Lake District life of a photographer searching the Distant Hills

Ascent of Dale Head

Are there any wild places left in the UK? Maybe wildness can be found in Scotland and some of the islands, but what about mainland England? The landscape we see today is greatly changed from 100 years ago. There is unlikely any place man has not been and then changed; tamed to his will. The land has become a ‘tidy garden’. Does this then mean the land is no longer wild?

In Robert Macfarlane’s book, The Wild Places, he explores the etymology of the word ‘wild’ and argues the roots of the word are from both Old High German and Old Norse (wildi and willr respectively) and their meaning infer disorder. These words, along with their meaning, have then been absorbed into modern English as ‘a descriptive meaning of willful, or uncontrollable.’ Macfarlane then goes on to argue that wild therefore means ‘self-willed’.

This definition resonates when ascending the steep slopes of Dale Head when covered in hard snow. Here the land is dominant, it’s will cannot be denied or ignored as I nervously kick steps into the compacted snow. The slope falls away, stretching further with each step, as if looking through the wrong end of a telescope. The intrinsic nature of this landscape is unrestricted and unlimited and I have no ability or desire to bring any order to it. I can only hope to pass through this wild place, unnoticed and overlooked, whilst, just for a moment, recognising the will of the mountain.



Newlands Fells

Despite the recent storms it seems Spring is waiting in the wings with a keenness to enter the stage and take her part.

The boulder covered valley floors are sprinkled with the white drooping heads of Snow Drops. Whilst all around there are trees hanging with the wagging lamb's tails (Hazel Catkins).

The trees and stone walls are a live with Dunnock, Chaffinch, Great Tit and Wren. They are all seemingly busier and more excited than they were just a week ago. The sun is out, the wind settled and the temperature warmer. If only, if only......this is an unsettled time, but full of assurance and declarations.

"Fair-seed time had my soul, and I grew up
Fostered alike by beauty and fear" - Wordsworth (The Prelude)

Approximatley 15 years ago I took a dear friend up onto Dow Crag, via the relativisticlly named Easy Gully.Perhaps it was better weather, certainly I was younger, fitter and more able than today.

Today was meant to be a repeat of fifteen years ago. We started off from Torver, a little Hamlet near Coniston. The day was grey and low cloud clung to the mountain tops. All the paths were wet and the streams overflowed from the recent rain and snow melt.

The route we took lead us up past old, abandoned quarries. These excavations merge into environment in a way that adds to the grandeur of the landscape. The quarries are filled with Birch Trees, the walls covered green in mosses, lichens, nest sites and the craggy edges of the quarry walls overflow with, cold, white waterfalls.

Higher we progressed, the darker the skies. The route eventually entered into the glacial bowl that contains Goats Tarn. The dark, still waters of the tarn is remnant of the ice age. On a day like today it is a mournful place, surrounded by steep rock buttresses that fall, fractured, into a broken terrain of boulders and loose scree. The tops of the mountains were hidden in a swirling mist with the colour of tarnished silver.

The next stage of our climb was up to the base of the buttresses. This required scrambling over the large, very slippery boulders and shifting screes. Each step upwards was torturous due to the ever shifting screes, but slowly we ascended into the mist.

Upon reaching the base of the climb there was an uneasy silence as we were no longer exposed to the wind. The silence was only broken by the clinking of the rocks under our feet, like some phantom Blacksmith at his anvil amongst the cloud.

I was already anxious. I had not been up this route for many years and I was not sure what condition it would be in. Adding to this uncertainty was that it was impossible to see up the climb due to the mist. All I could make out was a steep, near vertical gully (so it appeared in these conditions) full of loose stones and enclosed by green slime covered rock.

We set off, slowly but surely ascending, but slipping and sliding as we pulled ourselves over rock edges. Further up we encountered the snow that had survived the recent rain. The snow made the rest of the route a faltering climb as it was soft and covered holds, or worse, covered treachery.

I could feel myself getting more anxious and the main ridge, still seemed far ahead. Suddenly I slipped on the snow, I was OK, but had I slipped further I would have fallen a long way, down onto rocks. This incident instantly dissolved my remaining confidence - we had to go back down.

Looking down the gully (the view was down, through my legs) the descent looked just as daunting as continuing. However, looking at the snow packed gully above, I knew (for me at least) descent was the better of all the bad options.

The descent took a long time as care was required. Back climbing is always tough and the wet, slippery rock added to this difficulty. Eventually we were back at the tarn, feeling tired, knees aching but relieved.

