Chapel-le-Dale - A Yorkshire Dales backwater with a past

The line runs nearby at Ribblehead, where the country’s largest viaduct of 24 arches spans the valley as a further tribute to their grim labours. Following on, and built by the aid of candle power, is the country’s longest tunnel – Blea Moor.

The unique records don’t stop there either. Also to the north is the highest station in Britain: Dent: four miles from its village – which must be another record. And then, at Ais Gill, the line reaches the highest point of any in the UK.    

It was at Ribblehead that shanty towns grew to accommodate workers and their families whilst the line was being constructed from 1869-76. A large number of men, women and children died through epidemics and illnesses caused by the harsh living conditions and these poor souls were also  buried at Chapel-le-Dale in unmarked graves.  The omission of a memorial for them was put to rights at the Millennium when one was erected in the graveyard.    

I discovered the place by accident when I was 15, on my bike, having ridden 40 miles from home in the Lancashire Pennines.  I felt a strong affinity to it from that day and went back repeatedly. I still have a photograph of my Hetchins propped under the lychgate, taken with my Brownie box camera on that first occasion.   

I knew nothing about my ancestors at the time, but ten years later I discovered that a branch of them had been hatched, matched and despatched at Chapel-le-Dale from the beginning of their registers, which was nothing short of freaky.  

A few years ago I was tracked down by a lady from Hull who was tracing her family. It appeared we shared these common ancestors from the early 1800s back into the mists of time.  As a consequence we took a short break together in the area last year and had a wonderful few days covering the hunting grounds of our forbears.  

Since there was a coffee morning at Chapel-le-Dale on our last day we simply had to go.  There were several people in attendance who she knew, as she'd been reared at nearby Ingleton, so whilst she caught up on the news I simply enjoyed soaking up the atmosphere, melting into the background and ruminating on whether we were there by design or by the manipulation of some mysterious force that had arranged it all.  

There was something quite auspicious about the two of us being there together at this low-key affair and I loved every minute of it. It gave me a chance to reflect on the pull my ancestors had on me and also how I had been drawn by the fantastic Karst landscape, huge hills and big skies for most of my life; especially as I'd been attracted to it on a regular basis to pursue cycling, caving and then fellwalking hobbies until I got past it.   

The wives of the hill farmers had all arrived with wicker baskets full of home-baked fodder. With it they provided a lovely choice of sandwiches and cakes, spread out on china crockery on a table within the altar area. On the walls they'd pinned a wealth of historical photographs and newspaper articles all about the railway, and right at the back of the church a white elephant stall had been set up.

Next to the lychgate and on the main road were the two signs featured.  Not surprisingly there seemed to be no passing trade, just the local farming community, which made it a more friendly and intimate affair. 

Presumably someone in our midst had designed the posters which, from their appearance, smacked of someone under pressure, with artistic skills on a par with mine and not a lot of time. I particularly liked the hurried nip and tuck created by the speedy insertion of drawing pins and the economising on sellotape, where prudent use has been made of an old provender bag.

Despite my ancestral roots I was reared in the red rose county, and I couldn’t help thinking - you can’t get more prudent than a Yorkshire man.