictable weather, the shrinking subsidies, the pressures of modern agriculture—and the importance of preserving traditional ways of life.

One afternoon, he took us to a secluded valley where the sheep were gathered for shearing. The air was filled with the sound of clippers and the bleating of sheep, and the scent of lanolin hung heavy in the air. Gareth’s skill was impressive; his movements were quick and precise, honed by years of experience.

“Farming’s not just a job,” he said, pausing to wipe his brow. “It’s a way of life. It’s who we are.”

On our final morning, we returned to the summit to bid farewell to the mountains and the horses. The weather had cleared slightly, and the sun broke through the clouds in patches, casting golden light over the moorland.

We spotted the herd again, grazing peacefully on a hillside. This time, they allowed us to get a little closer, their trust seemingly won after days of quiet observation.

As we stood there, watching the horses and taking in the vastness of the landscape, I felt a profound sense of connection—to the land, to the people who called it home, and to the timeless rhythm of life on the Carneddau.

“This place,” Gareth said, his voice quiet but filled with emotion, “it stays with you. Long after you’ve left, it stays with you.”

As we made our way back down the mountain, I knew he was right. The Carneddau had left its mark on all of us, etching its beauty and spirit into our hearts.

The journey to North Wales, the rugged peaks of the Carneddau, and the wild horses we encountered there would remain a treasured memory for everyone in our group. It was more than just a tour—it was a glimpse into a world where the past and present intertwined, where nature and humanity coexisted in harmony, and where the wild spirit of the land still thrived.

24/10/2024

The wind howled across the Tor, carrying with it the chill of autumn and the distant smell of rain. A filthy man, his breath stinking of stale ale, pressed the cold tip of a pike to my back, forcing me to stumble further up the rocky path. I could feel the roughness of the ground beneath my worn sandals, each step sending a jolt of pain up my spine. The drizzle began to fall, lightly at first, the droplets stinging as they hit my skin. I shivered, not from the cold but from the overwhelming sense of dread that had settled deep within me.

The Abbey of Glastonbury loomed below, its grand architecture gleaming despite the grey sky, a stark reminder of what had once been my life’s work. My home, my sanctuary. Now, all that remained was the knowledge that I had failed to protect it from the relentless grip of the crown. Soldiers had come not long ago, carrying a letter from Henry, my old friend, the king. In it, he demanded that I sign over the Abbey to him, its lands, and its wealth—a royal seizure under the guise of the new laws, of supremacy.

I had already signed his Act of Supremacy, acknowledging him as the supreme head of the Church in England, as much as it tore at my conscience. But handing over Glastonbury? No, that I could not do. Not this Abbey, not the sacred home to so many, nor the centuries of tradition it represented. The king, in his fear of Rome, his growing thirst for power, sought to raze the very foundation of our faith, to tear apart what God had nurtured through the ages.

Glastonbury, with its wealth and influence, was too great a prize for Henry to ignore. I know this. I know the temptation it must present to him. But to sign the Abbey away felt like betrayal. Not just of the Church, but of my own soul. And so, I refused.

Now, I find myself a prisoner, brought to trial on false charges—accused of theft, of all things. It is a cruel irony, given that the king’s men are the true thieves, their eyes glinting with greed as they look upon the riches of Glastonbury’s lands. My two dearest companions, Fathers John and Richard, were condemned alongside me. We were shackled to hurdles, dragged through the streets like animals, humiliated before our community. Our innocence mattered little; the verdict was predetermined.

We were found guilty.

The rain fell harder now, soaking through my robe. The guards laughed, taking pleasure in our discomfort, their coarse voices blending with the wind. I cast a glance over my shoulder at John and Richard. Their faces were gaunt, hollow from the days of suffering we had endured together. Yet their eyes remained calm, resolute. They had made their peace with God, as had I. And yet, the fear lingered.

