Lake District life of a photographer searching the Distant Hills
Wanderings
This space provides thoughts and reflections on my journeys around the UK Countryside as I attempt to photograph the beauty and profound wildness of these environments.
This space provides thoughts and reflections on my journeys around the UK Countryside as I attempt to photograph the beauty and profound wildness of these environments.
House Rules
07th July 2014 - 0 comments
07th July 2014 - 0 comments
7th July
House Rules
For many years now I have played a silly game when out walking. If you fall over and land on your backside you have to buy a round of drinks at the end of the walk. Quite simple, very childish, but this silly game has taken on a life of its own.
I am not sure quite how or when this game started and I not even sure if it was me who suggested it......but as it involves beer, I suspect it was me.
For years my old girlfriend and I would seek out new places to walk. We have been around most parts of Scotland, Ireland, Wales, with an in depth experience of walking throughout England. We walked through all weathers and seasons and often one of us would fall over descending a slippery slope. The opportunity for the game is clear, why is lost in the mists of time and the haze of the consequence of both of us falling over too often.
L
Throughout these years I have introduced this game to others who may have joined us, or I went with separately. I would point out that if you were walking with me there was a House Rule. Strangely (it seems now) most companions were more than happy to join into the game. In fact many have taken the game into their own walks. It seems the child is inside most of us.
I remember meeting a couple of gents whilst walking over the Mourne Mountains of Northern Ireland. It was a particularly wet and misty day and the slope I was ascending was steep and extremely slippery. I was thinking to myself I was glad I was going up as coming down would have been challenging and certainly would mean slipping over. It was whilst I was in my reverie that these two Irish men appeared out of the mist above me. As is the way in these hills, you stop and chat. Very social and civilised.
It was during this chat I mentioned my House Rule (my partner was slowly climbing below). Both men laughed and one remarked (pointing to his companion):
"Feck, if that's the case he owes me a fecking brewery"
A great moment and I always hope those Irish walkers are now continuing this game and passing it on to their friends. It seems an appropriate country to have a rule that takes you to a bar after a walk.
However, once you have entered the game things begin to change. All of a sudden fellow walkers are now more cautious. Taking care on every step, gently moving across wet ground where before they pranced with free abandonment. Now easing more nervously down the scree slopes, tentatively peering over ledges that once they leaped with little care for their mortality, let alone buying a few beers; they now are making a very conscious effort to keep on their feet.
In addition to this increased desire to remain upright, my fellow walkers have forced rule changes (or at least finer tuning of the rules). The early game was if you fell you buy the beer. However, what constituted a fall? If you stumbled but managed to put a hand down had you actually fallen? Was it different if you landed on your front or your back? How much contact with the ground constituted as a fall? In fact what was a fall? The things people would argue to get out of buying a beer was phenomenal, especially when considered they would have normally bought a beer after a walk anyway. The game changed the dynamic.
Rules:
Any person, during the period of starting and finishing this walk (first step from car/starting point to last step before car/finish point) should fall they must buy a round of drinks for all of the company of walkers joined on the walk.
A fall is recognised when both cheeks of the buttocks make contact with the ground.
One cheek, a hand quickly lowered that catches the fall (so both cheeks not making contact with terra firma) is considered a save and all walkers will comment:
"Good save" ...."you lucky bleep" ......."you tight bleep" etc.
Full account of any unseen falls must be disclosed when in the pub. Your conscience will without, but dirt marks, etc will always be you undoing if hold back......are you prepared for the shame of being 'outed'?
So contestant, are you ready? Then get walking and remember the House Rules.
The Mourne Mountains
House Rules
For many years now I have played a silly game when out walking. If you fall over and land on your backside you have to buy a round of drinks at the end of the walk. Quite simple, very childish, but this silly game has taken on a life of its own.
I am not sure quite how or when this game started and I not even sure if it was me who suggested it......but as it involves beer, I suspect it was me.
For years my old girlfriend and I would seek out new places to walk. We have been around most parts of Scotland, Ireland, Wales, with an in depth experience of walking throughout England. We walked through all weathers and seasons and often one of us would fall over descending a slippery slope. The opportunity for the game is clear, why is lost in the mists of time and the haze of the consequence of both of us falling over too often.
L
Throughout these years I have introduced this game to others who may have joined us, or I went with separately. I would point out that if you were walking with me there was a House Rule. Strangely (it seems now) most companions were more than happy to join into the game. In fact many have taken the game into their own walks. It seems the child is inside most of us.
I remember meeting a couple of gents whilst walking over the Mourne Mountains of Northern Ireland. It was a particularly wet and misty day and the slope I was ascending was steep and extremely slippery. I was thinking to myself I was glad I was going up as coming down would have been challenging and certainly would mean slipping over. It was whilst I was in my reverie that these two Irish men appeared out of the mist above me. As is the way in these hills, you stop and chat. Very social and civilised.
It was during this chat I mentioned my House Rule (my partner was slowly climbing below). Both men laughed and one remarked (pointing to his companion):
"Feck, if that's the case he owes me a fecking brewery"
A great moment and I always hope those Irish walkers are now continuing this game and passing it on to their friends. It seems an appropriate country to have a rule that takes you to a bar after a walk.
However, once you have entered the game things begin to change. All of a sudden fellow walkers are now more cautious. Taking care on every step, gently moving across wet ground where before they pranced with free abandonment. Now easing more nervously down the scree slopes, tentatively peering over ledges that once they leaped with little care for their mortality, let alone buying a few beers; they now are making a very conscious effort to keep on their feet.
In addition to this increased desire to remain upright, my fellow walkers have forced rule changes (or at least finer tuning of the rules). The early game was if you fell you buy the beer. However, what constituted a fall? If you stumbled but managed to put a hand down had you actually fallen? Was it different if you landed on your front or your back? How much contact with the ground constituted as a fall? In fact what was a fall? The things people would argue to get out of buying a beer was phenomenal, especially when considered they would have normally bought a beer after a walk anyway. The game changed the dynamic.
Rules:
Any person, during the period of starting and finishing this walk (first step from car/starting point to last step before car/finish point) should fall they must buy a round of drinks for all of the company of walkers joined on the walk.
A fall is recognised when both cheeks of the buttocks make contact with the ground.
One cheek, a hand quickly lowered that catches the fall (so both cheeks not making contact with terra firma) is considered a save and all walkers will comment:
"Good save" ...."you lucky bleep" ......."you tight bleep" etc.
Full account of any unseen falls must be disclosed when in the pub. Your conscience will without, but dirt marks, etc will always be you undoing if hold back......are you prepared for the shame of being 'outed'?
So contestant, are you ready? Then get walking and remember the House Rules.
The Mourne Mountains
The Tour
02nd July 2014 - 0 comments
02nd July 2014 - 0 comments
The Tour
Regardless of the grey and hazy conditions, I had thoroughly enjoyable day touring the Fells that rise above the beautiful Dales village of Hawes.
The route made a large circuit of the hills south of Hawes (Wether and Dodd Fells) and included a Roman Road and a short journey along the Pennine Way.
Hawes looks and feels like it was formed by some geological event, as it's stone walled buildings thrusts up through the Limestone valley floor and stand like lines of grey, crags and buttresses. The village was, as expected, very busy, but there was an extra level of activity and excitement today. The villagers were preparing themselves for world's the greatest cycle race - The Tour De France.
The village's grey stoned buildings were adorned with red, white and blue bunting and a profusion of pink polka dots. These spots were adorned on old bikes that leaned against walls, or stood by shop doors, plus there were polka dot flags fluttering and pink splattered T-shirts worn by locals. The village was embracing the arrival of the race with great enthusiasm.
However, the pièce de résistance was the giant white bike marked out on the hills north of the village. Like a huge etched out prehistoric hill figure the bike could be seen from far down the Wenslydale valley and even from high up from Garsdale. The figure not only dominated the village, but the whole valley.
The walk took me high up onto Wether Fell, passing through recently cut meadows and joining a route that passes over an old Roman road. My ascent was accompanied by the plaintive calls of Curlew and the 'peewit' of Lapwings. These haunting calls reflect the wild spirit of the Dales, as the notes of the song pierce through the wind and echo off the limestone strewn fell sides emphasising the lonely, barren landscape.
On reaching the head of Fleet Moss, a large boggy expanse at almost two thousand feet, the route then headed towards Grove Head to join the Pennine Way. On this section the iconic Dales Three Peaks are revealed, and in particular the dominating presence of the steep escarpment of Ingleborough.
This section, though on an old, tarmac road, had stunning views down Langstrathdale. This is a long and lonely valley that encompasses a huge expanse of land that contains very few human dwellings. In such a cramped and heavily populated country it is not only amazing and but also a joy that such space and pure wild beauty still survives. It helps us to find a space to breath and space for both both our hearts and mind to roam.
The route, once on the Pennine Way, stays high above the valley of Widdale, that starts its descent from Ribblehead down to Hawes. However, more immediate and impressive, is the view from the path that follows the brim of Dodd Fell. This track over looks the remote Snaizeholme Valley. The views down into this quiet land display a remote, rural and quiet existence. It seemed I was perched on a cloud, looking through the mists of time, observing an older age.
The Pennine Way was the perfect route back to Hawes, as it gently eased me down to the valley. As I descended the White Bike once again dominated the view. Set into the ancient fells of the Yorkshire Dales, the bike looked like a cross between the ancient White Horse of Uffington and a Tony Hart cartoon animation.
The White Horse of Uffington has been attributed to a number of powerful historical figures, like King Alfred, as a symbol of his victory over the Danes. What ever the White Horse's history and meaning, the 'White Bike of Wensleydale' will be a symbol and celebration to the King of the Mountain and all the pink, polka dots wearing Vikings of Hawes.
Regardless of the grey and hazy conditions, I had thoroughly enjoyable day touring the Fells that rise above the beautiful Dales village of Hawes.
The route made a large circuit of the hills south of Hawes (Wether and Dodd Fells) and included a Roman Road and a short journey along the Pennine Way.
Hawes looks and feels like it was formed by some geological event, as it's stone walled buildings thrusts up through the Limestone valley floor and stand like lines of grey, crags and buttresses. The village was, as expected, very busy, but there was an extra level of activity and excitement today. The villagers were preparing themselves for world's the greatest cycle race - The Tour De France.
The village's grey stoned buildings were adorned with red, white and blue bunting and a profusion of pink polka dots. These spots were adorned on old bikes that leaned against walls, or stood by shop doors, plus there were polka dot flags fluttering and pink splattered T-shirts worn by locals. The village was embracing the arrival of the race with great enthusiasm.
However, the pièce de résistance was the giant white bike marked out on the hills north of the village. Like a huge etched out prehistoric hill figure the bike could be seen from far down the Wenslydale valley and even from high up from Garsdale. The figure not only dominated the village, but the whole valley.
