This bridge, in a traditional Pack Horse shape, has remained intact straddling the River Esk near the moorland village of Glaisdale, in the North Yorkshire Moors National Park, for 400 years. The village is about ten miles inland from Whitby, where the River Esk flows into the North Sea. It is known as Beggar’s Bridge, and was built in 1619, by Tom Ferris, a local man, son of a poor moorland sheep farmer. Having been turned down as a suitable suitor for his love, Agnes, by her wealthy land-owning father, Tom vowed to seek his fortune and to one day return to claim Agnes’ for his wife. After many adventures at sea, Tom returned, now a rich man, married Agnes, and prospered, to such an extent that he eventually became the Lord Mayor of Hull. The bridge, it is said, was erected by Tom as a memorial to his wife, and as a means for future lovers to cross the river without having to brave its often flooded waters. The story, as it has been passed down, is a mix of fact and fiction. The basic facts are essentially true, but the story, has become a local legend and has, no doubt been embellished over the course of time.
I have tried my hand at re-telling this story in a simple and traditional ballad style, the results of which efforts I give below . . .
THE BALLAD OF BEGGAR’S BRIDGE
He lived beside the river Esk In a fair delightful dale His story I must tell you now A truly stirring tale.
Tom loved a lass of high estate It was not meant to be For she was of the Manor born A lowly lad was he.
Her father disapproved the match Tom was of lowly birth No land, no money, no position, Of very little worth.
But their shared love was sound and solid So secretly they met. They shared their passions willingly But always under threat.
Poor Tom was restless and intent To run away to sea; He held fast to the thoughts that stirred Inside him to be free.
He knew one day he’d win his bride, He would not be gainsaid; Beyond this dale there was a world Where fortunes could be made.
So one dark night he set off late To wish Agnes farewell To promise to return for her To ever with her dwell.
She lived beside the river too But on the other side. He therefore had to swim across He would not be denied.
The Esk just then was in full spate It swirled along the dale. It almost took Tom’s life that night He knew he must prevail.
With strength of ten he forged a path Across the raging stream; He dragged his aching body out As if within a dream.
With his goodbyes Tom gave his word That some day he’d return; And Agnes gave her solemn oath She’d wait for him in turn.
Tom took himself to Whitby town And soon with Drake joined battle; Against that Spanish fleet he fought Saw off the invading rabble.
A rover in West Indies then And piracy his game. Plunder and pillage gave him wealth And brought a kind of fame.
He felt that now he could return To claim his promised bride; Confront her father without fear, With new found hope and pride.
And so to Glaisdale Tom returned His roving days now past. True to her word Agnes rejoiced, Her hopes fulfilled at last.
They married soon and lived in bliss, Or so the story goes. Tom grew in wealth, in fame, in power, Commanding all he chose.
Throughout the north he garnered fame His name grew ever bigger. Lord Mayor of Hull he then became, Now a respected figure.
And when his Agnes died at last Their story he declared, Would with a bridge over the Esk With all the world be shared.
A bridge to join the river’s banks To help new lovers’ trysts; A bridge secure from spate and flood Which to this day exists.
The reason it’s called Beggar’s Bridge No one is very sure. ‘Tis thought was done to prompt us all That Tom was once so poor.
A. Don’t interrupt me when I’m thinking. B. What about? A. You wouldn’t want to know. B. Why? Is it a secret? A. Could be. B. Tell me. A. Wouldn’t be a secret if I did. B. Now you intrigue me. A. Secrets are for keeping to yourself. B. Who says? A. That’s the definition of a secret. B. But if you tell me I won’t tell anyone. A. If I do tell you it won’t be a secret any more. B. But only you and I will know. A. But then someone else might ask you to tell them. B. But I won’t tell them. A. But that’s what you said to me. B. I did? A. Yes … And then you told me. B. Did I? A. Oh! B. It’s no secret that you can’t keep a secret, you know. A. Is it? B. How do you know that? A. It’s a secret. B. Tell me. A. No, B. Why? A. It wouldn’t be a secret if I did.
My photographs of the two sculptural heads were taken at ‘Sculpture Heaven’ in Wales . . .
The Sculpture Gardens, Workshops and Galleries. Ceri Gwnda, Rhydlewis, Llandysul, Ceredigion., SA44 5RN
All the sculptures there have a strong connection to the fabled past. The works have the appearance of classical antiquities. Many are by British sculptor, Jon Barnes, with artists Terry and Rose Barter complementing the range with their carvings of the Green Man, Buddhas, and contemporary sculpture.
