April 2026. Skelton-in-Cleveland. North Yorkshire.
By noon last Friday I’d clocked up 16k of steps, almost enough to wipe out a third Thursday night’s crispy beef calories,
and I still had 3 hours to waste away before my straggler of a GBG “pub” opened.
So let’s explore Skelton (pop. 6,535, similar to Waterbeach), one of the string of old ironstone mining villages that you whizz past on your way to buy fudge and Bass in Whitby.
ChatGPT was dubious.
As in Loftus, ChatGPT was wrong. Skelton is worth an hour of your time. Beautifully kept cottages,
a welcoming looking pub waiting for a wake,
and some impressive memorials in the main square.
A trail of ceramics point out the main features, which frankly means the churches.
The new All Saints (NOT the Appleton sisters) is pleasant enough,
but it’s the redundant old All Saints, maintained by the Churches Conservation Trust, you need to see.
Never mind community owned pubs, here the locals bought their box pews in the rebuilt church.
Some very understated history displays here;
I should have married Mrs RM on Christmas Day, it would have been the only Christmas present I’ve given in 34 years.
Who knew gout was a killer ?
You could die of anything in the 18th century, but that doesn’t stop folk wanting to return the UK to those times.
One for the American visitors to add to their “Great English churches” list,
though the gothic styled Skelton Castle in the parkland beyond is sadly out of bounds.
retiredmartin 