Lake District life of a photographer searching the Distant Hills

30th Sept

Four remarkable days in the hills

The end of September has been accompanied by truly stunning weather. As high pressure sits across the UK, the Lake District mountains have been set against a background of azure blue skies and bathed in glorious sunlight. The bracken covered hillsides are ablaze in a golden glow.

Therefore I planned to exploit this weather to the full by visiting favourite places in the Lakes and Dales. I would head over the flanks of Black Combe to visit a Neolithic stone circle, stride high across the ridge between Wasdale and Eskdale, stand on the ramparts of an ancient fort in the Dales and scramble among the old mines and broad ridges of the Coniston Fells.

Sunkenkirk Stone Circle

This 6000 year old stone circle sits on the eastern flanks of Black Combe. It is every bit as stunning as the more famous Castlerigg found 30miles to the north near Keswick, but far less visited. I wandered around Sunkenkirk for over an hour, taking in the peace and tranquility of the setting. I was reflecting on the why and how of their construction and even though I was over an hour investigating this great megalithic monument, I saw no other person. My reverie was only interrupted by the munching sheep and the plaintive cry of a Buzzard flying high overhead.

The hills, lanes and valleys around Black Combe are overlooked as most visitors head towards the better known places in central lakes, but this area is no less beautiful. In fact the solitude of Black Combe, it's unadulterated character (being a off the tourist trail) is what makes it so attractive. A piece of the lakes that is genuinely wild and feels 'real'.

I could spend a lot more time investigating the nooks and crannies of these hills, especially as there is a number of these ancient stone antiquities set in such wild locations. Why 'they' made them will always be debated, but I can understand how the locations were chosen. These places seem, due to their setting, have a visceral connection to the past and emanate a feeling of deep rooted power and sanctity. Locations chosen not by accident but by a strong sense of understanding the landscape and how to best connect to it. The very locations I also attempt to immerse myself in.

Geology and man unite

On another stunning day, with blue, sun filled skies (though accompanied by a chilling wind - a portent of winter) I set off to traverse the hills of Eskdale.

Eskdale is more humble than many of the other Lakeland valleys due to its lack of steep, rocky mountain wall at its valley head. Unlike the impenetrable walls found at both Wasdale and Langdale, Eskdale has an obvious (and popular) escape route in the form of the high, winding route over Hardknot Pass.

However, the rocky architecture of mountains is not the only beauty to found in wild places. Sometimes we miss the real beauty, like sugar filled food, that hides the true character and flavour. If we look beyond the obvious honey pots, ignore the highly eroded 'highways' that lead to only popular landmarks, rather than more honest and substantial parts of a landscape, we gain a better 'flavour' of our location. In this situation 'place' is not just valued for height, the arduousness and effort to reach the arbitrary, human conceived landmark, but because it is what is. A place that exists beyond our own saccharine values, free from our own constructs and is less able to define and understand because of this. A place that is truer, more subtle and undefinable and, because of this over looked by humans. There are places in Eskdale like this.

These places include the collection of Neolithic stone rings and circles found on the moors, high above both Eskdale and Wasdale. These ancient stones, their location set against bleak moorland, set in amongst the bog and grassy stubble, reflect the wildness of the location and indicates how our ancestors too recognised the power of place. No rocky pinnacle to ascend, just the pure power of the land that inspires people to erect a temple that captures the human understanding of place and tries to capture the energy and wildness found in these locations in the form of a human construction. Here, in this unnoticed place, man, geology and the spirit of place are at once united. Today, modern travellers cycle and walk over this place, ignoring and unrecognising the great power of the area, and the antiquity of these stones. They head on to summits, or follow blindly guide book routes to some commodified location, drawn by the magnetic need to conform and to follow and consume.

The fort of Ancient Britons

Another amazing day as the sun blazed onto an autumnal Dales landscape. The huge, lumbering outline of Ingleborough stands like an extinct dinosaur, that is slowly crossing the broad, limestone pocked plains of White Scar.

The wind was cold and despite the sun there was a hint of localised rain as a thin layer of cloud, like a jaunty angled hat, had started to form over the summit plateau of Ingleborough. I rarely have cloud free views from the top, so my expectations were not affected. The views in every other direction were clear and long, plus things may change once I reached the top.

As it happened, things were in constant flux with sun and mist duelling to see who would overcome. On reaching the summit, a broad, flat plateau that is big enough to easily contain a cricket pitch, I wandered around the summit rim. The view from the edges is over a wild landscape that falls steeply away over the plains of Ribble, Greta and Twistleton Scar. It is easy to imagine that the outer perimeter of the summit was the ramparts of this ancient fort. A feeling amplified when walking over its millstone laid parapet as you feel as if a guard, peering out across the wild plains far below, searching for any signs of marauders. It was cold up here, the mist blew around me, gossamer like, as shadow of the ancient inhabitants were still wandering the fortifications - and I stepped amongst them.

Ridges

Amazingly the weather was still holding. The wind had dropped and the temperature in the sun was equivalent to good summers day.

However, the good weather does mean that others, with the same thoughts as me, will be out enjoying it and as I was not keen to share my experience, sI decided to use routes that are rarely walked. This beautiful area is rightfully popular, but on days like this it can be overrun with folk, which dilutes the reason to be there.

Therefore, I headed up the steep and over looked Steel Edge ridge. This rocky finger extends from the top of the stunningly beautiful Tillberthwaite Valley, sat in its sylvan majesty, to reach the main crest of the mountain Wetherlam. The ascent is easy, but steep but and has two sections where care is required as they are both vertiginous and slippery. Once negotiated the final push to the summit is easy.

Even though this route is in the Wainwright Pictorial Guides (beautiful books, but so often criticised for attracting too many people to the Fells) I never meet anyone. I recognise that there is now a faint path on the ridge, which was not evident 30 years ago, but it's indistinct quality proved how few come this way. An argument I make in support of AW's guides many times over.

On reaching the summit I was met with broad and stunning views that covered a great deal of Lakeland and the western Dales. Also, I had the summit completely to myself! I found myself a spot amongst the summit boulders out of the wind, but collecting the brilliant sun and slept. A luxury I seem to enjoy more and more. For me there is nothing better than finding a comfortable, tranquil spot that is far from others and the life they inevitably inhabit, where I can rest and think.

On waking I headed to the subsidiary top of Blacks Sails and then followed the ridge down to Levers Water. The hills were empty and the sun was now setting behind the rocky wall of Brim Fell. The tarn of Levers Water, sat like a jewel, was a perfect mirror, reflecting the darkening crags and buttresses that cupped and contained these mountain waters. The peace and pure mountain architecture was a spiritual end to 4 days ramblings.

Reflections

The Coniston Fells are pitted with the old mine workings and, as you ascend the many ridges that divide these mountains, you come across the associated, but abandoned holes and spoil heaps. Compared to the Neolithic stone circles I visited, these workings are new, but to me these weathered, lichen covered stones feel ancient. The piles of rock represent a power of the land that is both long forgotten and shifted. The stone circles, the ramparts of an ancient Hill fort and the rubble of mining all reflect how the land held power. However, this power has been relocated. Today it is the summits that the tourist, with their disposable income, flock to. The ambition to ascend these airy, though arbitrary points, has become culturalised. A new tradition refocuses the power of the land. These geographical 'terminations' are human constructs that not only become the aim of pilgrimage, but also command an array of commodities to be purchased in homage their ascent. Meanwhile, the self willed, overlooked - wild and untamed, is just a moment away. Hidden in full view.

Time stand still

24th September

The year has inexorably, but also inexplicably charged forward. At this time of year Spring seems distant, especially when viewing the world across the chill, colour bled, Autumn hills. Their bleached slopes stand like harbingers, looking towards the bleak and wind swept tops of an advancing winter.

Each season, it's marked, distinct character, is what makes each day a special experience. However, it is the shear pace of this change that I find disturbing. Their seems a perverse - indirectly proportional relationship between my increasing age and my understanding of the changing seasons. As each year passes time concentrates, spinning ever faster, marking an ever shorter year, accelerating until there is no time left.

