The Yorkshire Wolds Way: The Humber Bridge To North Ferriby

Almost a year ago I finished walking the Viking Way, a 147 mile footpath tracing a country route from Oakham in Rutland to the Humber Bridge. Now it was time to continue — for every ending is just another beginning. 

On the far side of the Humber lies the start of the Yorkshire Wolds Way, an 80 mile route across chalk hills and dales to Filey Brigg on the North Sea; and this is a prelude to the 110 mile Cleveland Way, which follows the cliff edge to Saltburn, then curls round to Helmsley over the North York Moors. (Britain's enviable network of paths and trails is intricately connected — for example, the 192 mile Coast to Coast Walk from St Bees to Robin's Hood Bay twice intersects the Cleveland Way.) 

So yesterday I stood once again at the foot of the Humber Bridge, at one time the longest single-span suspension bridge in the world, now the seventh-longest. Like before, the day was dull, grey and misty. I did wonder for a moment what on earth I was doing there, when I could have been sitting at home by the fireside with a good book. However, pushing such thoughts aside, I left the car at Waters' Edge Country Park in Barton-upon-Humber and resolutely set off. It was cold, but I was wearing a merino wool base layer, technical long-sleeved top, two fleeces, hat, gloves and neck warmer, so I was well protected. From the bridge this is the view of the south bank of the river . . . 

. . . and this is the view of Hessle on the north bank. The eastern horizon, where sky and water meet, was barely discernible through the murk.

Three grindstones lie in front of a whiting mill next to the Humber Bridge Country Park. The tower, built in 1806 from brick coated with tar, would originally have had five sails. Wind drove the sails which drove the stones which crushed the chalk from a nearby quarry. The crushed chalk slurry was settled and dried and then used in paint, ink and putty. Larger pieces of chalk from the nearby hills (or wolds) were used for housebuilding. 

The embankment trail led west for two and a half miles to North Ferriby (opposite South Ferriby on the other side of the river; there was once a ferry between the two). The setting was quite bleak. Colours were muted and spring seemed far off. A string of waders fed by the water's edge and a long sandbank paralleled the shore.

As I approached North Ferriby I came upon this memorial: an outline of an ancient wooden boat. Between the 1930s and the 1960s three boats were excavated here which proved to date from the Bronze Age — one of them the oldest seagoing boat that has ever been discovered (c. 2030 BC). They are now housed in the National Maritime Museum, Greenwich.

I would have to have waited fifty minutes on a draughty platform for a train back to Hessle, so I walked instead. As the Humber Bridge emerged from the gloom, I watched a flock of geese fly over and a solitary oystercatcher probe the shoreline. Spears of teasel, scrubby clumps of buddleia, a single flowering gorse and a line of stunted ash trees — their branches tipped with sooty buds — bordered the path. The railway ran alongside, and my train overtook me. Unsightly scraps of litter — presumably thrown by rail passengers — strewed the no man's land between track and path.  

Despite the dismal weather I had enjoyed the walk — in the end it had been around nine miles, including the bridge crossing. But I felt weary, and was aching in various muscles and joints. Clearly the winter had made me too soft and housebound. A recent virus plus a tooth infection had also curtailed my usual walking, and I felt rusty and out of practice. Driving home I found myself wishing fervently for a warm springtime day.

The Beginning And End Of The Viking Way

Country road as rubbish dump.

The walk did not start well. Leaving Barnetby and the roar of the M180 behind me, I took a minor road north and found that someone had dumped mounds of rubbish by the track. As a walker you come upon this sort of thing disturbingly often. At first it used to enrage me; now I just feel a kind of hopeless despair. How do human beings deserve to live on this beautiful planet if they engage in such filthy, mindless and selfish activity? So many roads — usually the main roads — in England and Spain are lined with the sweet wrappers, crisp packets and juice cartons people have thrown from their cars. A lot of this stuff never seems to get cleared up. I wrote about the 50 types of rubbish I found by a Spanish roadside here. 

For hours I crossed montonous chalk farmland. The landscape was flat and featureless — huge fields of four-inch high wheat shoots, purple sprouting broccoli, and very little else. It was so uninteresting that eating an apple from my packed lunch became a major event. I pined for a picturesque ruin or pretty village. But at least the paths were soft and firm and easy on the foot — mostly grassy bridleways along field boundaries. They were dry too, as rainwater is quickly absorbed by the porous chalk.

Birds were the saving grace — especially in the few isolated pockets of woodland which miraculously survived. It's the spring migration season and lots of birds were on the move. I saw flocks of fieldfares bound for Scandinavia, and heard chiffchaffs newly arrived from the Mediterranean and North Africa. But the bird that accompanied me for most of the walk was the skylark. These were either invisible or tiny specks high up in the blue, singing their hearts out over the cornfields. Skylarks were under threat at one time, but here they are plentiful.     

After the forecasted promise of mild weather, a chill Siberian breeze had blown in from the North Sea and, with no obstacle before it, swept across Lincolnshire's northernmost chalk plateau, cutting straight through my fleece, polypropylene shirt and merino wool vest. The temperature was more like winter. Despite a few recent balmy days, spring was still holding back. 

Dropping with relief into the more sheltered Humber valley, I followed a hedged byway to South Ferriby. The views north towards the Humber estuary (and west to the steel works of Scunthorpe!) would have been impressive had conditions been clearer, but the day remained hazy, with an intermittent sun.

The estuary was muddy and opaque, the same muddy brown as the North Sea into which it flowed. I could barely make out the far side through the haze. Taking the path along the southern bank, I passed a couple of cliffs, then deviated through Far Ings nature reserve — the true path had been closed because of flooding. The Humber Bridge swung into view out of the murk. I remember Queen Elizabeth opening the bridge in 1981. It was then the longest single-span suspension bridge in the world, but now it's been demoted to seventh-longest.

Footsore, I stumbled into the Humber Bridge viewing area car park at Barton, the official start (or end, depending on which direction you're travelling) of the Viking Way. I'd been hiking this route on and off for nearly three years. (I started in May 2011 — here's my first blog entry about it.) Although it's 147 miles long, I'd covered more than that, as I'd walked some there-and-back stages twice. It had been a piecemeal, jigsaw-like affair — sometimes I'd gone north to south, sometimes south to north. However, I'd finally reached the end — or the start. And it really was the beginning in yet another sense: over the bridge beckoned the first stretch of another long-distance trail, the Yorkshire Wolds Way.

Slowly I walked the half mile into Barton-upon-Humber's town centre. It was late Saturday afternoon and the place was practically closed except for some raucous pubs. I didn't fancy going in. Young kids screamed about on bikes and in bus shelters. Men in hoodies nursed beer cans. It was bitterly cold. If you weren't feeling suicidal before, a trip round Barton could have tipped you over the edge. For me, at that moment, it seemed a wretchedly miserable backcountry town, and I made for the railway station, eager to leave. (I say 'railway station': it comprised just one track, one platform, and five bucket seats occupied by some of Barton's yelping youth.) The train came in on time. I boarded, warmed myself by the heater, and headed for home.          

Sheltered bridleway to South Ferriby.

Remarkably straight furrows.

Sheep graze by the Humber.

The wide Humber estuary — muddy and opaque.

Another consequence of Britain's recent severe weather.

Willow tree on the diverted path through Far Ings nature reserve.

The Humber Bridge.

The beginning (or in my case the end) of the Viking Way. A little anticlimactic that it ended in a car park on a cold and dismal afternoon.

Walking to Barton railway station by a reed-fringed watercourse.