The Strid

©2002 Ian Hobson

This morning a thick fog envelops the town, but the telegraph poles and chimney pots are poking through and basking in the morning sunshine. The garden could do with tidying, but I fancy a drive into Wharfedale and a walk through Strid Woods.

***

The fog here is even thicker than at home. This stretch of riverside, between Barden Bridge and Bolton Abbey, is probably one of the most walked in the whole of the Dales, carrying everything from serious hikers to little old ladies taken out for a Sunday drive and a riverside stroll. Just down from Barden Bridge the River Wharfe flows through a deep wooded gorge known as Strid Woods.

The Strid is a section of the river that is much deeper than it is wide. The river before the Strid, perhaps sixty feet wide and six feet deep, is abruptly turned on its side and funnelled through a long rocky channel, maybe six to eight feet wide and nobody-knows-how-deep. I seem to recall that the name Strid comes from the word stride, or maybe it was the other way around. In theory, with the correct combination of long legs, agility and stupidity, it’s possible to jump or stride over at the narrowest point.

A sign warns that lives have been lost in the past. Legend has it that a local boy, accompanied by his dog on a lead, leaped over the Strid every day. But one day the dog faltered and the boy, pulled back by the dog’s lead, failed to reach the other side, fell into the water, and was sucked under and never seen again.

***

As Harry ran down through the woods Rex was ahead of him. Harry was tall for his age, and the tallest in his class at school. He was lucky to go to school. Most other ten-year-olds worked full time, on the farms or in the wool mills. But Harry had three elder brothers, all of whom worked on his father’s small farm, as well as other neighbouring farms. And Harry’s Aunt Mary, who now lived in the village and close to the schoolhouse, had bullied Harry’s father into letting at least one of his seven children get an education. Harry liked school and found the work easy. This, plus Harry’s angelic features and unruly mop of blond hair, made him a favourite with his teacher Miss Webster.

Untold years of falling leaves had made the well-worn track soft underfoot, except for the steep sections where stone steps had been laid a century before. Some of these were slippery, but Harry was sure-footed. Though after years of going barefoot, the wearing of boots had taken a lot of getting used to. Again he had his Aunt Mary to thank. She had no children of her own, having never married, and she doted on Harry. She loved Rex as well, and did not mind looking after him whilst Harry was in school.

Rex raced back to the bottom of the steps, panting heavily, his long tongue hanging to one side of his open mouth and dripping saliva. He barked up at Harry as he reached the top of the steps and began to descend them two at a time. But before Harry was half way down Rex was off again. Harry leaped from the fifth step and landed evenly on the soft earth. His breathing was even. He was so accustomed to running the five miles to school and back that he could almost have run it blindfold. In fact today he may as well have been blindfold, because as he reached the narrow hillside road the fog was so thick that although he could hear Rex panting somewhere ahead he could not see him.

‘Rex! Here!’ shouted Harry. Rex came bounding back to Harry and ran beside him along the road. The road was roughly paved with gravel and larger stones but it was not much more than a cart track. Rex ran ahead again and disappeared into the fog. Harry followed, deliberately skidding to a stop on the slope before turning to his right and entering Strid Woods. The gradient now was steeper and the path even softer underfoot. It was mid winter, and leafless trees loomed out of the mist like phantoms. Ahead, a magpie’s clattering call told other inhabitants of the wood that danger was abroad, and Rex’s barking confirmed the magpie’s warning. Then further ahead a grouse took to the air, calling loudly, having decided that flight was a better option than concealment.

‘Rex! Heel!’ commanded Harry. With a last bark at the fleeing grouse Rex reluctantly returned to Harry’s side. Harry took a length of thick twine from his pocket and tied one end to Rex’s collar. ‘We’ve no time for hunting grouse today, Rex. You’ll have me late for school.’ Harry continued on downhill, keeping a tight grip on the twine but letting Rex lead by a good six feet. They could hear the sound of rushing water now, and momentarily the fog cleared, giving them a glimpse of the River Wharfe below through the trees. At a junction of paths they took the right-hand fork and descend to the Strid, stepping out of the treeline and onto the broad sandstone slabs.

At the head of the Strid the speed of the water rapidly increased as it was funnelled between the rocks, frothing and falling by a yard or more into the first section, where the soft sandstone had been deeply cut by the force of the water over countless years. Overnight rain had raised the water level but the river was still relatively low, leaving clear evidence of the force of the water etched deep into the rocks for several feet to either side; the action of the swirling water and pebbles caught in whirlpools, having drilled deep bowl-shaped holes.

Rex stopped at one of the water filled holes and lapped at the cold clear water, whilst Harry, still holding Rex’s makeshift lead, stepped closer to where the water thrashed and churned between the rocks; the compulsion to look over the edge and into the surging torrent as irresistible as the first time he had gone there with his elder brothers. Harry walked on with Rex beside him, stepping lightly over the natural sandstone steps towards the narrowest part of the Strid. Harry’s second oldest brother, Sam, had first shown Harry where and how to jump across.

Harry walked towards the treeline but stopped at a long straight crack in the rocky floor, turning to put the toe of his left boot to it. Rex stood beside him with his tail wagging, his eyes on his master. Harry knelt beside Rex for a moment, putting his arm around him and ruffling his shaggy coat with his hand. Then he untied the twine that was attached to Rex’s collar and put it back into his pocket, and with three short steps followed by four long strides, he leapt over the rushing waters of the Strid. Rex ran and jumped with him and the two of them landed safely on the slightly lower rock at the other side. Harry turned and looked down into the swirling water, but as always he saw not the water, but the face of his brother Sam.

It was almost two years since Sam had drowned in the Strid. Rex had been Sam’s puppy, and when he had grown big enough, Sam had taught him to jump. But his habit of keeping Rex on a lead when they leapt over the Strid had been quite literally his downfall, as one day Rex had stopped short of the water’s edge. Sam had let go of the lead, but the distraction and slight loss of momentum had caused him to fall backwards as his feet hit slippery rocks at the other side of the water.

Harry and his three other brothers had all jumped the Strid before Sam, and on hearing his cry of distress they had all run back and looked down into the churning water. But Sam was gone. They had raced downstream, hoping against hope to see Sam’s head come bobbing up in the calmer water beyond the Strid, but their hopes were in vain. Sam had been sucked under, knocked senseless by the strong swirling current and trapped forever by the force of the water, wedged into a crevice many feet below the surface.

Harry and his brothers had been ordered by their distraught father to never go near the Strid again. But Harry, unable to leave his favourite brother alone in his watery grave, had returned. And when Rex had leapt over the Strid once more, Harry had followed.

Rex barked and Harry turned away from the water, setting off once more for the village. The fog was even thicker downstream, but Harry and Rex knew every stone and tree root and could almost have found their way blindfold.

***

As always, I step down from rock to rock, getting as close as I dare to the ever-churning water. The compulsion to look over the edge and into the surging torrent as irresistible as the first time I came here years ago. The fog is beginning to clear now and a little watery sunshine is beginning to filter through. It looks like it’s going to be a really nice day.