With an effort to make something of the day we decided to head up the summit of the Old Man of Coniston. From the summit we looked over the steep amphitheatre that falls away from the summit, down to the village of Coniston. It looked safe and warm, and a long way off.

Today I learnt a bit more about myself, my limitations physically and mentally. Fifteen years ago I climbed this gully with little or no concern. I was confident in my physicality. Wordsworth's word seemed most poignant, particularly how the mountains can be both beautiful and fearful. There to reveal who you were and who you might be.

"Fair-seed time had my soul, and I grew up
Fostered alike by beauty and fear"


Wetherlam Summit View

Why do we enjoy walking in the snow? Nick Groom, in his book on the seasons (an elegy to the passing year) suggests that our intimate relationship with the seasons helps us understand ourselves and our link to place. If this is true, then snow and how it transforms the mountains into a much wilder and severe environment, surely helps us understand our own individual strengths and limitations when engaged with the environment. The event of snow certainly helps us view the landscape and nature in it's extreme. Where life and death, comfort or the groping for survival are most clearly determined.

Today would be a most wonderful journey across the Coniston fells. Though it was over cast and it was cold, the cloud was high above the summits and the snow was crisp and névé like. There was a starkness, not only in the contrast between the components of the landscape, but also in the power of the falling cliffs that surrounded the walk. Each buttress edge filled with hard snow, emphasising the perspective and, therefore, my small, fragile place in amongst this place that had its own continuing narrative of work, play, life and death. I was just part of this story.

The Coniston fells are a separate, but complex group of mountains, with a number of differing valleys cutting into the massif from all points of the compass. Today I chose to walk up to the large expanse of Levers Water, a tarn captured at the end of the Levers Beck valley, then taking the steep climb up Gill Cove, a wide, rocky amphitheater and onto main mountain ridge. The route then headed onto Swirl How, a quick excursion to Great Carrs, with its steep falling cliffs, a careful descent down the Alpine like ridge of the Prison Band (especially today as it was covered in hard snow). The final pull was then up to the summit of Wetherlam, where care was required as the route crossed hard, steep angled snow. Then a relatively easy descent down the main ridge of Wetherlam, back to Coniston.

My journey had been exciting and at times scary. I certainly knew I was not the master in this landscape and passed, as long as I respected the environment, only with sufferance.

The weather was atrocious. Wind, rain, sleet and snow. This would be a short trip in a very quiet part of the lakes. no one comes here and certainly not in these conditions.

At first all was relatively calm, as I headed up into the shallow valley of the River Lickle. This section of the walk used be enclosed in forestry pine trees, but after recent works the area is open. In my mind this is a better situation as the views are now extensive, plus, due to the compact planting of the trees, there used be a very claustrophobic feeling generated by the enclosed pines that ascended the valley.

However, the new, open slopes have the appearance of a war zone, or suffered major environmental incident. The ground where once stood trees is now a broken landscape of up rooted tree stumps, turned over boulders, exposed fell side, as if bleeding. The craft of the Forest worker is now far from that romantic view of the tartan shirt wearing lumberjack. Now it is bulldozers and machines that literally rip the trees apart. If this is what happens in the amazon forests I can understand why people worry. It is brutal and has no obvious sympathy to the environment.

The land does regenerate, but it takes time and there is no clear process of nature taking the dominant hold on this landscape yet. This is despite the few small pines resurfacing, the grass and heather growing in patches, or even the beautiful, chestnut Buzzard that flew across my path to perch on the exposed rock outcrop above me. The land has the look of a turned over mine field and few flowers grow here.

Once I reached the Hause the weather turned nasty. Nevertheless I headed on up, but with head down against the sleet. There was little if nothing to see as the mist descended in thick clumps, making the landscape unrecognisable and indistinct. I used instinct, not following any particular path, or line, to eventually reach the summit. The wind blew so hard I had to hug the summit Trig Point to stay on my feet.

I quickly descend, and not necessarily by free will, but the route needed care as the southern slopes of Caw has a series of rocky buttresses that fall long and steep.

Safely returned to the valley floor, I was wet to the skin and cold from the wind. Why do you do this? I had thoroughly enjoyed myself as this was my personal challenge. This time I won through and I was able to better understand the mountain by seeing it in these conditions. Plus, when the mist closes in this close and the weather completely takes over, bearing down, the mind also looks inwards, allowing time for introspection.

A thick, cold and extremely wet mist hugged the valley floor, which made the prospect of experiencing extensive views from the summits a forlorn prospect.

