MY brother has been researching our family history and has produced something of a surprise. For many years, we thought that our grandparents lived at Rosedale and were amazed to learn that granddad walked from Rosedale to Skinningrove and back every day for his job at the iron works.

Now we’ve discovered he did something essentially different. He did his walk from Rosedale to Skinningrove for his job at the iron works. However, the diligent efforts of my brother have revealed that this particular Rosedale was part of Port Mulgrave, a long way from the moorland village of that same name. Grandad’s was still a long trek by modern standards but shorter than we had been told.

Port Mulgrave, a high-sided cove between Staithes and Runswick Bay, provides one of the puzzles of the Yorkshire coastline. On the cliff top is a small collection of street houses with some scattered farms and very little else. Access to the actual port area is by a steep and often muddy, slippery path down the cliff. There is no road and no formal pathway down to the harbour. Unlike Staithes and Robin Hood’s Bay, no houses have been built near the shoreline.

The port itself consists of a tiny, derelict harbour with a few cobles beached nearby.

It is probably easier to reach it from the sea and local residents do maintain fishing cobles in Port Mulgrave.

A few years ago, my brother lived in one of those cliff-top houses and kept a fishing coble in what he called Port, the local name for this village. Most of the people living in that area always refer to the village as Port.

Given its full name of Port Mulgrave, it boasts surprisingly little published history.

Most of my older reference books omit it entirely, although Harry Mead’s Inside the North York Moors (1978) and Alfred J Brown’s Fair North Riding (1952) do give it space. Small references also appear in some travel guides to the Yorkshire coastline, one mentioning the footpath down to the shore.

It is a very difficult climb both up and down, and in wet weather it can be dirty and slippery. Nonetheless, it does have its rewards. A walk along the shore – always with the state of the tide in mind – can be rewarding due to the variety of marine and coastal life, not to mention the likelihood of finding some raw jet.

That remarkable path down the cliff was once known as the miner’s track, having no steps and a very steep, rough surface. It was never a proper road or path. On our visit, it was a hair-raising descent but the name Miners’ Track provides a clue to the purpose of Port Mulgrave. Another clue is evident when you reach the bottom.

Overlooking the remains of that miniature harbour is the mouth of a large tunnel which disappears deep into the cliff and is now barricaded to prevent entry. The harbour was constructed around 155 years ago so that ships could convey ironstone from Port Mulgrave for processing at Jarrow.

The ore was mined inland via shafts which were sunk down to the seams near Grinkle and the three-mile long tunnel was built to transport the ore to the ships waiting in Port Mulgrave harbour. A narrow gauge railway line linked Grinkle to the harbour where barges, towed by paddle steamers, would take the ore to Jarrow.

It was a busy and colossal operation, but typical of the enterprising, hard-working businessmen of the period.

The Jarrow ironworks were owned by Sir Charles Palmer and it was he who built his country house at Grinkle. Known as Grinkle Park, it is now an hotel but few visitors will associate that fine building with the scant remains of a peaceful old harbour on the coast just a few miles away.

A winter’s walk along part of the Cleveland Way between Runswick Bay and Staithes took us high above the beach with a chill wind encouraging us not to linger in spite of the dramatic views. To keep warm we had to move at a brisk pace with little time to stand, stare and admire, but as a winter outing, the trek was both rewarding and stimulating.

Staithes is fascinating and although it is very popular now, this wasn’t always the case. A guidebook of the 1880s described it as highly picturesque and highly unsavoury. It was a noted herring station with smokehouses built into the cliffs for drying them. Fish were also cured on the beach – after being soaked in brine and pickle, they were laid out to dry and it was this pungent atmosphere that upset that writer. Nonetheless, our lunch in an almost deserted Staithes, was a fitting end to our trip.

I HAVE received some interesting correspondence and phone calls this week.

A correspondent living in the Richmond area told me how she and a neighbour watched a group of six wrens near their homes.

Dusk was approaching and as the darkness began to intensify, all those tiny birds headed for an old swallows’ nest at the neighbour’s house.

This occurred during our recent spell of bad weather for wrens are known to gather in groups to shelter from the cold. They make use of disused small containers such as nest boxes, disused kettles, swallows’ nests and even their own disused ones.

This is part of the wren’s survival technique during the coldest of our weather.

They have come to realise that if they huddle together for warmth in some cosy, sheltered small space, they may survive the most bitterly cold days of winter. Sadly, this does not always work.

The tiny size of the wren means it succumbs most readily to adverse weather conditions, particularly when food is scarce. Massive losses to the wren population can occur, but these sturdy little birds can often make a remarkable population recovery when the weather improves.

It is around this time that the male wren begins his courtship routine by claiming his territory. He does so with a remarkably loud and very attractive song which can be heard over a long distance. We can help them to survive winters by leaving old roofed nests undisturbed. That song will be the bird’s form of thanks.

I have received another note about the derivation of the name of Cod Beck that flows from Osmotherley to Thirsk and thence into the Swale to eventually join the Ouse on its journey to the North Sea.

A Northallerton correspondent tells me that all his five 17th century maps spell Cod Beck as Codbek. One of the mapmakers, William Hole, comments that he used Saxton’s description which dates to the 16th century.

As my correspondent points out, it is clear evidence that this form of the beck’s name has been in use for a considerable time.

And finally, it is around this time that snowdrops make their remarkable appearance, sometimes through a covering of snow.

Not surprisingly, they are also known as snowpiercers and this achievement for such a delicate plant in very difficult conditions is a positive indication that spring is on the way.

Another alternative name is Fair Maid of February – but perhaps we need reminding that we are still only about halfway towards the coming spring.