Wharfedale, Wensleydale, Swaledale, Teesdale—they are all words with a charm in them.
Wensleydale tells me the true impetus to bolt was the merest trifle.
It is a memorial of the sports and pastimes for which Wensleydale was famous.
At Richmond we leave the lowlands and strike directly across the rough moorland road to Leyburn in Wensleydale.
Was it not “about Wensleydale” that George Fox saw “a great people in white raiment by a river-side?”
But what the public are clamouring to know is the price of Wensleydale cheese in Ilfracombe.
In Wensleydale the progress of the Ure is broken by several fine waterfalls, notably the cataracts at Aysgarth.
All Wensleydale lies before us—green as an emerald in the valley, bare and grey on the hilltops, dimly blue in the distance.
I am in Wensleydale, climbing from the rocky river that leaps amid broad pastures up to the rolling moor.
At Bainbridge, the chief place of the forest of Wensleydale, Yorkshire, still lingers an old horn-blowing custom.