The walk took me high up onto Wether Fell, passing through recently cut meadows and joining a route that passes over an old Roman road. My ascent was accompanied by the plaintive calls of Curlew and the 'peewit' of Lapwings. These haunting calls reflect the wild spirit of the Dales, as the notes of the song pierce through the wind and echo off the limestone strewn fell sides emphasising the lonely, barren landscape.
On reaching the head of Fleet Moss, a large boggy expanse at almost two thousand feet, the route then headed towards Grove Head to join the Pennine Way. On this section the iconic Dales Three Peaks are revealed, and in particular the dominating presence of the steep escarpment of Ingleborough.
This section, though on an old, tarmac road, had stunning views down Langstrathdale. This is a long and lonely valley that encompasses a huge expanse of land that contains very few human dwellings. In such a cramped and heavily populated country it is not only amazing and but also a joy that such space and pure wild beauty still survives. It helps us to find a space to breath and space for both both our hearts and mind to roam.
The route, once on the Pennine Way, stays high above the valley of Widdale, that starts its descent from Ribblehead down to Hawes. However, more immediate and impressive, is the view from the path that follows the brim of Dodd Fell. This track over looks the remote Snaizeholme Valley. The views down into this quiet land display a remote, rural and quiet existence. It seemed I was perched on a cloud, looking through the mists of time, observing an older age.
The Pennine Way was the perfect route back to Hawes, as it gently eased me down to the valley. As I descended the White Bike once again dominated the view. Set into the ancient fells of the Yorkshire Dales, the bike looked like a cross between the ancient White Horse of Uffington and a Tony Hart cartoon animation.
The White Horse of Uffington has been attributed to a number of powerful historical figures, like King Alfred, as a symbol of his victory over the Danes. What ever the White Horse's history and meaning, the 'White Bike of Wensleydale' will be a symbol and celebration to the King of the Mountain and all the pink, polka dots wearing Vikings of Hawes.
Summer's March
30th June 2014 - 0 comments
30th June 2014 - 0 comments
Summer's march.
The year has suddenly accelerated. It seems that it was not so long ago that the first Swallows, after their long, arduous journey, were arriving to the Fells; the first notes of the Cuckoos could be heard echoing around the valleys; the earth was cold, hard and wet and the weather was wild and frequently stormy. One day the wind and rain would prevail, another (as a portent of things to come) would bring forth sun and a mild, comforting warmth. The seasons battled for dominance.
However, now the mountains have been tamed. The harsh, wet and slippery crag and the steep, fractured mountainside is now bordered by opaque, monochrome fern, that hides the rocky, fierce nature of the mountain. The birds are quiet. Their song now silenced by the exertions of feeding a number of broods. The spring flowers, such as Cow Parsley, Bluebell, Ransom and the delicate Dog Violet have long seeded and now faded back into the undergrowth. They have made way for the arrival of the pink and purple Foxgloves, golden Asphodel and Meadow Vetch. The fast flowing, steep falling streams have been muffled by the long, hot and dry summer days. Whilst insects, now in great hordes, hover over the drying pools and dance along the banks of the sluggish Becks.
Throughout the District farmers are busy hay making. They are rushing against the weather to cut the meadows before any rain. The air is filled with the sweet scent of cut grass, all manner of insects,swooping swallows and each bend in the road is accompanied by a large tractor pulling huge bails of mesh covered Hay. All the fields are now a dry patchwork of green, yellow and white. The air seems thicker, heavier and (in contradiction) everything seems slower.
Though it is only the end of June these are the markers heralding the end of summer, so I welcome them with some trepidation.
The year has suddenly accelerated. It seems that it was not so long ago that the first Swallows, after their long, arduous journey, were arriving to the Fells; the first notes of the Cuckoos could be heard echoing around the valleys; the earth was cold, hard and wet and the weather was wild and frequently stormy. One day the wind and rain would prevail, another (as a portent of things to come) would bring forth sun and a mild, comforting warmth. The seasons battled for dominance.
However, now the mountains have been tamed. The harsh, wet and slippery crag and the steep, fractured mountainside is now bordered by opaque, monochrome fern, that hides the rocky, fierce nature of the mountain. The birds are quiet. Their song now silenced by the exertions of feeding a number of broods. The spring flowers, such as Cow Parsley, Bluebell, Ransom and the delicate Dog Violet have long seeded and now faded back into the undergrowth. They have made way for the arrival of the pink and purple Foxgloves, golden Asphodel and Meadow Vetch. The fast flowing, steep falling streams have been muffled by the long, hot and dry summer days. Whilst insects, now in great hordes, hover over the drying pools and dance along the banks of the sluggish Becks.
Throughout the District farmers are busy hay making. They are rushing against the weather to cut the meadows before any rain. The air is filled with the sweet scent of cut grass, all manner of insects,swooping swallows and each bend in the road is accompanied by a large tractor pulling huge bails of mesh covered Hay. All the fields are now a dry patchwork of green, yellow and white. The air seems thicker, heavier and (in contradiction) everything seems slower.
Though it is only the end of June these are the markers heralding the end of summer, so I welcome them with some trepidation.
Cuckoo
21st June 2014 - 0 comments
21st June 2014 - 0 comments
The Cuckoo
With joy I heard your song
Heralding the march of spring
At first fleetingly,
Uncertain, across the valley
From years ago, it echoed.
Rolling across the hills.
Each note a pulse
Beating, the drum of fate
A prophecy
That has to be fulfilled.
Wisp like you appeared
Pan's shadow
Legend and myth
At the edges of memory
And the season drifted away
Your song dissolving
Such a simple song
Two notes
Curled
into the shape of space
Like a rhythm,
Like the heart beat of life.
Sil....ence.
With joy I heard your song
Heralding the march of spring
At first fleetingly,
Uncertain, across the valley
From years ago, it echoed.
Rolling across the hills.
Each note a pulse
Beating, the drum of fate
A prophecy
That has to be fulfilled.
Wisp like you appeared
Pan's shadow
Legend and myth
At the edges of memory
And the season drifted away
Your song dissolving
Such a simple song
Two notes
Curled
into the shape of space
Like a rhythm,
Like the heart beat of life.
Sil....ence.
Wild Boar, Wild Fells, Wild Orchids and Golden Plovers
19th June 2014 - 0 comments
19th June 2014 - 0 comments
Wild Boar, Wild Fells, Wild Orchids and Golden Plovers
It was time to return to the sublime beauty of the Dales. The weather was perfect, with bright, clear skies, full of the tinkling song of Skylarks and a cool breeze that turned the heads of the golden, meadow buttercups that filled nearly every field.
My destination was to the head of the Eden Valley and then onto the craggy faced summit of Wild Boar Fell. This is pure Dales country, regardless of what county you are in (the drive through seemed to switch continuously from Yorkshire to Cumbria and back again). The tops are surrounded by rich meadows filled with a pageant of wild flowers celebrating the coming of summer. I strolled through a wafting collection of Water Avens, towers of Giant Knapweed, standing statuesque above great clumps of dancing Ragged Robin, Chickweed and the shinning, sharp blades of all manner of grasses.
From leaving the car it was clear something was afoot as there were small, disparate groups of folk lined up along the edge of the railway line and perched on its stone arched bridge. This valley is accompanied by the famous Carlisle to Settle railway, that passes through some of the most achingly beautiful countryside. It is rightfully a popular line , but today it had an extra interest as a large steam train, with accompanying, Beaujolais coloured coaches was scheduled to pass through. The patient and expectant crowd were waiting to witness (and I expect to honour) the passing through of this engineering wonder. Where art and craft surely merge.
The setting of wild fells and sun dappled meadows seemed to be fitting, even symbiotic, with the slow 'chug and wheeze' of the steam trains engine. Progressing northwards through the valley, the engine provided a heart beat, a slow paced rhythm, that the Dales wildlife gently riffed off. Bees danced from Buttercup to Cranesbill as the steam blew forth, Curlews trilled their song to 'huff and puff' of the engine's push.
Leaving the valley floor meant a stiff climb up onto the main ridge of Wild Boar Fell. The sun was now high and very hot. The heat, the headiness of flower scent and a overwhelming appearance of laziness in everything I passed was having a soporific effect. Each sheep or cow grazed in a slow, hypnotic rhythm. It was as if I had imbibed from some enchanted potion as the effort to keep moving was a struggle.
As an excuse every opportunity to stop and survey the wide views from the crest of the high ridge was taken. From this lofty stance, far above the surrounding valleys, could be seen the northern end of the Pennines, with Cross Fell and Great Dunn Fell ablaze in the sunlight. Far off west was the Lake District stretched out before me. I could see the black mass of the Coniston Fells, the serrated profile of Crinkle Crags at the head of Langdale, the rolling, Whale like, hump of High Street as it gently dived down to Vale of Eden. The Lakes, making a last stand, culminated in final defiance rose to the summit of Blencathra and the quiet, grass clad hills Back O Skidda.
High up on these Dales hills, with the constant and reassuring background song of the Larks, came the more piercing and plaintive cry of the Golden Plover. The clear, single note of the Plovers cry gave both a profound sense of peace but also loneliness. It was as if the Fells were lamenting the loss of a most beautiful and wondrous love.
On returning the valley floor wild orchids were encountered. These strawberry and purple coloured flowers rose through the green shards of grasses like exotic ice creams on a stick, providing a a scene taken straight out of Sergeants Peppers.
On returning to the car there were even more people lined along the railway. The train was coming back. It was as if I was trapped in a bubble of time, with a window into an older time, simpler, more gentle and brighter. I will return to this vale of wildness and steam soon.
It was time to return to the sublime beauty of the Dales. The weather was perfect, with bright, clear skies, full of the tinkling song of Skylarks and a cool breeze that turned the heads of the golden, meadow buttercups that filled nearly every field.
My destination was to the head of the Eden Valley and then onto the craggy faced summit of Wild Boar Fell. This is pure Dales country, regardless of what county you are in (the drive through seemed to switch continuously from Yorkshire to Cumbria and back again). The tops are surrounded by rich meadows filled with a pageant of wild flowers celebrating the coming of summer. I strolled through a wafting collection of Water Avens, towers of Giant Knapweed, standing statuesque above great clumps of dancing Ragged Robin, Chickweed and the shinning, sharp blades of all manner of grasses.
From leaving the car it was clear something was afoot as there were small, disparate groups of folk lined up along the edge of the railway line and perched on its stone arched bridge. This valley is accompanied by the famous Carlisle to Settle railway, that passes through some of the most achingly beautiful countryside. It is rightfully a popular line , but today it had an extra interest as a large steam train, with accompanying, Beaujolais coloured coaches was scheduled to pass through. The patient and expectant crowd were waiting to witness (and I expect to honour) the passing through of this engineering wonder. Where art and craft surely merge.
The setting of wild fells and sun dappled meadows seemed to be fitting, even symbiotic, with the slow 'chug and wheeze' of the steam trains engine. Progressing northwards through the valley, the engine provided a heart beat, a slow paced rhythm, that the Dales wildlife gently riffed off. Bees danced from Buttercup to Cranesbill as the steam blew forth, Curlews trilled their song to 'huff and puff' of the engine's push.
