Lake District life of a photographer searching the Distant Hills

A new year, new plans

It is a new year, so I need new plans. These plans need to ensure I get into the outdoors more and ensure I can become better acquainted with the landscape, find new views and experiencing new and exciting scenes. My plans need to incorporate an opportunity for me to better understand and record my experiences of the landscape.

So what to do?

It is. in my mind, to mix some old with new. I want to expand my knowledge of places I have been before, but only touched the surface. I want to become more intimate with the land, it's seasons and its weather. I want to try to record these experiences as best as I can. Each image and account becoming a moment held in time that allows for not just nostalgia, but a fixed point to reflect upon. an anchor that can be returned to again and again, ensuring the 'boat' remains safely moored for another year.

This means a return to places I have been many times before, but this time approaching them (both physically and metaphorically) in a new way. It will include re-visiting old haunts such as the New Forest, South Downs and the wild and rugged seascape of Purbeck. In these cases, I will find new routes, arrive early, stay longer, leave later, so I can experience the full cycle of their days. It is my plan to see the ponies, fallow deer, stroll across the landscape of the poets such as the South Downs poet Edward Thomas:

"By Beech and Yew and perishing Juniper".....I will follow new paths.

It also means, though closer to home, a return to the 214 peaks known as the Wainwrights (summits listed in the authors 7 legendary Pictorial Guides). I have reached all these 'tops' twice before, but time now requires me to try this again. This time I will have the possibility of experiencing each Fell in different seasons and weather conditions encountered during in my previous journeys. Offering me new experiences and a chance to gain a greater insight of how this landscape 'works'.

I also need to return to Ireland. The Emerald Isle which contains a wealth of rarely trodden, wild and beautiful landscapes. I need to re-experience the vast wilderness of Connemara, ascend its rough, steep mountains and traipse across its endless moor and bog. All the while, being accompanied by the Atlantic Ocean that crashes on the lonely western shores.

"Walking all the day
By tall towers where falcons build their nests
Silver-winged they fly
They know the call of freedom in their breasts
Saw Black Head against the sky
With twisted rocks that run down to the sea

Living on your western shore
Saw summer sunsets, asked for more
I stood by your Atlantic sea
And sang a song for Ireland"

To get my plans underway I have started with a short, but extremely wild walk on the moor above Torver and Broughton Mill. This is a very quiet area comprising of a mixture of rough, rocky ground and very wet bog, punctuated by steep sided Mountains. The area is very primal and lonely and today extremely blustery due to advance of a major storm that threatens to carry 60 to 80 mph winds.

I did not dare to go too high as the wind was knocking me off my feet, so I stayed relatively low level, exploring the streams, falls and small tarns that pepper this antediluvian terrain.

The wind blew spray from the waterfalls and rippled the water of the tarns into small tides. The trees that shadowed the sides of the River Lickle roared as they bent to the power of the strong winds. To face this wind was to force my knees to bend and strain in an attempt to move forward whilst (and without grace) immediately developing a streaming nose and eyes.

However, despite this wind I saw a considerable mixture of bird life. This included half a dozen Snipe, that each flew off, individually, as I inadvertently came upon them. Discovering Snipe in this manner seems the only way I get to see them. I never have the opportunity to view them at leisure as they are always hidden. As I blunder along some tract of land I accidentally come upon them, scaring them from their roost, leaving me with only the briefest view as they fly off in their usual twisting flight.

Further down, now off the moor, I entered a Wood full of bare Larch. This sheltered spot was also starting to get dark, but the roar of the winds sounded high up. In a space of just a few metres I saw a flock of Long Tail Tits, jabbering together as they searched for food along the now needle free branches of the Larch. They hung upside down, swinging from the thin twigs of the trees. Then, joining them, small and hardly discernible, was two Gold Crests. These minute bundles ignored me and joined the Tits in their search for food. Finally, flying across my path, no more than a few feet away from my face, was a Treecreeper. It landed on a small, leafless tree and started its vertical journey up the trunk and along branches, again searching for food.

Just as it is for me, these birds have a new year in front of them. Their obvious activity, the volume and variety of wildlife indicating that the sun is slowly coming back once again. This is a positive symbol for the future and is a good start for my New Year plans.

One

One whole year has past. It is not only now 2015, but also one whole year since I made a fundamental decision to change my life. Dec 2014 I left my job, career and friends to come and live in the Lake District. I had no job to go to and very scant plans. My only plan was to start enjoying life and to experience as much natural, untamed and wild landscape as possible.

One year later and my plans are no more defined or complex.

During this year I have been able to explore many parts of the District and much of the Dales. This year has been an amazing adventure as I have discovered new, wild and dramatic landscapes and experience new flora and fauna. I have also been able to gain a greater understanding and knowledge of areas I had visited many times before. These familiar places revealing new facets and characteristics.

I have also come to recognise that the wildness of the Lake District is, in many ways, an illusion. This image is a veneer, a brand, that suggests adventure and excitement. The Lake District is a commodity that uses the language and imagery of raw mountain landscape to sell all manner of things, from accommodation to woodland biking, from compasses to waterproofs and from life threatening adventures to free roaming walks under leafy canopies. Very little of the imagery is strictly real as the district is carefully managed making it easy and risk free. The risk is an over stated element designed to bolster the Brand and therefore the Brands commercial attractiveness.

However, one year has provided me the opportunity to peer underneath the chocolate box imagery, see beyond the thrills and spills of flocks of brightly coloured walkers and mountain bike parties, pouring down Fell tracks, to see a deep stillness in the land. A stillness that is unaffected and uncaring of mans trivial need for entertainment. A stillness created by the ancient and non compromised landscape that works to its own needs and follows its own motivation. A landscape that experiences and creates its own weather, beaten by winds and rain, crossed by flowing watercourses. A landscape that hides and sustains the lives of flora and fauna, whilst ignoring, unseeing, uncaring of our passing through. A landscape that is in spite of us and our desires. This stillness, like the deafening sound of silence, has a pulse that can be felt, if you try. It reaches deep into the body, pulling you into balance with that is around you.

This whole, one year has shown me I do not need highly specified kit, life threatening adventures or experiences. I don't need to climb the unclimbable, descend faster, summit more or record and boast. I just need to 'be' to get in rhythm with the stillness of the land. This will be my plan for year two.

