Parcevall Hall Gardens, Pateley Bridge and the Yorke Arms

Lesser Known Parts of Wharfedale, and Dinner at a (Then) Michelin Starred Restaurant in Nidderdale

The business model of the Yorke Arms at Ramsgill in Nidderdale, no longer involves it being a restaurant (nor, despite its name, a pub). The first two parts of this post remain valid, the third is of historical interest only.

North Yorkshire

Like last year, our wedding anniversary foray into the world of fine dining took us to God’s Own County. We even followed the same route as far as Bolton Priory, but then, instead of heading east we continued north along Wharfedale.

Parcevall Hall Gardens

We turned right, following a smaller road which climbed into a side valley and thence onto Greenhow Hill. Half way up we took an even smaller road through the remote hamlet of Skyreholme to its end at Parcevall Hall.

Sir John Yorke purchased this land in 1549 and the earliest parts of Parcevall Hall date from his tenure. Sir John Milner bought the by then dilapidated hall in 1924, rebuilt it and landscaped the gardens. The hall is now a retreat centre for the Church of England's Bradford diocese, but the gardens are open to the public.

A rose garden and rockery stand above the house…..

Lynne in the rockery, Parcevall Hall

…..which is a low rambling building of solid Yorkshire stone….

Parcevall Hall, North Yorkshire

…while below it a series of terraces tumble down the sun-drenched hillside. (Other weather conditions are available, and this being North Yorkshire….)

Terraced gardens, Parcevall Hall

Pateley Bridge, Nidderdale

On the other side of Greenhow Hill is Pateley Bridge, the biggest settlement in Nidderdale and full of visitors on a fine summer afternoon.

We had a look round the Nidderdale museum, thoughtfully laid out in the former workhouse….

The Nidderale Museum in the old workhouse, Pateley Bridge

… and bought an ice cream at the ‘oldest sweet shop in England’.

Lynne eats an ice cream, Pateley Bridge

Ramsgill

We continued to Ramsgill, five miles further up the dale past Gouthwaite Reservoir - which features in the opening credits of Emmerdale.

Like Parcevall Hall, Ramsgill was owned by the Yorke family and in 1840 they rebuilt the hamlet as a cluster of handsome stone buildings round a green.

The Yorke Arms, Ramsgill

The centrepiece was the inn, the Yorke Arms, now (in 2013, anyway) a ‘restaurant with rooms’. Head chef and co-owner Frances Atkins was awarded a Michelin star in 2003 and has maintained it ever since.[Update: Frances Atkins sold the Yorke Arms to entrepreneur Jonathan Turner in 2017, but was persuaded to stay on as head chef. The Michelin Star was lost in the 2020 guide (published 07/10/2019). In 2020 the Yorke Arms reinvented itself as a 'country house for hire'. And then came Covid.]

What follows is a review of a restaurant where nobody can ever eat. I could delete it, but I have chosen not to.

The Yorke Arms and the village green, Ramsgill

Canapés

Our bedroom overlooked the green, but we had pre-dinner drinks and studied the menu on the rear patio beside a brook, overlooking a field and surrounded by lavender and curry plants. Our drinks were accompanied by a slate (Please Put it on a Plate: John Finnemore on You Tube) bearing 3 small mouthfuls and a few flavoured almonds and hazelnuts.

The chickpea purée dusted with black seeds (nigella?) on a tiny biscuit was pleasant, the salmon with salmon mousse on a round of brioche was excellent, but the tiny cube of pork rillettes flavoured with a bloblet of intensely concentrated apple sauce, was toe-curlingly wonderful. There was a nasturtium flower or two as well; they added little except colour, but are a feature of the Yorke Arms experience.

A cottage in Ramsgill

Just as we started to think it was too cool to sit outside we were told our table was ready and we moved into the dining room. Tables were well separated and pleasingly large for two, though foursomes were eating at the same sized table. There were almost as many waiters as tables and service was attentive but not obtrusive.