Leaving the valley floor meant a stiff climb up onto the main ridge of Wild Boar Fell. The sun was now high and very hot. The heat, the headiness of flower scent and a overwhelming appearance of laziness in everything I passed was having a soporific effect. Each sheep or cow grazed in a slow, hypnotic rhythm. It was as if I had imbibed from some enchanted potion as the effort to keep moving was a struggle.
As an excuse every opportunity to stop and survey the wide views from the crest of the high ridge was taken. From this lofty stance, far above the surrounding valleys, could be seen the northern end of the Pennines, with Cross Fell and Great Dunn Fell ablaze in the sunlight. Far off west was the Lake District stretched out before me. I could see the black mass of the Coniston Fells, the serrated profile of Crinkle Crags at the head of Langdale, the rolling, Whale like, hump of High Street as it gently dived down to Vale of Eden. The Lakes, making a last stand, culminated in final defiance rose to the summit of Blencathra and the quiet, grass clad hills Back O Skidda.
High up on these Dales hills, with the constant and reassuring background song of the Larks, came the more piercing and plaintive cry of the Golden Plover. The clear, single note of the Plovers cry gave both a profound sense of peace but also loneliness. It was as if the Fells were lamenting the loss of a most beautiful and wondrous love.
On returning the valley floor wild orchids were encountered. These strawberry and purple coloured flowers rose through the green shards of grasses like exotic ice creams on a stick, providing a a scene taken straight out of Sergeants Peppers.
On returning to the car there were even more people lined along the railway. The train was coming back. It was as if I was trapped in a bubble of time, with a window into an older time, simpler, more gentle and brighter. I will return to this vale of wildness and steam soon.
The Power of Names
05th June 2014 - 0 comments
05th June 2014 - 0 comments
The Power of Names
For quite a while now I have tried to identify and subsequently learn the names of flowers, birds and other wild life I encounter.
To some this seems a soulless and mechanical process. My detractors argue I ignore the magic and spirit of my encounter as I am focusing my attention to the lifeless medium of the internet and books, as my attempt to make a correct identification. The quarry has become an academic quarry.
However, I can now easily identify most of the trees and shrubs that inhabit British Isles; I have a considerable list, lodged in my memory, of wild flowers; I can recognise a wide range of Birds, from songbird to bird of prey; I have a plethora of fungi, deer, insect (and more) identifications I can make easily.
So why?
When described in these terms it would appear my detractors are correct. This is nothing more than list ticking. It is a soulless process that is disjointed from the actual wildlife experience. It is just another name on the list checked off.
However, and you guessed I disagree, there is more to knowing the name of 'something'. It is, in my view, due to the significance that language is to humans, that naming is most powerful. A name is more than a word, more than a tag or a guttural utterance. The name embodies a concept, an idea, where a mental representation form and solidifies in the brain. A name is larger than it constituent letters and syllables, as its formation and definition becomes an abstract object, "where objects are the constituents of propositions that mediate between thought, language, and referents".
The words of a language are not only vital for communicating, but help our understanding of the world. How frustrating it is to not be able to convert our feelings and thoughts into words. We grasp and grab at something that seems formless and hidden; our feelings swirl in a mist of confused and undefined thought. We need it to take shape so we can bring order to the storm of chaos that surrounds us. We need to categorise and identify and thereby gain perspective and understanding. A meaning of the concept, and thus a meaning to our own world.
Through my 'geeky' dedication of identifying (so discovering the names) of all sorts of things I now see all sorts of wildlife stand out against the rest of the confused and uninterpreted world. The identified now shine out like beacons, guiding my consciousness, making me notice and then enjoy, and then appreciate, and then understand my little place, as I pass through.
Now, each name is not only bold against a backdrop of words and noises, but each bird, flower, insect, etc stands out against the overly complex collage of life. I now see this animal or plant in its setting, not just as a thing that has just 'popped- up', disconnected, like a garden gnome, but as an integral component of the landscape. I can now see the interaction of the environment and behaviour and how they determine existence. I am more able to understand 'it' and maybe 'me'. In short the giving of a name helps me have a wider appreciation and understanding of the things I encounter - before I knew its name!
For quite a while now I have tried to identify and subsequently learn the names of flowers, birds and other wild life I encounter.
To some this seems a soulless and mechanical process. My detractors argue I ignore the magic and spirit of my encounter as I am focusing my attention to the lifeless medium of the internet and books, as my attempt to make a correct identification. The quarry has become an academic quarry.
However, I can now easily identify most of the trees and shrubs that inhabit British Isles; I have a considerable list, lodged in my memory, of wild flowers; I can recognise a wide range of Birds, from songbird to bird of prey; I have a plethora of fungi, deer, insect (and more) identifications I can make easily.
So why?
When described in these terms it would appear my detractors are correct. This is nothing more than list ticking. It is a soulless process that is disjointed from the actual wildlife experience. It is just another name on the list checked off.
However, and you guessed I disagree, there is more to knowing the name of 'something'. It is, in my view, due to the significance that language is to humans, that naming is most powerful. A name is more than a word, more than a tag or a guttural utterance. The name embodies a concept, an idea, where a mental representation form and solidifies in the brain. A name is larger than it constituent letters and syllables, as its formation and definition becomes an abstract object, "where objects are the constituents of propositions that mediate between thought, language, and referents".
The words of a language are not only vital for communicating, but help our understanding of the world. How frustrating it is to not be able to convert our feelings and thoughts into words. We grasp and grab at something that seems formless and hidden; our feelings swirl in a mist of confused and undefined thought. We need it to take shape so we can bring order to the storm of chaos that surrounds us. We need to categorise and identify and thereby gain perspective and understanding. A meaning of the concept, and thus a meaning to our own world.
Through my 'geeky' dedication of identifying (so discovering the names) of all sorts of things I now see all sorts of wildlife stand out against the rest of the confused and uninterpreted world. The identified now shine out like beacons, guiding my consciousness, making me notice and then enjoy, and then appreciate, and then understand my little place, as I pass through.
Now, each name is not only bold against a backdrop of words and noises, but each bird, flower, insect, etc stands out against the overly complex collage of life. I now see this animal or plant in its setting, not just as a thing that has just 'popped- up', disconnected, like a garden gnome, but as an integral component of the landscape. I can now see the interaction of the environment and behaviour and how they determine existence. I am more able to understand 'it' and maybe 'me'. In short the giving of a name helps me have a wider appreciation and understanding of the things I encounter - before I knew its name!
Memory
28th May 2014 - 0 comments
28th May 2014 - 0 comments
A powerful memory is found in a walk down a regular pathway, or return visit to a long forgotten haunt. Here are the triggers that provide the flashes of past times and other places that have had an impact. It can be the very smallest part of any place that may be the catalysis, leaving you, initially, transfixed, bewildered, happy, sad, stretching out, returning to that past place and time.
The memory may now be redefined by all the knocks and scratches of life's often unplanned journey and maybe the memory is a way to gain a view looking forward. Towards yourself.
The sudden impact when returning to an old area, part of a walk, journey, smell, curve in the land can invoke the most powerful of feelings. The memories then come dropping slow, providing a moment to reflect and have some peace there.
In a recent experience the power of place and its impact on memory, was had on a very windy and wet day around Latterbarrow and Claife Heights.
Latterbarrow is a very humble fell, found in the far south east of the Lake District, with steep ground rising from the western shores of Windermere. The bulk of latterbarrow is connected to an extensive forested area that sits on the rocky protuberance of Claife Heights. It is where people come to exercise their dogs, have short walks with loved ones or be a worthy target for extended expeditions around the shores of Windermere. However, this is the lake district in its most gentle and benign demeanour. Here are gentle, bracken covered slopes, ringed by the green fields of local farms and the subtle white flecked daub of scattered stone cottages.
However, Latterbarrow, due to its open slopes and as a northern outpost of a small collection of Fells (within its eastern geography) provides a surprisingly intimate view across some of the districts higher fells. From this vantage point, Latterbarrow makes you feel very much part of the mountains you survey. They appear reachable, if only you stretched out your hand. One long step and you could cross the lake and be on the great ridge of Fairfield, or Kentmere.
I have walked these gentle Fells many time before. It seems it is always on wet, wintery days, but perhaps that is not a coincidence, but a factor created by the weather. The bad conditions directing me, subtly and subliminally, towards the slopes and woods surrounding Latterbarrow. The weather knows best, I would be much happier and more comfortable down here, in the embrace of forestry, carefully managed ponds and rolling, rocky knolls. Much better here than up there, in the ferocious wind and rain battered tops. Much better to appreciate the subtle and less obvious, where it is not in you face, but where beauty is in the simplest of things, and you have time and place to hear it at its hearts core.
On one such excursion I reached the top of Latterbarrow, having started my gentle wander from a little hamlet tucked into the north west rib of the fell. The day was typically wild, with heavy showers and strong winds that made, making conscious, determined, horizontal walking a challenge. I knew the top well, but having not been here for at least a year I felt some excitement. I know it sounds trite to consider the hills as friends. I know the sentimentality and over romanticising of inanimate objects and place is no less than me anthromorphologising, and extending myself into the environment. But is this not part of the process where place and memory become one?
Reaching the summit and it's modest tower felt good, very good in fact. Though I had to get behind the tower quickly to avoid the strengthened wind. Even at this modest height the wind had gained considerable strength. To stand upright I had to adopt a very deliberate stance where I planted my feet wide, weight balanced and shoulders tensed and leaning into the wind. A very exaggerated posture for such a low top.
From the summit I had extensive views across Ambleside and up through to the U-shaped Scandale Valley Fairfield. Here I look into the very heart of this classic mountain group. Then as I pan east there is the distinct northern ridge of Kentmere, with it's recognisable pyramidal shaped fell tops. Then, back west, there is the long view over Lingmoor to the Langdale Pikes. These great, rocky mountains can be seen from almost all corners of the district, but their classic view is revealed from Latterbarrow. From here the steep, craggy faces of Harrison Stickle and Pavey Ark are prominent. Lastly, and in an extremely intimate manner, is the close up view of the Coniston Fells. From Latterbarrows gentle summit the trampings of the past can be traced directly in the eye, but brought into sharp focus by the minds eye, as each step reminds you of past trips, the company, even the conversations, the weather, the battles against weather, and the joys of just being there.
Feeling a little wind battered it was time to move from the exposed top of Latterbarrow and join the main forest, by crossing a rickety stile. Everything now changed, from an open wild and windy place to a thick, tree covered enclave, quiet and wind protected forest. Perhaps it was this sudden change that was the key, but then it happened!