Would this truly be the end of Glastonbury? Of our abbey, our faith, our lives? I couldn’t fathom it. The thought of what was to come—a gruesome ex*****on, our heads displayed above the gates of the abbey, our limbs sent to the towns as a warning—was almost too much to bear. To think that this place, this holy ground, could fall into the hands of men like these… It seemed like a nightmare from which I could not wake.

As we neared the summit of the Tor, the wind grew stronger, whipping my robes against my legs. The guards shoved us forward, barking orders as they prepared the ex*****on site. Wooden beams stood ready, crude and splintered, hastily constructed to serve as the gallows. The sight of them sent a shiver of terror down my spine. I had known death would come for me, but the manner of it—the cruelty, the indignity—was something I had not prepared for.

I knelt briefly, the sodden earth seeping through my knees, and cast my eyes down toward the abbey one last time. From up here, it looked as it always had, strong, majestic, a beacon of faith amidst the rolling green hills of Somerset. I could almost see the monks at their daily work, tending the gardens, copying scriptures, their voices rising in prayer within the hallowed walls. My heart swelled with pride, but it was tinged with sorrow. Henry wanted it all. And after my death, he would have it.

“I am afraid,” I whispered under my breath, a prayer more to myself than to God, though I knew He was listening. The fear I felt was not just for myself, but for the abbey and all that it stood for. Would it be torn apart? Its treasures melted down, its lands divided among those who had no care for its sanctity? Was this to be the fate of Glastonbury?

The ex*****oner, a brute of a man, stood by the gallows, sharpening his axe with deliberate slowness. His grin was wide, eager. He would take pleasure in this, as would the crowd below, hungry for blood, for spectacle. I could hear their murmurs, carried up on the wind—a mix of pity and scorn.

“Stand up!” the guard growled, jabbing me once more with the pike.

I did as he asked, my body trembling not just from the cold but from the knowledge of what was to come. The time was near. I closed my eyes and murmured a final prayer, for forgiveness, for strength, for deliverance from this wretched fate.

But in my heart, I prayed for Glastonbury.

As they prepared to tie the noose around my neck, a brief moment of clarity washed over me. The king, in his fear of rebellion and the looming threat of the Pope, had been driven to these desperate measures. His Reformation, his break from Rome, had changed everything. But deep down, I wondered if Henry knew the destruction he was truly sowing. This wasn’t just about politics, or power, or land. It was about faith. About the sacred bond between a people and their God. And that bond, no matter how many abbeys he razed or how many men he executed, could never be broken.

The rain poured now, the heavens weeping with us as the rope was placed around my neck. I felt the roughness of it against my skin, biting into the flesh. The crowd’s murmurs quieted, waiting for the moment of finality.

The ex*****oner raised his hand, signaling the end.

And then… the world stopped.

For a brief, fleeting moment, everything became still. The wind ceased its howling, the rain paused in mid-air, and time itself seemed to hold its breath. In that silence, I felt a warmth. A light, not from the stormy sky, but from within. A peace settled over me, deeper than any I had ever known.

I knew then that my body would die here today, on this lonely hill, but my spirit—my faith—would live on. Glastonbury would endure. The abbey might fall into ruin, its lands claimed by men who knew nothing of its true value. But the spirit of the place, the sacredness it held, would remain.

The ex*****oner’s hand fell, and with it, the rope tightened. My vision blurred, the world around me fading into a swirl of rain and sky and earth. The pain was sharp, intense, but it was fleeting. I felt my breath leave my body, my heart slow, my limbs grow heavy.

And then, there was only light.

I had expected death to be the end. But as I drifted, weightless, beyond the torment of my final moments, a sense of clarity came upon me. I saw the abbey below, not as it had been in my last sight of it, but as it had been long ago, in its earliest days. The walls were whole, the gardens flourishing, and the monks sang their prayers in harmony, their voices rising up like incense.

