We’ve done all his favourites this week. Bertie knows something’s up — he always does. The suitcases are out, James has started making long, contemplative noises in the shed, and I’ve washed the car mats, which apparently signals a full geopolitical shift in Bertie’s universe.
So we walked.
First was the easy one — down to the Pickering Beck, past the co-op and over the little wooden bridge that smells faintly of moss and fish fingers. Bertie has a special disdain for the ducks along that stretch. Too entitled, he thinks. He tried to bark at them, slipped on the mud, and promptly decided to focus on sniffing crisps instead. Dignity partially recovered.
Then up into Cropton Forest, where the trees are tall enough to hush the world and the paths are soft underfoot. We didn’t see another soul, which is how James likes it. Bertie managed to lose his tennis ball and find it again all by himself, which he clearly believes qualifies him for some sort of award. I gave him a sausage roll crumb and he accepted this graciously.
Yesterday, though, was the big one. The Hole of Horcum, windswept and wide, a proper farewell route. We parked just off the A169, had tea from the flask before we started (mine went cold, as always), and set off down that winding path that drops into the vast bowl of green and purple.
If you’ve never been — go. It’s like falling into the centre of the world. The story goes it was carved out by a giant named Wade in a fit of rage. I like to think he just needed a change of scenery.
Read more about the Hole of Horcum here
Bertie was in his element. Tail up, legs muddy, ears flying back like he was on a mission. Which, to be fair, he was — to sniff every blade of grass and chase invisible rabbits into oblivion.
James and I didn’t say much. We rarely do on that walk. It’s the sort of place that makes you feel like you should listen more than talk. The only sounds were the wind, a few sheep bleating from somewhere up the slope, and Bertie occasionally sneezing when he inhaled thistle fluff too enthusiastically.
Back at the car, we gave him a full rubdown with the emergency towel (he hates it, which makes it funnier), and he settled in for the drive like he’d conquered the moors and was now ready for retirement.
Now we’re home, and there’s that feeling again. Between. That liminal bit where Yorkshire’s still under your nails but Spain’s already creeping into the corners of the to-do list.
Tomorrow, we load the car. The next morning, we go.
But for tonight, Bertie is asleep by the door, mud still clinging to the tips of his paws, and I’m sitting here with my third cup of tea, watching the light drain slowly from the garden.
Goodbye, Yorkshire. For now.
We’ll be back before you know it. And Bertie will have some stories.