15th Dec

Silence

Winter's hold may still be gentle, but due to unseasonably warm weather, winter's true character can only occasionally be felt. On these infrequent occasions the snow and cold winds blow across the mountains leaving sparkling white skylines. These winters days hardly ever seems to get light, so bright days that are accompanied with snow clad mountains are a boon.

Regardless if the weather is characteristically winter or not, the world is slowing down. There is a silence that can almost be felt and seems to emanate from the very heart of the earth. A silence that can grab you if you are unawares leaving you feeling disorientated. The general hubbub we are used to, that we subliminally use to understand our surroundings and our place in it, is gone. The small amount of wildlife still out and about is keeping its self to its self, conserving energy.

The last few days I have been over the Fells of High Street and Thorthwaite Beacon, then across to Ingleborough in the Dales. In both cases I hardly met another soul and the world was sublimely silent. I do not mean silent in that there was absolutely no noise, as there was the sound of the wind, the crunch of my feet on the snow and the odd song of a bird as accidently disturbed it's foraging for food. The silence is the result of stillness and is more profound as it seems that time is suspended and everything is holding its breath, waiting.....waiting for the sun and life to return.

It is only a few more days to the shortest day. The day that the balance between dark and light struggle for dominance. A day where it seems the dark will persist, especially if the weather is poor, but gradually the sun gains ground and I will see my first swallow again.

However, for the moment, I take great joy in the quietness of the world and embrace the silence, as it reaches down deep.

Winter Sunshine

I have just spent a very enjoyable day crossing the southern hills of Duddon and Coniston. It was enjoyable, even though the weather was extremely wintery and the snow covered mountains were blasted by powerful winds. The strength of these winds created painfull, numbing chill, but the drama of the fast moving clouds, across the intense blue skies, and a scene snow capped mountains made it worth the chillful pain.

Though the conditions were wintery I encountered a surprising variety of wildlife. There was flocks of Fieldfare feeding from the berries of Hawthorn, rising and descending in unison from tree to tree. There was the improbable sighting of a Lapland Bunting. If my identification was correct then this was a rare and very special encounter as it this little bird would be one of a few passing through the UK. I also heard, lost in the cold and pristine blue, the sorrowful and plaintive cry of the Buzzard as it circled somewhere high above the mountain summits. Then further in the woods, Elven like, I heard the light tinkling song of Treecreepers as they searched for food amongst bare Larch Trees.

Today the wind cut through to the blood, and often in a futile attempt to revive some life and add heat, I nursed my hands under my armpits. As the body heat slowly reached my numb fingers the pain became almost unbearable. It was not a day to linger, but one to keep moving and take in as much stimulus as quick as possible.

However, despite the cold, the day was filled with a pale orange glow from a winter sun. The warmth was weak, but welcome. The shadows were long due to to the Suns low height in the sky. The conditions of wild weather, soft glow and tepid heat from the sun created a palpable sense of being immersed in a wild landscape. A landscape made more real by the very challenging conditions I was experiencing, conditions making my senses more alert, sensitive and ready.

I now live in the countryside. I now live in an area that, from outward appearance, has changed little. However, when you start to look more closely it is clear that there is considerable long term and ongoing change taking place.

The house I live in is on reclaimed mining land. I imagine this quiet little cul de sac, built next to a bird sanctuary on the Duddon Estuary, with waters flowing from the heart of the Lake District, was once a noisy and dirty place. This area would have once been a hive of industry, where mined ore and slack poured into the estuary. The air would have been sulphurous, with steam to rising off the fresh mountain waters. The locals would have had a hard life mining and smelting the ore. They would have been covered in grime and choking on the acrid fumes. This area would have been South Cumbria's own version of "Dark, Satanic Mills".

The change from those dirty and life risking industrial conditions are a marked and obvious change to those present today. Now all is quiet, clean with pristine mountain views up the Estuary. The changes are distinct due their contrast.

However, there are less obvious and more subtle changes taking place. These type of changes are like the shifting sands of a desert, where the countryside is in a constant state of flux and transformation - outwardly the same, but different.

There are the changes created by the transition of the seasons, the annual cycle setting distinct markers from one time of the year to another. These markers note the change in the length of day, the change in temperature and the changes in colour of the landscape. Changes that are subtle, but expected. Changes that are reflected in our cultural activities and are arguably inherent in the changes of our biorhythms - we have a diary of local festivals that reflect the seasons and influence (or are influenced by) by the changing, seasonal fare available - our diets change from salad to root vegetables just like our festivals change from the open air setting of spring and summer festivals, full of music and dancing to the closeted, hunkered down and candle lit scene of Christmas.

There are also changes caused by weather. Storms blowing down trees, removing landmarks that have stood for generations. Heavy rain eroding channels across the mountainsides, or shifting the earth into mounds, or exposing the bare, base rock. Added to these 'natural' influences there are the changes caused by the activities of the local wildlife. The effect of this activity might be detected through the erosion caused by sheep constantly crossing a particular track, leaving a network of trackway across the mountainside, or from the activity of animals building habitation, or bedding down for the winter. The life of our animal neighbours having a significant though subtle effect on our environment.

These are the different layers and dimensions of change that range from seasonal to man made and from weather created to animal activity. For example I have seen the where a large wood had been felled near Skiddaw. This was once a densely filled area that cast dark shadows across the path. It is now open and the view is across the valley, over Bassenthwaite Lake, to the high fells beyond. There are vast areas of juniper seedlings that have been planted near Mungrisdale, and on a path around Rydal Water, plus more planted high up on Side Pike in Great Langdale. This is mans attempt to re-balance, and counter the loss of species in the district. As these small, twigs emerge, grow and mature into large shrubs they will change not only the look, but also the environment they have adopted. Inpenetrable areas filled with song birds, such as willow warblers and Dunnoch. Colour and song where there was once sterile, none species grass and lifelessness.

These and the more subtle changes are analogous to those happen to ourselves, as we journey through our lives. Some changes can be deep and obvious, whilst others subtle and unclear. Nothing is ever the same and maybe like the steady state theory, when thing changes another, somewhere in the universe is replenished, or replaced(?) It seems that everything is in constant flux, and where change is fixed to a constantly slipping time line, that drifts further away from the current point. This constant shift speeds away with our view and understanding of now. No matter where and when we live, our perspective of the world around us, be it in the country or city, is. constantly changing and we can only hope to cling on for a while.