The memories of my past are both full of good and bad times, and as time has elapsed I have gained a broader and more detailed understanding of my experiences. I recognise (many) of the times I erred, whilst also realising the very many (and more often) occasions I should have treasured more, due to their beauty and sublime, spiritual depth. This recognition, this wide perspective gained from the lofty tower of experience should make my world seem full of endless opportunities as I now have this 'Intel' that should direct and steer my course. A wisdom helping me avoid the mistakes of the past and head towards the 'enlarging' and fulfilling components of life. However, this lofty stance just reveals that the world is speeding around under my feet. Knowledge and understanding, the complexity of 'things' just seem to make distant horizons even closer. It is as if all this looking back has taken up the space to have time to look around in the present. Each moment and experience is so important, but like a homeopathic remedy, these experiences have become an essence, a dilution of the flower that had been in my grasp and too easily discarded years before.

I hold onto characteristics and features of a time of year, just like the arrival and departure of the swallows, as they are potent symbols of the changing year. These symbols are both the anchors and markers to the gravity of an accelerating cycle of seasons. Therefore I hold onto these symbols to fix my place against the avalanche of flowing time, whilst recognising, the 'now' is like a transient, light and fragile butterfly that had been resting in my palm.

I have looked back, but now need Time's relentless journey to pause, so I have a moment to look and absorb the 'now'.


"...Experience slips away

Summer's going fast, nights growing colder
Children growing up, old friends growing older
Freeze this moment a little bit longer
Make each sensation a little bit stronger
Experience slips away
Experience slips away...
The innocence slips away"

N. Peart

The swallows are gathering on the telephone lines. Soon they will be gone and again I will miss them.....are they heading home(?)

Swallow,

You time is nearing.
Long it seems now when
Abandoned by Spring,
You gave your fortune

As a talisman to be venerated

Searching each sunset.
(Refraction - reflection
The wane, fading light)
Reaching into where
Memory and thought
(With no rhyme or reason)
steers your flight.

Attending to a wasting year.

And now forgotten,
Secretly abscond,
Leaving unnoticed.
Evaporating
Into the cold night.

Rarified - an evanescence.

And for so long now
Before you were born,
(And it is not clear why)
your eye has always been
to other horizons.

But trouble hides behind the darkening skies.

Western winds scatter
Your guarded adornments.
So closely clasped
In a swirl, they disperse

You have always had a sense of the wind.

As nascent wings stir
The doubt and turmoil,
Crashing like a storm,
Breaks unseen anchors.

Umbilically unclasped - Cast now to the air,

Closing in, unseen
Dark shades admonish
Awe and restlessness
Slivers and pervades.

And as you look back,

Each memory foreshortened, abridged, distorted,

And though you abhor captivity, you still ask;

"Soon, will I find home"?

9th August

A Return to the New forest - Rowan Berries and Crab Apples

The very first entry on this blog, and the last before heading off to live in the Lakes, was about the New Forest. This little National Park (it is so small and its beauties so subtle that this designation feels excessive) is very important to me. I have gained a lot of strength from coming here, finding much peace and beauty in its landscape, whilst be given the space to reflect. I have visited in all weathers and seasons, and have I come to know this humble, shy little area extremely well.

Therefore my visit was preceded with great anticipation and, in preparation, I had been revisiting places and following paths in my mind. A process I find very enjoyable and much more effective than counting sheep when struggling to get to sleep. In fact, I often review, path by path, village, by village and mountain by mountain a 1600 mile journey I made around the UK in 1997. In my minds eye I follow tracks and streams and relive past experiences. It keeps the memories fresh and it is amazing how many things I remember anew.

My recent visit to the New Forest was all I expected and hoped for. My days were spent walking across a beautifully understated landscape, of heather filled plains and thick broad leafed woodland. It is also filled to the brim with differing varieties of wildlife, accompanied by a gentle, serene, peaceful atmosphere - devoid of the macho, go faster, longer, higher commodification that comes with other National Parks.

Many would criticise my descriptions of the 'Forest' as being effusive, and over sentimental and a view I might share if we're not for the depth and quality of my experiences. There are so many 'moments' where I am overwhelmed by what I might encounter as, tucked around every corner, there are wonderful examples of beauty and grace that nature provides.

I might break through a dense woodland, onto one of the many open spaces that are secretly cupped in the folds of the land. In these hidden landscapes, like a land time forgot, I encounter all sorts of wild life, and today it was immediately Deer. A huge herd, red, brown and orange, all the colours of the land, starring at me across the sea of purple heather. The herd is overseen by two stags, with horns that look like hurling sticks. They obviously view me with caution and eventually seem to slide off into the forest. However, as I know this area very well, I know we will meet again. Therefore further along, I come across the herd as they cross my path. Once again they stare and scrutinise me to ascertain what risk I might pose. Eventually their natural instinct takes hold and they trot away into the shelter of the wood, but not before pausing for a moment, to see if I follow. Was this an invite?

The New Forest is rightfully popular and, like the Peak District, also adjacent to densely populated towns and cities, therefore it can be very busy. However, regardless of the time of year the forest is remarkably quiet once you break into the forest hinterland. Strange as it might seem, most folk do not stray too far away from their cars, or the main tracks that link villages and car parks.

Once you do get off the main paths, which can take as little as a minutes walk, you are all alone, with only the ponies for company. You may at first still hear a road, but head a little further into the forest and all you hear is the trees and the birds. Once I have arrived into this space, I stop and breath. I breath deep, close my eyes and just listen. I gradually hear the layers of sound around me. Once I have identified one layer I move onto the next, building up a deeply varied and rich soundscape made up of the wind, trees, different bird song, the occasional human noise (maybe child's laughter) and even insects buzzing near and far. I go through this ritual all places I visit as, once I open my eyes, I see the place differently and I am now restful, whilst being more alert to my surroundings.

This visit the forest is characterised by the profusion of Crab apples, Rowan, Holly berries, and sloes. These trees are often found in amongst the many woodland islands, that are dotted around the forest. Set in a sea of purple heathland, the forest is adorned by these mini woodlands, each filled with a rich mixture of trees and shrubs. They are secretive places and easily overlooked, but peer into the shadowy realm you soon realise you are not alone. In the cool recesses of these arboreal archipelagos will be found beautiful New Forest Ponies, or maybe a herd of ear and tail twitching fallow deer.

These Woody enclaves are magical and mystical places, and like the Rowan that surround them, they feel like a Druidic temples amongst the trees. In the cool recesses there is a stillness and a strong sense of being in an older wilder environment; as if looking back to past times and across into other dimensions. As the Rowan was the wood of choice for Druids then perhaps these 'woodlets' are doorways into the faerie realm(?).

However, on a more 'earthly' perspective, these wooded areas provide a perfect habitat for a rich variety of song birds. On the branches and atop the surrounding shrubs of gorse, hawthorn and bramble can be seen Siskin, Linnets, Robins Stonechats and Wheatears. I have even seen Redstarts, flying, like island hoppers, from one wooded area to the next. Today the Rowan is thick with blood red berries, and a hint of autumn is witnessed in its leaves.

The weather has been warm and dry for quite a time, resulting in the many shallow streams and (the precarious) Dew Ponds becoming dry. It was these conditions that created the the American western scene I encountered on the broad plain of Latchmore Bottom. All around the dry stream t were large herds of ponies and cattle standing motionless. I assumed, due to the long period of dry weather, they have congregated here as they can smell the presence of water. Their numbers, their cumulative heat, meant they were producing a steam that drifted above them like a mystical cloud.

The drought has allowed the emergence of wild flowers in the beds of the dried streams. There was thick carpets of golden Spearworts and a number of plants I had never seen before. Perhaps they have lied dormant under these streams waiting for a brief time, like now, to have their day. I guess another part of the cycle that we humans miss as we operate within our own created perspective.

Regardless of the possible serendipity for these stream bed flowers, fortune was to fall favourably for those who were desperate for water, as during my visit there was a great storm. This resulted in very heavy rain for two days, which immediately refreshed pools and streams. As the New Forest is a low lying heathland, it soon regained its familiar spongy, boggy character. It is these conditions that give it a unique habitat and one of the reasons it attracts and sustains so much life.

As I head home, passing over the purple heather carpet of Longcross Plain, I encounter two brave Lapwings. I hear them before I see them, as their "peewit" call is uniquely distinctive. In a bid to protect what is their they fly close over me in hope to distract and sway me. I know it is late in the year for them to be demonstrating this behaviour, so I am guessing they still have a clutch of eggs they are protecting. It is very late in the year for young chicks to grow and be ready for the winter. My worries of the year slipping away is symbolised by the swallows i seek lining up on the telephone wires.

