‘Wind-blown solitude and excited by what’s to come’: The Wolds Way, part one

This Place, a column by Vicky Foster

Exploring Hull & East Yorkshire

Vicky Foster is walking the Wolds Way in stages. Here’s the start of her 79-mile journey

It’s 2nd January - the first Sunday of 2022 - and I’m standing on the cobbled shore of the Humber; weathered wood rising up on one side of me, the wide, muddy expanse of the river on the other, and the Humber Bridge stretching out ahead.

Cars and lorries make their slow, silent progress across it while I scour the shore and the grassy, tree-lined verge that meet it.

I’m looking for the marker that signals the start of The Wolds Way – or The Yorkshire Wolds Way - to give its newer, full title. I’m here to make a start on one of only two New Year’s resolutions I’ve made this year; to walk the whole thing.

SET IN STONE: The National Trails’ acorn symbol near the start of the Wolds Way

It’s 79 miles long in total, beginning at Hessle Haven and ending at Filey Brigg, and all the best intentions in the world wouldn’t make me able to do it in one go. And that’s OK, because my second New Year’s resolution is to slow down.

I will be, I predict, ambling the whole way, because I want to enjoy it. I want to take it in, get to know the Wolds more intimately. Having loved them nearly my whole life, it feels like high time to do this. And walking feels like the perfect way to do it.

When I told my cousin, on New Year’s Eve, that I’d discovered my perfect exercise, and it was walking, she laughed. Because to anyone who knows me, it makes perfect sense. It’s only a wonder I didn’t work it out earlier. I’m a daydreamer, a meanderer, someone who likes to wander off the path a bit, and who doesn’t want the path to be too firmly set out to start with.

MUDFLATS: Where Hessle Haven meets the Humber

Nowadays I’m also, quite often, not very well. In the past when I’ve exercised, I’ve gone running, or to the gym – 15 minutes on the treadmill, half an hour of weights, quick swim, steam, shower, home again. But the truth is that my body just doesn’t always fit into those kinds of routines anymore. It needs something steadier, and gentler. Last year I discovered that walking fits the bill.

Sometimes I can do six or seven miles in one day and others I can only manage one or two. So, I might get to Filey Brigg in time to see the puffins flying in to feed their nesting chicks on small fish, or I might not reach it until the young have flown.

I could be walking through Thixendale, while bluebells or tulips or roses bob their petalled heads in the gardens of the houses on its single street, or I might not even make it until the trees have turned golden and all the flowers have finished blooming. I’m excited to see how it works out.

BEGINNING: Vicky Foster at the start of the Wolds Way

That’s part of the beauty of walking. You never quite know what you’re going to get. Things will appear that you would never spot from the car or a train or even a bike. You’re going to be up close and personal with the landscape and see even familiar places in a new way.

That’s especially true for me on this particular walk, because I’ll be taking notes so I can write these columns and log the whole journey. I’ll be out on the Wolds Way every Sunday until I finish it, government restrictions and health and general life stuff permitting.

But back to the beach. Not finding the marker on this stretch of it, I make my way back onto the path and set off.

The pale trunks of trees bend away from me in the wind. A tangle of grass and brambles, and spiky, knotted branches of hawthorn give way to pebbles and a long, straight line of twigs and straw the tide has arranged as carefully as fingers or the beaks of nesting birds.

It’s bright and windy, the sound of rushing air mingling with the distant ever-present hum of traffic. Movement is everywhere. It’s a restless place.

As we progress towards the bridge the trees thin on my right revealing Hessle cricket and rugby club and long gardens. Flood defences of concrete, glass and steel spring up between me and the river. And eventually I find the marker I’ve been looking for – a chunk of stone with the National Trails’ acorn etched into it.

RUGGED: Hessle Foreshore looking towards Ferriby

It’s not the only marker to be found here though. Someone has sunk a wooden cross into the pebbles and mud on the shore and almost every bench has a plaque. There are bunches of flowers, some fresh and vibrant, some wilted and wind-blown. A holly wreath, bedecked with red ribbons, lies on a wall. A wicker basket with silver baubles. Yellow roses.

I opt for the shore as I approach the Country Park Inn, wanting to avoid the fairly congested road where people are regularly tucking themselves in at the edge to let cars pass. I’m happy with my choice; the washed-out whiteness of the stones beyond the tideline meeting the darkness of rich-green weed and grasses, moss, algae, slick almost-black mud.

After the pub though, it’s back to the curving chalk path. Hills rise on the distant opposite shore, standing in shadow against a white sun that already hangs low in the sky. Wind turbines turn in the distance. The steeple of North Ferriby church rises above the bare-branched trees.

The trainline is only feet away here – pale purple flowers grow in the grass at its edges. The shore shrinks as I walk, until the water laps against a ridge of piled pale rocks at the very edge the path. It’s a busy stretch. People slow and say hello, woolly hats and waterproof jackets shielding them from the elements. Dogs stop, sniff, wag their tails and move on.

FIND: An outline of the oldest known boat in Europe, close to where it was found in Ferriby. The vessel was built and sailed from this foreshore 4,000 years ago. The outline was created as a memorial to Ted Wright [1918 - 2001], who discovered the boat and the keel of another as a teenager

As I approach Ferriby I pass through a gate and opt for the path that takes me away from the river, through a wooded area where wind and water rumble away to the left and fields roll away beyond the trees on the right. It’s a relief to be sheltered awhile.

But I soon pass back into the open, where a beacon rises on a hill and the wooden skeleton of a Bronze-age longboat picks out the place where it was discovered. I’ve reached my destination for today.

I pass the edges of fenced fields that hold horses and stables, making for the village centre, and discover, tucked away, a bustling little café with all its outdoor tables full, serving After-Eight hot chocolate and hot pork baps, fairy lights adorning the serving hatch and seating area.

I emerge beneath the railway bridge and wander off to find my car. It’s been a bleak, bright, beautiful walk. One where you know you’re still very much in an urban setting. A steady, straightforward start to The Wolds Way. Three miles down, seventy-six to go.