So, yeah. Rievaulx Abbey again.
We’ve been before. Loads of times. I couldn’t tell you how many, but does it matter? It’s the sort of place you just keep going back to because every time, you see it differently. Different season, different weather, different mood.
Or, in today’s case, same ruins, but a different set of Bertie-induced public embarrassments.
Anyway. We took the Imp, because why wouldn’t we? Little thing rattles along like an overexcited tin can but it’s got character. Unlike modern cars, which all look like they’ve been designed by the same bloke on a tight deadline.
The drive was Yorkshire at its best—rolling hills, tiny winding roads, that weird, slightly golden light that makes you understand why artists keep painting this place.
And yes, Patricia was already talking about the light. Which means, brace yourself for another painting of Rievaulx Abbey on the wall.
(Not complaining, just saying.)
First Impressions & Immediate Disasters
We got there, parked up, and boom—there it was.
You’d think after seeing it a hundred times, I’d stop being impressed. Nope. The thing is massive. Even half-destroyed, it still feels bigger than anything modern.
So I did my usual “let’s just stand here and take it in” routine. Patricia, meanwhile, was already rifling through her bag for her sketchbook. And Bertie? Well. Bertie had other plans.
I should’ve seen it coming.
A couple was setting up a picnic not far from the ruins—proper spread, sandwiches, crisps, pork pies, flask of tea. And the second Bertie clocked it, I knew we were in trouble.
Now, usually, I have a sixth sense for when he’s about to do something disgraceful. But I must’ve been distracted, because one second he was sniffing a rock, and the next, he was halfway across the grass like an absolute lunatic.
Straight at the picnic.
I shouted his name in a way that made several tourists turn around. But it was too late.
One pork pie down. Gone.
By the time I got there, he was already licking his lips, looking proud of himself.
The couple? Very forgiving, thankfully. They laughed it off, said they had a dog at home who did the same.
Still. Mortified.
Patricia? Didn’t even look up from her sketching. Just said, “Well, you knew that was going to happen.”
I hate that she’s always right.
Wandering Through Time (While Keeping One Eye on the Dog)
So, after that little episode, I took a walk through the ruins while Patricia carried on sketching.
I don’t know why, but this place always gets me thinking.
You stand there, surrounded by these giant arches and half-fallen walls, and you just start picturing it how it must have been. The monks, the silence, the daily routine of work and prayer.
No emails. No traffic. No junk mail. Just faith, stone, and probably a fair amount of manual labour.
The stonework still blows my mind. How did they even do this? No computers, no calculations, no laser levels. Just sheer skill and patience.
And then, of course, Henry VIII came along and wrecked the lot.
We popped into the museum, where—predictably—we were reminded that Henry and his ego destroyed yet another abbey. Dissolution of the Monasteries, monks evicted, treasures looted, buildings left to rot. Same old story.
We saw fragments of manuscripts, bits of old stained glass—little pieces of a world that got wiped out overnight. Makes you think.
Then Bertie almost knocked over a display case, and it was time to move on.
The View From the Hillside (A Moment of Actual Peace, Finally)
After the museum, we took one of the walking trails up the hill to get that classic, picture-postcard view of the abbey.
Found a bench, sat down, just listened.
Nothing but wind through the trees, the occasional bird, and the distant sound of other visitors wondering if their dog was about to disgrace them.
Patricia, staring at the ruins:
“You belong in this era.”
Me:
“Medieval times? Absolutely not. I like modern plumbing.”
Still, she’s got a point. Something about this place makes me want to just sit and think.
The Final Crime of the Day: Our Picnic
We eventually set up our own picnic, carefully far away from other people.
Bertie sat there, pretending to be an upstanding member of society.
Until a piece of Wensleydale fell on the ground.
Gone.
No hesitation. No remorse. Just pure, instinctive cheese theft.
I give up.
A Pint to Recover From It All
Before heading home, we stopped at a pub.
Theakston’s Old Peculier. The only way to finish a proper Yorkshire day.
Sat in a quiet corner, pint in hand, just thinking about how places like this stay with you.
Rievaulx Abbey? Never gets old.
If you’re ever in North Yorkshire, go. Take your time. Let your mind wander.
And if you bring a dog? Watch your lunch.