I knew I had been here before, of course. I could remember, with some clarity, my last walk through here. However, this time was different. It was if I had been hit, as I stopped instantly in my tracks. I was suddenly, it seemed, transferred to another time. that inhabited this place and not any time but specific. I could remember who I was with, I could recollect the circumstances, almost the conversation of that 'other time'. I was actually feeling the same emotions as I did on that very occasion; this place had stimulated my memory completely. The feeling was powerful, everything was in colour, distinct, sharp and I almost called out the names of my invisible companions. It was if a doorway of the past had been opened and I had temporarily walked across the fresh hold.
As if an invocation had been cast I could suddenly remember and feel, to such a high intensity, the time, the circumstances and feelings of a time spent in this place. This sudden, almost epiphanic moment, however came with very mixed emotions. In a moment I felt gladdened to be experiencing such a profound experience, with the creeping realisation that the moment was becoming more significant the more i came to understand the moment: forming in high definition. The winding path through the now obvious trees seemed to emerge in greater clarity. Each sense was engaged, remembering something but also detecting something from the time of the original occasion. I was walking through a film of my past, where all details were perfectly accurate, but with the slightest of time lags for my brain and senses to catch up.
These emotions are, at the same time, also feeling the approaching pang of sadness as the the moment was quickly fading from my consciousness; as quickly and as powerful as it arrived. However, this time the feeling of loss was like losing a friend. I was grasping onto the time and the feelings that moment had stimulated. I looked harder into the shade of the trees, focused upon the moss covered rocks, listened intently to the wind in the canopy, watched the swaying movement of each trunk and branch, searching for more. Trying to extend the moment of recollection, but I had to let it go, it had almost let me go anyway.
Though I felt sad to lose this experience, I also knew (although the memory was now gone) it recalled a wonderful time in the company of loved ones. I knew I had been privileged to re-live this moment, i could well have gone back in time, it certainly felt i was there again.
It was place that had stimulated this memory, with the smells, colours and sounds of this the experience adding strength and profound impact.
The memory may now be redefined by all the knocks and scratches of life's often unplanned journey and maybe the memory is a way to gain a view looking forward. Towards yourself.
The sudden impact when returning to an old area, part of a walk, journey, smell, curve in the land can invoke the most powerful of feelings. The memories then come dropping slow, providing a moment to reflect and have some peace there.
In a recent experience the power of place and its impact on memory, was had on a very windy and wet day around Latterbarrow and Claife Heights.
Latterbarrow is a very humble fell, found in the far south east of the Lake District, with steep ground rising from the western shores of Windermere. The bulk of latterbarrow is connected to an extensive forested area that sits on the rocky protuberance of Claife Heights. It is where people come to exercise their dogs, have short walks with loved ones or be a worthy target for extended expeditions around the shores of Windermere. However, this is the lake district in its most gentle and benign demeanour. Here are gentle, bracken covered slopes, ringed by the green fields of local farms and the subtle white flecked daub of scattered stone cottages.
However, Latterbarrow, due to its open slopes and as a northern outpost of a small collection of Fells (within its eastern geography) provides a surprisingly intimate view across some of the districts higher fells. From this vantage point, Latterbarrow makes you feel very much part of the mountains you survey. They appear reachable, if only you stretched out your hand. One long step and you could cross the lake and be on the great ridge of Fairfield, or Kentmere.
I have walked these gentle Fells many time before. It seems it is always on wet, wintery days, but perhaps that is not a coincidence, but a factor created by the weather. The bad conditions directing me, subtly and subliminally, towards the slopes and woods surrounding Latterbarrow. The weather knows best, I would be much happier and more comfortable down here, in the embrace of forestry, carefully managed ponds and rolling, rocky knolls. Much better here than up there, in the ferocious wind and rain battered tops. Much better to appreciate the subtle and less obvious, where it is not in you face, but where beauty is in the simplest of things, and you have time and place to hear it at its hearts core.
On one such excursion I reached the top of Latterbarrow, having started my gentle wander from a little hamlet tucked into the north west rib of the fell. The day was typically wild, with heavy showers and strong winds that made, making conscious, determined, horizontal walking a challenge. I knew the top well, but having not been here for at least a year I felt some excitement. I know it sounds trite to consider the hills as friends. I know the sentimentality and over romanticising of inanimate objects and place is no less than me anthromorphologising, and extending myself into the environment. But is this not part of the process where place and memory become one?
Reaching the summit and it's modest tower felt good, very good in fact. Though I had to get behind the tower quickly to avoid the strengthened wind. Even at this modest height the wind had gained considerable strength. To stand upright I had to adopt a very deliberate stance where I planted my feet wide, weight balanced and shoulders tensed and leaning into the wind. A very exaggerated posture for such a low top.
From the summit I had extensive views across Ambleside and up through to the U-shaped Scandale Valley Fairfield. Here I look into the very heart of this classic mountain group. Then as I pan east there is the distinct northern ridge of Kentmere, with it's recognisable pyramidal shaped fell tops. Then, back west, there is the long view over Lingmoor to the Langdale Pikes. These great, rocky mountains can be seen from almost all corners of the district, but their classic view is revealed from Latterbarrow. From here the steep, craggy faces of Harrison Stickle and Pavey Ark are prominent. Lastly, and in an extremely intimate manner, is the close up view of the Coniston Fells. From Latterbarrows gentle summit the trampings of the past can be traced directly in the eye, but brought into sharp focus by the minds eye, as each step reminds you of past trips, the company, even the conversations, the weather, the battles against weather, and the joys of just being there.
Feeling a little wind battered it was time to move from the exposed top of Latterbarrow and join the main forest, by crossing a rickety stile. Everything now changed, from an open wild and windy place to a thick, tree covered enclave, quiet and wind protected forest. Perhaps it was this sudden change that was the key, but then it happened!
I knew I had been here before, of course. I could remember, with some clarity, my last walk through here. However, this time was different. It was if I had been hit, as I stopped instantly in my tracks. I was suddenly, it seemed, transferred to another time. that inhabited this place and not any time but specific. I could remember who I was with, I could recollect the circumstances, almost the conversation of that 'other time'. I was actually feeling the same emotions as I did on that very occasion; this place had stimulated my memory completely. The feeling was powerful, everything was in colour, distinct, sharp and I almost called out the names of my invisible companions. It was if a doorway of the past had been opened and I had temporarily walked across the fresh hold.
As if an invocation had been cast I could suddenly remember and feel, to such a high intensity, the time, the circumstances and feelings of a time spent in this place. This sudden, almost epiphanic moment, however came with very mixed emotions. In a moment I felt gladdened to be experiencing such a profound experience, with the creeping realisation that the moment was becoming more significant the more i came to understand the moment: forming in high definition. The winding path through the now obvious trees seemed to emerge in greater clarity. Each sense was engaged, remembering something but also detecting something from the time of the original occasion. I was walking through a film of my past, where all details were perfectly accurate, but with the slightest of time lags for my brain and senses to catch up.
These emotions are, at the same time, also feeling the approaching pang of sadness as the the moment was quickly fading from my consciousness; as quickly and as powerful as it arrived. However, this time the feeling of loss was like losing a friend. I was grasping onto the time and the feelings that moment had stimulated. I looked harder into the shade of the trees, focused upon the moss covered rocks, listened intently to the wind in the canopy, watched the swaying movement of each trunk and branch, searching for more. Trying to extend the moment of recollection, but I had to let it go, it had almost let me go anyway.
Though I felt sad to lose this experience, I also knew (although the memory was now gone) it recalled a wonderful time in the company of loved ones. I knew I had been privileged to re-live this moment, i could well have gone back in time, it certainly felt i was there again.
It was place that had stimulated this memory, with the smells, colours and sounds of this the experience adding strength and profound impact.
Symbols of a year passing
18th May 2014 - 0 comments
18th May 2014 - 0 comments
I cannot recall having heard as many Cuckoos as I have this year. Their two note call is heard echoing around every Lakeland valley I walk through. From Langdale to Torver and I every nook and cranny between. They are often seen and heard making their distinctive call from tops of trees and fence posts, the call a tangible statement to the changing year. A new year where everything begins to grow and the world (my world) is lighter and warmer. A symbol of hope and excitement, like the memories of a child playing in a field and all time is forgotten.
"Spring has arrived,
Loudly sing, cuckoo!
The seed is growing
And the meadow is blooming,
And the wood is coming into leaf now,
Sing, cuckoo!
Sing, cuckoo, now; sing, cuckoo;
Sing, cuckoo; sing, cuckoo, now!"
The rest of this verse tells us of the Ewes, the bleating lambs, how the land is becoming greener and full of colour as each tree and flower ascends; there is growth all around us, we grow.
However, there is a sense of anxiety created by an almost tangible understanding that this time is transient, and fast moving away, beyond our grasp: like a child's accidentally released balloon. How hard we try we cannot reach to grab it, it moves on, always beyond our grasp and we have the unfortunate standpoint to watch it drift and diminish from sight.
Acres of Bluebells stills persist in the woodlands and along the valleys, adding so much magic and beauty to the fast flowing Becks and rocky recesses, but they are fading. Already many have started to turn to seed. The clock arms move forward.
As the bluebell (and anemones, sorrel, wild garlic and violets) fades the Yellow Pimpernel, Butterwort, Lugwort and Campion ascend, but they only take the stage for a short time. It seems, after May is passed, we are on a roller coaster, Bell Curve, crescendo of time passing.
I sit here listening to another cuckoo and feel time is passing before it has happened, is this simply the human condition of morning our mortality?......
"Sing, cuckoo, now; sing, cuckoo;
Sing, cuckoo; sing, cuckoo, now!"
"Spring has arrived,
Loudly sing, cuckoo!
The seed is growing
And the meadow is blooming,
And the wood is coming into leaf now,
Sing, cuckoo!
Sing, cuckoo, now; sing, cuckoo;
Sing, cuckoo; sing, cuckoo, now!"
The rest of this verse tells us of the Ewes, the bleating lambs, how the land is becoming greener and full of colour as each tree and flower ascends; there is growth all around us, we grow.
However, there is a sense of anxiety created by an almost tangible understanding that this time is transient, and fast moving away, beyond our grasp: like a child's accidentally released balloon. How hard we try we cannot reach to grab it, it moves on, always beyond our grasp and we have the unfortunate standpoint to watch it drift and diminish from sight.
Acres of Bluebells stills persist in the woodlands and along the valleys, adding so much magic and beauty to the fast flowing Becks and rocky recesses, but they are fading. Already many have started to turn to seed. The clock arms move forward.
As the bluebell (and anemones, sorrel, wild garlic and violets) fades the Yellow Pimpernel, Butterwort, Lugwort and Campion ascend, but they only take the stage for a short time. It seems, after May is passed, we are on a roller coaster, Bell Curve, crescendo of time passing.
I sit here listening to another cuckoo and feel time is passing before it has happened, is this simply the human condition of morning our mortality?......
"Sing, cuckoo, now; sing, cuckoo;
Sing, cuckoo; sing, cuckoo, now!"