There is something that has been nagging me for a while now. I live for my time in the hills, moorland or quiet wooded lanes. I have spent years studying the land, it's wildlife and it's culture. I have spent a small fortune on all the different type of kit now available to keep me warm and dry. However, I worry the great outdoors (TGO) has become another commodity to be be marketed and sold. The medium of the commodification process is positioned around and active lifestyle that is filled with excitement and adventure. The mediums of mountain biking, extreme sports, climbing, etc tap into the weekend warrior psyche promoted by commerce.

However, I have increasingly become aware that, through these activities, the outdoors is often only valued as a place to have an adventure, where the experience of 'thrills and spills' is the prime purpose. This means the impact of the search for fun and excitement is spreading itself into the wild and natural landscapes, where participants have little awareness of the aesthetic beauty or appreciation of the life that shares their activity space. In fact these activities fundamentally change the aesthetics and life of these landscapes. I believe this 'commodification effect' is reflected in the Lake Districts national park authority's approach to marketing the Park as a centre for adventure. The worry is that the effect of this policy has subtly and tacitly transformed the Lake District into a large, open theme park.

Another dimension to this commodification is how we cover ourselves in all manner of garments and use a plethora of kit to keep us dry, warm, cool, and locate where we are. These highly technical pieces of kit and clothing are a protecting layer, a barrier between us and the elements, while all the while we pretend we are truly experiencing the wild and unforgiving landscape. In fact we are viewing the TGO from our sterile, mobile laboratories, that come with satellites monitoring to guide our every step. We encase ourselves in spaceman suits to ensure the environment does not compromise our comfort. We see the outdoors, through the narrow slit of our highly breathable, lightweight waterproofs, but do we truly experience it with all paraphernalia attached and covering us?

The futuristic kit, the highly stylised activities we participate in are, by their very human design, bringing order to an unordered place. We change the TGO to match our thinking. Rebecca Solnit points out the human mind creates the world in his own image by identifying how a city, with its roads and building, clearly reflects the mind of man. This is not something nature would create. However, we also design the the outdoors in the same manner, where we tune it to suit our needs and make the landscape reflect our understanding of the world. TGO becomes an extension of our values and reflects, through the pathways, fences, barriers, access points and the activities we endeavour upon, our own concept of how the TGO should be.

As an example, I met someone who was enquiring about a GPS. He had used many different units before, but wanted to know the full specifications of this particular unit (chip speed, satellite response time, etc). He had used a GPS for the Hadrian's Wall path. I don't know this man, so my judgement may be harsh, but it seems his intense focus on the specifications of the GPS shows he is a victim of the commodification of the TGO. He has been sold a vision of what the outdoors is and what experience he should expect. He has been then told that the only way to achieve these heights of experience he will need product A and B etc. He will need to constantly know where he is, to the metre, require barometric and altitude information instantly, be able (at at touch) to plan each step to be taken in advance, whilst recording each step actually taken as this needs to be downloaded and shared with others.

In my mind I see him fixed, peering at the small screen of his GPS, waiting for it to tell him to turn left or right, or worse inform that he has now arrived, I worry he is therefore missing the whole point of the journey. Hackneyed I know, but it is the journey not the arrival that is important. ......and sometimes to not arrive at all is the greatest achievement. His journey was simple (you go east, or west and keep going) with a wall to your right or left!!!! The sun will come up and set in front and behind and you will know how the day has progressed. I am not sure if GPS man wanted to truly experience the a real outdoors, but merely have the retail experience and test his skills using very technical equipment.

I doubt he would deliberately try to get lost as a means to truly understand and appreciate the land he passed through. A position Rebecca Solnit suggests:

"To be lost is to be fully present, and to be fully present is to be capable of being in uncertainty and mystery. And one does not get lost but loses oneself, with the implications that it is a conscious choice, a chosen surrender, a psychic state achievable through geography". RS

Does GPS man sees the TGO as a means to an end, rather than the end itself? Does he view the experience he gains, travelling through his surroundings, only possible if he has 'appropriate kit'? Does this testing mean he need not ever know he was actually in the TGO? Has he has no intentions of getting lost, wet, hot or cold? Whatever, I argue, he is a victim of the commodification of TGO as he is sold the 'vision' of what the TGO experience is by the agents of commerce. His understanding of his experience is one dictated by retailers, sports NGB marketing/recruitment strategies, media and bodies like the LDNP authority.

The 'true' TGO is not just a human experience, not if we are to truly understand and value the life outside our own. It seems we humans pursue (or only perceive ) an abstraction of the true nature of the TGO through the adventure activities we pursue.

The 'true' TGO is a wild and very uncertain place that behaves for its own reasons and reacts in its typically non human way.

Robert Macfarlane suggests the word wild comes from an earlier, possibly Viking word 'Wildus', which possibly translates as a meaning 'self willed.' This means the 'outdoors' has a conscience and will separate to our own; one we have no influence over. This is the 'true' outdoors and one that our adventure activities miss. We wander along paths we made, being directed by satellites that see only an image of the world, cocooned in layers of protective clothing, trying to capture the experience sold to us in a brochure, poster or marketing blurb, missing the true outdoors as the aim was primarily to make us buy stuff.

An outdoors seen in this sense means we are always safe and always know where we are, but we know nothing about where we are.

In a Word

An uttered word,
Beating,
Spoken,
Exchanged,
Word.

A sound,
Movement through the air,
Movement of the air,
Passing to each vibrating atom,
Onwards,
Forever.

Like the beating drum,
A signal,
A message,
Perception,
Call,
A summons.

Atom upon atom passing on the message.
Handing over the word,
Passing the message,
The heartfelt thought.....

Reflected, refracted and propagated .....
Eventually entering the ear...the brain.....the heart....the soul....

The uttered word - a thought.....
A spark of synapse
Captured
.....Thought.
Becomes self...

An uttered word,
Spoken,
Exchanged,
A sound,
Movement through the air,
For infinity.

