Malham Cove. It’s one of those places. The kind that turns up in guidebooks with words like breathtaking and majestic, but actually lives up to the hype when you get there.
Which is a good thing, because getting there is not quick.
We took the Imp, which protested the entire way. Yorkshire Dales roads aren’t what you’d call forgiving—steep, winding, full of sheep standing around like they own the place. Every second pub looked like an excellent excuse to stop, but somehow, we kept going.
And then, finally—Malham.
Standing in Front of It, Thinking About Sitting Back Down
Pulled up, stretched our legs, looked up—yep. Still massive.
Malham Cove is one of those places that doesn’t feel real. A sheer limestone wall, curved like some enormous ancient amphitheatre, looking like it’s been waiting here for a few thousand years just to make you feel small.
For a solid minute, I just stood there thinking, That’s ridiculous. No need for it to be that big.
Would’ve been quite happy to just admire it from the ground, maybe find a café, but Patricia was already looking at the path leading up.
We climbed.
Limestone Pavement: A Reminder That I Was a Terrible Geography Teacher
At the top, you get the famous limestone pavement. One of those places where nature just does whatever it wants.
The whole thing is cracked into weird, perfect patterns—deep gaps (grikes) and flat slabs (clints). I used to teach this stuff. Never remembered which was which.
Neither did my students.
Patricia, of course, was already sketching away, talking about erosion, light, texture—all the things she actually understands.
Meanwhile, I was mostly just trying not to fall into one of the gaps.
The View and a Sandwich That Tasted Better Than It Should Have
We found a spot to sit, unpacked cheese and onion sandwiches, and just… sat there.
And this is the thing—Malham Cove gets you.
From up there, you look out over miles of rolling Dales, fields lined with dry stone walls snaking through the landscape, and suddenly everything else feels very, very small.
For a few minutes, we just sat in silence, chewing, letting the view do its thing.
Then Bertie tried to steal half my sandwich.
Falcons, Birdwatchers, and Me Pretending to Understand
Turns out, Malham is home to peregrine falcons. Proper impressive birds, circling overhead, screeching like they own the cliffs.
Birdwatchers were set up along the path, massive telescopes, serious expressions, the whole lot. Patricia, obviously, went over for a chat.
Which led to a full-on nature lesson about falcon populations, hunting patterns, conservation efforts.
Fascinating, probably. I took in about 30% of it.
Nodded a lot. Said things like “Yeah, amazing creatures” while mostly wondering if I’d remembered to lock the car.
Back Down, With an Unwanted Soundtrack
Hiking down should have been peaceful.
Instead, Bertie decided to test the echo.
And by “test,” I mean bark at absolutely nothing and wait for the sound to bounce back.
Which, in the natural acoustics of Malham Cove, meant his yapping boomed across the entire valley.
A woman walking past actually stopped and said, “Blimey, that dog’s got lungs on him.”
Not exactly the quiet, awe-inspiring moment I’d hoped for.
Janet’s Foss: No Mysterious Water Spirits Today
Before heading back, we took a quick detour to Janet’s Foss—a little waterfall tucked in the woods.
Legend says a water nymph named Janet lives there.
We didn’t see her. Probably hiding from Bertie.
Final Thoughts (And a Pint to Recover)
Malham Cove is one of those places that sticks with you. Something about its sheer size, its silence, the feeling that it’ll be standing there long after we’re all gone.
And yes, I still don’t know which bit is a clint and which is a grike.
But I do know this: next time, Bertie’s staying in the car.