Footpath Hegemony
16th May 2014 - 0 comments
16th May 2014 - 0 comments
Footpath Hegemony
I rarely plan my walk. I jump in the car and decide where to go whilst driving. I let my mood and the weather conditions direct me. The final choice may change many times on the journey, depending on traffic, changing conditions, or as my mood alters. Added to this chaotic and random approach, I rarely use footpaths and defined ways. My direction is dictated by what ever grabs my interest.
It's not that I am irresponsible, I never (ok not often) take risks, but I am keen to find new ways over and around the landscape. I am not keen to follow (or be followed) by a line of people, all heading in a predictable way, along over used and overly defined routes. These 'regular' paths are like railway lines, so predictable, offering the same views so offering a repeated intellectual perspective and experientially confined.
I use the word 'confined' deliberately as the maps and guide books lead us by the nose. It's not their intention, but they have become the dominant noise. The received wisdom. The hegemony of where to go and we do not question.
Too often, for too many years I climbed the Langdale Pikes from the Stickle Barn, via Stickle Tarn. This is a dramatic and beautiful way up, but it offers only one dimension of what is a complex and diverse environment. There are more ways up these mountains and not only that, there are more ways and more things to see that are not shown in guidebooks or maps.
By heading 'off route' I have found new paths, like a route that I can only assume climbers use to approach Gimmer Crag. This is painfully steep path, but it leads you to breathtaking, cathedral like- rocky architecture. I have traversed the main ridge of the Langdales staying just North and below the main path. Here I found complex sheep trails that avoid wet boggy areas, come across all sorts of mosses and lichen and had the whole area to myself.
If we stick to the path, especially the main routes, these 'things' are never discovered and we only understand a thin, narrow perspective of our surroundings. We are in danger of developing a myopic understanding of environment, where only the immediate, direct, tangible experience is perceived. There is no broader perspective gained, or a sense of greater sense of 'place'.
The Irish poet, Patrick Kavanagh, wrote that it took a whole life time to know just one field. His argument points out how little we get to know somewhere (or someone) without spending our whole lives investigating and experiencing that place. I have come to understand that just following the same paths means we never get to know that 'field', beyond it's gate. Our understanding of 'place' becomes no more than that which is offered by others. It is not our own developed understanding, rather it is prescribed and therefore only a temporal and disconnected experience. We are seeing the world through others eyes and not our own, so removing us from the experience.
Break free of the hegemony........ it time to get off the path!
I rarely plan my walk. I jump in the car and decide where to go whilst driving. I let my mood and the weather conditions direct me. The final choice may change many times on the journey, depending on traffic, changing conditions, or as my mood alters. Added to this chaotic and random approach, I rarely use footpaths and defined ways. My direction is dictated by what ever grabs my interest.
It's not that I am irresponsible, I never (ok not often) take risks, but I am keen to find new ways over and around the landscape. I am not keen to follow (or be followed) by a line of people, all heading in a predictable way, along over used and overly defined routes. These 'regular' paths are like railway lines, so predictable, offering the same views so offering a repeated intellectual perspective and experientially confined.
I use the word 'confined' deliberately as the maps and guide books lead us by the nose. It's not their intention, but they have become the dominant noise. The received wisdom. The hegemony of where to go and we do not question.
Too often, for too many years I climbed the Langdale Pikes from the Stickle Barn, via Stickle Tarn. This is a dramatic and beautiful way up, but it offers only one dimension of what is a complex and diverse environment. There are more ways up these mountains and not only that, there are more ways and more things to see that are not shown in guidebooks or maps.
By heading 'off route' I have found new paths, like a route that I can only assume climbers use to approach Gimmer Crag. This is painfully steep path, but it leads you to breathtaking, cathedral like- rocky architecture. I have traversed the main ridge of the Langdales staying just North and below the main path. Here I found complex sheep trails that avoid wet boggy areas, come across all sorts of mosses and lichen and had the whole area to myself.
If we stick to the path, especially the main routes, these 'things' are never discovered and we only understand a thin, narrow perspective of our surroundings. We are in danger of developing a myopic understanding of environment, where only the immediate, direct, tangible experience is perceived. There is no broader perspective gained, or a sense of greater sense of 'place'.
The Irish poet, Patrick Kavanagh, wrote that it took a whole life time to know just one field. His argument points out how little we get to know somewhere (or someone) without spending our whole lives investigating and experiencing that place. I have come to understand that just following the same paths means we never get to know that 'field', beyond it's gate. Our understanding of 'place' becomes no more than that which is offered by others. It is not our own developed understanding, rather it is prescribed and therefore only a temporal and disconnected experience. We are seeing the world through others eyes and not our own, so removing us from the experience.
Break free of the hegemony........ it time to get off the path!
"Svmer is icumen in"
11th May 2014 - 0 comments
11th May 2014 - 0 comments
"Summer is a-coming in
Loudly sing cuckoo
Groweth seed and bloweth mead
and springs the wood anew
Sing cuckoo!
Ewe bleateth aft-er lamb,
Calf loweth after cow,
Bullock starteth, buck farteth,
Merry sing cuckoo!
Cuckoo, cuckoo!
Well singest thou cuckoo,
Nor cease thou never now!
Sing cuckoo now, Sing cuckoo!"
Over the last few weeks I have heard, but unfortunately not seen, many cuckoos. Very much like the arrival of the Swallows and Swifts, the Cuckoo seems to mark a transition between the seasons.
I have heard the Cuckoo singing from high up in the rock strewn hills of the Duddon Valley. It's plaintive 'voice' mirroring the wild, lonely nature of the Fells. I have just caught the Cuckoo's two note cry above the wind that blew, hard across the great expanse of Ennerdale Water. Here the Cuckoo's call seems at odds as this is a watery world, with Sandpipers and Wagtails flitting across the water. Then in more sylvan and therefore more familiar surroundings of Torver, the cuckoo can be heard, but not seen. You know it is perching on one of the Oaks or Beach Trees that fill up this wide valley.
Their distinctive call echoes around the hills and mountains of the Lake District, filling the soundscape with a magical, otherworldly essence. The fields are now filled with hundred of newly born lambs. The Cuckoo's calls merge in with the bleating of the Lambs, the trill of the Wren and the caroling of the Skylarks. Summer is Coming in!
Loudly sing cuckoo
Groweth seed and bloweth mead
and springs the wood anew
Sing cuckoo!
Ewe bleateth aft-er lamb,
Calf loweth after cow,
Bullock starteth, buck farteth,
Merry sing cuckoo!
Cuckoo, cuckoo!
Well singest thou cuckoo,
Nor cease thou never now!
Sing cuckoo now, Sing cuckoo!"
Over the last few weeks I have heard, but unfortunately not seen, many cuckoos. Very much like the arrival of the Swallows and Swifts, the Cuckoo seems to mark a transition between the seasons.
I have heard the Cuckoo singing from high up in the rock strewn hills of the Duddon Valley. It's plaintive 'voice' mirroring the wild, lonely nature of the Fells. I have just caught the Cuckoo's two note cry above the wind that blew, hard across the great expanse of Ennerdale Water. Here the Cuckoo's call seems at odds as this is a watery world, with Sandpipers and Wagtails flitting across the water. Then in more sylvan and therefore more familiar surroundings of Torver, the cuckoo can be heard, but not seen. You know it is perching on one of the Oaks or Beach Trees that fill up this wide valley.
Their distinctive call echoes around the hills and mountains of the Lake District, filling the soundscape with a magical, otherworldly essence. The fields are now filled with hundred of newly born lambs. The Cuckoo's calls merge in with the bleating of the Lambs, the trill of the Wren and the caroling of the Skylarks. Summer is Coming in!
Rocky terraces and discovered paths
21st April 2014 - 0 comments
21st April 2014 - 0 comments
Little Stand, Cold Pike, Great Carrs, Grey Friar.
Rocky terraces and discovered paths.
Anticipating a busy day in the mountains (it is Easter Monday) I deliberately chose an area that is quiet and a route that is not obvious (as it is crossed by a road). This road is the high linking route between Little Langdale and Dunnerdale (Wrynose Pass).
The sun is bright and very high by the time I get myself into the hills. It is quiet. It is wonderfully quiet and peaceful and my progress is only hindered by my constant stopping to listen and watch the varied wildlife and take in the views. All around are the newly arrived Swallows and Wheatears. One oblivious of me as they flit and fall through the air, the other chattering in disgust as they try to lead me away from their territory.
Climbing Little Stand is hard work, but exciting as there are a series of rocky terraces, each 10m or more high that can be climbed. The choice of routes across this rock depends on mood and ability. For me I take very modest lines, but I enjoy every step and feel elated as I pull up on the dry, secure, high friction holds. The sense of physical power, awareness of the medium I am intimately engaged in adds to the sense of self fulfillment. This is a direct and very tactile interaction with the mountain. The experience focuses in, small and subtle, whilst, in contrast engaged in large effort, both physically and mentally.
The summit of Little Stand, which is no more than an extension of the Crinkle Crags ridge, is isolated and serene. The summit cairn is accompanied by two small tarns (shown as one on the map). This is wild camping territory and I will be heading up here again soon with my tent to experience a sunset over the nearby Scafell Fells that rise in rocky majesty above the Duddon and Eskdale Valleys far below me.
A simple descent and gentle rise grants me access to the summit of Cold Pike. As I crossed the boggy ground high above Gaitscale Gill I came across a large number of canvas bags filled with large rocks. These had been dropped by helicopter and I can only assume this great effort has been to provide rocks to repair eroded routes. However, they have been placed a good kilometre from any obvious path! This makes me wonder; will the helicopter come again to move the rocks to their correct location, or will path workers have to man handle them over the rough ground? Both options seem inefficient to me (and the second option seems almost impossible, but I am aware of the Pyramids).
My last conclusion is that I have come across a 'rock storage bank'. This thought comes due to the distance from any main route, but also recognising this area is central to many popular climbing areas of the Lake District. Perhaps it is easier to store rocks high up in the Fells and move them over, what would now be relatively shorter distances(?) Similar to the logic of developing a moon base for expeditions to Mars. I guess this is an over top connection, but who knows.
From Cold Pike I drop to the Three Shires Stone that sits along the high road passing between Langdale and Duddon. This the meeting point of the 3 original counties that now make up this area known as Cumbria. They were original Lancashire, Westmoreland and Cumberland. The former losing its claim to some of this Mountain Real Estate and the latter two gone forever. Is this for the best?I do not know, but I am aware the history of these older counties can be tangibly experienced through the existing county boundary stones and markers across the district. Often useful navigation lines to be followed in mist and cloud.
My route now carried on up Wet Side Edge onto Great Carrs and to the memorial to a crew of Canadian Airmen who crashed and lost their lives high in these Fells during WWII. This memorial is both sad and beautiful as the waste of life is in contrast to the beauty of the surroundings and the nature of the memorial marker.