A Drum
Vibrating.
Pounding
An endless rhythm
A wave,
Pressure,
Displacement,
Travelling to
Perception

Each utterance, heard, felt,
That started long ago
A beating butterflies wing
Vibrating the air,
waves set rolling
The movement of two planets
A word, still out there
Across eons
Across dimensions
A beating drum, vibrating
A signal,

Movement through the air,
Movement of the air,
A message, a perception, a call,
A summons
An eternal promise
Beating,
....In a Word.

Home?

What or where is home? I have recently visited my childhood home, the place I have lived and worked for many years. Whilst I was catching up with friends and family I was also using the opportunity to visit parts of the South East I love. This included the South and North Downs (inc the River Wey) and the New Forest. These are places I have visited for many years and on a weekly basis and feel a strong affinity with. They feel like home to me.

As soon as I arrived these places are immediately familiar. The views, the noises, the mixture of flora and fauna are all obvious and expected. I am in a territory that my senses immediately understand and the places feel like long lost friends.

On returning to these familiar areas I inevitably encounter a mixture of wild life that I know as equally as the shape and colour of the land I tread. I hear the guttural roar of rutting stags, see delicate Gold crests flitting along the branches of a Holly Tree and detect a skylark singing from high. I know where things are and when they will happen. My subconscious tacitly recognises and anticipates the views, smells and activity all around. My subconscious feels safe, comfortable and therefore in tune. Rhythms are instep.

Therefore is the concept of home founded on the familiarity and subsequent connection we feel?, .....and maybe one feeds on the other?

Is even this question significant?

Is the thought of 'home' a place or feeling we should aim to capture and live within? Or is it a place that just holds the conveniences of familiarity and experience?

Some people seem to be able to make new homes very easily, without ever seemingly looking back to a place of familiarity. They never need to return to the place where their early formative experiences reside. Whilst others will have a constant eye on the turf of their childhood. Their home is a place of nostalgia that holds their "grass is greener" memories. Home is a definite, tangible place and its loss would be profound.

However, could the answer to 'where and what is home' be even more complex?

The poet John Clare had a very strong connection to his place of birth and would have had a clear view of where and what home is. It was a place he needed to be. Clare understood home by the shape of the land and mixture of flora and fauna that covered the land. He determined home by the natural changes and rhythm of nature and felt a part of these changes. He was part of the pattern and make up of his home as much as the Yellowhammer that built its nest in the hedge, who's home was a mere "bunch of grass that spindles rankIts husk seeds tall and high (and) 'tis rudely planned, Of bleachèd stubbles and the withered fare". Home is a way of doing things dictated by need, availability and a deep understanding. This sense of home is reflected in his poetry.

When Clare saw the many changes to the land around him (such as the effects of the enclosures act) he saw this as an attack on the values of 'place' and the connections that make home a home. Later in his life Clare, due to poor mental health, was removed from his home. However, Clare's home lived on in his mind. Home for Clare was eternal and was more than just bricks and mortar, or loyalty given to the arbitrary fortune of birth. It was a unique slot in the landscape that could only be filled by him. A puzzle without a piece, or a piece without a puzzle. Either way both would be incomplete.

I have a lot of sympathy with this view as I too find home is where I have a 'slot' that is uniquely shaped for (and by) me. This gap has been created by a deep understanding and knowledge of a place, whilst unknowingly absorbing all the information of the environment. This would be from simple adaptation to the temperature of the seasons, sixth sense knowing of where the sun is at different times of year, feeling part of the pattern of life as it goes about its annual business of living and surviving. It is feeling that is profoundly deep, almost unexplainable, with a spiritual connection to the land around me. It calls me at such a low decibel only my soul can hear it, whilst my mind continues to try to interpret the words.

“Crowded places, I shunned them as noises too rude / And flew to the silence of sweet solitude.”
― John Clare

A day in the South Downs nr Harting. Gloriously warm and bright but all in a raiment of autumn. To add to the confusion I heard both the guttural roars of rutting stags and a carolling Skylark. The seasons collide in this unseasonable weather.

I came to this spot as it was where I left a small token of love and respect to a loved and lost friend. The gesture was a Serpentine Pebble taken from the Lizard in Cornwall. This was a place we both shared and loved. The stone represented our memories, shared experiences and our link to things we loved (the land and nature).

Today the stone was no longer there. Moved? Removed? Or recovered?

I placed a stone

High up on the Downs
Where the larks carol to an east.
That rises over green
Folded hills of broken time.

Where the towers of winds
Blow the madrigals call
Across green meadows
That fill the space between.

And the marjoram, basil
Bedstraw, medick and thyme
Cling to hills, dissolved
Perched against the verdant plain.

Here, lost above the accusing
Poppies that proclaim propriety to
Ground turned over, broken.
Deep chalky, treads, ruts.

Heralding the wind
They shake like barley.
Foreboding and filled
Blood red as memory.

It now sits, crouched against the
Shivering, vulnerable bark
Of a grey hawthorn
Smelling the white of death.

And old as the hard Earth
And in the earth
Plucked from Cornish shores
Where waves crash on rocks

Serpentine, red, worn.
Curled around eternal life.
Holding in magma, a past -
A gateway between worlds

Now points to the west
That disappears, as each league
Rolls, wavers, meanders. To
Where the sun increasingly falls.

A rock, as hard as
Life itself, rounded
Shamed, beaten, rolled
With gleam and shimmer

Light reflecting, holding
All the past that eroded
Pulled apart and polished
This hand filled rock.

And what of any observer?
Who stumbles upon this chalk-land place?
High, above that vale?
They will wonder why
They will ask....

"This is a stone that should not be there!?"

North Wales 16th Oct

The last four days have been spent in the high and rocky mountains of North Wales. This is a land that comprises of a concentration of steep sided mountains, mist covered buttresses and small jewel like lakes. A land of legend and myth and one that has had a strong influence in many things I do and continue to be interested in.

It is also a place, though I have been many times, I last visited long ago. The result of this new reacquaintance has meant the area was both immediately familiar but also new. The clarity of my memory faded by time. Land points, names, routes up mountains, the summits were all known to me, but also new. I was renewing, relearning and reintroducing myself to this most magical corners of the UK.