The Swallows queuing up in this manner is a tangible indication that summer is near its end, like my journey South. I imagine, seasonally, things up North will have naturally caught up with the changes I have seen down in the South, as the North has to squeeze its spring and summer seasons into shorter periods between the longer autumn and winter. .....we shall soon see. As to the New Forest I will see you again in Autumn, when you come into your own.

"You English Words?
I Know You: You Are Light As Dreams,
Tough As Oak, Precious As Gold,
As Poppies And Corn,
Or An Old Cloak:
Sweet As Our Birds To The Ear,
As The Burnet Rose
In The Heat Of Midsummer"

Edward Thomas.

8th August

South Downs

I was experiencing a journey of contrasts as today day would be full of memories filled with sadness, whilst at the same time I would be traversing through a sublimely beautiful part of the country. I was on my annual visit to the South Downs to pay my respects to a lost loved one.

This is an area we walked for many years and we knew it very well. I therefore headed over the chalk high ground of Cocking Down, passing places with evocative names like, Diddling, Monkton, Pilswood and Hooksway. These names are from a language and dialect special to this part of the world and on hearing the names you hear an echo from a long gone era. Each word holding a piece of the rural past, and immersing you, as if you had traveled through time, to the life, sounds and understanding of people past.

Nearly every route to the top of the South Downs requires negotiating steep, rough chalky paths that pass through, old and thick woodlands. These woodlands are made up of broad leaf trees, that stand as sentinels to the wide breezy ridge above. The character of the ridge, that runs from Winchester to Eastbourne, changes with the seasons. One day wild, windy and wet, or covered in mist and as disorientating as any mountain, to the next being arid and dusty. Good days offer long views over the adjoining countryside. The wild, wide and beautiful vistas extend along the south English coast, to inland, over the rural flatland of the Weald and onwards to the Surrey Hills. Everywhere are little hills of sandstone and chalk, standing erect and proud, peppering the landscape and adding perspective. The main ridge is remarkable, as along the verges and throughout the grasslands areas there is an amazing array of Wild flowers. This time of year there are marjoram, lady bedstraw and wild basil.

The marjoram was 'loaded' with bees, highlighting how important this area is to the environment and its humble contribution to the overall environmental health of the country. It is places like the South Downs that are now becoming environmental islands, due to their varied and densely filled nature, contributing to the sustainability of many types of wildlife.

With this last point in mind, my reverie was suddenly broken by the plaintive cry of a Buzzard. Their sad lament feels ancient, even primal, especially as the sound waves bounce off the surrounding chalk cliffs. Their call emphasises the wild nature of this landscape; it cuts through the wind, and seems to stretch across eons.

Wonderfully there have been a lot more buzzards seen high above the Downs in recent years. Their presence reflect the health of the ecosystems and wildlife below. To have Buzzards, you need small mammals, who need insects, who need a variety of plant life, who need protected areas (untouched, guarded by trees, shrubs without over grazing or sprayed by chemicals).



The South Downs is a very unique landscape, and one that has been better described and more poetically captured than I can achieve. For me, when I walk through this landscape, I have a huge feeling of space, whilst being surrounded by wildlife........... A unique environment that I cannot find elsewhere and despite it now being an area that has an accompanying sadness, it also offers an appropriate space to reflect and better understand the loss, especially when I see so much life.

5th August

Hawks, Herons and Pike

"Me and my brother returned to the water
I saw a pike that was two feet long.
Two small magicians, each with a jam jar
Cast spells on the water with hazel twig wands"............


This was indeed a grand day out, touring around the landscape of my home town. This is a very special place to me, not just because it is the place of my birth, but because of the varied and stunning character of the land. I see more varieties of wildlife here than I ever do in the Mountains.

The Surrey Hills are (seasonally) weeks ahead of my home in the Lakes. Here the Blackberries are already ripening on thick, gnarled and prickly bushes that flank each hedgerow. Standing emperor like, the Purple Loosestrife, adorn each side of the river bank. They are accompanied by their court entourage of pink willow herb, who seeds wisp like, float away with the wind. These floating bundles of fluff and filament are a reminder of school holidays, and the imaginings of fairies.

As I pass through the dense, broad leaf woodland, with the sunlight scattered across hard, dry paths, the wood pigeon is heard calling out to Betty ("it's tea time Betty, it's teatime...."). This call is the soundscape of my pre teens. I regularly stayed on the farm of my Grandparents and would hear the Wood Pigeons calling each other. Their song echoed over the small valley where the farm was neatly bedded into the sandstone hills. All around the farm were the ruminant sounds of domestic animals, but high above, in the silvan canopy, the lyrical song of these birds sang above the feed time baying.

Further into the woods I first hear then see Hobby Hawks flying high above. These beautifully compact birds were soaring across the sky, showing amazing agility, crisscrossing each other's flight paths. There was at least two but due to their speed and the thickness of the tree canopy I could never quite see them to know for sure. It seemed they were deliberately toying with me, and like mischievous magicians, they would appear and disappear instantly. Their repetitive call a constant repeating, Doppler like crescendo.

Whilst I twisted and turned my head in my attempt to see the Hobby's a roe deer silently appeared on the path above me. With such ease and grace it stepped into the undergrowth. Its appearance was more imagination than reality. More work of the magician?

From leaving the high sandstone ridge of the Chantries, I entered the valley that cuts through the chalkland downs. This valley cups the winding River Wey, as it makes its way to join the Thames. It is a slow, meandering water that harbours little islands and peninsulas on its course. These physical features are perfect environments for all sorts of flowers, insect and birds. I noticed that a lot of work is being done to remove the invasive Indian Balsam plant. I notice too, that there is very much to do as it is now very well established. I hope they persevere as the banks of the Wey support an amazing array of plants, but all more fragile and less competitive than the Balsam.

As I journeyed along the tow path I saw a pike snatching, what I guess was a gudgeon that had been swimming near the surface of the river (I had seen many just below the surface. They were probably this high in the water to access more oxygenated water, as it had been very warm, with low rain fall). As the Pike grabbed its prey and turned I note its spotted, leathery flank and, like the squid nemesis of Captain Nemo, I imagine I see its cold, steely eye view me with contempt.

Further along, as the river twists and turns towards Godalming, I came across a Heron. It stood motionless and unsure on the opposite bank. It is waiting, perhaps for one of these high swimming fish, but is noticeably uneasy due to my presence. Me and another traveller stop and admire, whilst another lady, unfazed and unmoved passes us talking loudly on her mobile. Walking thorough nature, but not into it.

As I move off a Hawk bursts free from a hedge, shooting high above me. Had I disturbed it from its dinner? Like the Roe Deer earlier, I regularly have these types of encounters. I will be observing another animal, focused, concentrating, standing so still, that I do not detect other creatures about their business. Once I was so busily watching a grass snake move across my path, that I was unaware of the much larger Grass Snake that was now sat on top of my right foot. As soon as I went to move, both snake and I became shockingly aware of each other. Something, I suspect, neither of us will forget.

I had been walking for several hours now, so made a course for home, it was then that I saw the briefest flash of emerald as it flew across the river, into the wild undergrowth on the opposite bank. It was a rare, fleeting glimpse of a Kingfisher. I have seen these most majestic of birds along this part of the river before, but many years ago. Every time I have walked this stretch I optimistically look to see if I will again be honoured by their royal presence. Today I was less attentive, but was no less thrilled by seeing such bold and imperial colours.

My day's journey concluded by heading back into the silvan haven of the Chantries. As I reached the top of the escarpment I was stunned to see two red kites hovering over the stately sweet chestnut trees that guard this terrace. They flew at a very low level allowing me to appreciate them more fully. One even rested in a small tree less than 20m away.

It's not clear if they are permanent settlers or just passing through. I do know this is the first year I have ever seen them here (and I have been coming here for at least 30 years). So maybe they will stay. Either way I view this as a positive indicator on the health and depth of wildlife now being sustained in this area.

A great day and I guess Home will always be Home, as it represents what I know. It formed me and I shared it with friends and family who have been created by the same landscape.

