Lake District life of a photographer searching the Distant Hills

3st Oct 2019


Flocking Feildfares and Redwings

Hedges and fields are full with the chattering of white breasted Fieldfare and Redwings.

There are numerous, noisy but equally elusive flocks along every lane, hill path I follow.

I hear them first, which means I am already too late as they have lifted off from the berry laden tree they were just feasting upon.

As they rise, en masse, they produce their slightly mechanical cry, like the rattling of old cogs, of a well loved belt driven saw, slightly overused, worn, but always reliable.

“Chack, chack, chack” they cry

I want them to settle longer so I can view them them more easily and appreciate their subtle autumnal colours of brown, red and grey, but they are away before I am even fully aware they are here.

Then others, who have remained hidden as I pass, frustratingly lift, clacking and teasing, as they follow their wind-up companions.

This amorphous machine moves on to the next tree. More branches, more berries.

Today the hills are filled with life, even though there is a sense of everything will soon be shutting down.

Look up, beyond the valley hedges and trees and focus on the higher, distant hills, there is already a scattering of snow (early this year, but not unnormal). Winter is coming and the flocking Fieldfare only know this too well. Their cogs whirl into action as there is a job to be done

21st July 19

The Saints and Sinners of Summer...maybe?

Summer is a funny time of the year. It is obviously pleasantly warm, the days are long, but it is also busier (in the countryside hotspots at least) plus there are armies of biting insects wanting literally your blood (from the insidious midge, to the nefarious, demonic surgeon like Horse Fly).

Then there is the Tick!

This little b’stard will find you! It sits patiently waiting from the smallest blade of grass or frond of bracken. And with the lightest of brushes of a bare leg the tunnelling, blood sucking mite will launch onto you and then roam across your vulnerable skin hunting out a dark, moist weakness in your epidermis shield. They are almost invisible to the eye and even more invincible to the post walk shower.

As someone who enjoys photography I do not want to be limited, or directed by the location, direction and elevation of a clear path. It makes me take the same picture as everyone else, plus it isn't necessarily allowing me to access my sense of creativity. I want to be able to move across the land to compose an image in the way I see it. At this time of year this, however, often means I am having to wade through forests of tick filled bracken to access a crag or stream.

The Tick along with its army of biting and blood sucking mercenaries make the relaxed exploration of the landscape slightly more stressful.

Today I was heading into the rocky hills of Duddon. The air was fat with warmth and each small ascent required more than the usual effort as I pushed up against a wall of heat. Like a scene from a John Carpenter zombie movie, the summer monsters were out in force and they had one purpose only - me!

As usual I was using quiet, untrodden routes, so the undergrowth (a misnomer as most of the bracken was above my head) was thicker and more challenging. As I forced my way through the tough branches of bracken it felt more an expedition into a thick jungle rather than an excursion on a Lakeland Fell. If I was seen wielding a machete it would not have been out of place.

With effort I slowly waded through the green wall of ferns, but I was becoming more conscious that I was being immersed into a green, supersaturated sea of Ticks. This made me hyper alert and hyper paranoid. Every chance I had I was checking myself to see if I had black specs crawling over my exposed skin.

All too often I would see a bit of dirt start to move across my leg. It was another Tick!! Having, over the years, discovered many Ticks imbedded into me, I feel I am fighting the laws of probability against Lymmes Disease. Hence my over sensitivity.

However, this paranoia was becoming too much of a distraction, and added to this stress when I stopped walking the Horseflies seemed to find me, with (in my mind) their sharpening tool ready in hand.

Despite this concern, I was blessed by the company of some wonderful wildlife. My ‘forest’ of bracken was filled with flitting Redstarts. These red backed birds were diving in between the branches of bracken with an amazing flying skill. This was Star Wars - Death Star style and as each bird flew off it steered through a complex and very narrow maze of the bracken.

However, despite my temporary disturbance, I imagine these and the other birds, were enjoying the abundance of Ticks and Flies much more than me.

Then there were the amount of butterflies all around. A bumper year it seems. In particular there were Painted Ladies, Peacocks and the less obvious, but equally beautiful Ringlet. They all flitted and swerved their way across the verdant canopy, as if they were high above a miniture rain forest.



All around the edges of the bracken was the glowing purple spears of Rose Bay Willow Herb, spikey thistles, Knapweed and St Johns Wort. Each plant was being visited by an abundance of colourful and interesting insects. Fruit flies, butterflies, Bees and beetles all in an amazing array of colour and size.

....and this is the rub!

Summer is warm, which ensures any journeys into the landscape are comfortable and more accessible, but this makes these places busier. The main routes and well known locations are filled with folk.

The days are longer, with the Sun high, so there is plenty of time to do things; but this makes it harder to capture the drama of a landscape as the light is harsh and their is little contrast to define a composition. The days are warm, making it a wonderful time to shed off the heavy clothing of winter and allow your exposed skin to feel the air. It's a reminder of the days when we were children, but the days are also more full of biting insects who have only one objective, to taste your blood.



I am never happy, I know. However, (saints be) seeing so many birds and butterflies was a pure joy and made me ignore (to some degree) the onslaught of the summer sinners.

A ramble through memory 1st March 19

The first day of March, like February, continued with more unseasonably warm and dry weather. Looking around the landscape everything seemed as expected. Every field, hedge or valley was filled with pale, leafless branches, with just buds offering a promise of warmer days. Everything looked like early Spring, however the temperature and brightness of the sun felt like Summer.

Also, during the period of writing I had a trip ‘down south’ to the picturesque town of Guildford. A busy university town, full of the noise and turmoil, but also wonderfully surrounded by a collection of fields, woodland and low lying heathland that give it a contrasting, easily accessible and peaceful quality.

The first thing I noticed was that Spring was strangely no further ahead than it was in the Lake District. There were few plants in flower, just the usual Celandine and someaging Snow Drops, no leaves emerging on the trees and just the song of Great Tits, Robins and annoyed Wrens.

Normally by March the seasons in the south of the country start to accelerate as compared to the north, but not this year (yet). This was probably down to colder and wetter conditions the South had been experiencing. However, despite this hesitation, the season's slow advance had mobilised some very interesting and beautiful wildlife.

I was blessed to see a Barn Owl out during the early evening, touring its territory on the edge of a farmers field. I have only ever seen one other Barn Owl near Guildford, and that was almost 50 years ago and I was a child playing on, what us local kids referred to, as the ‘Common’.

This was (and still is to some degree) a wild and unkempt area of land adjacent to the housing estate I once lived. A large, rough area, filled with pockets of shrubs and fruit trees, divided by a maze of wide grassy paths and then again surrounded by thick broadleaf woodland. The Common is further surrounded by miles of open arable fields that cover the northern slopes of the North Downs.

It was this ‘Common’ where my first experiences of wildlife and investigating and enjoying the landscape began. There was a small pond, where we would fish for Perch and Crucian Carp, but occasionally catch small, vicious pike, or out of place, abandoned Goldfish which had been released surreptitiously into the pond.

The Common was and is an important area of wild country, providing an area for locals to escape from the hubbub of daily life, walk their dog, or just relax and enjoy the relative peace and quiet. It acts as a ‘lung’ for the residents of the adjacent estate.

It is also an area that is filled with many secrets. Roe deer nervously appear from the trees to graze the grassy areas, constantly keeping a look out for any humans. There are small paths that dive into the thick woodland, bending and twisting in a confusing way and eventually leading to an unexpected destination. In late summer there are Glowworms hidden in the long grass, shining like little green jewels. However, the Common has one other (almost) secret, which is hidden in a wild and chaotic jungle of trees and shrubs. This secret always had an eerie feel and an even scarier reputation - it was known as the ‘Old House’.

When I was 10 years old all that remained of the house was a the floor to an entrance hall, a couple of walls and doorway perched precariously on disintegrating foundations. Despite its dilapidated condition my imagination rebuilt the walls, windows and doorways, making it a complete and very secret place.