My first day was a very simple walk up Moel Siabod. On my first visit to this mountain, over 25 years ago, I originally pronounced the name as it is written in English. I also, those many years ago, discovered (to my ever lasting embarrassment) that it is actually pronounced 'Mol Shabod'.

The names and my lack of Welsh language has often created a barrier, which is probably psychological rather than real, to ever try to say the names out loud (or at least with some apologetic caveat....."or how ever it's meant to be pronounced").

Added to my language deficiency I recall my first walk over this rock strewn mountain as it included a dramatic looking accident. Having stopped to have lunch, I found a bare piece of rock to traverse. However, one foot slipped off, cantilevering my head forward onto the hard, rough rock. Thwack went my forehead, followed by a steady flow of blood down my face. It was not too bad a knock, so I carried on to the summit, then back down. However, the blood, mixed with mist, meant my face was now streaked in a gory red smear of blood, reminiscent of a scene from the film Cary. Fortunately, the recent visit was accident free.

The second day in the area was on the iconic mountain Tryfan. This is an amazing 3000 ft lump of rock that sits in the Ogwen valley like a brooding dinosaur. Tryfan's spine is a serrated, rocky ridge that thrusts, arc-like, above the valley floor and is a ridge that conceals an amazing number of scrambles and climbs. Today was to be some easier grade one and two scrambles, connected together to reach the summit cairns (two pillars of rock known as Adam and Eve).

The ascent was great fun and at times pushed me both mentally and physically. On both counts I have to be philosophical as I know I easily traversed this mountain many years ago, when I was younger, fitter and more agile. The effects of age means my physical ability is lessened, which therefore impacts on my mental ability to cope with challenges caused by height and rocky sections. However, I was happy and it was good to test myself as the bar is higher than I thought.

North Wales is full of myth and legend and it was in this corner of the UK I first encountered the connection of legend to land. The legend that caught my imagination was that of King Arthur, where he is meant to reside, asleep, with his Knights, in a cave on the sides of Snowden. Further, down the valley, towards Beddgerlert village, Merlin saw the vision of the red and white dragons fighting (the English and the Welsh). There are many other sites in North Wales and beyond linked to this legend and this concentration caught my imagination, especially as I had come across many other places in the UK with similar connections. What if I could create a route that linked all these sites/locations together? A walk in the footsteps of the legend of King Arthur?

It was over 1700 miles and 3 months later that I eventually realised this ambition. The walk started in Tintagel (Cornwall) and finished at Carlisle. It took in the North Cornish Coast, Dartmoor, Bodmin, Exmoor, Quantocks, Somerset Levels, Cheddar, Wye Valley and the Forest of Dean, Brecon Beacons, Caermathenshire, Pembroke, Priscilli Mountains, Cader Idris, Llyn Peninsula, Anglesy, Snowden National Park, Clwydian Hills, Cheshire Plain, Peak District, Pennines, Dales and Lake District National Parks. There was many places the route could have gone, but time forced me to limit my journey. I could have included more of Cornwall, further sections east of Somerset, parts of Hadrians Wall, penetrated Scotland linking both SW and NE areas and even Brittanŷ. This might be another project, realised at another time, however, what I did all started in my mind after my first experience in North Wales, all those many years ago and is an area that continues to inspire and generate awe.

Whernside And Twistleton Scar

I have commented on this before, but the Yorkshire Dales has an otherworldly feel about it. There is a sense of an older time, as if the landscape has been plucked from an age long forgotten.

As I have also remarked that I rarely experience this sense of old and ancient in many other landscapes; the exceptions being the North Cornish coast, around Zennor, Dartmoor, the West coast of Ireland (particularly Connemara), many parts of Wales, even around the busy Snowdonia National Park.

However, I do not ever get this feeling in the Lake District. Why is this?

With the Lakes, I suspect, the ancient elements that evoke a sense of otherworldliness have been subsumed by the Victorian interpretation of landscape. The Victorians sense of order and tidiness prevails across most of the district, hiding the much older cultural objects under a veneer of orderliness.

I guess I am describing the 'chocolate box' effect, where we humans have stylised our environment to become anodyne, tamed and risk free. We have 'de-wilded' the wild, whilst retaining a pretence of chaos and wilderness through carefully managed and created backdrops.

When I come upon a landscape that seems old, I am not only able to glimpse the physical aesthetic parts of this ancient world, but also experience wilder, fiercer and untamed world that is directly putting me at risk. This may be due to a combination of obvious dramatic elements such as a rocky outcrop hanging above a stream in spate. Here the shear power and ferocity of the elements combined convey a wild, and therefore, older time.

However, this is an obvious and only brief experience that moves away as quickly as the flowing waters. It is the landscape that just sits there; filling a horizon huge and wild and emanating a sense of age. These are the places I truly feel I have been transported, or given a window into a long forgotten and wilder past.

Modernity, it's safe haven, and human values are temporarily stripped away. Then you can view the landscape in a different way. Not just see it for the summit to successfully ascend, or a rough track of land to traverse, but see it as it really is. Wild, insensitive, non judgemental, whilst showing no compassion or feeling. Making us, humans, feel we have all our clothes stripped off. We are exposed, vulnerable and for once we actually 'know' the world around us.

I love the Lakes and its manicured landscape is part of its attractiveness, however, I also miss the landscapes that project a sense of another time. Places where the over bearing effect of man is not obvious. A landscape that reflects its own, immutable values, not ours.

In these places, the otherworldly nature is not palpable, rather something not quite seen, at the corner of your eye. As you turn it is gone, intangible, only a sense,an essence of 'place' is retained. This feeling, to me at least, is irresistible, addictive, compelling and driving me to find new landscapes where the 'older time' is detected. Then, through the direct comparison, I can maybe make some sense of both now and then.

30th September

It seems hard to believe that it is now autumn and another month has past. It has been unseasonably warm and dry for a long time, making the appearance of autumn seem sudden and certainly unlooked for. This suddenness creates confusion in our inner time clock. Our sense of time's passage is relative to our experience of the things and conditions that surround us. The colours, smells, amount of light are all subliminally giving us time checks. When these time markers stop following the normal, sequenced, timeline our sense of time is skewed.