......"Country boys catch tadpoles, dive into water
Made shy by their laughter, we wandered down stream
And summer rolled o'er us with no complications
'Accept thinking of Mama sometimes in dreams.

Stand by the drawbridge, waiting for barges
Waiting around for smiles from the man.
Lifting the bridge whilst watching the horses
Dragging the slow boats up the canal.

I do remember the times but no number
After the day, but before evening comes
Waiting for castles and kettles with roses
Painted on barges that sailed into the sun.

Oh, see the river run, that was by man begun
Open the locks, let the boats sail on,
Taking their castles and kettles with roses
With summers of childhood leaving smiles on the man".

Barges: Ralph McTell

24th July

The Endless Rhythm

All my life I have always been close to the countryside. My hometown is surrounded by fields and woods, my grand parents were farmers and I spent much of my formative years investigating the woods, meadows, barns and haystacks that surrounded their house.

However, I have lived, essentially, a towny lifestyle, as working in the service industry meant a complete disconnection from the countryside and nature. The work is all about serving a human need, contained within a very human context. There is no expectation, consideration or appreciation of the wider world within its confines.

Therefore, it is not too surprising, I have not fully recognised the activities and rhythms of rural life, despite my close proximity to it. I have somehow been in contact, but not immersed. Surrounded but also separated. Seeing to know, but not involved to understand.

However, now I live in a wilder environment, where the elements are keener, where the day to day matters of town people is rarified. Therefore, and as a consequences, I can better recognise many of the activities of the country life that differ from those of my urban existence. The strength and character of each seasons, along with their effects on the land, processes of it's human inhabitants and its wildlife, are more recognisable. I have started to line myself up with the pace and rhythm of the land and its activities, I am starting to get in step with the beat of my new environment.

As a result of this 'rural epiphany' I now intuitively know when the hay will be cut, and have and eye to the west, looking for any signs of any disastrous approaching weather systems. I also know to take care as I drive around the narrow lanes as I could come face to face with a tractor carrying the freshly cut hay. The farmers racing against time and weather.

With an almost unconscious perception I note the how the Dog Violets, Ransom and Celandine have given way to Bog Asphodel, Spotted Orchids, delicate pink Stonecrops and a carpet of Wild Thyme. Through a subconscious sense I am aware of the Bedstraw and Hawkbits that are now covering the valley floors and hillsides. Whilst on my journeys over this beating landscape I am unconsciously aware, from the shouts, whistles and calls of shepherds, that sheep are being collected from the steep, rocky hillsides to receive their annual haircuts. Another pulse in the yearly rhythm of this country life.

It is also the holiday season, the days are still long, but, like reaching the end of a journey there is a feeling of time running out. The birds have turned off their song since the middle of July as they have finished their breeding for this year. They are exhausted and have no need to protect territory, their young or attract a mate. Their season is also approaching the end.

Hay cut, sheep shawn and fleeces burnt. Flowers changing in variety. Fruit and nuts growing (cob nuts, apples, sloes, damsons, bilberries). Birds now quiet, the country soundscape is left with only the delicate rustle of grasses swaying in the breeze.

As soon as the holiday makers have gone and the harvest has filled the barns, the leaves will be changing colour, the Tups will be in with the Ewes and the last swallow will have started its long journey back to southern lands. These activities and changes are the beats that make up the 'endless rhythm' of the rural landscape; a pattern that is slowly and inextricably absorbing me into its rhythm.

19th June

Country of the mind

"For Nature's particular gift to the walker, through the semi-mechanical act of walking - a gift no other form of exercise seems to transmit in the same high degree - is to set the mind jogging, to make it garrulous, exalted, a little mad maybe—certainly creative and suprasensitive, until at last it really seems to be outside of you and as if it were talking to you while you are talking back to it. Then everything gradually seems to join in, sun and the wind, the white road and the dusty hedges, the spirit of the season, whichever that may be, the friendly old earth that is pushing life forth of every sort under your feet or spellbound in a death like winter trance, till you walk in the midst of a blessed company, immersed in a dream-talk far transcending any possible human conversation."

Kenneth Grahame.


When I started this journey I wrote how I believed that memory and place are linked. I argued that the places we pass through, with their walls, hedges, trees, rivers and crags, the weather, the shape of the land seem to retain an element of the time we had there. Through recognition and retracing steps it seems the land has absorbed our feelings and thoughts.

I commented, some what prosaically, how we "place mental markers into the atomic structure of place; we slice a piece of our spirit and tuck it into the folds and crevices of the landscape to be returned to, recaptured and relived at some future time. We retain a piece of ourselves in the structure, time and spirit of place. We wander consciously, or by coincidence, colliding with these hot spots of memory and meaning."

Kenneth Grahame argues how the experiences of travelling through a landscape leads to "high converse, the high adventures . . . in the country of the mind" (qtd. in Green 6).

And though the land we travel is solid, measurable and objective, our experiencs are subjective (?) It seems any exploration of 'place' we also explore our own consciousness. This means any undertaking of passage or journey through a landscape is a journey through the "country of the mind".

Like Grahame, I understand the landscape as having a mental and spiritual dimension, where any objective world also has a subjective quality. This (almost conflation of ideas) means creation of thought and feeling are stimulated through journey and can make changes to the person as they pass through. And as each change is made the landscape becomes frame that surrounds all the mental markers, waypoints that contains all of the 'moment' - the time, smells, sounds, colour, thoughts and feelings.....all of the experience stored into the land we travel.

Maureen Thum's essay on Kenneth Grahame's works highlights how journeys provide profound experiences "which alters the mind-set and cannot—as Grahame suggests—be undone". The journey leads beyond the "starting point" to an "awakening of or modification of consciousness". We are are changed by these journeys and the landscape becomes the catalyst and data base of our experiences.

Rebecca Solnit picks up on this theme but warns how we can too often "travel by abstraction, which makes us too busy and looking for the big view and engaged in finding the next great big experience to be ticked off the list". She pulls together the ideas of both Thum and Grahame by arguing how travelling through a landscape, and by getting lost, we do not find our way by returning, but by changing into something else. As we walk, through the landscape, we build and develop out country of the mind, changing and modifying our thoughts and feelings in a way that will forever and be bookmarked on place and mind.

I find that every journey, through the wild landscapes I encounter, bends and shapes me just a little bit more. The mind is set free to explore and analyse and, by conclusion of these processes, gain greater insights and depth of feeling and thought. The places I visit retain these moments of cognition and memory, to be accessed and re-evaluated on my return.

"The evening hour, too, gives us the irresponsibility which darkness and lamplight bestow.......We are no longer quite ourselves. As we step out of the house on a fine evening between four and six, we shed the self our friends know us by and become part of that vast republican army of anonymous trampers, whose society is so agreeable after the solitude of one’s own room.”

Virginia Woolf

9th June

10,000 Acres of Sky

Sometimes it is not the soaring cliffs and heart stopping, precipitous drops over seemingly endless vertical crags and buttresses that make a place wild and dramatic.

Sometimes it is not the huge mountains, thrusting up from flat, verdant plains, or the deep crevices that hold and direct crashing waterfalls, that make a place seem dynamic and awe inspiring.

Sometimes these things can be found in a much humbler landscape, where the drama and aesthetic is subtle, less obvious but as equally as wild and inspiring.

These types of landscapes, due to their less 'significant' geology, can allow greater access and opportunity for exploration, where the physical hurdles are more about stamina rather than technical skill, or a need to have no sense of mortality.

The area around Kingsdale, on the western edge of the Yorkshire Dales is a point in case. This is a huge area, but there are few obvious physical features in the landscape that would attract the hard, adventure seeking - adrenalin junkie. No long, steep pieces of rock to test your acrophobia/vertigo inducing gymnastic skills, just miles and miles of wild, bare high moorland.

This is typical limestone country, where any journey into this barren hinterland means passing through guarding, fractured Clints and Grykes. These, wonderful limestone features, stand like castellated terraces protecting the wild moorland to be found deeper within the moor. And further you penetrate into this wind swept landscape the quieter, remoter and lonelier the land feels.

In amongst the bends, twists and curves of these hills can be found a huge variety of wildlife, with swifts and skylarks overhead, whilst meeting Golden Plovers and Curlews on ground level. There are a multitude of grasses and flowers varieties, from Bistort to Tormentil. These add a hue and vibrancy to the seen, whilst the many birds provide the soundscape.

