Research and fiction

 I am now in the middle of writing my tenth novel. I like to write about things that intrigue and fascinate me, and I live in hope that others may also find them interesting. In November my intrepid husband and I took our elderly motorhome to North Yorkshire, because my current story takes place there in large part and while I have visited the Yorkshire Dales before it has always been in summer. Now, I needed to experience the area in worse weather, and was secretly hoping for snow (my driver was hoping quite the opposite.) As it turned out, for the eight days of our stay it rained every day but one, and we hadn't even arrived at our campsite before we were faced with impassably flooded roads. Some floods we braved, but others looked too deep and we were forced to take a back route - think tiny bendy roads, big puddles , drystone walls...

Owing to the unusual quantity of rain the rivers and becks were swollen, the waterfalls were roaring torrents and the low fields lay under water. A few meters below our campsite pitch a sizeable river rose and sank as the rain came and went, but luckily we were several meters above it.

This all made for dramatic scenery which as tourists we enjoyed, but I imagine the locals, especially the farmers, were less impressed.

The only day when it didn't rain we decided to drive the long, winding, and occasionally quite alarming but very beautiful (in a bleak wintry way) Buttertubs Pass, where we encountered high drama in the form of sharp bends, steep climbs and scary plunges - as well as many sheep.

These were the famous Swaledales, a hardy breed, with their curling horns and black and white faces.

Once in a while the sun showed itself and we were rewarded with  a landscape in which you could stretch your eyes for miles.

As the day wore on the weather closed in, threatening heavy clouds piled up in the sky, and it was obvious that rain was on its way - a safe bet. Nevertheless I wanted to look at a station on the Settle to Carlisle railway, because at this station, or one very like it, my protagonist alights from the train. Here it is, lonely and damp, and not a soul in sight.

I had hoped that our trip would inform and inspire me and set my imagination leaping and bounding, but I wasn't prepared for quite how lasting an impression it would make. A month after our return I am reliving it and finding that it has enriched the background to my story. I hope I can do justice to this stunning region and make it live on the page.