I watched as the years passed, the abbey changing hands, enduring wars, and yet always, always standing. The buildings might crumble, the stones might fall, but Glastonbury was not just brick and mortar. It was faith, and that faith would never die.

A vision of Henry came to me then, seated upon his throne, his face heavy with the weight of his crown. I could see the weariness in his eyes, the fear that had driven him to such desperate acts. He was a man of contradictions, torn between his desires and his fears, and in the end, he too would be judged.

And then, there was peace.

I saw the Tor, the hill where I had died, now a place of pilgrimage, of quiet reflection. The abbey was gone, its ruins a reminder of what had been, but in the hearts of those who visited, the spirit of Glastonbury lived on.

I knew, then, that I had not failed. The king may have taken my life, my abbey, but he could not take what truly mattered.

Faith endures.

The light around me grew brighter, warmer, until it enveloped everything. And in that light, I was free.

Many years later, long after the death of the king and the fall of his reign, the Abbey of Glastonbury remained in ruins, its stones scattered, its walls crumbled. But people still came. They knelt among the rubble, whispered prayers, and remembered the men who had died for their faith.

And in the silence of the Tor, where the wind still howled and the rain still fell, they felt a presence.

Not of kings or soldiers, but of something far greater.

Glastonbury lived on.
( I write these short stories to encourage travel ).
https://www.seymourtravels.co.uk/2026tours-1

17/10/2024

In the year of our Lord 1170, when Gwynedd’s valleys whispered of battles fought and crowns contested, Prince Madog, son of Owain Gwynedd, stood by the cliffs overlooking the Irish Sea. His kingdom was divided, a consequence of his father’s death, with each of his brothers vying for power. The bloodied skies of his homeland had grown suffocating, and Madog, weary of the strife and yearning for peace, turned his gaze westward, toward the unknown.

The sea stretched endlessly before him, vast and silent, an untamed wilderness that whispered promises of freedom. For centuries, tales had circulated among sailors of distant lands, uncharted and unseen by the eyes of Europe. Madog, emboldened by his restless spirit, envisioned a new life in lands beyond the horizon, where Gwynedd’s feuds could not follow. It was here that the legend began, with a prince who sought refuge from the politics of power, and whose name would echo across continents.

Madog gathered a small fleet of ships, his crew comprised of adventurers, warriors, and navigators who shared his vision. Together they set sail, leaving behind the crumbling kingdom of their ancestors, venturing into the uncharted waters of the Atlantic. The year was 1170, and as their ships vanished into the mists, none could have imagined the journey ahead, or that Madog and his followers would soon find themselves at the center of one of the most enduring mysteries of history.

For weeks, the horizon remained a flat, unbroken line of water. Days blurred into nights as Madog’s ships creaked beneath the weight of the waves. But even as the wind howled and the storms battered their sails, the prince’s resolve did not falter. He trusted the sea, as ancient mariners had before him, believing it to be the path to a new beginning.

Then, after what seemed like endless days adrift, the lookouts cried out, “Land!” Ahead, the coast rose from the sea, unfamiliar and wild. It was not the familiar coasts of Ireland or Iceland but a virgin shore, untouched by European hands. They had reached a vast and verdant land—what Madog and his crew would come to believe was the edge of a new world.

They landed, exploring this strange country that stretched out in all directions, with towering forests, rivers as wide as any in Wales, and a bounty of unfamiliar plants and animals. Madog and his men wandered through this wilderness, feeling both awe and reverence for the beauty and abundance that seemed to surround them. As they moved inland, the thought that this might be their new home began to take hold in their minds.

But Madog knew that if they were to settle this new land, they would need more than the few ships of men he had brought with him. There would need to be a people to build a new society, families and artisans, farmers and craftsmen. They needed more settlers.

With determination burning in his chest, Madog turned his ship back toward Gwynedd, promising to return with more of his people. He would bring settlers to build a new Welsh colony, far from the bloodshed of home. The sea again swallowed him, his sails carrying him eastward across the Atlantic.