It is the lonely and barren nature of these moors, combined with the richness of wildlife, that makes the land wild. In addition, the areas are dynamic and breathtaking due to the huge skies, stretching seemingly endlessly to the distant horizons. You can look up and feel like you are flying, set adrift into 10,000 acres of sky.

30th May

A Special Place


“To know fully even one field or one land is a lifetime's experience. In the world of poetic experience it is depth that counts, not width. A gap in a hedge, a smooth rock surfacing a narrow lane, a view of a woody meadow, the stream at the junction of four small fields - these are as much as a man can fully experience.”

Patrick Kavanagh

I suspect that I, like many, have a special place where a spiritual connection is made. A place where time is found to reflect and find some peace. In fact I have several places dotted around the country and each of these locations are nothing short of sacred ground to me. They represent a significant place in my consciousness, demanding that I return to them when I am near. Each of these places taps into my soul, as I am able to pause the hubbub of life and just live in the moment, expanding my consciousness and subconscious within the immediate space I occupy.

Such places include a seat that rests high on the sandstone escarpment of St Martha's Hill. Here the South Downs can be viewed across a seemingly endless canopy of thick forest. A wild land in the heart of the mad and highly populated South East and a beautiful, peaceful spot. I know each tree, can identify every landmark.

Then there is the high perch of Houns Tout, a steep cliff at the seaward edge of Purbeck. This sea cliff over looking the English Channel is covered by the fragile, pink thrift that dances in the sea breeze.

There is also, the limestone pavement found on Twistleton Scar. This wind swept and rocky terrace, with its collection of erratics that stand like giant chess pieces, looks up to the broody Ingleborough. There is a strong feeling of being transported to an ancient land.

Then there is the shores of Innisnee on the west coast of Ireland. With the mountains of the 12 Pins, reflected in the waters of the Atlantic, and the gentle 'phut' from the engine of a passing fishing boat.

All these places are special and sacred.

And then there is this gate somewhere between Great Langdale and Grasmere. A popular area, and a gate I suspect that is overlooked as it looks the 'wrong way'. Not to the high mountains but towards the lowers hills around Windermere. These humble credentials combined with its honey spot location does not make it seem an ideal 'special place'. However, it s this very familiarity that makes it somewhere I am drawn to time and time again.

There is a gravity generated by this special place, that pulls me here. Each visit I get to increase my understanding of this small space. I instantly recognise the shape of the land, the sounds that bounce around this small set of fields, enclosed by trees, and begin to recognise how they interact and create their own characteristics and ambience. I can merge into this little world hardly noticed, but able to notice and see, if not understand, so much more of this one small place. I gain a sharper focus of the land around me, the complex activity of live that is dramatically taking place, whilst finding a serenity in the way I am increasingly 'fitting in' with the 'space'.

Always, I see sheep, they go about their business once they are no longer wary of me. If I move their attention fixes on me instantly. This alertness is stronger now they have lambs. But soon they take no more care, once they perceive me as no threat.

Then there is the shrill, tremolo melody of the Wren as she flits around the edges of the surrounding woodland. Always aware, always picking and foraging for food and always performing it's piercing song. She has little time for me and I suspect some of her energetic song is a warning to me.

Often I see Red Squirrels scurrying around in the leaf litter, the odd (and rare) Roe Deer, that stares at me from the woodland. Unsure, nervous but also very curious. Who can hold their nerve by not moving first. If I win she often bounds off with a sharp bark.

I see the woodland and life around go through its endless cycles, dictated by the seasons and I am becoming more aware of what flowers will appear and when. Today I saw Shinning Cranesbill in exactly same place I saw them last year and in in the same place. Then there is the ubiquitous Bluebells that carpet the woodland floor and invade the edges of the fields. The Bluebells are literally bursting in brilliance under the increasing shade of the over hanging tree branches and they to seem emit a glow across the scene.

The increasing familiarity and understanding of this one small place allows me time to 'slot in' and to become part of the landscape. More I understand it more time seems to become available for me to just be. A place where I can simply look and know no more than what I see and hear, but understand more of what I feel....and this is as much as I can fully expect to ever experience and I hold it dear. an increasing depth over the width of experience and understanding.

"I crossed a moor, with a name of its own
And a certain use in the world no doubt,
Yet a hand’s-breadth of it shines alone
’Mid the blank miles round about:

For there I picked up on the heather
And there I put inside my breast
A moulted feather, an eagle-feather—
Well, I forget the rest".

Browning.

29th April

The return of companions.

As noted in a previous Blog, I have long been waiting on the arrival of migrant birds and the emergence of Spring Flowers. The wait has been worth it as I have now heard my first Cuckoo of the year.

The distinctive two note song has an almost lonesome feel to it. A pulsing, melancholic tune that echoes and weaves its melody across the landscape, though I am never able to pin point it's source.

Due to the woodwind tone of the song I imagine the sound has been created by the trees, blowing a melody of mystery and magic in honour of the Cuckoos return.

Other returnees have included more swallows, House Martin's and one solitary Swift seen on a very wet day high up in the Fells above Hawes. I hadn't expected to see a swift yet and I was definitely not looking for it high up in these barren hills.

The swift, however, had other newly arrived companions that are more regularly seen on the wild moorland. This included the Curlew, with its melancholic and haunting call that reverberates on the wind. Also, i was whiteness to the spiralling and diving antics of the Lapwing. Their day bing flight is punctuated by their distinct "peewit" song rising over the wind adding dramatic theme tune to the scene.

Later that same day I saw my first ever Sand Martins. They were hunting for insects that hovered over the River Ure, This fast flowing river energetically passes through the grey, Dales village of Hawes and provides a home for Oystercatchers, Heron, Dippers and Grey Wagtails.

Finally, today I saw both Ring Ouzels and Kestrels sharing the same crag above a now long abandoned slate mine. These unlikely neighbours joined forces by demonstrating their dislike of my company. The Ouzels, clattered and clanked, flying across the crag near to me. The Kestrels hovered and dived near by, emitting sharp, short cries to ward me off.

It is wonderful to witness and share space with these wonderful creatures. Each new addition, as it arrives with the Spring winds, affirms the beauty of this complex world. Each adding it's own layer of complexity, colour and sound to an already varied palette. However, being on,y 5 weeks from the summer solstice, the two tone song of the Cuckoo, each new arrival, the emerging flowers turning to seed all point to the beginning of the end.

23rd April

One swallow doesn't make a summer

I have just enjoyed 3 days walking the hills of the Lake District, South Cumbria and the Yorkshire Dales.

The weather has been amazing, with blue skies and a bright and very warming sun. All around are potent symbols of spring, as wild flowers are literally springing from the soil and newly arrived birds flitting from tree branch to tree branch.

I enjoy this time of year more than any. I have been waiting, it seems for ever, to see the wildflowers and birds to reappear. The signs of new life brings hope and excitement. This spring flora and fauna are old friends. Companions that accompany me on my days out in the hills. Their appearance makes the day real, as they ground me to what is important and fundamental about life. These small, though beautiful arrivers redirect my attention beyond the social microcosm I operate in and help me laugh at my role in its trivial drama. These Spring arrivals help me to stop and observe and to reflect, and therefore gain a meaningful perspective of my role and what is truly important in life.

Some of these friends are wild flowers so I am beside myself after encountering so many on the hillsides and hedgerows around Whitbarrow Scar. This limestone outcrop seems to have the perfect conditions for Celandine, Cowslips, Dog Violets and wild garlic. On this walk I counted over 20 new arrivals and saw my first Bluebells of the year. There are so many new flowers, but there is even more to come as I know these are the emissaries of a larger party that will be arriving soon.

Another first for the year was the a Swallow. I have been waiting for this return more than any other. The swallow represents summer, growth, warmth and primarily hope. Even though the Swallow has arrived almost two weeks later than last year, its potency is no less. In fact, it's lateness added to the tension, and making me I punch the air and exclaim, "They are back!"

