ch bells of the villages
are ringing for evening service. At the top of Wrelton Cliff, the sound of
several peals of bells in the neighbouring villages floats upwards across
the broad pastures, and it seems almost as though the whole plain beneath
one's feet were joining in the evening song. Along the deep ravine of
Newton Dale, in all weathers, some of the most varied and richly coloured
pictures may be seen. If one climbs the rough paths that lead up from the
woods and meadows by the railway, the most remarkable aspects of the
precipitous sides are obtained. In a book published in 1836,[1] at the
time of the opening of the railway between Whitby and Pickering, a series
of very delicate steel engravings of the wild scenery of Newton Dale were
given. One of them shows the gorge under the deep gloom of a storm but
relieved with the contrast of a rainbow springing from one side of the
rocky walls. This effect may perhaps seem highly exaggerated, but on one
occasion when I was exploring part of the Dale, between Levisham and Fen
Bogs, I was astonished to see a brilliant rainbow backed by dense masses
of indigo clouds and occupying precisely the position of the one shown in
the old engraving. In such weather as this, when sudden rays of sunlight
fall upon the steep slopes of bracken and heather and on the precipitous
rocks above, the blazing colours seem almost unreal and the scenery
suggests Scotland more than any other part of England. From the edges of
the canon, purple heather and ling stretch away on either side to the most
distant horizons, and one can walk for miles in almost any direction
without encountering a human being and rarely a house of any description.
The few cottages that now stand in lonely isolation in different parts of
the moors have only made their appearance since the Enclosures Act, so
that before that time these moors must have been one of the most extensive
stretches of uninhabited country in England. From the Saltersgate Inn,
some of the most remarkable views that the moorlands present are all
collected together in a comparatively small space. One looks towards the
west across a remarkably deep ravine with precipitous sides that leads out
of Newton Dale towards the old coach road upon which the lonely hostelry
stands. At the foot of the steep rocks, a stream trickles into a basin and
then falls downwards in a small cascade, finding its way into the
Pickering Beck that flows along the bottom of Newt