The remaining walls were bleached white and appeared in silhouette as two fingers pointing to the surrounding fortifications composed of trees and shrubs. Around the collapsing facade of the house was a scattering of stones and colourful pieces of broken floor tiles. A hint of the houses orginal grandeur.

There was limited access to the house as you had to push through the surrounding wall of trees. However, once you penetrated the arboreal defences you were rewarded by an open space with the remains of the house sat in the middle.

The Old House would have been a grand building in its day and I have always assumed the Common, the fruit trees, its pond were the remnanants of a once, grand estate. I have never trawled through local history records, or tried to investigate the Old House and The Commons origins as I never wanted to break the mystery and the magic the landscape generated in this young boy. It is and will always be what us kids imagined and this imagining gave me my love for the outdoors, wildlife, nature and ‘being’ in a landscape.

The Old House is also where I saw my first ever Barn Owl! Having broken through the arboreal wall, with legs and arms scratched I felt an unease. The trees seemed to loom over me making the way back out seem more unpenetrable. However, I became aware of the relative openness of the place I was now standing, as the few successful rays of sunlight found their way through gaps in the woodland defence. The rays illuminated a chalk and flint building, giving it a ghostly glow.

Then, from some distant hole, a hole in time even, the Barn Owl glided out from the last, remaining window and effortlessly drifted inches above my head. The moment, the feelings, the endless desire to relive that experience have never left me.

Over the proceeding years I have been very lucky to have seen many more Barn Owls (but not as many as I would wish) but never again anywhere in my old SE corner of England. Therefore seeing the one I saw on this recent evening was both reassuring and special as it recharged the potency of my older memories.

On returning back to Cumbria, Spring stalled again. Another storm (Ireland named it Hannah) crashed into the western shore of the country, bringing lots of wind and rain. The few Swallows I had seen were now definitely lone searchers in the sky as their companions wouldn't be coming this further north until conditions (and therefore food) improved.

However, as drove home, along a quiet lane, there, caught in my headlights I saw a ghostly glow sweep along the line of the hedgerow. I slowed, knowing what this was and the excitement was bubbling up through my senses. The white blur dropped, turned and returned, following the hedge line. It was a Barn Owl hunting along the boundary of his territory and with another flick of its wings it was gone, back through that hole in time and memory to maybe sit in that old window of the Old House.

23rd Feb 19

Seasonal shift

As each year passes we seem to experience more extreme weather conditions. I am not certain if this is a product of climate change, or just an increased sensitivity created by all the anxious reporting.

Whatever the real answer is, this February has been very different to the norm. The temperature this year was very much in the positive, and as the unseasonabley warm February continues, there is a weird feel and look to the landscape.

And in contrast, last year it was the Beast from the East, which had followed an already hard and long winter. It was just as we thought Spring might be emerging there was a sudden drop in temperature, deep falls of snow and strong blasts of freezing cold winds. The contrast compared to this year couldnt be more different. This February the country has been bathed by the warm trade winds from Sahara, creating record breaking temperatures.

This weather is making it a very strange time where the seasons are seemingly getting confused, and appearing to clash. It's all cold to the eye, but all warm to the touch.

On a recent shirt sleeved walk (no hat and down jacket of the previous year) I walked in a sunny woodland. The temperature was that of May, but the leafless trees stubbornly remained in February. However, in amongst the bare branches and twigs I saw ‘school’ of mischievous Long Tail Tits.

I am suggesting the collective noun of ‘school’ for the Long Tail Tits as when seen in a flock, they flit around around a like a group of infant school children. They appear filled with an innocent energy, like a group of kids who have just been released onto the playground for their break.

Then, and I guess unsurprising, as they are early returnees, I heard, high up on the limestone escarpment of Whitbarrow, my first Skylark. The sun was harshly reflecting off the grey/white rock outcrops, the wind was still and as I walked across the land a small, loud visitor rose to greet me.

The song of the Skylark filled the air and even the worrying cry of a distant Buzzard didn't dull its enthusiasm. As far as the Skylark was concerned it was Spring and we should all rejoice.

“Sing, John Ball, and tell it to them all -
Long live the day that is dawning!
For I'll crow like a cock,
I'll carol like a lark,
For the light that is coming in the morning.
(‘John Ball’ - S. Carter)

Another warm, and still February day saw me walking up the very quiet and equally beautiful Lickle Valley, no Broughton Mill. Again the trees were bare, still stuck in winter, whilst the ambient environment was appearing like early summer. On the ground I came across more early scouts of Spring. Firstly the yellow, dandelion like Sows foot, finding enough nutrients to be blooming on the rough track, thenGolden Leaved Saxifrage emerging on the wet banks of forestry drainage ditch.

This day later came with a confusing April shower. It was sudden, light, unavoidable but thankfully short. However, as the clouds moved away, they revealed an ominous dark red sky; a portent maybe, that made whole western horizon seem ablaze.

February, a month normally with its feet firmly set in winter, has changed its allegiance to the warmer seasons. Could Winter’s wrath be reflected in that red sky?

Optimism or delusion?

Whatever the weather I almost always take my photography equipment. The occasional times I relent I am soon chatisng myself as I am suddenly surrounded by amazing compositions, beautiful light and form. The guilt, the frustration, the damn irony becomes a distraction as I seem to be presented with views that I never experience when I have my gear.

So why not just always carry your kit, you might ask?

Just like golf spoils a good walk so can photography. This is mostly because of the debelitating weight of all that gear. Each incline it pulls at you, pushing you into the hillside and reminding you all too painfully of the existence of gravity.

The weight also makes me clumsy, less stable, inflexible and comprises my already limited ability. I feel I am stumbling, sweating and wheezing my way across the landscape.

Of course problem is obvious as I am essentai carrying a collection of metal and glass, all disguised as hi tech gear. As part of the process of my ongoing masochism I have broken down my camera kit:

Camera 1.6Lbs (730g)
Wide angle lens 1Lbs (500g)
18-200mm lens 1.5Lbs (650g)
L-bracket 0.5Lbs (300g)
Tripod 4Lbs (1800g)
Accessories (filters, cleaning clothes, Alan keys, etc 1Lbs (500g)

Total 8.6 Lbs (3.9kgs)

This is before general hill walking kit and is a weight that grabs and pulls at me on the way up a hill, then thrusts me down any vertical descents.

I stubbornly, or stupidly, blindly endure, even though the weather looks poor. I live in hope there might be this wonderful scene, a window that opens revealing a landscape of drama and profound beauty. Somewhere in this hillscape is a composition full of contrast, colour encased by a narrative, a story that demands attention and inspires the mind. When I come across it, I will be rewarded for my efforts, my self discipline, my suffering. My heart will soar, my body pumping with adrenaline, whilst my camera chip will bathed in a holy light of beauty.......”and all will love me and despair”.

However, in the end, I too often, like the grand old duke of York, carry all this kit to the top of the hill and march back down again .....without taking one image.

Am I an eternal optimist or just delusional(?)

Long Lens

Many landscape photographers espouse the virtues of using the long lens. It is great tool to keep the scene simple and uncluttered. The long lens allows the photographer to focus-in onto a very specific element of the landscape. This maybe to ensure a very interesting looking tree, bathed in golden sunlight, becomes the main subject of an image; or it might be the case where zooming onto a rock, that sits in midstream is seen surrounded by a cascade of flowing water, or to pick out distant peaks covered in snow.

In fact there are many reasons and potential images made available by using a long lens, especially as the use allows the photographer to compose an image that would be difficult to access if using a wide angle. The photographer can be on the opposite side of a valley or stream, or perched on a hillock, far across a wide, flood plain, picking out the swirling mist that flows around distant peaks. All of this can be achieved with relative safety and comfort.