Photo . . . WHB: (Copyright): I shall remember this view for ever. I holidayed in 2001 at the Nannybrow , just north of Windermere and a few miles west of Ambleside in The Lake District, Cumbria.
The Calm That Nature Breathes
Such beauty was a wondrous sight to see; It held my gaze for many a moment then. A burst of autumn colours and a view, Exquisite as a verse from Nature’s pen.
It told of Wordsworth’s Lakeland in its glory, Of luscious greens and tranquil lake so still; While purpure mountains in the distance loom And to the mellow view great calm instil.
A murmur in the breeze adorned the scene, A susurrus in a silent land of ease. It brought to me a sense of peace and love Amidst those waters, hills and ancient trees.
The stillness and the quiet of evening time, The colours then displayed before my sight, Feelings of calm, of peace, and lasting love, All came together then for my delight.
Such beauty was a wondrous sight to see; It held my gaze for many a moment then. A burst of autumn colours and a view, Exquisite as a verse from Nature’s pen.
It told of Wordsworth’s Lakeland in its glory, Of luscious greens and tranquil lake so still; While purpure mountains in the distance loom And to the mellow view great calm instil.
A murmur in the breeze adorned the scene, A susurrus in a silent land of ease. It brought to me a sense of peace and love Amidst those waters, hills and ancient trees.
The stillness and the quiet of evening time, The colours then displayed before my sight, Feelings of calm, of peace, and lasting love, All came together then for my delight.
One September day, still and fine, the water levels higher than usual after a period of prolonged rain, I captured the view from the hotel terrace. I was transfixed for a long time, allowing the serenity and brilliance of the view to embed. To me it was an absolutely stunning experience. The panorama from my viewpoint gives majestic views down the beautiful Brathay Valley and towards the stunning scenery of the Langdales on the horizon. The photograph I took then introduces my poem. The scene gave me a sense of the powerful effect which the Lakeland scenery had on William Wordsworth. In particular it reminded me of the brief quotations below . . .
“A foretaste, a dim earnest, of the calm That Nature breathes among the hills and groves.”
“. . . the sun in heaven . . . Beheld not vales more beautiful than ours”
From: ‘The Prelude: Book 1″:
The earth and every common sight, To me did seem Apparell’d in celestial light, The glory and the freshness of a dream.
From: “Ode on Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood”
“Never did sun more beautifully steep In his first splendour, valley, rock, or hill; Ne’er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep!”
From: Composed upon Westminster Bridge, September 3, 1802
I have used a quotation from ‘The Preludes’ as the title of my own short poem, written in the same pentameter structure as Wordsworth used in many of his poems.
Photograph of Spencer at work inCookham Village … by WHB . . . 1957
Stanley Spencer, CBE RA (1891 – 1959)was an English painter. Shortly after leaving the Slade School of Art, Spencer became well known for his paintings depicting Biblical scenes occurring as if in Cookham, the small village beside the River Thames where he was born and spent much of his life. Wikipedia
The sleepers awake from an imagined death A teasing adventure in insubstantial earth
Pram pusher extraordinaire in the Village that lit up his life inspired his vision Trundled easel hearse put to work in progress To see, to feel, to breathe destiny on the village green The past become the present resurrected in tranquillity Life-lite under the churchyard yew this moulded flesh – full featured bringing joy from the stern grave Life’s resurrection imagined in hope and the churchyard in his eyes and his pigment Drawn and deified Death and Resurrection as Spring As buttercups in the greenest of fields.
The sleepers awake from an imagined death A pleasing adventure in insubstantial earth
Stanley Spencer: ‘The Resurrection, Cobham … 1924-27. Tate Gallery
Atop the sea cliffs I tread the uneven foot beaten wind worn path I turn and look back look down along the line of this eastern shore across the arc of the bay towards the cliff-clinging terracotta cottages carved from the rock of the wave beaten coast I watch the writhing waves pound the seawall rocks insistently biting into the land’s defences high casting their salty spume into the sky’s blue blanket
and all the time beside me at the path’s edge the rustle of waving barley their sighing hush competing with the sea swell to bring the landscape into one waving vision the smooth surface tension of the early summer scene contesting the still silence of the placid inland rolling moors delighting both eye and mind and bringing contentment to a world of both beauty and sorrow
Runswick Bay is a small coastal village, set in a sweeping, sheltered bay on the North Sea Coast of Yorkshire. It borders on the North Yorkshire Moors National Park and the Cleveland Way National Trail runs on the coastline above the village.