Therefore, if time, as a measure of the passing of our lives, is a relative phenomenon, where time is linked to our senses - then this is where confusion begins. A confusion where time moves at different speeds, depending on the experience. It may feel that time is accelerating, where the past feels unreally distant. This effect can be amplified by the sudden changes in the seasons. The changes seem to make time shift in a non linear and non rational manner. This may be because the change of seasons intensifies the experience of time passing us by, as they mark out distinct parts in the calendar of life.

Too often the past appear stretched out, unreachable, lost, indistinct and no longer tangible. Whilst the present becomes squeezed against an opaque barrier of an unknown future. We are not necessarily looking back but in our need to live in the moment, we sense the moment is slipping away before we can grasp it.

Looking at the past is like looking at the world through a telescope, from the wrong end, the previous year now seems far away, out of focus, ill defined. Making the present foreshortened, and as the past feels distant, It offers little context to make sense of the moment.

To make matters more compelling, Autumn of 2014 has arrived by stealth. Each day there has been subtle and slow changes. Each leaf has been subtly changing to autumnal colours. Before we had time to notice it had already happened. Real time and 'human time' are out of sync.

With these thoughts in mind I ascended the steep, fractured slopes of Whitbarrow Scar. The route passed through thick broad leaf woodland made up off oak, beach, sycamore and ash, intermixed with smaller rowan, white beam, sloe and hazel. Each tree was wearing a rusty autumnal raiment and adorned with mixture of berries or nuts.

High above the whale like limestone scar Of Whitbarrow, the plaintive cry of a buzzard echoed across the Winster valley, whilst closer, in amongst the trees, the nuthatches and woodpeckers searched for food. My every step feel on the husks of eaten hazel nuts, or fallen leaves that carpeted the path under my feet. Tactile and tangible symbols of the movement of time, and the changes of seasons.

On the summit the wind blew away any heat from the sun and long shadows were cast across the broken and fractured limestone pavement of the summit ridge. In amongst the Clints and Grykes Harebells and wild thyme still clung on to crevices and notches. This was a noble gesture, but futile gesture, lacking the intensity and volume of the wild flowers just a month ago. This humble display, However, added extra life and colour that contrasted against the bone like, white limestone.

Soon this hill and it's arboreal slopes will become as equally bare as those 'bones'. There will be another seasonal change and a new sense of time will be felt. Then autumn will seem glorious, but so long long ago.

The Swallows Have Gone

The swallows have gone. Recently they had been very visible perched on the telephone wires, like pegs on an empty clothes line, but now they have gone.

The first Swallow I saw this year was on the 11th April. I was high up on Caw Moss, above Torver and the Swallow was flying against a strong north east wind. It was another typically dull, wet and cold day and with no obvious insect life for my long distant tourist to eat. However, the swallows solitary presence, flying low over this wild and wet landscape, was like a candle brought into a dark room. This one swallow was an emissary of summer, bringing light, heralding the change of seasons and the promise of warmer and longer days. From this moment on` I was constantly scanning the sky for more swallows to arrive. Each returning visitor was a confirmation that, despite the local wet and wild conditions, things were soon to change.

It is now 6 months later and Summer's emissaries have taken their leave, and with them their brightness follows. I don't know exactly when the swallows left (within the last five days) but they have gone more immediately than they arrived. Their departure not only means lonelier skies, but their migration is a portent to the colder and darker days to come.

Added to the sad departure of the Swallow, another symbol of seasonal change was taking place in the form of migrating geese. Today I saw hundreds upon hundreds of geese flying off South.

I was walking over the Coniston Fells and throughout day there was flock after flock of geese, arranged into their 'arrow headed' flight, all moving along the same North to South line. Their discordant 'Honking' calls reverberating around the rocky hillsides.

I would first see each flock emerge above the undulating skyline of the Langdale Pikes, steering an unerring course over Wrynose Pass, tracking along the Duddon Valley, towards Black Combe, and then away and gone over the estuary towards the southern horizon. A mass migration with one unhesitatingly aim in mind, to leave the colder landscape of the North lands.

I do love the changing seasons, where each period has distinct and unique characteristics. On my many walks through the British landscape I encounter a changing texture of colours and smells, combined with the seasonal behaviour changes of wild animals. I look forward to the cold, crisp days and get extremely excited when snow covers the tops. However, I am constantly looking over my shoulder, scanning the skies for the return of that swallow and waiting to hear the clamour of the geese.

"If hands could free you, heart,
Where would you fly?
Far, beyond every part
Of earth this running sky
Makes desolate? Would you cross
City and hill and sea,
If hands could set you free?"

I have recently spent, high up in the Duddon Valley, what initially appeared to be a fruitless five hours searching for an ancient stone ring.

According to a number of sources there are the remains of a Stone Age artefact on these high and rocky Fells that indicate the previous presence of ancient Britons. However, it seems I was not going to find it.

Though my searching was not proving to be succesful, I found great pleasure in just roaming around this wild hollow in the hills. Up here is the broad expanse of Seathwaite Tarn that reflects the surrounding steep Fells and vertiginous, rocky crags that fall down to the waters edge. The distant views are across the Duddon valley towards the pyramidal summit of Harter Fell and to the high summits of the Scafells.

All is tranquil in this very old and wild landscape. Only the sound and movement of the wind stirs the quiet stillness. It's as if time has stopped. In fact the longer I spent searching behind boulders, climbing up to rocky ledges and looking over grassy knolls, the more it felt like time was slipping back.

My focus was to find the ancient stone ring, but I was also becoming absorbed by a landscape little changed from the days the ring was made. I was becoming distracted from my original ambition as this upland landscape held a primitive and compelling beauty. The imagined time shift was becoming real.

In an attempt to stay focused I used the rough coordinate I had discovered to guide me. However, in this steep, rock strewn landscape it was like looking for the needle in a haystack. In the process of my searching I had risen slowly higher up the north slope of Dow Crag, reaching a wide grassy level above a steep buttress. Here I found a what appeared to be a wide ring of stones piled up in a manner that could not have been formed by natural actions. Added to this construction was, at the most northern point and pointing towards Harter and Scafell, was a large diamond shaped boulder. This marked out the cardinal points of north and south, so establishing a meridian that could be used as seasonal clock.