I also use a long (ish) lens, however every time I use it I feel I am losing something fundamental to both the image and the experience. Some of this might be in the quality of the image, as my lens is not the best, but the main reason is more about the loss of feeling and sense of place. When I am targeting a composition on a distant hill, standing far removed across the valley I have a profound sense that I am ‘not there’. There is a lack of intimacy and engagement with my immediate environment and the image I am endeavouring to capture. For some strange (and probably silly) reason I feel detached from the place I am observing to the image that is revealed in the back of my camera. It feels false and, in this age of virtual reality and computer generated scenes, etc, as if I am not actually ‘there’!

This is in no way a criticism of others who use this technique, as I admire their images, in fact I often wish I could do the same. That said, however much I admire these photos, I still need to be closer, so I can be immersed and be an actual part of the images story. I need to stand in the water, be sprayed by the waterfall, feel the stones digging into my knees as I huddle over the camera. I need to be able to almost reach out and touch parts of my image, otherwise I feel I have no relationship with the picture and it's subject.

Ease Gill - an upside down stream

Sat between the high volcanic mountains of the Lake District and the limestone escarpments of the Yorkshire Dales is a small slither of wild and overlooked land. This is a seemingly bleak landscape. and is rarely experienced above ground as it is mainly the preserve of cavers. This because, unseen to the eye, hidden below ground, there are an extensive network of catacombs interlinked by tunnels, subterranean streams and sumps. However, Above ground it is bare, wet and boggy.

However, this is a particularly lonely, wild and beautiful area that is full of many surprises. In particular is the course of Ease Gill. Journeying along the valley bed, that separates the whale backed hills of Gragareth and Crag Hill, the Gill makes a series of drops and falls over plateaus of bedrock.

The Ease Gill path, heading up to its source, first flows on limestone but eventually gives way to gritstone. This means the stream is often empty at the bottom, but (against normal logic) filled at the top due to the porosity difference of the base rock.

The stream is easy to follow if there hasn't been any recent rain as you can skip across rocks and clamber over small plateaus of limestone. However, if you try this route after heavy rain then there are fast flows of water and deep pools blocking your way. The wet, boggy hills around are a natural sponge and when supersaturated the slopes quickly release their ‘baggage’ in an awe inspiring and humbling way.

Today I am ok as the weather has been dry, though there is still more pools than expected. As soon as I drop into the Beck I disturb a Sparrowhawk. I see it's red/brown breast and orange tints as it glides further up stream, hugging the contours. The hawk stays with me on my journey along the river bed, lifting off only when i get too close. Though this is clearly his territory (I am certain it is a ‘he’) he shows little fear and remains only wary of me. I like to think he is my guide.

The journey up the valley is an extremely enjoyable experience, with the water gaining more character in the form of small waterfalls, however I am becoming aware the stream will inevitably end. It is at this time I cannot help but recognise I am surrounded by hills that are full of sponge like bog, that will suck and pull at my legs. Making progress will be slow, arduous and getting wet will become unavoidable if I am to reach the tops.

When, eventually, I reach the summit ridge I feel drained, but view energises me as the world opens up. The views are wide and extensive, covering much of of the northern English counties and on to the north coast of Wales.

As yet I have not seen another soul, but on the ridge was the silhouette of another, heading away from me towards the hill called Gragareth. There was a weak autumnal sun, but it's glow still penetrated into my chilled bones and gave a beautiful warming light across the hillside of Whernside.

Like the upside down nature of the water in Ease Gill, it was warmer at the top of the hills than below and there was likely more people underground than above.

The Bobble Hat! (A slight tongue in cheek view)

What is this? There are so many other practical hats to wear when it is cold and wet, from Beanies to Trapper hats. So why add a bobble to a hat when they serve no purpose when out in the outdoors? What is it for then? Is it simply a folly, a superfluous adornment, a white elephant accessory, redundant and extraneous? Purely an aesthetic addition?

It is clear the bobble doesn't serves any practical purpose, therefore it is a stylised attachment, to what would otherwise be a vital piece of clothing for use in inclement weather. It is, however, in my view a potent symbol of how the outdoor fashion market perceives the ‘outdoors’. The great outdoors is now the designers and retailers ‘catwalk and shop front alfresco’.

To me this is deeply worrying. By adding aesthetic adornments to fundamental outdoor/adventure clothing it helps develop a ‘mind set’ that inevitably and subtly, redirects our understanding and ultimate interaction with our world. We start to want clothes for their form and not for their function. We start to view the outdoors as a lifestyle image rather than a lifestyle pursuit. We too easily talk the talk without having to walk the walk, even though we look like we did.

The tacit marketing message contained within the twist and weaves of the bobble is, “you need a bobble on your hat to safely get out into the outdoors, but also there a required look. This look must be achieved to ensure not only you are safe, but also because it expresses your inner spirit and qualities. Though once worn when you were a kid , the bobble now makes you a member of a particular wonderful group of the human race.

The bobble, worn in its kaleidoscope of colours. is seen as an outward expression of your qualifications as an outdoorsy person. You need the extraneous bobble as it is part of the overal required look, demonstrating your tribal adventurer eligibility.

If you dare to abstain from the bobble you have the worry of being shuffled to the bottom of the failed ‘outdoor’ human heap as it means you are not a true adventurer. You clearly do not climb mountains and know the outdoors. You know it is essential to look good, even in the outdoors.

A stiff walk up a hill, the heady balancing skill demonstrated as you cross a thin arête, or the traipse across a wild, wet moorland is only possible with the bobble and all its additional sartorial companions. The latest red, 3 layer gortex pro shell, soft shell, baselayer and Lycra/Merino fusion socks all with a matching pink flash on each zip tag, or superfluous sleeve flash are essential. These are features designed to ensure you have the ability and credentials to venture beyond the car, office and bar.

Meanwhile do not forget, encapsulated within the fluffy ball, however jaunty the angle it settles, it portrays you as a clean living, healthy,alpha male and woman. You are both cool, and you both like dogs and dig the environment and can be found on cold evenings snuggling kittens.

However, some where, hidden in the stitching that attached the bobble, is a hat, that keeps your head warm when cold and wet. Below this unnecessary ball of fibres is a wild, beautiful outdoor world, full of amazing flora, fauna and unbelievable landscape architecture. Beyond the designer labels is a very fragile landscape that is slowly eroding under the pressure of the unseeing eye of its users. Maybe blinkered by an eclipsing bobble.

A myopia hides in its shadow the real world, but focuses on the need to follow a lifestyle, where young bearded men, laugh and smile, looking strong and happy; while long haired ladies peer into the misty distance with what looks like a philosophers sight. You exits in a world where the backdrop is warm and in soft focus. You and your loving, wonderful companions are young, happy and definitely ‘where it's at’. You are empowered, enriched and reinvented by the power of the bobble hat.

17th August

The last Martian

Approaching the crest of the hill, the mists thickened and even though my view was limited I sensed I was standing in a complex and fractured landscape. All around the grey rocks, layered and cracked, echoed the ripples and eddies of a dried up and ancient river. This was an alien place, a landscape with a strong sense of otherworldliness.

This feeling was further intensified by the shape shifting effects of a swirling mist. As I approached each rock, crossed each undulation or hill they formed into ill defined and unnerving outlines. A black shadow transformed into an ominous and unpassable mountain massive, a lone tree morphed into an advancing wild creature, the swirling shape in the shifting cloud, sharpened into a spirit roaming the crenellated landscape looking for lost souls. I was alone in a landscape that looked different, bewildering, and especially so in misty conditions.

However, despite the alien nature, it was actually a place well known to me. This was the limestone plateau of Twistleton Scar, a rocky shelf that sits high above the little village of Ingleton and forms part of the limestone ramparts of the Yorkshire Dales highest Fell (Whenside).