The dining room, The Yorke Arms, Ramsgill

Breads and Amuse-bouche

A tray of breads, sourdough, cheese bread, wholemeal, arrived with a bowl of olive oil and some butter. The oil was the finest I have ever dipped my bread in, its deep olive flavour a million miles away from the stuff we get from the supermarket. I checked out the butter, too. It was good, but did not stand out in the same way – I am not sure butter can.

The amuse-bouche was a disc of pea purée, surmounted by a few tiny pealed peas (is life not too short to peal a pea?) and a nasturtium petal. The flavour of fresh peas is always pleasingly, but this was raised to another level by the gentle application of a blow-torch to create a sort of pea brulée.

There were two menus with four or five choices per course. The Yorke House Classics looked interesting, but on such a day the ‘taste of summer menu’ was irresistible.

Starters

Lynne’s starter of ‘truffled rabbit with chicken press’ was wrapped in thin ham. A similar dish at La Bécasse had been overwhelmed by the smokiness of its wrapping, but here everything was in harmony, and set off by tiny mushrooms, the inevitable nasturtium petals and the discovery, deep in the ‘press’, of a burst of intensely sweet pickle. Lynne was happy with her starter, though she could detect no truffle flavour.

I chose ‘three smoked fish’ and was presented with a circle of small parcels surrounding a blob of green and left to work out what was what. Most of the parcels were wrapped in shaved courgette, but a piece of langoustine sat alone. There was smoked mackerel and smoked swordfish, salmon mousse and a small pile of the tiniest shrimps anyone ever bothered to peel. That is what I thought I ate, but I cannot rule out a misidentification or two. The word ‘pistachio’ had appeared on the menu and I presumed that was the central green blob, but sadly it failed to deliver. Although impressed by the cleverness, I liked the dish, but did not love it.

Mains

Lynne’s main was turbot, which had been heavily pushed earlier and, looking round us, seemed a popular choice. The fine and delicate flavour of the fish had been enhanced by light and sympathetic cooking. The turbot was partnered by a large scallop and accompanied by spinach, a skinned cherry tomato, a blob of mashed potato, pea purée and a few baby peas. The scallop was hardly cooked; soft and wonderfully flavoured it had been steeped in a sauce we could not at first identify. We wiped up the remains on the plate with our fingers, licked them and realised it was vanilla. It was the first unusual flavour combination of the evening and it should never have worked, but it did, perfectly.

My ‘shin of rose veal’ had some of the cheaper, slow cooked meat and slightly more of an expensive more briefly cooked cut. Both were excellent as was the sweetbread, a piece of offal that requires, and on this occasion received, precise cooking. A roundel of carrot on the veal exploded with the extraordinarily sweet flavour of amaretto. Tasting again, unable to believe it, I found amaretto mingling with the jus. Then a baby turnip smeared with potato cleared my nasal passages with an onrush of mustard. I was losing faith in the ability of my eyes to predict the next flavour. Was this brilliant or dire? I finished the plate and found myself wanting more, so I decided it must be brilliant.

Wine

This mixture of fish and meat could have made choosing a wine difficult had not the summer sunshine suggested rosé. Sancerre rosé is never cheap, but the restaurant mark-up made it distinctly expensive, moreso as it delivered nicely on acidity, but could have done with more fruit.

Desserts and Dessert Wine

My dessert involved a lychee soufflé, which was good if not very lychee-y, an almond biscuit and a jasmine tea sorbet, which was delightful, possibly the second best sorbet I have ever tasted. The best was the coconut sorbet in Lynne’s dessert which so powerfully concentrated the flavour of coconut it made my ears ring. The peach praline and rose petal jelly were excellent, too. A glass of Rustenberg ‘straw wine’, a South African take on the traditional Italian practice of concentrating flavours by drying grapes on straw mats, slipped down easily. It was ‘an unctuous dessert wine, with moreish flavours of marmalade and stone fruit’ to quote a wine merchant who sells it. It could not have been better.

