Heading up Wensleydale, North Yorkshire, in wintery weather, I am musing on what makes a great waterfall. Much effort has been spent making lists of them – the highest single drop, the loftiest cascade and so on – all of which seem to miss the point.
The best waterfalls manage to bring together elements of water, stone, space, light and sound in a composition that makes your heart skip a beat. That makes any list personal. I don’t care a hoot if Cautley Spout is the highest in England – it doesn’t grab my imagination. The surrounding Howgill Fells do, but not the falls. Likewise Scale Force, the highest in the Lake District. Sorry. There is a fantastic walk across High Stile, with Buttermere below, but the falls are tucked too deeply in the hill; there is no play of light, there is no glory.
I turn off at Hawes and cross the River Ure. This was the route of the Tour de France in 2014, the riders swiftly reminded why this place makes good waterfalls: first, like today, it rains a lot; second, the hillsides are steep. I ignore the left turn for the Buttertubs Pass, the one taken by the peloton, and head into the small village of Hardraw, stopping outside the Green Dragon.
There is another element I forgot to mention in the making of an exceptional waterfall: the approach. There are those who would argue that it should be tough. The highest falls in Britain, the 200-metre Eas a Chual Aluinn in the Highlands, demands a boggy three-mile yomp on a route that most guides describe as “challenging”. I have yet to do it. The approach to the waterfall in Hardraw is very different. It is through the pub.
And there have been several appearances on television and film. “Oh yes, we’ve had loads. John Craven for Countryfile, then Kevin Costner in Robin Hood, Prince of Thieves. He stripped off in the pool, of course. I mean Costner, not John Craven. I mean, John’s a nice guy. I like John, but I wouldn’t want to see him naked in me waterfall.”
Outside, the rain is falling relentlessly, but I explore all the paths. Hardraw Force is one of those wonderful falls that lets you get behind it. From there, a perilously slippery and steep Victorian stone staircase snakes up a narrow side gorge, coming out near the top of the falls. It is easy to see why Turner and Wordsworth, who also visited, were entranced: a dark romantic chasm opens up below your feet, ferns and mosses seem to glow with supernatural energies and the water plummets in a great shout of freedom from an immobile lip of stone. Your heart skips a beat.
It might have been pleasant to sit there for hours with a painting easel in the freezing rain, but my mind was restless with distracting thoughts – most notably concerning the tray of pork pies on the pub bar. Fifteen minutes later, approaching the door, I could hear music and singing. I began to wonder about staying the night. It would be research, I told myself, and I could see the force by early morning light – not a sight to miss.
