in
books, it is a dull place; for the knowledge that the name was
originally Grandimont, from the small priory founded about 1200, and
named after the abbey in Normandy to which it was attached, does not
excite much interest when there is nothing to see but a farmhouse on the
site, and the modern place consists of a railway-junction, some deserted
mines, and many examples of the modern Yorkshire house.

Everything that Nature can do to make amends for this uninteresting spot
is lavishly squandered upon the valley, for wherever man has left things
alone there are heavy canopies of foliage, and mossy boulders among the
rushing streams; and if you will but take the trouble to climb up to the
heather, even the mines are dwarfed into insignificance. We will go up
the steep road to the top of Sleights Moor. It is a long stiff climb of
nearly 900 feet, but the view is one of the very finest in this country,
where wide expanses soon become commonplace. We are sufficiently high to
look right across Fylingdales Moor to the sea beyond, a soft haze of
pearly blue over the hard, rugged outline of the ling. Away towards the
north, too, the landscape for many miles is limited only by the same
horizon of sea, so that we seem to be looking at a section of a very
large scale contour map of England. Below us on the western side runs
the Mirk Esk, draining the heights upon which we stand as well as Egton
High Moor and Wheeldale Moor. The confluence with the Esk at Grosmont is
lost in a haze of smoke and a confusion of roofs and railway-lines; and
the course of the larger river in the direction of Glaisdale is also
hidden behind the steep slopes of Egton High Moor. Towards the south we
gaze over a vast desolation, crossed by the coach-road to York as it
rises and falls over the swells of the heather. The queer isolated cone
of Blakey Topping and the summit of Gallows Dyke, close to Saltersgate,
appear above the distant ridges.

The route of the great Roman road from the South to Dunsley Bay can also
be seen from these heights. It passes straight through Cawthorn Camp, on
the ridge to the west of the village of Newton, and then runs along
within a few yards of the by-road from Picketing to Egton. It crosses
Wheeldale Beck, and skirts the ancient dyke round July or Julian Park,
at one time a hunting-seat of the great De Mauley family. The road is
about 12 feet wide, and is now deep in heather; but it is slightly
raised above the general lev