The rocky plateau is peppered with strange erratics that make it seem you have become a piece in a giant chess game. Some of the Gritstone erratics are balancing on friable pieces of limestone pavement, others large, poised and standing sentry like, keeping guard and observe all travellers. The whole scar is extraordinary with large terraces of serrated limestone, held in a amphitheatre that is surrounded by ancient gritstone hills. These hills rise steeply from the limestone terrace and appear, due to their abruptness, like motionless dinosaurs.

Adding to this effect, Twistleton is clearly a wild and unique place. It is this combination of the immediate, natural savagery, along with a tangible sense ancientness that makes the area feel like you have arrived on another planet, or at least slipped through time.

Here the combination of geology and unfamiliarity help to create an instant mythology in the mind. This is a land where the fearsome shape shifting boggart, hidden in every marsh, bog or sump hole combines with the alien looking landscape. This area could easily be a backdrop to any Hollywood SciFi blockbuster and you cannot help to look over your shoulder.

Adding to the slightly disquieting nature of the lanadscape was its quietness. In the time I was exploring this place (nearly 3 hours) I never saw a soul. The effect of this was to further pull me away from my reality, making the ‘there and now’ and ‘the when and where’ became combined. I was walking through time and visiting an ancient, but now dead planet. I was like the last Martian.

Galloway Wilderness - 10th August

I had not visited this quiet corner of Scotland for almost 30 years. However I had a strong memory of the landscape. It was a wild and very empty place made up of rocky hills, deep forests, whilst being a landscape filled (seemingly) with more Red Deer than people and (more dubiously) was the homeworld for over a trillion voracious Midgies.

Despite, and probably more because of these facts, I planned a weeks break to rediscover where memory and reality collided.

First impressions were gained on my drive through the region. In a world dominated by the car I soon realised how few cars I was encountering after passing Dumfries. In addition, all the roads were in good condition and despite the rural nature, far better than my home county of Cumbria. The big difference was there was no other drivers!

Although I recognise the impact car use has on the environment it has, however, given me life changing access to wild and wonderful places. I only have to consider if I was born at the turn of the century (coming from a working class family) there would have been no possibility I could own a car. It would have been such an unreachable aspiration as to never even enter my consciousness. I would have accepted, unquestioning, that I would live local and travel would be limited. Galloway would have been a mythical place and at best, experienced from the pages of a book.

However, the advantage of having a car, especially in this quiet area meant investigating the area a painless and joyful experience. I hate the car and I hate the pollution us drivers create. However, I also cannot deny the huge advantages the automobile allows for those who live in such wild and rural locations. I was, therefore, able to drive freely and seek the best starting points to the hills.

It is probably due to this quietness that their is a considerable variety of wildlife in the region. The flora and fauna was wonderfully mixed and could be found in equal amounts from sea edge to mountain summit. This may be, in part, due to the fact that Galloway does not suffer from over grazing or concentrated tourism.

However, the landscape is like a fortress. There is the obvious walls of forests that cover the low slopes. This means it is a challenge to find weakness in the thick plantations, where access to the high ground can be found. However, there are numerous red deer and Buzzards providing sufficient distraction from the assault of flies and midgies.

Then the streams, though low at the moment due to an unusually dry summer, are adorned with flying Dippers and skittish Grey Wagtails, all making it known my presence was unwelcome. Meanwhile, their territories are reinforced by the dense swathes of purple and red Foxgloves and Rosebay Willowherb. Climbing higher, the mid hillsides are filled to the brim with grasses of all kinds, many forming ankle breaking tussocks. Then, where the grasses recede, the thick, almost woody, blanket of heather ascends. Finally (and often dispiritingly) a thick over coat of green bracken adds a subtley capricious out defence, but balancing precariously on fronds the Siskin and Stonechat sing. Their calls drawing you into the brackets dark, green, wet and tick filled ‘gorges'.

Further you journey into the hills you eventually clamber over hard granite slabs or are forced to circumnavigate the many small lochans. Then, after what feels like to much effort and energy spent for the distance traveled you reach the pristine summits and ridges. The whole time you have not heard or seen another soul.

All around are wide plains of moorland enclosed by the walls of rocky hills. As you look over this rugged and broad plain there is a very strong sense that you are far from anyone or anything. This is a wild, self willed landscape and one to be respected as any return to the safety of civilisation (in an emergency or poor planning) would be hard and lengthy.




........................

Coincidentally I just heard on the political BBC radio programme, ‘Any Questions’, that Scotland has a population of 5.5 million (compared to England’s 55million). This fact amazed me and and made me reflect on my recent experience in Galloway.

I therefore learnt that Cumbria, my home county and the least populated county in England, has 45 million visitors per year! Therefore the whole population of Scotland would have to visit the lakes nine times a year to equate.

Furthermore, when you consider the fact that Dumfries and Galloway has a population of approximately 148,000 and that greatest amount of this number are living in the largest town (Dumfries) with a population of 31,600 (The two other main towns are Stranraer (10,800 pop.) and Annan (8,300 pop.) it is easy to understand how this area feels remote.

Silver Dancers

On the eastern fringes of the Lake District can be found a long, but particularly quiet and beautiful valley. This is Longsledale and high up on rounded hills that form the valley’s eastern wall is a lonely and boggy wilderness. Wainwright felt that this area was where "Lakeland maybe said to start and moorland country to end". He also felt this area was where "the quiet beauty gives the place to romantic beauty".

In my mind, these parameters are 180 degrees out. Here Lakeland ends and the wild, lonely Moorland begins. Here dramatic, but busy beauty gives way to quiet, romantic beauty in the form of acres of wild, barren nothingness. Here the mind and body can wander as it is not overwhelmed by the extreme geology of the mountains. Here, too, the mind can wonder at the wild, bleakness of the landscape.

Or so you may think, as the land is full of wildlife, the unfamiliar and constant surprise.

One particular representation of this phenomenon is seen during mid summer. Here the wet places, that are plentiful, are covered by a display of fluffy, cotton-like buds - dizzily dancing in the wind. These inhabitants of the wet moorland are commonly known as Bogcotton, but can also be called Common Cottongrass or Common Cottonsedge and Hares Tails in Western Scotland.

Here, covering vast area, surrounded by a wild, open fellside and in the company of skylarks, the dancing bogcotton makes a statement on the wild, boggy nature of the hillside. In amongst its lint like tufts can also be found Common Butterwort, Bog Asphodel, and wide variety of mosses, like sphagnum and starmoss, plus many varieties of liverworts. These plants, just like the bogcotton are a natural indicators of wet and swampy ground. However, it is the bogcotton, due to its almost comic appearance, waving around like the discarded contents of a beauticians handbag, that makes the most obvious proclamation - it says “beware, boggy ground!”

However, due to the bogcotton’s attraction to wet places it often accidentally betrays itself. All too often a route can be detected through the bogs, like the puzzle of a maze, by linking up the sections of ground between the Bogcotton. As you seek a dry passage the bogcotton forms the walls of the maze, so steering the walker onwards. However, head down the wrong section of the hillside you are quickly led towards confusion and frustration. All too soon boot height is compromised, as the sulphurous smelling bog water pours over and legs plunge into a calf hugging quagmire. The monster at the heart of the maze has been encountered.

Then, from afar the distinctive, though plaintive “Kia” call of a buzzard is heard overhead. The bird, with wings outstretched, 'floats' higher, turning in wide circles in an attempt to effortlessly avoid a mob of Ravens. These jet black corvids are the true master of the skies and as they croak and caw they dive bomb the solitary buzzard in an attempt to clear the buzzard from their territory and to give up any food it might be carrying. The cries of the birds resonates through the valley; a primitive, elemental cry that emphasises the remoteness of these hills.

Looking across the valley, to the white speck of bogcotton that shimmer against the green of the distant hillside, a possible new route up to Kentmere pike is suddenly revealed. From here it seems a natural and obvious ridge leads direct to the summit.

