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Updated: June 8, 2025
Ian in imagination saw it, too. They sat, chin on knees, upon the moorside above the Kelpie's Pool. The water was faintly crisped, the reeds and willow boughs just stirred. "But the kelpie did you ever see that?" "Sometimes it is seen as a water-horse, sometimes as a demon. I never saw anything like that but once. I never told any one about it.
Thatched, long, white, and low, behind it barns and outbuildings, it stood tree-guarded, amid fields of young corn. Beyond it swelled a long moorside; in front slipped the still stream. There were stepping-stones across the stream. Two young girls, coming toward the house, had set foot upon these. Strickland, halting in the shadow of hazels and young aspens, watched them as they crossed.
He died on April 16th, 1687, at Kirkby Moorside, after a few days' illness, caused by sitting on the damp grass when heated from a fox chase. Here I passed away a little time more talking with him and Creed, whom I met there, and so away, Creed walking with me to White Hall, and there I took water and stayed at Michell's to drink.
But there was no unusual aspect of gladness on her face, as she lighted the candle to give them a more cheerful welcome. 'Wheere's feyther? said Sylvia, looking round the room for Daniel. 'He's been to Kirk Moorside Church, for t' see a bit o' th' world, as he ca's it. And sin' then he's gone out to th' cattle; for Kester's ta'en his turn of playing hissel', now that father's better.
Yet, I could have sworn I'd never seen this one before. Let's have another look." We were walking away together. We turned on the top of the bank. And there the old clergyman was planted on the moorside, and watching us intently from under his hollowed hands. "Well, I'm hanged!" exclaimed Rattray, as the hands fell and their owner beat a hasty retreat.
On our way to Ryedale, the loveliest of these, we pass through Kirby Moorside, a little town which has gained a place in history as the scene of the death of the notorious George Villiers, second Duke of Buckingham, on April 17, 1687. Kirkdale, with its world-renowned cave, to which we have already referred, lies about two miles to the west.
He had not owned Flood more than fifteen years enough however to lose it in! And he had succeeded a father who had been the beloved head of the county, a just and liberal landlord, a man of scrupulous kindness and honour, for whom everybody had a friendly word. His ruined son on the moorside thought with wonder and envy of his father's popular arts, which yet were no arts.
High up on the dark moorside stood what remained of the primitive workshop.
The lonely moorside farm if such a wild and desolate spot could be a farm was known as "Wallhead," from the relics of some ancient wall; and the folk who lived there, or tried to live, although they possessed a surname which is not a necessary consequence of life very seldom used it, and more rarely still had it used for them.
For the Bryde that was fit to command a King's ship would be far different from the boy on a moorside farm, and I was weaving dreams like a lass at her spinning when the door was opened behind me and Margaret stood looking in, a light held high in her hand and her arm bare. "When will he be coming?" said she.
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