To finish the day I then headed up to the summit of Grey Friar and the took a long winding, indistinct path down the southern ridge. On my way down I came across a very old, man made track, not shown on the maps. This lead me,very conveniently, to my starting point.
I rarely stick to the traditional paths shown on the maps and therefore regularly come across these 'lost and forgotten' paths. What they were for is now lost in time, but they indicate how the Fells were once used, plus often provide new and very quiet insights into the mountains.
Rocky terraces and discovered paths.
Anticipating a busy day in the mountains (it is Easter Monday) I deliberately chose an area that is quiet and a route that is not obvious (as it is crossed by a road). This road is the high linking route between Little Langdale and Dunnerdale (Wrynose Pass).
The sun is bright and very high by the time I get myself into the hills. It is quiet. It is wonderfully quiet and peaceful and my progress is only hindered by my constant stopping to listen and watch the varied wildlife and take in the views. All around are the newly arrived Swallows and Wheatears. One oblivious of me as they flit and fall through the air, the other chattering in disgust as they try to lead me away from their territory.
Climbing Little Stand is hard work, but exciting as there are a series of rocky terraces, each 10m or more high that can be climbed. The choice of routes across this rock depends on mood and ability. For me I take very modest lines, but I enjoy every step and feel elated as I pull up on the dry, secure, high friction holds. The sense of physical power, awareness of the medium I am intimately engaged in adds to the sense of self fulfillment. This is a direct and very tactile interaction with the mountain. The experience focuses in, small and subtle, whilst, in contrast engaged in large effort, both physically and mentally.
The summit of Little Stand, which is no more than an extension of the Crinkle Crags ridge, is isolated and serene. The summit cairn is accompanied by two small tarns (shown as one on the map). This is wild camping territory and I will be heading up here again soon with my tent to experience a sunset over the nearby Scafell Fells that rise in rocky majesty above the Duddon and Eskdale Valleys far below me.
A simple descent and gentle rise grants me access to the summit of Cold Pike. As I crossed the boggy ground high above Gaitscale Gill I came across a large number of canvas bags filled with large rocks. These had been dropped by helicopter and I can only assume this great effort has been to provide rocks to repair eroded routes. However, they have been placed a good kilometre from any obvious path! This makes me wonder; will the helicopter come again to move the rocks to their correct location, or will path workers have to man handle them over the rough ground? Both options seem inefficient to me (and the second option seems almost impossible, but I am aware of the Pyramids).
My last conclusion is that I have come across a 'rock storage bank'. This thought comes due to the distance from any main route, but also recognising this area is central to many popular climbing areas of the Lake District. Perhaps it is easier to store rocks high up in the Fells and move them over, what would now be relatively shorter distances(?) Similar to the logic of developing a moon base for expeditions to Mars. I guess this is an over top connection, but who knows.
From Cold Pike I drop to the Three Shires Stone that sits along the high road passing between Langdale and Duddon. This the meeting point of the 3 original counties that now make up this area known as Cumbria. They were original Lancashire, Westmoreland and Cumberland. The former losing its claim to some of this Mountain Real Estate and the latter two gone forever. Is this for the best?I do not know, but I am aware the history of these older counties can be tangibly experienced through the existing county boundary stones and markers across the district. Often useful navigation lines to be followed in mist and cloud.
My route now carried on up Wet Side Edge onto Great Carrs and to the memorial to a crew of Canadian Airmen who crashed and lost their lives high in these Fells during WWII. This memorial is both sad and beautiful as the waste of life is in contrast to the beauty of the surroundings and the nature of the memorial marker.
To finish the day I then headed up to the summit of Grey Friar and the took a long winding, indistinct path down the southern ridge. On my way down I came across a very old, man made track, not shown on the maps. This lead me,very conveniently, to my starting point.
I rarely stick to the traditional paths shown on the maps and therefore regularly come across these 'lost and forgotten' paths. What they were for is now lost in time, but they indicate how the Fells were once used, plus often provide new and very quiet insights into the mountains.
Peregrines and Peacocks
18th April 2014 - 0 comments
18th April 2014 - 0 comments
Harter Fell and Green Crag
It is Easter and Good Friday. The Lakes is obviously busy. I have spent many Easters as a tourist in the district, so it would be hypocritical for me to criticise. This day, it's experience and it's links to memory, combined with wonderful sun bathed weather, catalysis strong memories of those past visits. The days are longer, the mountains bathed in a sunlight seem to hold time, where you are in today, tomorrow and yesterday all at once. Looking up at a seemingly mythical landscape, where the horizon dissolves into an ochre glow, you are held, balanced on the edge of this world and that other. The other where things were and could be.
To avoid the busy spots I stayed local and walked around the headland of Duddon. This western dale is far off the normal tourist trail. This meant I had a very quiet and peaceful day, which, by coincident, meant I better experienced the locale and came to know the area with a more intimate understanding.
Today could be characterised by Peacocks and Peregrines. I saw both, but it is not that I just saw both, but because their contrast epitomise the experience between different types of beauty. Overt colour and only living for a day as opposed to a lethal a predator, hunting. Both demonstrating amazing flying skills, both trying to find a mate, both full of the need for life, both full of that expectant excited behaviour that comes with spring. The spring feeling reflected in human behaviour on this weekend.
It is Easter and Good Friday. The Lakes is obviously busy. I have spent many Easters as a tourist in the district, so it would be hypocritical for me to criticise. This day, it's experience and it's links to memory, combined with wonderful sun bathed weather, catalysis strong memories of those past visits. The days are longer, the mountains bathed in a sunlight seem to hold time, where you are in today, tomorrow and yesterday all at once. Looking up at a seemingly mythical landscape, where the horizon dissolves into an ochre glow, you are held, balanced on the edge of this world and that other. The other where things were and could be.
To avoid the busy spots I stayed local and walked around the headland of Duddon. This western dale is far off the normal tourist trail. This meant I had a very quiet and peaceful day, which, by coincident, meant I better experienced the locale and came to know the area with a more intimate understanding.
Today could be characterised by Peacocks and Peregrines. I saw both, but it is not that I just saw both, but because their contrast epitomise the experience between different types of beauty. Overt colour and only living for a day as opposed to a lethal a predator, hunting. Both demonstrating amazing flying skills, both trying to find a mate, both full of the need for life, both full of that expectant excited behaviour that comes with spring. The spring feeling reflected in human behaviour on this weekend.
Lakeland Splendour
13th April 2014 - 0 comments
13th April 2014 - 0 comments
Went up Old Man of Coniston, Brim Fell, Grey Friar, Great Carrs, Swirl How and then back to Dow Crag, on a wonderful spring day. It was clear, though a cold northerly wind meant I had to keep wrapped up.
The hills were full of Easter visitors. This weekend and the following week will be busy.....this represents a sudden change to my new world as I have been enjoying (and got too used to) the hills full of only myself. However, I stayed to minor paths and ways, which ensured my day was relatively quiet.
It does amaze me how many different ways you can climb the mountains and how few people go off the main paths to explore. This is good for me as I can find solitude in busy areas, even on bank holidays. Wainwright has often been criticised for attracting people to the mountains and for making these popular routes even busier. They further argue his guides have been a contributory cause to the erosion of the Fells. Forgetting the irony and hypocrisy of these critics (as their diatribe is often found in Walking Magazines) they seem to ignore that Mr Wainwright offered many ways up the hills, often stating that busy routes should be avoided, plus he championed the idea that walkers should experiment and find their own routes. Unfortunately, few seldom do, the critics included.
However, I have (due to AW's guides) discovered new ways into the mountains, plus been inspired to 'develop' my own. Some are too steep, rocky, unclear, but some can be complete gems, opening up the Mountain in a new way whilst allowing me to enjoy peace and solitude. The lakes will always be popular and we should enjoys beauty with a sense of responsibility. So spread your horizons/ambitions, look for the new and novel as there is a lot more to the lakes other than Helvellyn, Stridding Edge and the Langdales (beautiful though they are).
Back to today - Saw lots of wheatears, which i take as a promising symbol as last year (due to a very poor spring/winters grip held long) there was very few up in the fells. Added to this, two days earlier I saw a single Swallow, flitting across a high tarn, south of White Pike (nr Broughton Mill). There must be few insects for this early, hungry visitor, so hopefully the High Pressure forecast for the week will cause a flourish of hatching, it's a long way from Africa to South Cumbria, (s)he must be peckish!
The hills were full of Easter visitors. This weekend and the following week will be busy.....this represents a sudden change to my new world as I have been enjoying (and got too used to) the hills full of only myself. However, I stayed to minor paths and ways, which ensured my day was relatively quiet.
It does amaze me how many different ways you can climb the mountains and how few people go off the main paths to explore. This is good for me as I can find solitude in busy areas, even on bank holidays. Wainwright has often been criticised for attracting people to the mountains and for making these popular routes even busier. They further argue his guides have been a contributory cause to the erosion of the Fells. Forgetting the irony and hypocrisy of these critics (as their diatribe is often found in Walking Magazines) they seem to ignore that Mr Wainwright offered many ways up the hills, often stating that busy routes should be avoided, plus he championed the idea that walkers should experiment and find their own routes. Unfortunately, few seldom do, the critics included.
However, I have (due to AW's guides) discovered new ways into the mountains, plus been inspired to 'develop' my own. Some are too steep, rocky, unclear, but some can be complete gems, opening up the Mountain in a new way whilst allowing me to enjoy peace and solitude. The lakes will always be popular and we should enjoys beauty with a sense of responsibility. So spread your horizons/ambitions, look for the new and novel as there is a lot more to the lakes other than Helvellyn, Stridding Edge and the Langdales (beautiful though they are).
Back to today - Saw lots of wheatears, which i take as a promising symbol as last year (due to a very poor spring/winters grip held long) there was very few up in the fells. Added to this, two days earlier I saw a single Swallow, flitting across a high tarn, south of White Pike (nr Broughton Mill). There must be few insects for this early, hungry visitor, so hopefully the High Pressure forecast for the week will cause a flourish of hatching, it's a long way from Africa to South Cumbria, (s)he must be peckish!
Spring?
03rd April 2014 - 0 comments
03rd April 2014 - 0 comments
3rd April 2014
Spring
"March comes in like a lion, and goes out like a lamb" (proverb)
Are there different types of spring? Obviously spring can start at different times, depending on latitude and altitude. The higher latitudes and altitudes taking longer to cast off the cold shroud of winter, whilst the lower, more temperate parts of the south start to enjoy clear skies and warmer stable weather. But can spring be different?
I have, since the first Snowdrops stuck their heads through the hard, frozen ground, been trying to detect the first signs of springs awakening. My observations have recorded the first Celandine emerging to greet a pale sun, heard my first Chiffchaff high in a Birch tree on a rare bright, but cold day in Eskdale, seen my first Stonechat of the year flitting from the tops of prickly, yellow sprinkled gorse bushes. I have seen and heard all manner of birds chasing each other out of their territory, or making their mating fanfares from the tops of trees. spring is here - but is it different, depending on where you are?