Coffee and Petits Fours

Coffee and petits fours in the lounge produced a pleasing selection of sweeties, a ball of ice-cream encased in white chocolate particularly stood out.

And so ended a meal which lived up to its Michelin star billing. Frances Atkins is one of only six women in Britain to hold such an award. Her style is essential traditional but with sudden outbreaks of quirkiness, some of which border on brilliance, others misfire, but all were worth trying.

Frances Atkins
(Picture filched from Great British Chefs(click to see video))

The meal was well balanced, and although individual dishes were small the overall quantity left us well fed but not stuffed, thus allowing us to enjoy the next mornings breakfast we had already paid for.

Lynne ready for Breakfast,The Yorke Arms, Ramsgill

And what does a Michelin starred kitchen do for a full English breakfast? Firstly they use top quality ingredients – the bacon and black pudding were sublime. And then there was the scrambled egg. Traditionally I scramble eggs on a Saturday morning; this time I let the Yorke Arms do it. I had thought I was pretty good, but now I must reassess my technique, I never get it this buttery, this creamy, this smooth, this…. I could go on.

'Fine Dining' posts

Abergavenny and the Walnut Tree (2010)
Ludlow and La Bécasse (2011) (restaurant closed, post withdrawn)
Ilkley and The Box Tree(2012)
Pateley Bridge and the Yorke Arms (2013) (No longer a restaurant, post renamed Parceval Gardens and Pateley Br)
The Harrow at Little Bedwyn (2014)
The Slaughters and the Lords of the Manor (2015)
Loam, Fine Dining in Galway (2016)
Penarth and Restaurant James Sommerin (2017) (restaurant closed, post withdrawn. JS has a new restaurant in Penarth)
The Checkers, Montgomery (2017) (no longer a restaurant, post withdrawn. Now re-opened under new management)
Tyddyn Llan, Llandrillo, Denbighshire (2018)
Fischer's at Baslow Hall, Derbyshire (2019)
Hambleton Hall, Rutland (2021)
The Olive Tree, Queensberry Hotel, Bath (2022)
Dinner at Pensons near Tenbury Wells (2023) (restaurant closed Dec 2023, post withdrawn)

Desert Journeys

Three Journeys Across Inhospitable Terrain

Abadan to Shiraz, with an Unplanned Stop at Bandar Deylam
30th of July 2000

Iran

On the 30th of July 2000 we set out with our driver/guide Keywan to drive some 540km from Abadan on the tip of the Persian Gulf to the 'Rose City' of Shiraz, the capital of the Province of Fars which gave its name to Ancient Persia and the modern Persian language (Fars /Pers - transliterations from Arabic script are infinitely variable).

Our journey would take us around the tip of the Persian Gulf to the small port of Bandar Deylam and then just north of east across an empty section of the map to Gachsaran where we would pick up the highway to Shiraz.

Iran is large so a journey of 540km across southern Iran looks small

The land round the tip of the gulf is sun-baked salty and often brown. It is not picturesque country, even before you add in the ugly remains of the Iran-Iraq war.

Leaving Abadan

A distant view of the small town of Hendijan made me wonder why anyone chose to live there. Perhaps no one did, their ancestor just washed up there on the tides of history and they never had the gumption to leave.

A distant view of Hendijan

The car was not been running well, given the dusty country we had been crossing for days it was not surprising the fuel filter had become blocked. We eventaully ground to a halt somemwhere north of Bandar Deylam. Keywan, for all his many talents, was no mechanic – and neither am I.

Breakdown north of Bandar Deylam

To give Keywan his due, he managed to get the car going again and we limped into the port of Bandar Deylam and found a garage.

At the garage, Bandar Deylam

The car restored to health, we headed north through the desert towards Gachsaran in the greener valley beyond. Keywan did not have total confidence in the repair and listened intently to the engine every time we climbed a gradient or accelerated away from a bend. This would not be a good place to break down.

In the spectacular desert scenery the only signs of human activity were the ribbon of tarmac and the oil pipelines which criss-cross the desert, sometimes running beside the road, sometimes veering off through narrow valleys or dropping down stony cliffs.

