Dented

I ached a little as we left Scotland but I was determined we would get something other than driving on the last day. Blissful warm showers on the campsite still couldn't mask the all pervading smoky mackerel flavour we were exuding, but never mind. The Glens and Rannoch Moor were inspiringly huge and we made good time to the Cumbria / North Yorkshire borders for that lovely 20 minute drive frrrom the motorway to Dentdale, once so much more remote. I was so relieved to find a campsite right where I thought it should be and knew there was a pub.

Our welcome at the campsite was Yorkshire philosophical. A sort of "Oh well, if you have to camp and give us some money, but we much preferred it when we just had sheep. We were poor but happy and there was a flood yesterday and do you really want to buy some milk?" Really cheerful and positive. Ha, love it.

I have had various trips to Dent over the years, but there was something in the air. We went to the Sun Inn. Sun? Well yes, it came in through the window and cast a few shadows. I have never had such a 'promising but not quite' experience. Half an hour waiting for drinks, children told they could not even touch the bar as they weren't old enough, out by 9pm , the list and castigations were almost as comprehensive as the campsite rules of basically not moving or talking to anyone, least of all the locals. The cafe was closed, but we heard the gossip, someone was "on his honeymoon, not that anyone knows". I wonder if his wife does?

Look, I don't want to put you off, but we were in a pretty down mood by the time our food came and went (No, you don't want the homemade Cumberland sausage, it's too big" !) Ben's pudding was forgotten because it was "In a line...." Just so very disappointing for a village that has to be one of the prettiest and could be doing a roaring trade somehow. Maybe we caught it on a bad day. You know, the sun was shining and the lambs were bleating, rooks roosting in huge flocks above the valley and lush green fields misting in the fading light. Ugh, how awful. It's much nicer on a foul day surely.

Or maybe it was because we had left Scotland and didn't want to go home.