Upon returning to Wales, Madog found his homeland as divided as when he had left. His brothers continued to quarrel over their inheritance, but he no longer cared. His heart had already left Gwynedd and was now with the vast lands across the ocean. He told tales of the land he had discovered, a place so far west that it lay beyond the maps of the known world. He spoke of fertile plains, wide rivers, and endless forests where a new Gwynedd could flourish.

Some believed him, and others scoffed at the wildness of his claims. But enough were convinced by the fire in his eyes, and soon Madog had gathered a new group of settlers—families and men of skill—who were willing to follow him into the unknown. They set sail once more, this time not as explorers, but as pioneers, determined to build a new home in the distant lands he had found.

This time, however, Madog and his ships disappeared from history. No Welsh chroniclers recorded his return, and no further news came to Gwynedd. The prince who had crossed the seas was lost to time. Yet legends of his voyage persisted, passed down by bards and sailors who spoke of a land beyond the seas where the sons of Cymru might live free.

Centuries passed, and the story of Madog became myth, a whispered legend in the taverns and courts of Europe. But as European exploration of the Americas began in earnest, whispers of his journey resurfaced, feeding the curiosity of new generations of explorers.

It was in 1559, nearly 400 years after Madog’s departure, that the first written account of his voyage emerged. Humphrey Llwyd, a Welsh cartographer and historian, recorded the tale in his Cronica Walliae, although it remained unpublished at the time. The story then found its way into the hands of John Dee, an advisor to Queen Elizabeth I. In a time when European powers were laying claim to the New World, Dee saw an opportunity.

Presenting the account of Madog’s voyage to the Queen in his treatise “Title Royal,” Dee argued that the Welsh prince had discovered America long before the Spaniards or Portuguese had set foot on its shores. According to Dee, this gave Britain—and specifically Wales—a rightful claim to the New World. Though Dee’s argument may have been politically motivated, it breathed new life into the legend of Madog.

In 1607, during the first English navigation of the James River, a Welshman named Peter Wynne made a curious observation. While traveling among the indigenous Monacan people, Wynne noted that certain pronunciations in their language reminded him of Welsh. It was a fleeting remark, but one that added to the growing body of speculation that Madog’s lost colony might still exist somewhere in the vast interior of America.

This idea took deeper root in the late 17th century when Reverend Morgan Jones, a Welsh preacher, claimed an extraordinary encounter. In 1669, Jones was captured by a tribe of Tuscarora known as the Doeg. He was bound and prepared for ex*****on when, in a moment of desperation, he began to speak in his native Welsh. To his astonishment, the chief of the tribe understood him. Jones later recounted that the Doeg had spared his life because they recognized the language, claiming to be descendants of Madog’s settlers.

This story, while hard to verify, was widely circulated and fed the belief that a Welsh-speaking tribe might still exist somewhere in America, the distant heirs of Madog’s voyage.

The myth of Madog continued to weave its way through history, surfacing at strange moments. In 1776, Francis Lewis, a signer of the American Declaration of Independence, reportedly had a conversation with a Native American chief who spoke some Welsh. This, like Morgan Jones’s story, suggested that remnants of Madog’s lost colony still survived, interwoven with the native peoples of the continent.

Even Thomas Jefferson, one of America’s founding fathers, found himself fascinated by the story. Jefferson, always a man of curiosity and intellect, believed there might be truth to the legend. He speculated that Madog’s settlers could have made their way into the American interior, up the great rivers like the Mississippi, and integrated with the indigenous tribes. Jefferson’s interest in the possibility of pre-Columbian transatlantic voyages was well-documented, adding a sense of legitimacy to the legend for many Americans.