Road and pipeline between Bandar Deylam and Gachsaran

My father lived and worked in Iran from 1946 to 1951. I was born in 1950 in the refinery town of Abadan, and Lynne and I were taking advantage of a brief period of détente to visit the land of my birth for the first time since I left as a babe in arms.

For most of those six years my father worked in this desert, constructing pipelines, perhaps the very pipelines we were driving beside.

Pipeline between Bandar Deylam and Gachsaran

After 25Km we crossed the Zorah River which runs through the heart of the desert, scrubby patches of green clinging to its banks. Beside the bridge there is a village, I cannot imagine what its inhabitants do to earn their living.

Crossing the Zorah River

Gachsaran was still 50Km away, but the car kept going and Keywan gradually relaxed. An hour later we descended into a valley which seemed lush and green, though only in comparison to the desert we had just crossed. Here we joined the main highway to Shiraz

Into the Sunset, Ghadames, Libya
19th of April 2006

Libya

Most Libyans live beside or near the Mediterranean coast. The Jebel Nafusa (Nafusa Hills) in north-eastern Libya is the only significant non-coastal area of population, but even then it is not far inland, stretching 200km from Gharyan, just south of Tripoli, west to Nalut. Massoud took us to Kabaw, just south east of Nalut, to the home of his sister, Seham and brother-in-law, Omar, for lunch. Afterwards he drove us south into the desert to Derj and then to the oasis and former slave trading town of Ghadames (spellings vary) and Omar came along for the ride.

Ghadames is almost where Algeria, Tunisia and Libya meet

On our second evening we ventured out into the desert to watch the sunset. Hoping to attract tourists, a small encampment had been set up, bread baked in the sand,….

Baking bread in the sand
near Ghadames, Libya

… and tea were available for all. Twenty or so foreigners turned up; tourism was not big in Libya in 2006 and it is even smaller now, if it exists at all.

Bread and tea, near Ghadames, Libya

A Taureg rode into camp with the effortless elegance that is every Taureg’s birth right.

A Tuareg arrives in camp, Ghadames

He halted his camel by one of the huts and it lowered itself to the ground. Swinging his leg forward to dismount he strode towards the hut, his robes flapping in the gentle breeze. Then there was a strange electronic sound. Patting himself, he found what he was looking for and as his hand delved deep into his robes to emerge grasping a mobile phone, the magic evaporated into the desert air.

As the sun sank we climbed a sand dune…

Climbing a sand dune, near Ghadames, Libya

… and took up our position on the top.

Waiting for the sunset, near Ghadames, Libya

For reasons known only to himself, Omar walked off into the dunes for his own private view of the sunset. He can be seen in the photograph, a tiny figure at the end of a trail of footprints.

Omar of the sands, near Ghadames, Libya

Somewhere in the west, over Algeria, was a single band of cloud. We saw no sunset that day, the cloud swallowing the fiery orb long before it reached the horizon.

The sunset that no one ever saw, near Ghadames, Libya

We were disappointed, but it does no harm to be reminded that such things do not happen to order; sunsets cannot be bought and sold. Anyway, there would be other opportunities.

Bahariya to Siwa, Egypt
10th of November 2009

Egypt

We had crossed the western desert from Luxor on a good tarmac road through the oases of Kharga, Dhakla, Farafra and Bahariya. From Bahariya the blacktop turned east and headed for Cairo. To reach the Siwa oases 300km west near the Libyan border, the only way was over the sand. The British army had built a road of sorts in the 1930s, and we followed their route, but little of their construction remained. [Update: That was largely true in 2009, but a new road was planned and a few kilomtres were already in use near Siwa. I believe that road has been complete for some time]

Egypt and the oases of the Western Desert

Before setting out with Mohammed, our ever-affable driver and Araby, our cultured and knowledgeable guide, we presented ourselves at the local police station to prove we had a satellite phone for emergencies and to register for the desert crossing. The Egyptian authorities do not want anybody, particularly tourists, lost in the wilderness so they counted us all out, counted us all in and also checked us half way at an isolated army post, possibly the most boring posting in Egypt.[That might have been true in 2009, but between 2014 until 2018 there were a number of attacks on isolated outpost, and dozens of soldiers have been killed. An ISIS affiliate has been involved and the instability of Libya has not helped. This is no longer an area for tourists]

Outside the police station, Bahariya

The six vehicles making the crossing set off in convoy, but soon became separated.