Though the Kentmere Pike side of the valley is harder, rockier and drier, bogcotton is found in the wet creases of Wren Gill and wet recesses of the hillside. The fairy dancers, as the sun pass over, also reveal a hidden valley. Though now quiet it can be seen, from the remains of mining, once a place busy with industry.

The white heads of the grasses reveal new routes, as long as you don't mind grassy tufts and the boggy terrain..........but you are also accompanied by a troupe of fluffy, silver dancers to entertain and direct as you pass by. What could be more romantic and beautiful than that(?)

20th May 2018

Curlews - “the essence of wilderness”


O curlew, cry no more in the air,
Or only to the water in the West;
Because your crying brings to my mind
passion-dimmed eyes and long heavy hair
That was shaken out over my breast:
There is enough evil in the crying of wind. 

(W.B. Yeats)

The curlew has many folklore traditions attached to it, which in the main come from it's plaintive and sometimes otherworldly song. In Yates’ poem the Curlew's cry is used as a tool to express the sense of impending bad weather and as a harbinger of ill fortune.

Meanwhile, in another setting, the curlew is given a holy status as the bird rescued and subsequently protected the sacred writings of a Welsh Saint. In another, the bubbling song of the Curlew is believed to be the cries of souls yet to be born.

These stories/held opinions point to how the Curlews appearance/song filters into our minds, experiences and therefore into our traditions and beliefs. To me the call of the curlew also represents wilderness. A place that is a quiet, raw, rarified landscape where a more realistic perspective of our lives and the world can be sensed.

To hear this bird, when high on a bleak moorland is to experience a wonderful contradiction. Here, as you look over miles of endless bog or rough, knee and ankle jarring tufts of grassland you feel both alone and welcomed by a companion.

There is equally a familiar and strangeness quality found in the Curlews call. The pulsating, crescendo of the Curlews song stretches out across the Moor, enhancing the solitude of your surroundings, removing (for a while) the trappings of everyday life. You are here, now and that is all that matters.

The Curlew finds a stronghold in these bleak, wet soils and it has been ascertained that the UK, with its hills, heaths, bogs, and grasslands, provide a very important breeding environment. These environments host a significant number of the Curlew population. However, and very unfortunately these populations have experienced a dramatic decline. So much so the Curlew is now a major conservation concern.

This decline has been attributed to several environmental changes. The destruction and loss of habitat is top of the list as the Curlew prefers to breed in wet, boggy grass and moorland. All to often these areas have suffered the effects of afforestation, drainage or over grazing.

I have noticed a significant variation in Curlew numbers myself. The mountains and lonely moorlands of the Lake District the Curlew seems a rare creature, even though the estuaries, such as the Kent and Duddon, the bird can be found in good numbers. Meanwhile a short journey across to the Yorkshire Dales the Curlew is seen and heard everywhere. It is impossible to miss them during Spring.

A recent journey to Swaledale, a long, quiet and beautiful valley that almost points in a straight line towards the east. I encountered numerous flying pairs of Curlews. Each 'flight' of birds were making sorties over their nesting grounds. The air was filled with a tumult of rising 'curlew melody'. High on these Dales Moors, in the company of acrobatic Lapwings and mournful Golden Plover the Curlew has a stronghold.

As the season turns, these birds move inshore and back up into the moors and along with the Common Scurvy Grass - creatures of the seashore could now be found in places like the high, remote moors of the Yorkshire Dales.

However, on another day on the moors, but this time on lonely, wild land that overlooks the west coast of Cumbria, not a sight or sound of a Curlew. All was still save the odd Swallow and even fewer (especially this year) Wheatears.

What is driving this variation? The terrain is very similar - both areas of high ground consisting of wet, barren, boggy grassland. The only difference I can see is the land usage. In the Dales there are fewer sheep on the high ground and certainly less bracken, whilst the contrary is true in the Lakes. Is it over grazing? Land drainage (for sheep)? Is it the higher recreational use of the Lake District?

Whatever is dictating the fortunes of the Curlew, I believe it survives in the wild places, where its spirit can thrive. The Lakes, despite its outward appearance, suffers the hand of man more heavily than many open environments

Any landscape is a bereaved place if the song of the Curlew is no longer heard. Therefore, I take pleasure and feel blessed when ever i hear it's mournful cry.

Through space, across the ages
bubbling through the fissures
Into this lonely, hallowed land
Pulling us back,
pulling everything away.

The haunting of your song

Like a half remembered thing
Almost lost. Rising melodies
Tumble and turn
Stretch over this barren place
Calling to the barrier
Where wild and primitive dwell

Almost gone, essence almost lost
As you sense an “evil in the crying of the wind”.

12th May

Ants?

“The Riyadh Bodkin and the Kuala Lumpur Mushroom are positive Meccas for all kinds of daredevils-of this much I'm sure. Decadent Saudi princes pilot microlights through huge holes in their facades, while Malaysian spider men scale them using giant suckers in lieu of crampons. All these activities serve to demonstrate is that modernist megaliths have completely suborned role of natural features in providing us with the essential and vertiginous perspective we require to comprehend accurately our ant-like status.”

― Will Self

The start of the silly season has begun. Like a swarm of ants, the roads and hills fill. Every lane bulging with competing peletons and each brightly coloured group is followed by a procession of over packed cars and frustrated motorists. On each briddleway a ‘crank’ of mountain bikers spin and whoop their way down the Fellsides, waving at the nylon clad walkers that adorn each summit. Everyone is taking selfies and munching on Kendal mint cake and Grasmere Ginger Bread.

It's the Brathay Marathon, the Fred Whitton, Lakeland 100, National 3 Peaks, The Bob Graham Round, Windermere Triathlon, The Great North Swim, a plethora of sportives in every discipline possible, and not forgetting those ‘doing’ the Cumbria Way, The Dales Way, The Westmoreland County Trail, the Wainwright's, Birketts or many other physically challenging pursuits.

Every illness, social problem or the fallout from a political decision has a charity ride, walk or swim to raise funds. Every sports brand has its own triathlon, mega mountain marathon that call the disciples to their knees. The hills are clambered over, the pathways gorged with a train of coloured, nylon pedestrians, every lake a swirling, tumbling washing machine full of swim caps and smeared goggles. Greenways disgorge petrol headed drivers who have smeared oil and rubber on every passing rock, leaving tank like tracks in the soft top soil.

It seems you pass the finish line of one event, to only realise you have crossed the start line of another.

And, somewhere under this activity the Swallows make their endless excursions over old barns and the Swifts, screaming, search high above the villages in pursuit of insects to feed their young. Peregrines in fighter pilot style streak in criss cross patterns above rocky buttresses. Each flight pattern designed to claim the skies as their territory. Ravens and Buzzards soar and rise over the summits and tarns, peering down on the circuit board human activity.

River banks fill with marigolds, sun dappled woods radiate with bluebells, embankments burst with celandine, while every untrampled space is dotted with anemones, sorrel, herb robert, cuckoo flower, and all encased in a heady miasma of wild garlic.

Lambs, fawns, fox cubs, otter kits wake to a new world, innocent, vulnerable and reliant on their parents. They wait, quiet, unknowing how finely balanced their fate is as the runners pass by. They only think of their parents return, and hope they have enough nourishment to sate their hunger. Meanwhile, Dippers and Yellow Wagtails head further upstream in search of tasty morsels, each exclaiming their distress as their territory is invaded.

Meanwhile, 4x4s roar, Lycra covered thighs bulge, lungs burst, rubber and calories are burned. Each hill and valley is covered in a swarm of our conceit, plastic energy drinks pacakages, poo bags, empty drinks bottles and deep, disfiguring ruts.

And somewhere, if you are lucky to hear it, above the tumult of human activity, the increasingly rare cuckoo calls. A song that echoes across valley, hill and lake. A simple, plaintive melody, that travels through time and now seemingly carrying a message, a portent.

5th April 2018

The ‘Beast’ is dead.