Further research uncovered that I had come upon a stone ring, though not the one I was looking for. That said, I am pleased with my find and even better to have stayed so long in this wild setting. I still do not know Duddon in a deep 'knowing' sense and I can only imagine how the ancient Britons who made this circle could survive in these remote and harsh lands. However, I believe I gained a sense of the power of this landscape and therefore a possible motivation why the ancient residents of the valley built this object.

Autumn

It is September and, according to the weatherman, Summer is now over. We have entered the meteorological period defined as autumn.

This announcement comes pre loaded with the prospects of cooler and darker days. These are days where a cooler sun struggles as it rises lower with each passing day. The surrounding mountains, now in shadow, start to put on an autumnal raiment of watery yellows, oranges and reds. The weatherman's observation indicates we will soon be experiencing long dark nights, where night time is greater than the daylight hours.

However, regardless of the weatherman's pronouncement, autumn had already arrived a few weeks earlier. The first sign of this change was the departure of the Swifts. Their leaving was sudden and symbolic of the shifting season. In the meantime Swallows and House Martins, though still here, have been readying themselves for their long journey south. They can be seen lined up on telephone lines, chattering to themselves. Perhaps planning their massive journey and arguing when they should eventually leave.

High up on the Fells the once green grass and bracken has, seemingly in an instance, changed to more warmer red, brown and orange colours of autumn. Down in the valleys the leafs of the Sycamore and Beach are drying and turning golden brown. It is as if an optical filter has been placed over the scene. One day verdant green and summer, the next flaming reds and ochres of autumn - in an instance.

In the last two days I have witnessed a number of large wedges of Geese flying low across the Duddon Estuary. Their 'cronking' song can be heard from afar, heralding the change of the seasonal calendar. The flight of these birds is an abstract representation of the advancing year. Their combined cries, like a portent, tell of colder, darker and lonelier days.

The change in temperature, the shortening day, the lower sun are all switches in the minds of these and other birds, as they prepare for their migration. However, as they leave we are left behind and their absence leaves a profound silence and a longing that stays with us throughout the darker months.

Recently I have been heading over to the Dales. Exploring the heights above Hawes, including Great Shunner and Wether Fell, also out to the quiet and much overlooked Arkengarthdale where I tramped over broad and wild, high moorland. I have made several visits to the remote and rocky hills of the Mallerstang Valley, where you are accompanied by the beautiful Settle to Carlisle railway that runs at the mountains feet. I have also tramped over more well known hills, such as Ingleborough and Wernside. In all cases I have found the area to be considerably quieter and wilder than the Lakes.

The Dales is not as obviously dramatic as the Lakes, but then the Lakes is not as dramatic as North Wales, or the Highlands, so all things are relative. However, the Dales offers huge skies, big broad views across miles and miles of open, empty and wild countryside. Plus, when you consider you can be in a busy village such as Hawes and already be a 1000ft above sea level. This means you are immediately placed in an environment where things are naturally different, though the immediate hustle and bustle of the village betrays this subtlety. The weather is harsher, the variety of wild life is made up of those that can survive these harder conditions. The habits and ways of the locals all shaped by the environment - as it's influence dictates how things can be done. These elements all add to making the Dales unique and gives the area a wild, ancient and remote feeling.

Every time I come to the Dales I feel I have gone back in time. This is not because the human elements, such houses, shops, farms are using old ways (there are all the mod cons everywhere) but due to the wild feeling gained from the landscape and the wildlife that it supports.

Up on these wild moors I am often accompanied by the call of the Plover and the melodic, though plaintive cry of the Curlew. It is a haunting call that emerges from the bleak, wild and desolate moorland. Caught on the wind, the curlews song flows over the rolling contours of the Fells and echoes across of the limestone and Millstone grit outcrops. When the mist is down the Curlew's reverberating trill fades in and out, like the lamenting moan of a buoy adrift in a fog bound sea.

Today I headed into the hills directly above the busy market town of Settle. The town sits on the south western edge of the Yorkshire Dales National Park and is the setting off point for the famous Settle to Carlisle railway line that runs through the Dales landscape. Settle is quintessential Dales, with lime and gritstone buildings that dominate each street and alleyway. These buildings are inhabited by an eclectic mixture of local purveyors, cafés, pubs, chips shops, hardware stores and a lingerie shop (yep, and it is big and proud).

Even in this busy place, freedom and peace is quickly and easily enjoyed. Immediately above the town (a ten minute walk) the valley of Stockdale Beck, surrounded by vertiginous limestone crags of Langcliffe Scar, is found. Up here you can walk unhindered and untroubled for many miles. Wandering through a landscape that could easily be a part of the film set from 'The Land That Time Forgot'.

As the seasons change and the weather comes less stable, these high moorlands will become even wilder and even more challenging. However, I intend to investigate them more as I am eager to become part of this increasing re-wilding process.

17th August

The rain between the storms.

In the last two weeks there has been a complete change in the weather. Where it was warm and dry for almost two months, we are now experiencing the very opposite with very wet and windy conditions. The change has been caused by the tail end of hurricane Bertha which, after speeding its spiralling path across the Atlantic, she hit the west coast of the UK.

Bertha did not come empty handed, as she came with high winds and lots of rain. This rain, over a short 24hr period, broke records. Following this storm we have then experienced a number of Lows, that have lined up west of the country, like taxiing aircraft, waiting to land.

Over the weekend each storm has 'come to ground' creating extremely wet, and windy days. The conditions have been far worse to those Bertha could throw at the landscape (having spent her powers on Canadian shores). The latest storms have produced winds that have gusted to over 70mph on the tops, with consistent and very heavy rain falling between the stormy gusts.

I have seen desperate families, who have camped, struggling in these conditions. They had had originally set out eagerly with their tents, chairs and kids, with expectations of long sunny days, gentle, warm evenings where their children would play in the outdoors without a care. This weekend they can only fight against the inevitable leaks, mud and water being walked into living spaces and trying to calm and entertain bored, wet, cold and irritable offspring.

Though the weather is extraordinary for the time of year, there are more normal changes around that indicate that summer is nearing its end. Many of the hedgerows and roadsides are covered in the fiery red of Rosebay Willow Herb. However, many other wild flowers have gone, leaving bland, monochrome green, grass covered slopes.