The last three months I have been in the Lake District. The winter has been wet and windy, with occasional deep snow falling on the tops of mountains. It has been cold, dark and often very wet. Regardless of these uninviting conditions spring has stirred. Each day the sun would stay with us a little longer and this has stimulated life to start ramping up the momentum. Though not a frenzy yet, all things are active, moving, growing, flowing, making themselves known and thoroughly immersed in their own creativity and self awareness. Spring's citizens have heard her clarion and responded to the call.
However, spring has occasionally faltered. She has only had a tentative hold over this kingdom. Her influence here is weak and depends highly the direction of the wind. A cold northern blast, or a wet, windy south westerly will loosen her grip. Spring vies for power, but it is not clear her claim can be sustained.
Now, when moving our viewpoint south and looking at the past week, here spring has been around much longer. Now there are not just one Chiffchaff, but hundreds. The trees and bushes are full of life. Tree creepers climb, Nuthatches ascend and descend like elevators and all manner of wildflowers fill the hedgerows (from Anemone to Stitchwort). Spring has a strong hold, this is her domain, her heartland.
The first leaves, from nodes, are opening along the thin branches of trees. There is a green mantle forming, filling in the bare, cold open spaces and forming a protective verdant sphere above. The colour of life is green.
But, is spring different?
To me there is a difference between the Southern and Northern Springs, beyond just one being more formed and developed. The Southern spring has more depth. There are layers to it that the northern spring will never achieve. The Southern spring is a Philharmonic Orchestra. Here there are complexities that have formed and work in harmony as they intertwine. Bursting up through the green Dog Mercury and fragile, white Anemone are the dog violets, bluebells, Sorrel and Wild Garlic. Following the score are Campion, Herb Robert, Cowslips and Dead Nettle, waiting for their Que. All playing to the beat of warblers, thrushes, black birds, tits and robins. An acoustic tapestry that is rich and complex.
The northern spring, is more fragile (and therefore more precious) as it's ambassadors are also pioneers. There are no certainties plus there is a need to be more self sufficient as the environment is alien. Here spring is a lone voice, singing out into the hinterland, reverberating around barren, rock strewn mountainscapes, a singular tone that spreads out, thin, but clear. Spring in the Northern landscape is a solo violin concerto.
But is spring different?
Spring
"March comes in like a lion, and goes out like a lamb" (proverb)
Are there different types of spring? Obviously spring can start at different times, depending on latitude and altitude. The higher latitudes and altitudes taking longer to cast off the cold shroud of winter, whilst the lower, more temperate parts of the south start to enjoy clear skies and warmer stable weather. But can spring be different?
I have, since the first Snowdrops stuck their heads through the hard, frozen ground, been trying to detect the first signs of springs awakening. My observations have recorded the first Celandine emerging to greet a pale sun, heard my first Chiffchaff high in a Birch tree on a rare bright, but cold day in Eskdale, seen my first Stonechat of the year flitting from the tops of prickly, yellow sprinkled gorse bushes. I have seen and heard all manner of birds chasing each other out of their territory, or making their mating fanfares from the tops of trees. spring is here - but is it different, depending on where you are?
The last three months I have been in the Lake District. The winter has been wet and windy, with occasional deep snow falling on the tops of mountains. It has been cold, dark and often very wet. Regardless of these uninviting conditions spring has stirred. Each day the sun would stay with us a little longer and this has stimulated life to start ramping up the momentum. Though not a frenzy yet, all things are active, moving, growing, flowing, making themselves known and thoroughly immersed in their own creativity and self awareness. Spring's citizens have heard her clarion and responded to the call.
However, spring has occasionally faltered. She has only had a tentative hold over this kingdom. Her influence here is weak and depends highly the direction of the wind. A cold northern blast, or a wet, windy south westerly will loosen her grip. Spring vies for power, but it is not clear her claim can be sustained.
Now, when moving our viewpoint south and looking at the past week, here spring has been around much longer. Now there are not just one Chiffchaff, but hundreds. The trees and bushes are full of life. Tree creepers climb, Nuthatches ascend and descend like elevators and all manner of wildflowers fill the hedgerows (from Anemone to Stitchwort). Spring has a strong hold, this is her domain, her heartland.
The first leaves, from nodes, are opening along the thin branches of trees. There is a green mantle forming, filling in the bare, cold open spaces and forming a protective verdant sphere above. The colour of life is green.
But, is spring different?
To me there is a difference between the Southern and Northern Springs, beyond just one being more formed and developed. The Southern spring has more depth. There are layers to it that the northern spring will never achieve. The Southern spring is a Philharmonic Orchestra. Here there are complexities that have formed and work in harmony as they intertwine. Bursting up through the green Dog Mercury and fragile, white Anemone are the dog violets, bluebells, Sorrel and Wild Garlic. Following the score are Campion, Herb Robert, Cowslips and Dead Nettle, waiting for their Que. All playing to the beat of warblers, thrushes, black birds, tits and robins. An acoustic tapestry that is rich and complex.
The northern spring, is more fragile (and therefore more precious) as it's ambassadors are also pioneers. There are no certainties plus there is a need to be more self sufficient as the environment is alien. Here spring is a lone voice, singing out into the hinterland, reverberating around barren, rock strewn mountainscapes, a singular tone that spreads out, thin, but clear. Spring in the Northern landscape is a solo violin concerto.
But is spring different?
Back of Wastwater
12th March 2014 - 0 comments
12th March 2014 - 0 comments
Today was beautiful. Clear blue skies that were captured in the quiet, still waters of Wastwater.
My journey took me up the long and winding valley of Nether Beck. This valley is quiet and long, but accompanied by stunning stream. The Beck collects water from the steep sided mountains that form the walls of this valley, and tumble down to meet the great lake of Wastwater.
As the valley twists and turns, very soon the view out is cut off. This creates a very wild and lonely atmosphere as you too feel cut off from the rest of the world. There are no signs of man other than the thin trail under your feet. Ahead are the soaring Fells, that seem far off, never getting closer.
However, I eventually reach the summit of Haycock, with its extensive views over Ennerdale and the vast wilderness of Blengdale Forest and Stockdale Moor (areas I have yet to explore).
I then followed the mountain route that linked the summits of Scoat Fell, Steeple and Red Pike. This rolling track forms the crest that surrounded the Nether Beck Valley, like the jeweled studs that form the circlet of a monarchs crown.
I had not seen anyone throughout the whole expedition, until near the end. Having descended to Dore Head, the col (in Lakeland called a Hause) between Red Pike and the fiercely steep face of Yewbarrow, I saw two walkers in trouble on the steep rock of Yewbarrow. Fortunately another walker was at hand, helping guide them off the worse of the rock. The route they were on is shown on the map, but can be desperate if not used to steep ground. All was well.
A great day finished with a stunning sunset over the lake. Scafell and all the adjoining mountains were bathed in a warm, orange glow.
My journey took me up the long and winding valley of Nether Beck. This valley is quiet and long, but accompanied by stunning stream. The Beck collects water from the steep sided mountains that form the walls of this valley, and tumble down to meet the great lake of Wastwater.
As the valley twists and turns, very soon the view out is cut off. This creates a very wild and lonely atmosphere as you too feel cut off from the rest of the world. There are no signs of man other than the thin trail under your feet. Ahead are the soaring Fells, that seem far off, never getting closer.
However, I eventually reach the summit of Haycock, with its extensive views over Ennerdale and the vast wilderness of Blengdale Forest and Stockdale Moor (areas I have yet to explore).
I then followed the mountain route that linked the summits of Scoat Fell, Steeple and Red Pike. This rolling track forms the crest that surrounded the Nether Beck Valley, like the jeweled studs that form the circlet of a monarchs crown.
I had not seen anyone throughout the whole expedition, until near the end. Having descended to Dore Head, the col (in Lakeland called a Hause) between Red Pike and the fiercely steep face of Yewbarrow, I saw two walkers in trouble on the steep rock of Yewbarrow. Fortunately another walker was at hand, helping guide them off the worse of the rock. The route they were on is shown on the map, but can be desperate if not used to steep ground. All was well.
A great day finished with a stunning sunset over the lake. Scafell and all the adjoining mountains were bathed in a warm, orange glow.
2000 ft Beginning
09th March 2014 - 0 comments
09th March 2014 - 0 comments
Over 2000 feet up, tucked under two craggy mountains, is a bog, known as a Moss in these parts. The Bog sucks up the water that has fallen from the heavy, grey leaden skies, to pour down the slopes of the Fells, streaming through crevices, over boulders and under rocks.
The Moss is made up of grass, sphagnum moss, peat, and is dotted with Bog Cotton, Asphodel and the stumps of long dead Birch, all surrounded by a swathe of heather. This verdant waterbed sucks up all the water like a huge sponge. If you tread on this bog it gently rolls under your feet, like some huge waterbed.
I have seen all manner of insects around the marsh. Damsel and Dragon Flies, multi coloured butterflies and Cranes in late summer. Often, as you step through this wetland, a Meadow Pipet will be disturbed, rising into the air with its indignant "peep, peep". And slowly, but inevitably the accumulated water, despite the thirsty roots of the mosses and liverworts, begins its journey down the hill.
The water, as if passing through a sieve, squeezes through the vegetation and with an inherent characteristic to be 'one' entity it accumulates into small drizzles, rivulets and suddenly a fast falling stream.
In the Lake District these streams are often known as Becks, which flow within the hard, igneous slides of rock called a Ghyll. Within these groves the water tumbles and crashes over a series of rocky steps, but can eventually fall over a significant height (forming a waterfall) where they are called a Force. Evocative names, with Norse origin, for a pervasive element that exerts its nature onto the environment it passes - making it wild.
Downward it descends, often with fury, but eventually reaching wider river beds, where the water takes on a more serene nature. Here the trout, Dipper, Grey Wagtails can be found. The banks of the river covered in the mini-sun like Celandine, that open up in celebration to the daylight.
The journey of this water, falling 2000 feet has been one of contrast and changing characteristics. At this time of year it seems you travel through the seasons at an accelerated speed as you follow the course of the river. 2000 feet up, winter still holds, but by the time you reach the main river Spring is firmly in control, as the newly born lambs play amongst the Daffodils that decorate the river bank.
The Moss is made up of grass, sphagnum moss, peat, and is dotted with Bog Cotton, Asphodel and the stumps of long dead Birch, all surrounded by a swathe of heather. This verdant waterbed sucks up all the water like a huge sponge. If you tread on this bog it gently rolls under your feet, like some huge waterbed.
I have seen all manner of insects around the marsh. Damsel and Dragon Flies, multi coloured butterflies and Cranes in late summer. Often, as you step through this wetland, a Meadow Pipet will be disturbed, rising into the air with its indignant "peep, peep". And slowly, but inevitably the accumulated water, despite the thirsty roots of the mosses and liverworts, begins its journey down the hill.