“Birch, oak, rowan, ash
chinese-whispering the change”.
(A Wood Coming Into Leaf - Alice Oswald)

Like the constant cranking of a motorbike, or the endless pull on the starter cord of a stubborn lawnmower, Spring has spluttered and crunched into life. Even now, after a few days of warming sun - ‘she’ remains unforthcoming and reticent. Only the very subtlest of signs reveals she may be advancing.

This winter has been a much harder than many past. Early in November the snows first covered the hills and have remained, in varying depths and coverage, right through to the beginning of April. Then, just when we thought winter had got bored, or run out of steam, ‘he’ came back again, with a renewed energy and a seeminging sense of vengeance. This is ‘my time’ he said.

On a rare sunny day in February I recall hearing the uplifting trills of a Skylark. I was not to hear those beautiful melodies again for another two months as winter curtailed the birds enthusiasm and smothered its voice with another blanket of snow.

This was, as the Met Office described as an ‘artic outbreak’ and became known as the ‘Beast from the East’. A serious cold weather system emanating from the frozen, harsh lands of Siberia. This was more like the winters of old, remembered in black and white footage, showing snow drifts, abandoned cars, and harsh, blizzard scoured hillsides. Spring, dressed in her floral garment, seemed a long way off and she was probably covered in a thick coat, sat by an open fire.

However, even though the wind still carries a chill, the sun has returned, pushing back the armies of winter. Spring is here, just!

A recent visit to the bare, rounded hills of the Howgills allowed me to encounter Skylarks once again. They were now back, ascending over the bare, grassy fell tops, trilling with renewed vigour. Outside of my place of work I heard my first Chiff Chaff making its eponymous call from the tops of a small Norwegian Spruce, whilst being accompanied by a Song Thrush; an improvisation of beat and melody.

The sun is the common denominator. When in a shaded area, out of the north east wind, the warmth is considerable. It starts to penetrate into the bones. In these warm oasis there are insects swarming over wall and gatepost. The emergence of these entomological colonies are important as they bring the birds back and so the chain of life extends.

In one week a regular walk was transformed from one season to another. One day there was silence, no overt signs of life all bordered by snow and ice patches. A week later a cocophany (a tad exaggeration, but the contrast was considerable) of bird song and a path lined by Daffs, Coltsfoot and Celendine.

The seasons ‘motorbike’ was now running and soon the whispers will change to fanfares and symphonies. Also, it will not be long before I will have to do the job I hate most, mow the lawn, swapping one beast for another ;-) .


A Wood Coming Into Leaf (Alice Oswald)

“From the first to the second

Warily, from the tip to the palm

Third leaf (the blackthorn done)

From the fourth to the fifth and
(Larix, Castanea, Fraxinus, Tilia)

Thaw taps, groping in stumps,
frost like an adder easing away

The sixth to the seventh (plum conceive
a knobble in a stone within a blossom)

Ushers the next by the thumbs to the next...

A thirty-first, a thirty-second

A greenwood through a blackwood
passes (like the moon's halves
meet and go behind themselves)

And you and I, quarter-alight, our boots in shadow

Birch, oak, rowan, ash
chinese-whispering the change”.

2nd Feb 2018

Zip Off!

I have regularly blogged my concerns about the commodification of the landscape (http://www.iainwoodley.com/commodification) and the increasingly confused, if not diluted, understanding about the purpose and value of rare, wild and fragile landscapes (http://www.iainwoodley.com/what-are-national-parks-for). Once again, and though it seems the planning application has been withdrawn, the recent, very controversial proposal for a thrills and spills Zip wire installation continues to confirm/test my concerns.

The plan was to install a large number of zip wires on the sides of the iconic mountain - Helvellyn, stretching across one of the well known Lakes. In addition, there would be all the typical ancillary features such as car parking and, in this case, a (‘softner’) cycle way around the Lake.

The development, when considering its scale, has received considerable media interest. Attention that has been created due to the tension between the conservation arguments that wish to preserve a rare, fragile area, versus the desire to install a commercial adventure venture that could generate income and limited jobs.

There were big players on both side of the argument. Backing from a large utilities company, local tourist organisations versus National Trust, Friends of the Lake District and local activists. The arguments, both ways, once again, as argued in my previous blogs, demonstrated how the needs of man are placed against the needs of an increasingly rare environment.

You might wonder why I mention all of this as the appplication has been withdrawn. You might suggest that the concerns I have are now irrelevant, old news and not worth any further comment. However, I still believe the threat of this and similar, future proposals are just waiting in the wings as the conflict of interest demonstrated by the varying (influential) groups in this recent application could easily mean something could slip through next time.

Any number of these groups, if their stance changed, due their own political or commercial position, could easily have given this and future proposals the confidence to progress. This could result in tipping the balance between conservation and commercial needs; as result, create a prescedent that would push away the concept and philosophical position of saving and conserving wild landscapes. Something that inevitably allows the slow, incoming tide of commodification that finally converts our national parks into the thrills and spills theme destinations they seem to now be.

This proposal and future proposals, therefore, requires those who have the authority to make judgement, to demonstrate the greatest due diligence. Those who are empowered to make decisions have to consider the key values of National Parks, as they are the overseers of a scarce environment and only they, in the end, protect. It has to be, as Sandford pointed out, their responsibility to ensure they properly defend against all actions that conflict between public enjoyment and conservation. 

Those with this 'power' need to truly love the Lake District (and all the other rare places in this small country) and not view them as a commodity for political or commercial benefit. They need to know and truly understand these places for their particular beauty and profound rarity. Only they can change the narrative by declining these type of planning applications on grounds it is incompatible within a rare, natural and fragile landscape. A narrative that changes the mindset that naturally defaults to the protection and reverence of these environments. Therefore, conservation and preservation of our beautiful rare landscapes is ‘culturalised’ to be intolerant towards the ‘thrills and spill’ commercial use of its resources.

There needs to be a zero tolerance stance that is clear and robust. Any hesitance from those who have power and influence creates a space for those who seek commercial advantage to develop political pressure that will take advantage of any fissures in our our values and the conservation legislation we lean on. This and all similar proposals need to know the Lakes and other fragile, beautiful,and very rare environments are not compatible for to this commercial ideology. They need to know they should Zip Off.

Trials and Tribulations (and trying to remain philosophical)

No matter how I approach my photography I am always met with frustrations, unexpected problems or a series of trials and tribulations. I get flustered as a shot is missed, I get annoyed with my kit when (and I mean when) it decides to get jammed, not respond, suddenly move at the last moment, or not do what I ‘asked’ of it. The weather, my location, the environment in general, the extent of my budget, time, patience all have an impact. In short, it can sometimes feel like that nature’s very design is to thwart and frustrate me.

A chief nemesis is the weather, and as a particular agent of my downfall, it will splatter my lens with rain drops, blow the camera from side to side as it balances precariously on my budget tripod. Leaving me with blurred images, covered in the shadow of water droplets, as if an army of frogs had stomped across the photograph.

I guess these hazards are not too surprising as I am out in all conditions, all times of the year, in wild, unforgiving environments, however, the weather has a special ability to test my character.

All too easily the perfect shot changes as a dark, very dense cloud magically appears and seems to have no end as it emerges over the horizon. It is as if I am in a scene from some apocalyptic science fiction film, where the planet sized, invading mothership suddenly appears overhead.

Where there was only seconds ago a beautiful lit landscapes, there is (just as I have set up the camera) now a dull and drab scene. The majestic, 3 dimensional hillside, that you could almost reach out and touch, has now inconceivably changed into a flat, nondescript view. It seems almost unbelievable such a profound change could happen this quickly. One second I was peering at a most divine, utopian vision, but as my attention is redirected to the setting up (fighting the legs of my stubborn tripod, levelling camera, etc) I finally peer into my viewfinder to see a dystopian version of the original vision. It is as if Banksy had passed through whilst I was setting up.