However, waiting in the wings, it can be seen that apples, blackberries, pears, Cobs and other fruits and nuts are soon to be taking their place in the continual calendar of life. They are slowly, swelling and ripening, bringing with them the suggestion of autumn.
As if I am receiving some subliminal message my subconscious ness is picturing sweet, roasted root veg, fires, dark, smokey and robust beers and cold, dark nights filled with the sparkle of the Autumnal stars.

This is silly, I know, as there is still a lot of summer left, but just like the swallows (and the swifts that have now gone) we are readying ourselves for natures next phase. the wet weather conditions have just made this subtle, hidden instruction, more clear.

How high does it have to be to be a mountain?
Sometimes this is not even a question that would enter the mind. That huge, snow covered and rock strewn, pointed tower that ascends into the clouds needs no debate. Even the relatively flat topped bulk of Kilimanjaro, that rises from the Tanzanian plains, requires not even a second thought.

Obviously these examples are huge geological objects, but what about less obvious, smaller, but still challenging high ground found in the UK. Again, many summits are clearly a mountain. If you have ever ascended the slopes of our highest tops, such as Ben Nevis, Snowden, Scafell, Cairngorm, etc (and not exclusively these) you would consider them mountains. But why?

They are rocky, they offer challenge - mental as well as physical as their is an element of risk in reaching the tops and safely returning. Certainly in foul weather these uplands are both demanding and dangerous. The many accidents and deaths are an obvious, and sad, demonstration of this fact.

But what of say Lingmoor, that sits astride both Little and Great Langdale? This modest Fell only rises to an maximum height of 469m (1539ft) and is surrounded by much loftier and rocky 'mountains'.

Walk to the summit on a warm, clear summers day and you will suffer no more than having to breath hard, as the main paths are on wide, clear slopes. However, walk this way in snow, or hard rain and strong winds then you will be glad to reach the relative comfort of the valley floor. In fact I have slipped and slid my way off of Lingmoor on many occasions. Every step was precarious as, though not a big fall would result, but big enough to twist an ankle, break a leg, etc. If I experienced this misfortune it would either take me hours to painfully make my way back to the valley, or (assuming I had a mobile phone signal, which is unlikely) a couple of hours for any rescuers to reach me. Meantime I would be in severe pain and getting colder and colder. Then you would suddenly feel a long, long way from anywhere and the modest height would now seem more akin to a large mountain.

So how high does it have to be to be a mountain?

Whitbarrow Scar

As you travel north, approaching the Lakes on the M6, you will likely see a grey, craggy cliff face on the lefts side of the road. This is the dominant and sublimely beautiful Whitbarrow Scar.

It is a protrusion of Limestone that rises above the relatively flat surrounding landscape. However, this description belies its true character and beauty. Whitbarrow Scar is a quiet, rugged hill full of the most wonderful and wide collection of wild flowers. These flowers emerge from grassy hillocks, or push through the Clints and Grikes of the limestone pavements that adorn the high ground. Whilst all around this wild landscape is a collection of Juniper, the odd Sycamore and evidence of the last ice age in the form of erratics. Igneous rock sat amongst its sedimentary limestone cousin.

Many of the trees are bent from the savage winds that crash into this broken scar. This is probably due to the fact that Whitbarrow forms an almost headland type position at the northern reach of Morecombe Bay. Every south western wind and storm would hit this exposed hill and all would bend in its path.

However, on a more benign day I noted all the flowers I could see just from my seat near summit cairn. There was:

A profusion of pink and purple Wild thyme
Yellow Tormentel sprinkled liberally across the Fell
Wood Sage growing beside every rock
Large cities of red and yellow Trefoil (Eggs and Bacon)
Diminutive Eyebright hidden amongst the grasses
Rough Hawkbit
And Mouse Ear Hawk Weed (a great opportunity to see the differences)
The delicate white clusters of Wood Bedstraw
Many forms of Heather starting to flower,
Delicate Hare Bells, swaying in the breeze
St Johns Wort brightening the mood
Juniper bushes hugging the limestone surface
Yellow Lady's Bedstraw adding a golden glow to the summit
Early clumps of Meadowsweet offering their honey scent to the hills
The beautiful, but harshly named Scabious
The rare Biting Stonecrop, tucked away, yellow amongst the grey summit cairn
Thistles guarding nooks and crannies
Daisies seemingly lost amongst the background of other flowers
Elder Flower waiting to be turned into homemade champagne.

And it seemed each flower was accompanied by a visiting butterfly or bee.....all from my seated position.

Finally, adding to this overwhelming volume of life was a scattering of Birch, Sycamore and Rowan trees, adding scale and perspective to the wide views into southern lakes and across to the Dales and Howgill Fells.

Since discovering this humble sized hill I have returned again and again. It's position gives it great views, whilst it's ecology makes it an ideal environment for all sorts of animal and plant life. I know I have only just scrapped the surface and will be looking forward to experiencing how life changes as the seasons move on......watch this space ;-)

I placed a stone

High up on the Downs
Where the larks carol to an east.
That rises over green
Folded hills of broken time.

Where the towers of winds
Blow the madrigals call
Across green meadows
That fill the space between.

And the marjoram, basil
Bedstraw, medick and thyme
Cling to hills, dissolved
Perched against the verdant plain.

Here, lost above the accusing
Poppies that proclaim propriety to
Ground turned over, broken.
Deep chalky, treads, ruts.

Heralding the wind
They shake like barley.
Foreboding and filled
Blood red as memory.

It now sits, crouched against the
Shivering, vulnerable bark
Of a grey hawthorn
Smelling the white of death.

And old as the hard Earth
And in the earth
Plucked from Cornish shores
Where waves crash on rocks

Serpentine, red, worn.
Curled around eternal life.
Holding in magma, a past -
A gateway between worlds

Now points to the west
That disappears, as each league
Rolls, wavers, meanders. To
Where the sun increasingly falls.

A rock, as hard as
Life itself, rounded
Shamed, beaten, rolled
With gleam and shimmer

Light reflecting, holding
All the past that eroded
Pulled apart and polished
This hand filled rock.

And what of any observer?
Who stumbles upon this chalk-land place?
High, above that vale?
They will wonder why
They will ask....

"This is a stone that should not be there!?"