The most enduring and fascinating account of Madog’s legacy came in 1878, nearly 700 years after his initial voyage. Llewellyn Harris, a missionary traveling among the Zuni people in the Southwest, reported something extraordinary. He claimed that many words in the Zuni language bore a striking resemblance to Welsh. Harris, familiar with his native tongue, was startled by the similarities, and he became convinced that Madog’s descendants had somehow intermarried with the Zuni tribe over the centuries. The implications of such a connection were astounding, though they were never scientifically confirmed.

Even today, Madog’s story lingers in the cracks of history. On Rose Island, Kentucky, there is a site that local legend claims was once home to a colony of Welsh-speaking Native Americans. Though the evidence is scarce and largely anecdotal, the story persists, passed down through generations.

For some, the legend of Madog is nothing more than a fanciful tale, a convenient myth used by the Elizabethans to assert their claims in the New World. But for others, the persistence of these stories—of Welsh-speaking tribes, of linguistic similarities, of forgotten voyages—suggests that there may be a grain of truth buried beneath the centuries of speculation.

In the end, the story of Madog is not just about the discovery of new lands. It is about the human desire for freedom and the willingness to cross oceans in search of a better life. Whether Madog truly landed in America or whether his tale is a blend of myth and history, his legend continues to capture the imagination. For over eight centuries, his story has endured, passed down through generations, reshaped by the tides of history, but never forgotten.

Madog’s voyage, like many ancient explorations, remains a tantalizing mystery. The legend of the Welsh prince who crossed the sea to find a new world is a testament to the enduring power of adventure, curiosity, and the pursuit of something greater than ourselves. Whether fact or fiction, the legend of Madog reminds us that history is often as much about the stories we tell as it is about the events that occurred. And sometimes, those stories have the power to transcend time.

( A story based on a legend - I write these short pieces to encourage travel. Join my https://buymeacoffee.com/markseymour To read more )

16/10/2024

I arrived at our country house hotel, nestled onto the side of a scarp slope in the Yorkshire Dales, with the excitement of a toddler at a cake buffet. There it was, our little escape from the real world: all stone walls, quaint windows, and the kind of place where you’re pretty sure a murder mystery is about to break out at any moment. I unloaded my bags, though I really only needed one because who brings more than a toothbrush and some questionable hiking gear to the Dales? Boots on, rucksack lightly packed with an air of optimism (and a bottle of water), I was ready to conquer nature ….. at least the less challenging bits.

The day was a balmy one in the middle of April, which in Yorkshire means it wasn’t currently raining. High hopes. My plan was simple: walk to the nearest village, grab a pint, and then swagger around pretending I knew what the Pennine Way was. The walk down the slope was pleasant enough, if you ignored the nagging worry that my shoes might betray me and send me tumbling down the hill like a particularly uncoordinated sheep.

As I descended, I noticed a stream at the bottom of the hill, meandering like a toddler on a sugar high, and promptly forded it. I say “forded,” but what I really mean is that I did an ungraceful hop from one slippery rock to another while waving at a group of walkers heading in the opposite direction. They were clearly on their way back from the pub and looked full of smug satisfaction (and perhaps a touch of ale), while I was just beginning my journey of thirst and uncertain footing.

The village soon came into view, and with it, a delightful cluster of quaint shops, including a particularly tempting ice cream shoppe. Note the extra ‘pe’ on the end there, which I’m pretty sure is code for “Our ice cream costs three times as much, but you’ll feel like a lord eating it.” I made a mental note to swing by later, assuming I had enough coins rattling around in my pocket and could avoid going full peasant.

And then there it was: the Green Dragon. Now, I don’t know about you, but if you call a pub “The Green Dragon,” it had better be warm, cozy, and at least partially mystical. I entered the pub, greeted by a landlady who looked like she could tell you which brand of biscuits solve all life’s problems. She gave me a warm smile and asked what I’d like. I asked for half a pint of the local bitter, because when in Yorkshire, you pretend you have a refined palate, even if you’re still haunted by that one time you tried craft beer and ended up weeping into a napkin.