This sole Swallow has returned after its winter sojourn, and it is almost impossible to comprehend the enormous distances it has flown, or the many life or death challenges it has experienced to now eventually sit on this barn gutter. It's story is nothing short of a Hollywood blockbuster and to see it nonchalantly perched above me, casually viewing the world, is 'hope' personified. This one Swallow is a symbol of all the good times ahead. Warm long days, full of fresh growing produce, hillsides full of colour and sparkling streams, days that seem endless. However, I have to appreciate, for now, the old saying ..."One swallow doesn't make a summer" but then, the hoping, like waiting for the sun to come back, is often the greater feeling.

29th March

The living mountain

Like many I am a great fan of Nan Shepherd's book , The Living Mountain. I love this book for her anthromorphological view of the hills and her unique way of seeing the 'whole' mountain. To Nan Shepherd the mountain is not determined just by the summits and their ascent. She does not define any hill by its top, but by its completeness and entirety. She talks about not going on to the Mountains, rather going 'IN' to the mountain. This 'IN' is more intimate and meaningful than the usual trivial, summit orientated, almost tick listing manner.

I share Shepherd's values as mountains and high ground mean more to me than just trying to reach their tops. These summits, adorned with cairns, religious symbols, white follies of a local eminent, inevitably covered with an 'alarm' of celebratory climbers, provide a narrow understanding of the mountain. Little is experienced and therefore understood of its overal environment, it interaction and creation of the world it exists within and its inhabitants.

The routes to these summits are often chosen because of renown and popularity, or due to its adrenalin pumping severity. This results in other routes, ways and means are unconsidered. Hardly ever is a route chosen for its quietness, uncertain direction, or just for the sake of experiencing something of the Mountain beyond the predetermined, tram like 'regular' route. The mountain is just a thing to be conquered and not to be experienced and understood. It is separate from life and is no more than a place to have a carefully planned, commodified experience where all outcomes have been already assessed.

Choosing a new, undetermined, uncertain route, where you look at the land and not the map or guide book to steer by, you uncover much more about your environment than the regular ways up. This is because you have to look at the mountain more, to find your way. This makes you study the land around you and consider relationship with its many features. There are holes formed by the erosion of falling waters, boulders blocking ways, but not others, river beds to cross, or avoid, twists and turns that have not been prescribed and assessed. There are some ways only understood by looking at the fall and creases of the Fell sides and it is by eventually floundering, assessing and learning the mountain from within, do you find your own way.

If you escape further into the mountain, to places unrecorded, overlooked, it can provide a deeper sense of the Mountains character. And just like a person, mountains are more than just their face, or preferred feature. They are all of their parts and greater than the sum. And like getting to know and truly respect a person you have to take time, and care about all of their parts as these reveal the full and true character.

"The mountain gives itself most completely when I have no destination, when I reach nowhere in particular, but have gone out merely to be with the mountain as one visits a friend with no intention but to be with him".

In search of Spring

(Caw Fell, Ennerdale, Screes ....Buzzards, Hares, frog Spawn, Snipe, Long tail tits, Lambs, crocuses and dafs ......now snow again).

For me winter is over. Or at least I want it to be over as I am desperately looking forward to Spring. The days are getting longer and like the wildlife around, this change has stimulated a sense, or need for brighter, warmer days, filled with more life and noise.

Over the last few days I have wandered over a range of areas in the Lake District. I have ascended the great Wastwater Screes, seeing not a soul all day. Throughout the walk, due to the light and bustle of birds in the trees, I was sensing that spring might pounce at any moment. A tangible symbol of Spring's ascendency was demonstrated by the multitude of pools filled with thick layers of Frog Spawn I encountered in the wild Mitterdale valley.

I was surprised both at the volume and the precariousness of the situation these developing frogs found themselves. Perched high on the steep southern slopes of Whin Rigg, exposed to the vagaries of the weather, especially as spring has not yet gained a firm grip. My fear Winter still has another hand to play. Any sudden fall in temp, or fall of snow could destroy the fragile conditions these eggs need to continue their growth. It is easy to understand why winter is often associated with death, as this new life is vulnerable at this time of year, and any sudden return to winter conditions feels cruel and wicked.

On another trip I spent a glorious sunny day walking the high ground that divides the glacially created Ennerdale and Buttermere valleys. This was not new territory, but a new way up to the tops of the hills. I had discovered a different way of approaching these Fells by using an indistinct track that ascended a small valley that had been formed by the continual flow of the frothing Rake Beck.

After some steep sections, past beautifully energetic waterfalls, the track led me to the Boulder strewn summit of Great Borne. The wind was cold, but the day bright and very warm when protected from the breeze. There were Buzzards and Ravens flying high over the steep crags that form the main wall of this 'sub valley' and I could hear the clammer of Canada Geese far below, having just landed on the rippled, turbulent surface of Ennerdale.

These Fells, on the west coast of Cumbria and set above Ennerdale are unique in the Lakes as they are made of hard, pink granite. This granite forms large, solid,round boulders, that are very distinct when compared to other mountain environments within the district. The geological composition of mica flecks, on this early Spring day, made the rock sparkle in the bright sunlight. The nature of the rock and todays weather conditions making the scene seem to shimmer like a vision of some far off mystical land.

Fnally, I spent another bright day, this time on Caw Fell. Yet again it was windy with a biting North Easterly wind, forcing me to traverse the mountain from the South west. Soon these winds will be gone with winter weather and the meteorological conditions will gradually improve.

The Sun filled skies make me care free, wanting to spread myself out, as if stretching my very soul to the world. I definitely do not want to be wrapped up in thick clothes, but the wind is too cold for the moment.

An example of how winter still has an influence on the conditions was when I stopped to take some photos. Soon my hands became numb with the cold, forcing me to continue on my walk as I needed to get warm. However, the route once again swung around to the south west side of the mountain, blocking the worst of the wind. I was now warming up, and therefore take more notice of my surroundings. To my surprise, but also to my huge pleasure, I came across some early flowering Coltsfoot. Their multi petaled - yellow flowers were like mini Suns shining up to me. Their diminutive size directly proportional to the dominance of Spring.

As I was now warmer I changed my plans and decided to walk over the extensive bog that is Caw Moss as the views from Yewtry Tarn are beautiful. As i threaded my way across the soaking mosses and grass I disturbed a Snipe that had waited until the last second to fly off in its jerky flight to land and disappear in the bog further away.

I often encounter Snipe in this manner, sudden, unexpected and frustrating and often up here on Caw Moss. This experience always reminds of the New Forest where I used encounter Snipe in just the same way as the ground was equally as wet and boggy. I never get a good enough view as the bird flies too quickly and suddenly. This leaves me always saying, as if trying to convince myself, "I think that was a Snipe!".

Later on the walk, as I joined the wood that surrounds the River Lickle, I was blessed with another wonderful experience, this time as I came across some long tails tits flitting from branch to branch, constantly chattering as they foraged for food. Then, as I emerged from the wood, I came into a glade that was decorated with newly opened crocuses and some very young looking Daffodils. These splatters of colour, set against the dull brown and washed out green of the landscape, stood out as if containing their own internal light.

The spate of my walks was over for a while, but not my experiences of Spring's emissaries, as on my drive home, over the high, narrow road that sits above Torver and Broughton Mill I was privileged to view an enormous, proud and statuesque Buzzard. It was perched on a fence post and seemed to be surveying its estate with a look of dissatisfaction at my presence. With an almost disgruntled air, the avian giant gently lifted, with the slightest beat of its wings, and glided away across the Lickle Valley. It was just at this same time, by the open gate where I was watching the Buzzard fade away across the valley, that a large Brown Hare appeared. I had not seen it at first, and it wasn't until I went to move the car forward that the Hare took its own flight. The Hare ran down the road at an amazing break neck speed and the disappeared to the safety of an open field gate.

The last few days had been bright, sunny, but cold. The days were filled with all the portents of Springs advance. However, the next day the Fells were once again covered in snow demonstrating that Winter was reluctant to leave. However, I sense, deep down that Spring is ascending just like the Larks I have encountered over the last few days and will eventually prevail. For me I am looking forward to the new seasons master.....the king is dead, long live the king?

1st March - The first day of spring

It is the first day of spring, but when you look at the grey, flat landscape, devoid of obvious life and colour, it's arrival seems under played.

This winter has produced a mixed picture, where warm and very dry days would suddenly, and almost surprisingly, change to become more seasonal. One day warm, the next cold and covered in snow, which as soon as you got used to the idea, the rain would come and clear the snow and a return to warmer days.

