If you are searching for picture-postcard perfect English landscapes of rolling hills, deep valleys and stone-built villages, you could do worse than to travel into the remote valley of Dentdale in the Yorkshire Dales National Park. Beneath the windswept mountain tops and moorland are deep valleys carved during the last Ice Age, and shaped by centuries of human activity into beautiful countryside.
Even today, the tiny village of Dent feels remote. Connected only by a single narrow road, it is still possible to sense how isolated and hard life must have been farming these hills and valleys. The deeper you go into the valley, the more it feels like you’re travelling back in time. I arrived early on a winter morning, the cobbled streets were empty as I walked through the village to St. Andrew’s Church.
The church sits on a slight rise with glorious views down the valley, but it’s a deceptively tranquil scene because the church hides a local horror story. George Hodgson was born in Dent in 1621. He lived his whole life in the valley, dying in 1715 at the ripe old age of 94, and is buried in the cemetery of St. Andrew’s Church. Then, as so often in isolated places in more superstitious times, rumours began to circulate.
George, it was claimed, had been spotted near the village drinking the blood of sheep. Then a farmer claimed he shot and injured a black hare, tracking the trail of blood led to the door of George’s house. In the 18th century the hare would have been understood by everyone as a witch’s familiar, a supernatural entity that often appeared in the form of an animal. Through the window the farmer saw George dressing a gunshot wound.
That was sufficient to justify exhuming the corpse, said to have looked as fresh as the day it was buried. George was reburied, but this time no one was taking any chances – who wants the undead wandering around, after all – so they drove a brass pole (a stake?) into his body and buried him right outside the church door. Was George a vampire? Probably not, but in these wild northern regions superstition and fear were powerful.
If this is a slice of history to be taken with a pinch of salt, the Terrible Knitters of Dent represent a history deeply woven (pun intended) into the fabric (and again) of the village. Sheep farming and the textile industry underpinned the economy of this area, and in pre-industrial times knitting all that wool by hand was a major cottage industry, for which the people of Dent were famed in the 18th and 19th centuries.
The word ‘terrible’ had a different meaning 200 years ago, it was a mark of pride at the skill and speed of the knitters. So well known were the Terrible Knitters that in 1834 the Poet Laureate, Robert Southey, recorded a true story about two young girls sent to Dent to learn the trade. They found the harsh conditions and relentless work too much and ran away. There is a small museum in the village that traces this history.
This social history aside, I’d come to Dent with a plan to hike up Whernside – at 736m the highest hill in Yorkshire. It’s a popular hill, but the route from Dent is less used and you can walk for hours without seeing anyone. I left the village and followed a path alongside the River Dee before taking an old pack horse route up and across the northern end of Whernside. The views to the Howgills and Lake District were glorious.
As I gained height the vistas grew but so did the wind. So strong was it that when I passed the Whernside Tarns it was whipping the water into waves. It was also freezing one side of my face. Up to now I hadn’t seen anyone else on the route, but as I approached the trig point at the top of Whernside there were a handful other walkers taking shelter behind the stone walls.
The views to Ingleborough and Pen-y-ghent were lovely. Still, I was glad to descend out of the vicious wind. The route brought me to a narrow road and a little further on I took The Occupation Road, allegedly named after the common land in this area was enclosed and passed into private ownership in the 18th century. It’s little more than (at times) a muddy track, but it offers sweeping views and a genuine sense of isolation.
The light was beginning to fade as I arrived above Dent. I was tired after six hours of hill walking, and it seemed wise to get off the fell just in case the Vampire of Dent was feeling peckish. It was steep down to reach the village but the views were utterly beguiling as the low sun lit up the distant hills. Dent has two pubs and I had definitely earned a beer. The George and Dragon wasn’t open, but the Sun Inn offered a cosy alternative.
A beautiful walk! The scenery’s spectacular and the villages look lovely. The story about poor George Hodgson is horrible. It’s amazing what superstition and fear can do to a community.
It’s an extraordinary thing to do to someone who had just died. Beautiful though it is, it’s an isolated region and superstition flourished. I suspect it still does!