I wait patiently for the scene to change, although the dark skies stretch on for ever, I endure the creeping cold that first grabs the fingers, but all too soon spreads along my limbs to leave me profoundly chilled. I wait, I hope, but soon I realise I am beaten. Another shot has been missed and the frustration becomes a distraction from further photography.

Then there are the inevitable times when I have the correct conditions and I see the composition I want to capture, but my equipment or my technical knowledge and skill fails me. It might be my temperamental tripod that flops and bends, never keeping my camera in the place I aimed it. It might be that the light contrast is too tough for me to manage my exposure and although the scene is beautiful in my eyes, I don't have the skill or equipment to capture it within the camera. Or, it might be I am physically unable to find the appropriate spot (maybe be due to a lake, or rock face in my way) to capture an image that tells the story I was hoping to tell.

Occasions like these, I race around trying to find a better location, so I can still get the image I wanted, but without the challenges. However, I am now an unwilling a participant of the Crystal Maze, forced to carry out a problem solving exercise as I sense time speedy away. Too soon the sun has gone or that alien invasion has started another onslaught.

If I let these ‘challenges’ gain too much significance I would soon give up. However, I have to be philosophical and therefore look beyond the process of trying to take photos and recognise the fantastic locations I am privileged to visit. It is these locations and the feelings they create within me that I have tried to capture in my images, but the feelings remain regardless if they are recorded in my camera or not.

Standing by a still tarn, high up a Lakeland Fell, not another human to be seen or heard, just the croak of Ravens and the plaintive cry of a Buzzard I am fully immersed into the very scene I was trying to capture. Although I have had to experience the frustrations of changing weather and the problems with my camera and tripod, I endure. No matter the tribulations caused by changing conditions, managing exposure, focus and finding a composition that reflects the mood or idea that has piqued the imagination, all these problems dissipate with the wind that blows over the Moor. These are mere trials that are soon carried away by the splendour of the migrating geese that fly over head, or drift away along with the flowing Beck.

In the end it is just being here that really matters.

From frenetic to calm (Kentmere Fells) - from the 15th September

A recent walk into the hills that provides great views over Kentmere was full of contrasts

Having started just outside of Windermere, the area is quiet and very much overlooked by visitors. However, the views towards the southern fells of Cumbria are as stunning as they are wide. The view extends from Black Combe in the far west then, following a serrated line of mountains over Coniston, Wetherlam, Crinkle Crags, Bowfell and the Langdales, leads to the flanks of the Fairfield Horsehoe.

From this viewpoint a combination of the peace and grandeur creates a sublime tranquility; it feels like I am studying a magnificent oil painting, hung in an old, cathedral like gallery.

The journey along the track, to join the well trodden Garburn Pass (a weakness in the hills that provides a high level link between the valley of Troutbeck and Kentmere) was exceptionally still. As is often, when I walk this route, I came across Goldcrests. I am amazed how regularly (year on year) I see these minute birds along this path. They are always in the same area (around a few small trees and shrubs) and as these little birds flit from branch to branch, searching for food, they seem oblivious of my presence.

On joining the track that crosses the Garburn pass the tone of the walk changes. Where I had only the birds for company, I was now joining a long line of people. All broken up into their own groups, but a line that extended across the main ridge of the Kentmere Fells.

This route is justifiably popular as it provides both a physical challenge and an aesthetic joy, as it rolls over the high fells of the Eastern Lakes. However, to me, having just enjoyed the peace and quiet of the High Dubbs Road, I felt like I had just become a participant in some massive sponsored walk.

However, I was determined to not let this get me down, so I moderated my pace to ensure I had my own little zone as I ascended the mountains. The route is a beautiful undulating ridge, punctuated by steep sided summits, especially Ill Bell, which is guarded by rocky ramparts. However, today was characterised by a constant change between Sun and rain and like the walk, there was a contrast between busy and quiet,

Further on the walk, passing over the humble Froswick, there is a divide in the path. One taking you to another peak (Thornthwaite Beacon), the other a short cut for those wishing to complete the Kentmere Horsehoe. As can be expected, many ‘challengers’ leave out Thornthwaite Beacon, the jewel in the horseshoe as they view this whole experience as a challenge only. The aesthetic beauty and the grandeur of the moment (weather, season, colours) only incidental.

For me, however, to avoid such a fine summit, with its 3m high iconic summit cairn, with the views over to the western fells (Scafel, Great Gable, etc) and Windermere, spread out like poured quicksilver, is too much to miss. Plus now I was again on my own to enjoy the experience.

From Thornthwaite Beacon views back over the trodden ground reveals a wild, dramatic ridge of hills, framed by the shinning waters of Windermere and Morcombe Bay. Also, from here there are views down into Hayeswater and Hartsop. It is classic Lakeland at its most beautiful.

Finally I drop into Troutbeck and Hagg Gill, where the character and ‘feel’ of the walk changes again. Now there is not a soul to be seen and a deep peace spreads across the landscape. Once again there is noticeable wildlife and only the sounds of the mountains themselves (falling streams and the wind blowing through the rough grass and over crags).

Now I hear some Chiffchaffs making their last hoorah for the year, and though nearly all the Swallows have gone, I see just one lonely soul flying low over the now, brown, desiccated bracken. I will miss this miniature portent of spring, so will be looking south, with anticipation, for many months to come.

Down here, away from the steady march of ‘horseshoe challengers’ the pace of everything is slower, less frenetic. There is no purpose, overriding distraction or need other than just being in the moment. The calm found here to that being experienced above on the ridge is not only a contrast, but also an epiphany.

A friend and talented musician put this together.......a collaboration I guess ;-)

https://youtu.be/DROpHWcmZPY

Familiarity - 26th August 2017

I have recently felt much more at ease as I have come to believe I am now, at last, at home. It is not perfect, far too many people and far too much commercialisation for a National Park, but it is a place I am starting to understand and it ‘feels’ like home. The place and people coerce, test, beguile and confuse me, whilst opening up their arms to warmly embrace me. I have, therefore (and pardon the oxymoron) come to an almost unconscious realisation that this is my home.

Therefore, I was not expecting how I felt after a recent experience to my parental home.

Following a long abscence I headed back to where I was born and where I have spent the majority of my life. This is not only a place filled with familiar faces, but also a landscape I know instinctively as I have walked its fields and gentle rolling hills for more than 50 years. However, I had now moved on, I was following my dream, looking to higher, wilder and more distant hills. I had now found a home that embraced, sustained and gave me security, I had even found love.

However, this recent visit threw all my understanding of ‘home’ into freefall.

What I was expecting was to feel distant to the places I knew from the past as my connection was now broken. I now had a new home so the landscape of my youth would feel removed and less relevant. However, I was shocked by the effects my old stomping ground had on me. The universe came into sharper focus, a stronger contrast between land/sky - wood/hill and everything seemed more immediate, accessible and more congruous than I had expected.

Where I anticipated nothing more than a hazy feeling of nostalgia, in contrast, my senses were hit with a clear, deep sense of recognition and I sensed my place within the landscape. This land was not only familiar, but like family.

So what is going on here? My new home is still home and I love being here, but I am now confused that something else is happening. Is it my subconscious reacting to subtle ques and inputs that my ego, agenda filled consciousness is filtering out?

Therefore, I needed to look into this more, not for just academic reasoning, but also for my eternal wellbeing and sanity. I needed to understand what home means for me and therefore, where I might find it. Is it home or just the familiarity that makes me feel as I do, or are these two ideas one and the same?

A quick look at the dictionary provides me with an interesting view on the meaning, origins and connection of the words ‘familiarity’ and ‘home’. Maybe if I looked into this connection it might help me better understand what is going on (?) So, let's see where this goes...............

One set of meanings for ‘Familiar’ is confidential and intimate, that suggests a long association between persons or place. It is clear I have a long association with my old and new homes. One I grew up in, playing in it, walking across it, the other I immersed myself at every opportunity, traveling fortnightly as I would fight against the exodus of weekend traffic from the South East of England.