Recently, regardless of this ever changing scene, there has been the odd hint that spring was coming. When ever walking near a wood it was evident that the birds are more noisy and active in amongst the branches. In fact, recently I have heard the ringing, chained melody of the Song Thrush singing from the tops of trees. This performance, to me, is a powerful portent pointing to the change in season.

"That's the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over,
Lest you should think he never could recapture
The first fine careless rapture!" (Browning).

However, today the weather has made another twist and turn, bringing snow for the Fells along with very strong, bracing winds. Unsurprisingly, despite the significance of the date, Spring seems far off and the land is plunged back into a Narnian like winter.

But then, when considering the constant changes and unseasonable conditions experienced this winter, I may have deceived myself about Springs arrival. I might be looking forward to the 'growing season' too much when I consider I didn't hear my first Chiffchaff until the 21st March, see my first Swallow until 11th April last year and heard the cuckoo even later. Crocuses have only just broken through and Snow Drops have only recently raised their white heads, to droop over streams and adorn moss covered banks.

Perhaps I am anticipating the change of season too soon, whilst missing the true beauty of the season I am still in(?)

Translation of home.

“Home! That was what they meant, those caressing appeals, Those soft touches wafted through the air, those invisible little hands pulling and tugging, all one way.” Wind in the Willows

I recently headed back South to my hometown. The place where most of my friends and family live. The place that I know like the back of my hand and the place where all the familiarity and activity of my friends and family provide the narrative of my life that defines me and anchors the perspectives from where I view my world. It is simply home.

'The channels of my dreams determined largely
By random chemistry of soil and air;
Memories I had shelved peer at me from the shelf’

MacNeice

There is an inescapability, an ease, a natural sense of rhythm that derives from the familiarity and the tacitly understood sense of place. Everything seems where it should be, everything behaves in a way recognisable. It is as if during my formative years a water mark of Home was imprinted onto my DNA. Edward Thomas' poem The Old Ash Grove captures this feeling:

"The song of the Ash Grove soft as love uncrossed,
And then in a crowd or in distance it were lost,
But the moment unveiled something unwilling to die
And I had what most I desired, without search or desert or cost"

Despite this I am attempting to make a new home in the North West of England. In an area that is both dramatic as it is beautiful. There is a wildness here, a wildness reflected in the rough and ragged rocks that are strewn across the mountainsides. A wildness that is felt and heard in the crashing waters that fall over crags and buttresses. It is a wildness that is beguiling as it taps into a deep sense of being closer to the land and away from the synthetic values of modern life.

Though it is a domesticated wildness, as the evidence of man's influence on the landscape, though subtle, is detectable and its effects often profound. However, despite mans (light) touch the landscape still harbours an elemental force, that can so easily be detected when you are cold, uncomfortable and far from any warm comfort. It is a 'self willed' landscape that exists and behaves not because of, but despite of you.

In this type of place, unless already 'hardened' by familiarity the area can feel alien and pushing back at you. You can find it hard to understand or get in step with the pace of the land as it knocks you ajar as it throws a wind at you, pulls and gravitates you towards a plunging precipice, or blocks your path with deep, fast flowing streams that were not there just hours before.

Like the Wild Wood, that sat next to the village of Buckland in the Lord Of The Rings, there is a sense of will and menace that will try to trip and disorientate the unwary. The landscape has a consciousness and like visiting a foreign land, it can seem odd, incomprehensible and difficult to translate. Therefore, like visiting another country I need to start to learn the language, but will doubtless always be interpreting via my mother tongue.

"Och! but I'm weary of mist and dark,
And roads where there's never a house nor bush,
And tired I am of bog and road,
And the crying wind and the lonesome hush!
And I am praying to God on high,
And I am praying Him night and day,
For a little house - a house of my own
Out of the wind's and the rain's way".

30th Jan


An alpine transition

It always amazes me that the Lake District Fells can have completely separate and different characters depending on the time of year or type of weather. Sometimes the Fells can be grey rounded looking 'hills', smothered in a thick blanket of bracken and mist; another time to be bright, colourful, offering stark outlined ridges and tops, that stand out against the fast moving clouds. Then there are days when the Fell slopes are filled with sparkling, crashing waters. Then there is times like today, when the snow fills every gully, rolls across every field and meadow and where the snow forms weird , wind created sculptures on summits. On these days the Fells grow in height, they are standing on tip toe, showing off. On this type of day you could believe a piece of the Alps has moored itself to the north west corner of England.

When I set out on a day like this I am often experiencing feelings of both excitement and trepidation as I do not yet know how demanding and risk filled the conditions will be. Each metre gained can produce quite a marked change in the nature of the snow and ice. I might start off experiencing only a sparse covering of snow which then, as I ascend, becomes deep and soft, making each step an effort. As height is gained, or a shadowed corner is encountered, the snow can change into a hard and concrete like surface, peppered with ice covered rocks. In these situation every step threatens to slip and throw you down the now, suddenly realised - vertical slope.

I have set off a number of times to eventually be taken from a feeling of calm, gentle enjoyment to suddenly being pushed to the extreme limits of my comfort zone. This is often due to the conditions I meet as they drastically, and unpredictably change. The benign, gentle slopes climbed in summer have changed into steep walls of ice and snow, where each step becomes more vertical, where you suddenly realise you are looking back down the mountain from between your legs. Seeing the world this way can be both exciting and also a bit worrying as the result of any fall becomes alarmingly obvious.

Today was no exception as the landscape changed with every step. I was heading into familiar territory, but it now seemed alien and threatening due to the deep snow and thick ice. Added to this I was very aware that the wind would be very strong as I could hear it's ferocity high above me as it crashed across the mountains summit.

However, the relative calm of the steep cove I was climbing meant I could at least enjoy the ascent and not be too distracted from what I was doing. A wind like today knocks you about and makes you cold, as it finds any exposed skin, or weaknesses in the clothing armour. This discomfort can make for bad decision making.

I was climbing in Gill Cove towards Levers Hause, a normally benign, though steep pass that leads onto the main ridge of the Coniston Fells. From here I was to aim for the summit of Swirl How, that sits over the steep crags of Broad Slack and Great Carrs, as they tumble down amidst boulders and vertical buttresses to the Greenburn Valley. Finally, venture off to Grey Friar, a whale like summit just off the main ridge, then returning down the ridge of Wet Side Edge to Little Langdale.

The climb to Levers Hause was steep and full of hard snow, meaning the use of an axe and crampons were a boon. On reaching the main ridge I was hit with the thunderous wind I had been aware of. The wind had blown much of the snow off the ridge, leaving a thick, slippery covering of ice. I was instantly cold and didn't want to hang around too much, however I managed to take a few shaky photos.

The process of taking these images meant my hands became very cold. So cold in fact I couldn't get my gloves back on as my fingers were too numb to feel anything. When my hands eventually warmed up they hurt as the warm blood pumped back into the deeply chilled muscles and joints.

Once I dropped on to the Wet side Edge ridge I was once again out of the worst of the wind. This allowed me to take more pictures and as it was now getting near dusk, enjoy a wild winter sunset.

The day was wild and even though I had crossed this ground many times before, the conditions meant at times I felt very vulnerable. It is in times like this, in winter, with snow all around that the Lakes is a true mountain environment and one that deserves great respect.

A very wintery day.....

The forecast for the next few days is not good. The prospect of snow and high winds seems certain as every broadcaster and weather App have been making Armageddon like predictions. Added to this, as I leave the house, I notice the needle on my old fashioned barometer, in an emphatic manner, is pointing at the word 'stormy'.

Despite my optimistic demeanour, the closer I got to the mountains more obvious it was that these predictions were true. The conditions made me wary as I did not want to get my car stuck and have no way to get home. The prospect of sleeping a night in a cold, uncomfortable car was not inviting.

Eventually I reached Elterwater, and the weather seemed to improve. The change in conditions lowered my guard, so I gaily headed off with renewed optimism. Unfortunately, as soon as I started to ascend the first mountain slope the hail and sleet came in with a vengeance. The severe velocity of the weather left me no choice but to turn my back against to the powerfully driving hail as it smashed against my eyeballs, causing a literal blind dumbing pain.