Leaving Bahariya

After a couple of hours we stopped to stretch our legs, though finding a bush to pee behind presented a problem.

Stopping to stretch our legs

Half an hour later we encountered a small lake surrounded by reeds. It looked curiously out of place.

A small lake surrounded by reeds

Beyond the lake we dropped down into the Qattara Depression. The depression is the size of Wales, though a lot less rainy (where isn't?) and at its lowest point is 133m below sea level. Our route crossed only a small corner before we climbed out again.

Coming out of the Qattara Depression

At lunchtime we left the road and headed down to an oasis, now dry and deserted but once a centre of population. We walked down, leaving Mohammed to pick his way carefully over the firm sand and avoid the rocky outcrops.

Down to our lunchtime oasis

He found a shady spot for the picnic…

A shady spot for a picnic, Areg Oasis

….and laid it on the bonnet of the car. As well as being a skilled desert driver, Mohammed was also a top class picnic maker, in fact a good man to have around.

Mohammed's picnic, with added butterfly

The base of the cliff had been used as a necropolis in antiquity, but time had long ago opened up the graves and desert foxes ensured the area was littered with the bleached bones of the oasis’ former inhabitants.

Necropolis at desert oasis

Leaving our macabre picnic site, Mohammed navigated back to the track and an hour later picked up the new road under construction from Siwa. The last 20km or so were on tarmac, but we arrived with a sense of having journeyed across a desert and reached a destination of utter remoteness. This feeling lasted until we checked into our hotel and found it full of elderly Italians, bussed down from the Mediterranean coastal resorts.

Siwa

A Brief Encounter with Carnforth and a Train Trip to Grange-over-Sands

A Railway Station that Thinks it Won an Oscar and a Trip Across the Kent Estuary

Carnforth

Lancashire

Lancaster

‘There’s not much else to detain you in Carnforth,’ Brian said, ‘just a couple of charity shops, a branch of Greggs, a Chinese take-away and an estate agent or two.’ Brian was right, Carnforth has all these things and, useful as they may be, they are not the stuff of a blog post. Slightly more interesting are the old fashioned ironmonger’s and Carnforth Bookshop selling new, used and antiquarian books, but by and large Carnforth looks and feels like a town side-lined by the currents of history.

There is a Co-op which has taken up residence in what was, until the mid-sixties, the Roxy Cinema….

Carnforth Co-op

….and a war memorial with half a dozen floral tributes to Drummer Lee Rigby, murdered the previous week in London. I was surprised; he was not a local man, and their presence clearly says something about the current state of the national psyche, though I am not exactly sure what.

Carnforth War Memorial

Carnforth Railway Station

And then of course there is the railway station, the ‘else’ of the opening sentence. It was the railway - and the abundant local limestone - that made Carnforth, turning a village of a couple of hundred at the start of the 19th century into a steel making town with over 4000 inhabitants by its end. Then steel making stopped and so did Carnforth’s growth, though it remained an important railway depot for the first half of the 20th century.

Carnforth Railway Station

Carnforth Station and Brief Encounter

The railway also brought Carnforth its 15 minutes of fame, or more precisely, its 86 minutes of fame as that is the running time of Brief Encounter. If the locals are to be believed Carnforth Station was billed just above Celia Johnson and Trevor Howard, though, unaccountably it was Celia Johnson who got the Oscar nomination not the station.

The station clock, which features prominently in the film is still there….

The clock, Carnforth Railway Station

… and part of one platform has been set out like the fictional Milford Junction of 1945.

