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A Dales Life
I THINK I’ve found the worst job in the Dales. Driving over the tops towards Swaledale the other night, we spotted a man guarding a Ministry of Defence building site on the ranges.
In just about every direction there was pitch black moorland and then there was this chap sat in his little hut. He must have nerves of steel. Granted, it’s the MoD so he probably has a great big gun on his lap, but what about the things you can’t shoot? Has he never seen the film An American Werewolf in London which was partly filmed not more than a dozen miles away? Stay on the road. Keep clear of the moors fella.
I’ve since thought about taking him up some soup or something, but figured the last thing his nerves need is cars pulling up in the darkness. I reckon he greets the workmen with hugs when they turn up at 8am.
We were on our way to the CB in Arkengarthdale. The last time I was in the pub I was 17 and had driven friends up to one of the popular Saturday night discos which previous landlords would hold.
I can vividly remember the road between Wensleydale and the CB being quite a challenge for a novice driver in a potentially overloaded Austin Mini fitted with remould tyres, which was being tailgated by a rusty Ford Fiesta.
Back then, youths from County Durham and North Yorkshire would fight each other in the car park. These days, the CB serves locally-shot red grouse with traditional trimmings and twice-baked Wensleydale cheese. Progress indeed.
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