The water, as if passing through a sieve, squeezes through the vegetation and with an inherent characteristic to be 'one' entity it accumulates into small drizzles, rivulets and suddenly a fast falling stream.
In the Lake District these streams are often known as Becks, which flow within the hard, igneous slides of rock called a Ghyll. Within these groves the water tumbles and crashes over a series of rocky steps, but can eventually fall over a significant height (forming a waterfall) where they are called a Force. Evocative names, with Norse origin, for a pervasive element that exerts its nature onto the environment it passes - making it wild.
Downward it descends, often with fury, but eventually reaching wider river beds, where the water takes on a more serene nature. Here the trout, Dipper, Grey Wagtails can be found. The banks of the river covered in the mini-sun like Celandine, that open up in celebration to the daylight.
The journey of this water, falling 2000 feet has been one of contrast and changing characteristics. At this time of year it seems you travel through the seasons at an accelerated speed as you follow the course of the river. 2000 feet up, winter still holds, but by the time you reach the main river Spring is firmly in control, as the newly born lambs play amongst the Daffodils that decorate the river bank.
Belonging
08th March 2014 - 0 comments
08th March 2014 - 0 comments
Where do we belong? Is it where we were born, a long time home, or where fate eventually beached us on some distant shore?
It seems clear, to this Surrey born man, that some people find this question easy to answer. Their 'belonging' and ultimately their identity, is derived from 'place'. They have been formed and crafted by their location, taken on roles and activities (in the most natural way) that are specific to where they come from.
Some sociologists define culture in the terms of shared values and meaning, where we unquestionably know, feel, what is and recognize all that surrounds us. As a Surrey man this seems not obvious. The many regions of this country have identity and a sense of belonging, but I knoiw of no person who would proudly state they were from Surrey. Certainly not like a Cornish, Eastender, Norfolk, Yorkshire man (etc).
As I immerse myself into these northern lands this observation increasingly becomes more clear. I have been too often adrift and in need of a place that I can call my home...I come from...I belong. As I continue this adventure I wonder if I have eventually found my 'belonging'.
"My ways are circumscribed, confined as a limpet
To one small radius of rock; yet
I eat the equator, breathe the sky, and carry
The great white sun in the dirt of my finger nails"
It seems clear, to this Surrey born man, that some people find this question easy to answer. Their 'belonging' and ultimately their identity, is derived from 'place'. They have been formed and crafted by their location, taken on roles and activities (in the most natural way) that are specific to where they come from.
Some sociologists define culture in the terms of shared values and meaning, where we unquestionably know, feel, what is and recognize all that surrounds us. As a Surrey man this seems not obvious. The many regions of this country have identity and a sense of belonging, but I knoiw of no person who would proudly state they were from Surrey. Certainly not like a Cornish, Eastender, Norfolk, Yorkshire man (etc).
As I immerse myself into these northern lands this observation increasingly becomes more clear. I have been too often adrift and in need of a place that I can call my home...I come from...I belong. As I continue this adventure I wonder if I have eventually found my 'belonging'.
"My ways are circumscribed, confined as a limpet
To one small radius of rock; yet
I eat the equator, breathe the sky, and carry
The great white sun in the dirt of my finger nails"
Dales
05th March 2014 - 0 comments
05th March 2014 - 0 comments
Ingleborough from Clapham.
Today came with a cold wind, it was grey and with extensive views across to summit of Pen y Ghent. Added to this I heard my first skylark, saw a number of Golden Plovers on the moors plus some unknown black/grey bird (Tern?).
The Yorkshire Dales - "God's own country". The ancient, wild and windswept landscape seems to roll on forever, as steep, narrow backed fells emerge out of the bedrock like ancient dinosaurs. This place feels old.
Today came with a cold wind, it was grey and with extensive views across to summit of Pen y Ghent. Added to this I heard my first skylark, saw a number of Golden Plovers on the moors plus some unknown black/grey bird (Tern?).
The Yorkshire Dales - "God's own country". The ancient, wild and windswept landscape seems to roll on forever, as steep, narrow backed fells emerge out of the bedrock like ancient dinosaurs. This place feels old.
Glorious
03rd March 2014 - 0 comments
03rd March 2014 - 0 comments
"Glory! Glory! Hallelujah! ....truth is marching on"
Today was glorious. The sun shone all day, there was no wind, the mountain tops gleamed white from freshly lain snow. The valleys were full of bird songs and the crashing of flowing streams, cascading over rocks. Today was glorious!
Over the last week there has been a noticeable change in the air. Though not as glorious as today, there has been a feeling of apprehension - that Spring was around the corner. There have been Buzzards, circling in their whirlpool dance, challenging each other's claim to territory. I have seen all sorts of Finches and Tits zipping around, flitting from one tree branch to another. There have been Great, Marsh, Long-tail, Coal Tits, Green, Gold and Bull Finches. Then up in the Fells, Geese and Swans have been swooping down on the high Lakeland tarns. There is all manner of noises and movements noticed from twitching hedges to the lichen covered stone walls. The earth is awakening.
A particular joy has been the Song Thrushes, making their loud proclamations from the tops of trees. From these lofty platforms they sing out intricate melodies that herald the arrival of her majesty - Spring. And as she arrives she is accompanied by an increasing Avian soundscape.
In parallel to the beginning of life and the excitement of its pursuit, I have also witnessed the daily struggle. A small murmuration of Starlings flew across me, no more than 10m above my head. I turned to follow their flight when, at the corner of my eye, a shadow passed at a frighteningly fast speed. There was a sickening thud, followed by a pitiful scream. One of the Starlings had been swooped upon by a Kestrel. The speed and finality of its attack was as equally amazing as it was shocking.
This story of life had a further act of pathos. As quickly as the Kestrel caught the Starling, bringing it to ground, three Ravens flew at the kestrel. They harried and mobbed the Bird of Prey, forcing it to fly off, without its quarry.
A bird killed, but wasted, a bird used its skills and guile to perform this shocking, but necessary kill, but forced away. I am sure there is a reason and if there is no reason, perhaps that is the reason.
For now, what ever the answer, or not, today was glorious and it is good to be out and about.
He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored;
He hath loosed the fateful lightning of His terrible swift sword:
His truth is marching on.
Today was glorious. The sun shone all day, there was no wind, the mountain tops gleamed white from freshly lain snow. The valleys were full of bird songs and the crashing of flowing streams, cascading over rocks. Today was glorious!
Over the last week there has been a noticeable change in the air. Though not as glorious as today, there has been a feeling of apprehension - that Spring was around the corner. There have been Buzzards, circling in their whirlpool dance, challenging each other's claim to territory. I have seen all sorts of Finches and Tits zipping around, flitting from one tree branch to another. There have been Great, Marsh, Long-tail, Coal Tits, Green, Gold and Bull Finches. Then up in the Fells, Geese and Swans have been swooping down on the high Lakeland tarns. There is all manner of noises and movements noticed from twitching hedges to the lichen covered stone walls. The earth is awakening.
A particular joy has been the Song Thrushes, making their loud proclamations from the tops of trees. From these lofty platforms they sing out intricate melodies that herald the arrival of her majesty - Spring. And as she arrives she is accompanied by an increasing Avian soundscape.
In parallel to the beginning of life and the excitement of its pursuit, I have also witnessed the daily struggle. A small murmuration of Starlings flew across me, no more than 10m above my head. I turned to follow their flight when, at the corner of my eye, a shadow passed at a frighteningly fast speed. There was a sickening thud, followed by a pitiful scream. One of the Starlings had been swooped upon by a Kestrel. The speed and finality of its attack was as equally amazing as it was shocking.
This story of life had a further act of pathos. As quickly as the Kestrel caught the Starling, bringing it to ground, three Ravens flew at the kestrel. They harried and mobbed the Bird of Prey, forcing it to fly off, without its quarry.
A bird killed, but wasted, a bird used its skills and guile to perform this shocking, but necessary kill, but forced away. I am sure there is a reason and if there is no reason, perhaps that is the reason.
For now, what ever the answer, or not, today was glorious and it is good to be out and about.
He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored;
He hath loosed the fateful lightning of His terrible swift sword:
His truth is marching on.
Still Waters
22nd February 2014 - 0 comments
22nd February 2014 - 0 comments
"When despair for the world grows in me
and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting with their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free".
(Wendell Berry)
Most who pass this way overlook the humble Fells of Torver Common, but they are missing out on a quiet, but also rugged area that is full of beauty. A place where profound stillness can be experienced.
There are two Tarns in this area, both have felt the hand of man by being dammed, but both are no less worthy for this. They are quiet areas of water, each surrounded by Fells of modest height but, with outstanding views into the rugged Mountain Massif of Coniston and over the length of its eponymous Lake. The Tarns attract a variety of insect and bird life. They both sit quietly, unassuming, their waters lapping gently up against the moorland; the border between the abstracts of the living and barren landscape.
The encompassing 'mini' Fells seem to have a collection of summit cairns. This, at first appearance, seems over the top, but when you consider the cairns have been constructed by those who work this land (and you appreciate how wild and featureless this landscape is) their marker status is understood. On my 'improvised' journey through the area the cairns became targets, but their positions also helped determine a perspective and sense of scale of the area. Along with the understanding of size and with greater exposure to the environment came the feeling Wendell Berry identifies in his poem..."peace of wild things"......"and I feel above me the day-blind stars waiting with their light".
The two tarns, one at the beginning and one at the end of my journey add a perfect punctuation to the day. Their timeless and contrasting nature to the surrounding, rocky hills offers a pleasant, benign feel to the scene.
"I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water"
and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting with their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free".
(Wendell Berry)
Most who pass this way overlook the humble Fells of Torver Common, but they are missing out on a quiet, but also rugged area that is full of beauty. A place where profound stillness can be experienced.
There are two Tarns in this area, both have felt the hand of man by being dammed, but both are no less worthy for this. They are quiet areas of water, each surrounded by Fells of modest height but, with outstanding views into the rugged Mountain Massif of Coniston and over the length of its eponymous Lake. The Tarns attract a variety of insect and bird life. They both sit quietly, unassuming, their waters lapping gently up against the moorland; the border between the abstracts of the living and barren landscape.
The encompassing 'mini' Fells seem to have a collection of summit cairns. This, at first appearance, seems over the top, but when you consider the cairns have been constructed by those who work this land (and you appreciate how wild and featureless this landscape is) their marker status is understood. On my 'improvised' journey through the area the cairns became targets, but their positions also helped determine a perspective and sense of scale of the area. Along with the understanding of size and with greater exposure to the environment came the feeling Wendell Berry identifies in his poem..."peace of wild things"......"and I feel above me the day-blind stars waiting with their light".
The two tarns, one at the beginning and one at the end of my journey add a perfect punctuation to the day. Their timeless and contrasting nature to the surrounding, rocky hills offers a pleasant, benign feel to the scene.
"I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water"