Carnforth Station as it might have been in 1945

Inside, the refreshment room, which also played an important part, has been lovingly recreated…..

Refreshment room, Carnforth Station

…… and returned to use. Despite the 3d (that’s thruppence, children, there were 12d to a shilling and 20s to £1) on the till, the £8.95 on the blackboard shows they have not recreated 1945 prices. This till is just for show, but they all looked like that when I was a lad.



All tills used to look like this

Although the station was used extensively as a location, the refreshment room scenes were shot in a studio, so this is a recreation of a room that never was.

The rest of the interior is the ‘heritage centre’. Beside the shop, Brief Encounter runs on a loop, while other displays chart the history of Carnforth. There is as much railway memorabilia as anyone could wish for, a serious model railway shop for small boys of all ages and, of course, a nod to the superstar of the railway world, Thomas the Tank Engine (here upstaged by Percy the Green Engine).

Percy the Green Engine, Carnforth Railway Station

West Coast Main Line trains stopped calling at Carnforth in 1970 and the platform was removed so they could scream through at full speed. The station deteriorated into dereliction until its redevelopment as a heritage centre in 2000.

Carnforth Railway Station, the functional part

Taking the Train from Carnforth to Grange-over-Sands

Two working platforms remain for trains running between Manchester Airport and Barrow-in-Furness. When you are at a station you should take a train, so we made the fifteen minute journey to Grange-over-Sands on the opposite (Cumbrian) side of Morecambe Bay. The attraction, at least for me, was that the line crosses the bridge over the Kent estuary or the top end of Morecambe Bay, depending on how you want to look at it.



Across the Kent estuary...or the top end of Morecambe Bay

Grange-over-Sands

Cumbria

South Lakeland

Grange is about the same size as Carnforth, but there the similarities cease. The railway turned it, almost overnight, from a fishing village to a seaside resort but a small and select sort of resort. We walked along the promenade which is unusual as proms go as it overlooks not a beach, but a strip of salt marsh, grazed by a small herd of sheep.

Lynne and Hilary on the promenade, Grange-over-Sands

A hundred years ago the main stream of the River Kent ran beside the promenade but over the years it worked its way south, leaving behind sands and mudflats which have developed into the salt marsh we see today. Sustained easterly winds in early 2007 started the river moving back again and the marsh is now eroding; Morecambe Bay is forever changing.



The salt marsh - and the salt marsh lamb, Grange-over-Sands

Just because the river has been neglecting the promenade, it does not mean the residents have, and the gardens are carefully tended by a group of volunteers; we passed them as they took their coffee break. Mainly retired people – Grange is full of them us – with a sense of civic responsibility, they are doing an excellent job.

Having strolled out along the prom, we walked back through the streets, past large, solid stone houses built to last until eternity, if not a little longer. There are charity shops here, too, but you have to admire the wrought ironwork.



Charity shops and wrought iron, Grange-over-Sands

There are also a couple of top class delis. Where Carnforth looks sad and dated, Grange’s response to the 21st century is to be archly retro - and it seems to work. They have an artisan baker who makes real bread and a serious butcher who also produces pies - and do I approve of a proper pie. Brian assures me they are as good as they look, and Brian’s opinion in such matters can be taken as fact.

Archly Retro, Grange-over-Sands

At the end of the Main Street....

Main Street, Grange-over-Sands

...we crossed a small park populated by a variety of exotic ducks and geese (though fewer than of late, Hilary thought) and made our way back to the station, itself a listed building and recently restored and repainted.



Snow Geese and chick, Grange-over-Sands

The climate and the nature of Morecambe Bay mean that Grange was never going to be a candy-floss, kiss-me-quick-hat sort of seaside resort, but the surrounding countryside is beautiful and the Lakes are nearby so this is prime holiday cottage country. People retire to Grange, too. I would not consider it myself, despite its direct link to Manchester airport, as the climate is just too cool and too wet, however for those with webbed feet….



Grange-over-Sands station