As the landlady poured my drink with the precision of a surgeon (or possibly just someone who has poured a lot of beer), we exchanged pleasantries. She complimented my hiking boots, which was kind of her, considering they were covered in enough mud to start a garden. I also bought a bag of cheese and onion crisps—my absolute favorite, even though I know they make my breath smell like I’ve been chewing on raw garlic cloves for a week.

After ten minutes, I had inhaled my crisps with the grace of a vacuum cleaner and downed my ale with the enthusiasm of someone who’d spent far too long fantasizing about a frothy pint. Feeling thoroughly Yorkshire now, I bade farewell to the landlady, whose smile suggested she knew I’d be back once the rain inevitably drove me inside again.

Leaving the warmth of the Green Dragon, I stepped onto the stone cobbles outside, my boots making a satisfying “clop” as I headed north. This is where the real adventure began—or so I thought. The first few minutes were blissfully quiet, just me and the sound of a distant sheep bleating as if it had lost its purpose in life. I was getting into the rhythm of it, imagining myself some sort of rugged explorer, until I felt a tiny mist settle upon me.

Now, in the Dales, mist is nature’s polite way of telling you it’s about to rain. Sure enough, a light drizzle followed, the kind of rain that doesn’t immediately soak you but gives you the sneaking suspicion that, given time, you’ll look like a soggy biscuit.

Undeterred, I pressed on, climbing up the slope above the village. The views were worth it—rolling hills, grazing sheep, and the faint sound of a farmer somewhere in the distance, piloting his tracked vehicle like he was starring in some kind of agricultural action movie. The air smelled fresh, like the countryside had just taken a shower and wanted to show off.

As I climbed higher, the drizzle transformed into something more assertive. By this point, my waterproof jacket was starting to show cracks in its façade of reliability, much like my enthusiasm for continuing this walk. But I soldiered on. After all, what’s a walk in the Yorkshire Dales without getting a bit damp and having your socks slowly betray you by absorbing more water than a sponge?

Up ahead, I noticed one of those quaint waterfalls you always see on postcards of the Dales—the kind that make you believe life is simpler up here, where water doesn’t just flow, it meanders artistically. I stood by it for a moment, pretending I was contemplating the meaning of life, when really I was calculating whether I had enough time to visit that ice cream shop before it closed. These are the deep thoughts one has when they’re halfway up a hill and slightly wetter than they planned to be.

Just as I was about to turn back, the mist lifted slightly, revealing more of the moorland ahead. I considered continuing, but then again, there’s something about hiking in the rain that makes you reconsider all your life choices. The sheep, now my only company, looked at me as if to say, “Mate, go back to the pub. You’ve nothing to prove here.”

Taking their advice (and not wanting to end up as a cautionary tale for future hikers), I decided to head back down to the village. My walk back was quicker, possibly because the rain had picked up and I now resembled a character from a Brontë novel—tragic, windswept, and a little bit lost.

As I re-entered the village, my spirits were lifted by the sight of the ice cream shoppe. I waltzed in like a hero returning from battle, damp but victorious. The owner smiled as I ordered a scoop of vanilla, which tasted like sweet, overpriced victory. With the ice cream in hand and the rain still falling, I headed back toward the hotel, my boots squelching with every step. By the time I arrived, I was soaked, but my heart was full (mostly of beer and ice cream, but let’s call it contentment).

Later that evening, as I sat by the fire in the hotel’s cozy lounge, reflecting on my day of semi-heroic walking, I realized something important: hiking is great, but soggy socks are the price you pay for adventure in the Yorkshire Dales. That, and cheese and onion crisps taste even better when eaten with a sense of accomplishment (or perhaps just desperation).

And so, my day ended with a smile and a vow to try again tomorrow—after I’d dried my boots, of course.
( I write these short pieces to encourage travel )

https://www.seymourtravels.co.uk/2026tours-1

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