A storm was taking hold and I started to think I might have to turn back. Turning back is very tough for me as I feel like I have failed myself. I rarely do it, but when I do, I psychologically beat myself up. For some stupid reason I feel I have missed an opportunity that I may never have again, plus I have failed to exercise so I feel old and fat. I guess this is me sensing my own mortality, where I recognise the preciousness of each trip into the hills, along with a palpable understanding that age comes with an inevitable, failing physical ability.

So, in an attempt to be responsible (and I did not want to become another victim for the local mountain rescue team, this would hurt my pride even more) I set myself 'decision making' targets. These rises on the ridge, or lumps on the horizon would be places I would assess the conditions, and then make a decision to either continue or reluctantly return. As it was, I had inadvertently kept myself on an eastern ridge that blocked off the worst of the North Westerly charging storm. This meant I eventually made my way to the summit.

However, my thoughts of carrying, after the summit, along the westward pointing ridge was impossible as the winds was gusting over 50mph. At this speed it was knocking me over, plus it was causing spindrift that hit the face like needles.

Therefore, after sheltering behind the summit crag, I headed down as quick as possible. As this Fell is not full of steep rocky drops I could do this without worrying too much. Therefore, I heard off in a 'general' direction that I needed to go.

Now with my back to the wind things seemed to improve, though care was still required. This relative improvement meant I could now look around, which meant I could see an outline in the snow of a path I had never used before. It was soon obvious that this path was old as it lead past a number of disused mine workings.

I find this amazing as I have climbed this Fell many, many times over the last 30 years but never walked this path, and discovered all these antiquities. It took a snow and wind filled storm to push me off my regular path to uncover a whole new aspect of the hill. A discovery that will make me return to this part of the mountain again. A discovery that once again reaffirms my notion that we should 'get off the path' more often as these paths can constrict our overall understanding (and eventually enjoyment) of these Hills.

The Howgills

I have only visited the lonely Howgill Fells a few times and the last visit was a year ago. Therefore, today's excursion, combined with the fact the route was new to me, meant a journey of discovery and new experiences.

The Howgill Fells are a combination of Silurian and Ordovician sandstone and gritstone uplands whose distinctive collection of large rounded hills and very steep sided valleys determine the area. The valleys, and connecting ridges, are laid out in a complex manner, which makes navigation and route choice not immediately obvious. On a wild and cloudy day these tops would need extra navigational attention to ensure you end up where you intended.

Today the tops and northern facing slopes were covered in a patch work of hard snow and ice, making the journey occasionally precarious. The tactic I adopted was to try to avoid the snow altogether. Though this was not as easy at it sounds, though it was better than suddenly slipping on slippery, rock hard névé, that encased the rims of steep drops. However, and by contrast, these conditions did make the going easier, as the areas that would obviously be normally very wet, were frozen rock hard.

Twice on my way up the very long valley of Bowderdale, I heard but did not see a Dipper. The Beck, that runs for over 7km down the long winding valley, surrounded by steep, grassy slopes, is an ideal environment for these little birds. There is plenty of rocks for them to perch, standing proud of the many rock pools for 'dipping'.

As I headed further up the valley I encountered many steep crevasses and valleys that 'poured' into the Dale. In each instance I came upon the evidence, in the form of piles of rocky debris and rubble, of powerful, fast flowing storm waters that must have poured down these slopes. These piles of rock looked like the heaps of slag found around old, disused mine workings, but was formed purely by the power of nature. The knowledge of their formation, understanding the ferocity of these forces, by seeing the resulting evidence, contributed to the wild and very lonely character of these hills.

Nearing the head of the valley and inevitably, the route steepened. As height was gained the path become more hazardous because of the unavoidable patches of the 'concrete hard' snow and ice. Some of these patches were perched over steep sided slopes and I was not keen to make an unplanned journey down their faces. Therefore, progress was slow and methodical, punctuated with the occasional slip and slither that kept the heart pulsing a bit faster.

Once the first summit, The Calf, was reached, the character of the route changed. Initially I had been rambling along the base of a claustrophobic valley, to now be released onto the tops of the grassy, rounded summits of the Howgill Fells. I was now now up in the sky, sat amongst the clouds and beams of sun. The vistas were both of near and far off mountains and fells, that shimmered white in the weak sun. The panorama ever changing as the cloud opened up, revealed or hid different groups of hills.

Nearby was the complicated maze of ridges that fell away into hidden, and unknown Howgill valleys. On the immediate horizon was the snow encrusted a Gritstone edges of Baugh and Aye Fell. These southern sentinels of the Dales, looked lonely as the cloud skimmed over their wild plateaus.

On the more distant horizon could just be seen, like an image from the Kubla Khan the shining temples of the lakeland mountains. They seemed very far off bathed in a mystical covering of snow and the wintery light:

"Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
Through caverns measureless to man
Down to a sunless sea.
So twice five miles of fertile ground
With walls and towers were girdled round;
And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills,
Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree;
And here were forests ancient as the hills,
Enfolding sunny spots of greenery"

The return journey was an improvisation, taking in lines of ridges seen by eye and not necessarily by map. This meant a few errors of judgement, resulting in a few extra ascents and a river to be crossed. However, not wishing to accept fate, I followed the stream down the profoundly beautiful Langdale valley, in hope to find a dry crossing. This perseverance proved beneficial as the most beautiful and wonderful stones bridges was discovered. This was a narrow, but perfect arch over the river and seemed displaced and isolated in such a remote and steep location.

Some more meandering that brought me to a lane and then encountering the inevitable suspicious local (as I passed their farm) proved I was back to (relative) civilisation. This sudden clash of nature into human was harsh but unavoidable. These Fells are a great place to escape the trappings and expectations of life and only lightly guarded by us human cynics.

Snow

At last it's has arrived !

From a mountaineering perspective a reasonable amount of snow, combined with freezing conditions are now being experienced across the whole district. The tops of every mountain glistens against blue skies and the freezing winds blow plumes of spindrift from the edge of ridges and slopes, creating freezing clouds. As you walk through these clouds any exposed flesh is chilled, eyes water and lungs tighten. Despite these symptoms the body feels invigorated.

These type of conditions whet the appetite of the keen mountaineer as good snow conditions are rare in the UK and even rarer in England. The mountains, in these types of conditions, present certain risks, which if not understood, or accidentally experienced can be fatal. However, it is the combination of these risks with the stimulus to the senses that makes venturing into the mountains even more compelling. Today I was lucky as I had no other commitments other than to take advantage of the good providence, and what a great day it was too.

Today's mountain excursion was to ascend the Lansdale Fells from Grasmere. It would include the little known and rarely climbed Tarn Crag, achieved by first walking through the sublimely beautiful valley of Far Easdale and taking in an obvious (but overlooked) ridge where the snow deepened and hardened across the eastern slopes. On achieving the first summit further progress required careful navigation through a snowy wilderness, to reach the summit of Sergeant Man. This section was tough as the untrodden snow contained hidden traps, where you could suddenly plunge down into energy sapping deep snow, or slip on covered rocks or ice. This part of the walk used up most of my energy, but it was also exciting and beautiful due to the wildness of the terrain and the great views over Thirlmere, Helvellyn and Fairfield Fells.

The sun was out most of the day and if out of the wind it was warm, especially as the Suns Rays were being reflected off the pristine snow. All the while the air was full of a glistening scatter of snowy sparkles caused by the spindrift and reflecting a myriad of colour and light.

After leaving the summit the journey was now a gradual, though undulating, descent down the main Langdale/Grasmere ridge. I found I was getting even more tired due to having to wade through snow and regularly being caught out by sudden, unseen pockets of soft, knee deep drifts. However, as i descended, with a setting sun to my right, the views across to the vertical cliff of Pavey Ark and The frozen Stickle Tarn sat at its feet was astounding. The Tarn looked cold, reflecting the rocky face of Pavey and lay like spilt Mercury.

All the Fells to the west of Langdale could be seen to reflect the last orange glow of the sun before it set beyond the Irish Sea. The day then quickly darkened as I reached the summit of Silver How. All was quiet and still, with the outline of the Langdale Fells, the serrated ridge of Crinkle Crags appearing as a stark silhouette on the horizon.

This special journey concluded with a dark decent into the sleepy village of Grasmere, taking me to a well needed pint of local ale. The snow was left behind, but even down here there was reminder of its essence as a chilling wind, filled with spindrift whipped through the alley I was walking.