In both places I have earnt my stripes as I have both toiled and sweated in both locations.

Another nuance of ‘Familiar’ points to an atmosphere of confidentiality and a sense of mutual trust (extending to the sharing of confidences and secrets: like a confidential adviser). Therefore, perhaps the familar is a companion like a friend or sibling (?)

The landscapes I travel through, and in particular my old and new home ‘talk’ to me: or at least I talk to them and I (semi) believe ‘they’ (note I do not use the inanimate pronoun ‘it’ as I recognise i immerse my humanity into my view of the world) listens and talks back. I regularly talk, comment, sometimes shout at the air if a frustration is being considered, as I wander around my landscape. Like John Clare, perhaps, I seek harmony and meaning in amongst the familiarity of the landscape, and it seems the countryside hears me and provides friendly advice. This might be due, as Wainwright suggested:

“.... the joys of a walk over country such as this; the scenes that delight the eyes, the blessed peace of mind, the sheer exuberance which fills your soul as you tread the firm turf? ........ Your thoughts are simple, in tune with your surroundings; the complicated problems you brought with you..... are smoothed away”

Both my homes, old and new have provided this solace and support over the years. In both homes I have sought comfort and healing. In both homes I have used the landscapes as a sanctuary, an escape and a balm to help untrouble the mind and body. It is the familiarity that starts to imbed the feeling and understanding of this place being ‘home’.

Familiarity also contains the concept of Intimate, which suggests close acquaintance or connectiion. This might be based on a dimension where there is mutual interest, sympathy, or affection. The dictionary expands with the example....."intimate, very friendly, on a family footing”.

Here we see the origins of the meaning between familiarity and family closing in. Closer these meanings converge the nearer, maybe, I might find some solution, or at least understanding for my quandary.

Home is familiar - it is family! So perhaps I was just warmly embraced by a close, loving family member when I returned to my old stomping ground? Just maybe both places are home, as both, therefore equally important to me. However, just like the Swallow that migrates between two contrasting landscapes, the plains of Africa to an eave in Cumbria, we are all eternally seeking to understand what is and where is home(?)



Postscript:

Familiarity’s Latin origins derive from the word ‘famulus’ which also has the meaning of ‘servant’ ................who is the servant and who is the master in this home/family set-up is yet to be understood.

Million Miles Away (Rory Gallagher)

“This hotel bar is full of people,
The piano man is really laying it down,
The old bartender is as high as a steeple, 
So why tonight should I wear a frown? 
The joint is jumpin' all around me,
And my mood is really not in style,
Right now the blues flock to surround me,
But I'll break out after a while.
Yes I'm a million miles away,
I'm a million miles away,
I'm sailing like a driftwood,
On a windy bay,
On a windy bay.
I'm a million miles away,
I'm a million miles away”

11th July 2017

The colour and music of Summer folded around the Grey and Yellow

The sky and mountains are grey, but all around are sounds and bright, yellow pockets filled with the essence of summer.

Starting out on an overcast day, with the cloud like an over large hat sat on the head of Black Coomb, my motivation is low. These are conditions that do not make me keen to venture out . However, as yet, I do not realise that the skies grey metalled back wash is only a distraction from all the light and colour that abounds.

My initial feeling of malaise and indifference is not improved as I enter an arboreal tunnel of wet, overhanging branches that bar my way. I am immediately soaked from the water laden leaves, leaving my spirits drowning. I am wet even before I start.

Regardless, I carry on towards the dark, swirling, grey murk that hovers over my horizon with a determination that is based on a ‘fingers crossed’ hope. There must, surely, be some colour and light in this dullest of days? How pleased I am for my stubborn, blind faith, as this journey reveals many brilliant, colourful encounters that shine above the grey, drab, daub of the day.

The object of my exploration is the hills that fill the area between Broughton Mill, overlooking the stunning Duddon Valley, and the slopes that fall towards Torver and Coniston. It is an easy, rolling landscape and very quiet. However, due to its closeness to the Irish Sea, it means this area can too easily experiences the full, watery impact of south-westerly weather systems. A countryside that can become wet and grey in an instance (as I had just discovered).

High up on the dripping, wet grey buttress of Dow Crag I heard a most distinctive noise. A distinct ‘chirp’: a note that comes from the moss and lichen carpeted rocks themselves as this tone is 'of the mountain'.

The percussive note echoes around the steep, vertigo inducing crags, channelling the activities of past slate miners from a long, forgotten age.

High up in these dank, black hills this little bird finds a safe, but wild home and like it's clear song, it's pure white neck colouring stands out against the grey walls of its home. This is Ring Ouzel territory and its presence is light against the black.

Further down the slopes, as the becks gather, I come across the budgerigar presence of Grey Wagtails. They flit from boulder to boulder and despite their namesake tails frantically flicking, they are not obviously grey. In fact they are daubed with yellow across their chest and tail, with white flecks giving them a very exotic, summery appearance. THey wag a tail at the grey of the day.

As I head further across the Fells I experience little improvement in the weather - sharp showers bursts through the mountains to send me diving for waterproofs.

Therefore, I head to the relative shelter of a very old, abandoned quarry. This is a place that has seen little human activity for several hundred years. However, all around is the evidence of the enormous efforts that were once taking place. This includes a massive entrance hammered out of the hard, volcanic rock, opening into a cavernous amphitheatre of rock walls.

At its heart is a huge hole in the ground that descends deep into the mountain. With walls dripping and the dark, dank, depths. The oppressive nature of the hole gives it a hard sinister atmosphere. Emanating from this dark, soulless cavern is a cold breeze that bars my way: and though I am not brave enough to venture into this seeming endless abyss and I am humbled when thinking of those who had to descend into the depths to make a living. They had to ignore their natural senses and leave the light of life behind them.

After being repelled by the ‘hole’ I assess my immediate environment and suddenly realise that the dark, quarry walls are illuminated!

Due to the hard nature of the quarry and the sinister eye-like stare of the ‘hole’ my attention was elsewhere, but like Jason and his argonauts, or Professor Lidenbrock, as his oil lantern fails, a illumination is revealed.

The walls of this grey, hard, sharp quarry were bathed in a golden glow of the rare Yellow Mountain Saxifrage. It is everywhere, growing out of every crack and ripple in the rock. I am immediately bathed in a summery light despite the grey of the sky above, or the inpenetrable blackness of the mine below.

My days exploration was all most over and though I was away from most of the worst weather, the day was still damp and grey. The drab outlook, however, no longer held any power over me as my eyes were discovering more and more colour and light in the landscape around me. Each bog was blazoned with yellow asphodels, or spearworts and all around could be found the delicate pink of Bog Pimpernel and Lousewort. The day from beginning to end was filled with the colour and music of summer, freeing me from the grey.

Postscript

The northern sense of irony is contained within the local maxim, “if there's cloud on Black Coomb it's raining and if there's no cloud on Black Coomb it's gonna rain” The sentiment of this maxim was clear and ringing in my ears as I set off today, but perhaps I should have also remembered Seamus Heaney’s advice:

“Upend the rainstick and what happens next
Is a music that you never would have known
To listen for. In a cactus stalk

Downpour, sluice-rush, spillage and backwash
Come flowing through. You stand there like a pipe
Being played by water, you shake it again lightly

And diminuendo runs through all its scales
Like a gutter stopping trickling. And now here comes
A sprinkle of drops out of the freshened leaves,

Then subtle little wets off grass and daisies;
Then glitter-drizzle, almost-breaths of air.
Upend the stick again. What happens next

Is undiminished for having happened once.
Twice, ten, a thousand times before.
Who cares if the music that transpires

Is the fall of grit or dry seeds through a cactus?
You are like a rich man entering heaven
Through the ear of a shower. Listen now again”.

(The Rainstick - Seamus Heaney)