Tall tales and true: of Yorkshire moors and the byways of Surrey: The giant and the vicar

So far we have done a lot of north or south days of sightseeing from Filey, so today we decided to spread our wings a little and head inland to the moors, as opposed to the wolds. Our attempt at distinguishing between these geographical features has us recognising that moors, typically, are covered in scruffy vegetation like heather and sheep, while wolds appear to be created from gentle limestone waves with neat rows of grain able to grow on top.

The further inland we drive the haystacks decorating the fields are disappearing, most have been lifted and stored or sold, so that is one chore just about done for this year. We drive till we find a stack of cars parked on a very high moor, so we stop to take a peak and find out that Walt, the giant has been here before us. He has taken a fist of Yorkshire earth in a fit of temper with his wife, scooped it out entirely, and tossed it elsewhere, leaving a giant hole with steep sides, that hollows out the high moor for a long kilometre or more. It is called the Hole of Horcum. Walt Horcum. And sometimes it is called the Devil's Punchbowl. The reality of the geography is that this hollow was actually formed by springs oozing from the high sides of the cliffs, eroding the land over time creating this massive sinkhole through 'spring sapping' the land. It has created an awesome sight which is dotted with ancient barrows in places, visible reminders of bronze and iron age settlers who once lived and worked here.

We headed back a little to track down an adjoining road to check out where this might lead. Following this, we drove past the occasional idyllic farmlet tucked into the landscape until the road increasingly became more like a lane, much narrower, much rougher, winding ever upwards. At the very top of this vertiginous drive we came upon a delightful little hamlet called Levisham. A quintessential English village with homes set well back behind trim grassy verges on either side of a single street leading to a pub at the top decorated now with fallen autumn leaves and window boxes. Charming.

We soon discovered that Robert Skelton, a vicar here in the early 1800's, once owned the manor of Levisham, including the village and all its stock. The current church, which is from his time, now stands in the village not far from the pub, and is full of delights. The font from an earlier church, had been lost but was found on a farm nearby in the 19th century where it operated for years as the horse trough before it was cleaned up and installed here. It is considered Norman, or even earlier, so the wee churches from this parish go way back in time. There is an amazing gravestone lying to one side of the nave found in the earlier church, now crumbling away in the valley. The funeral stone was lifted and brought here for safety, and is decorated with a Scandinavian style dragon carving, so a Viking Christian once lived and was buried near here, and that, too, is amazing. The wooden pews and communion rails were made by the wonderful Yorkshire timber artist, Robert Thompson of Kilburn when he was alive, and some of the pews and the font bear his unique mouse signature which Miss Bec helped track down. We found six or seven of them.

Rev Robert Skelton was an eccentric man we were to discover. He built himself a second home, Grove House, a mile and more downhill from Levisham. Where only sheep dare go normally, but we drove that crumbling track to find, near Grove House, a functioning railway. An earlier version, through here, we discovered, was a horse drawn link which did not have stations as such, but stopped on demand, a little like a stage coach between Pickering and Whitby. This was surveyed and engineered by none other than George Stephenson, another fine historical name.

The merchants of Whitby at the time felt that their town was failing, cut off as it was from inland trade, having only shipping access. The moors were so high and problematic for transport. But they wanted them penetrated and this problem solved. They wanted to build a rail linking Whitby to the inland trade routes. And so the railway men came calling on Reverend Skelton. He agreed to them crossing this land as long as the rail link built a station near Grove House. Not close to his needy villagers up on their hill in that treacherous location, where today, every 25 metres a sandbox stands warning of the harsh winter snowfalls and slippery ice as their only access route. No. He wanted it set close to his home, downhill, and that was the stipulation. And they agreed. Even though hardly enough folk used the horse line to justify this upgrade. And over time, even many sections of the upgraded steam line proved unsustainable, and were gradually closed.

But, times change, and the patch of line between Grosmont and Pickering has reopened. It now functions with volunteers. It is more popular than ever with some 150,000 tourists a year using it to travel across the moors to see sights they cannot see by car.

One of these sights is the picturesque ruin of a tower, the third dwelling that Robert Skelton built, a folly, high on the moors overlooking the trains chugging puffs of white steam across the route he insisted be built. Skelton Tower is now crumbling, but Robert used it for his invited guests to go grouse shooting. It was well fitted with good windows and a fireplace so would have been comfortable no matter the weather. He told others he used it as a quiet retreat in order to write Sunday sermons. But, many of the villagers believed Robert used it as his personal and private drinking den. Ah, those Victorians.