I was in Patterdale, near the very old hamlet of Hartsop. Here the steep mountains crowd in on all sides and, today the tops are embraced in a thick layer of mist, where all sounds are muffled, creating a claustrophobic feeling. This constriction was combined with the near vertical ascent to reach the first summit - Grey Crag.

However, once this challenge was achieved I would be then joining a very ancient route, one used by Roman Soldiers. This would be the famous High Street that runs from the south of the lakes, running high across the mountains of its eastern districts to drop into the north, near Penrith.

My initial, and very tough climb through the mist left me covered in fine droplets of water. However, eventually and amazingly, I broke through the cloud an entered into a world of bright sunshine and snow covered peaks. The low, lying mist was caused by a temperature inversion. A counter intuitive situation where the air temp in the valley is colder than that higher up. These relatively rare events are caused by very cold conditions over night, as the cold air has rolled of the hills and sunk into the valleys.

As I walked along broad ridges, once crossed by our Roman occupants, I was able to enjoy long stretching views across the whole of the lakes. These views encompassed snow covered peaks that thruster up through a white base of clouds, all surrounded by a rocky wilderness. All was desolate, lonely where not a thing moved amongst the barren, rocky, snow covered landscape.

I lingered long on the summits as the atmosphere of the day made it compelling. However, the cold began to spread over me forcing me to head back down. The only bonus to this was that the valley mist was now dissolving, leaving me to enjoy the remnants of subtle winter sunlight.

It had been a beautiful, but cold day and one that I imagine many Roman Soldiers would have experienced on their challenging march across these hills 2000 years ago.

Solnit suggests that time and memory can be explored whilst journeying across geography of the landscape. Where the travel and arrival can stimulate thoughts and recover understanding.

My quick mountain sortie was into the heartland of the Great Langdale valley and ascending the fell where my ashes will one day be spread - Pike o Bliscoe. This mountain sits off centre from the valley and is accompanied by loftier heights, but offers extensive views both down the winding valley and into the deep, rock strewn recesses of Crinkle Crags, Bowfell and the eponymous Langdale Pikes.

Pike o Bliscoe is every bit way a mountain. Every aspect is pyramidal, with the last climb to summit requiring some short, but stiff scrambling over steep, very wet rock that runs with water. These series of rocky ledges have seemed to become more severe to me, but this may well be where age and memory part.

I have climbed this mountain in all weathers and I will always remember (and hold the memory precious) my first time climbing these Fells covered in snow. It was a late November and I awoke to a tent covered in frost and thin crust of snow. Emerging reluctantly from my nylon nest the windy, rain crashing weather of the previous night had now cleared to reveal a dramatic crown of white, sparkling mountains. Each of the surrounding Fells was topped with a thick layer of snow and I knew I had to get up into those mountains to experience the wildness and purity of the scene that surrounded me.

Not only did I need to climb into these hills, engage with this new and exciting environment, but I had to record it. The only problem I had no more film for my camera!!! Therefore, I ran the four miles down the valley and the four miles back (in climbing boots) to hopefully get film from the small village post office. Luckily they had film that fitted my camera, unluckily I had worn blisters into my heels. However, the run back up the valley on urged me on more as the views revealed the pure beauty before me, white clad mountains against a deep, winter blue sky.

The weather did not stay this perfect, but my partner and I climbed Pike O Bliscoe, touched our first mountain snow, were in awe at the views and stirred by the whole experience of place and time.

Today was overcast, cold and wet, with occasional sleet, but my mind was regularly transported back to that first ever time. Each rocky ledge, the wisp of cloud hugging the distant buttress took me back and I felt a deep warmth and gratitude, even if all things pass.


Pike o Bliscoe from Crinkle Crags - taken at another moment of the past

There is sunshine and blue sky! Well there was when I started but soon turned into low lying cloud. My destination was Fairfield a domed shaped fell guarded on all sides by steep slopes and rocky buttresses.

My route was up Tongue Gill to reach Grisedale Hause, a col above the very impressive Grisedale Tarn. Normally this would be one of the busy routes up to Helvellyn, but not today? Today was devoid of all people except me.

From the Hause snow was encountered. There was not much, but it had collected into the deep and steep sections of the route up to the summit. These sections were unavoidable so required some care. However, it was fortunate the snow was soft, so i was able to kick steps to assist my ascent.

The summit was a murky, wintery, barren landscape. The steep northern buttresses held more snow and would be a very long fall if you strayed too close. Also, strangely, the summit had almost no wind. There was an uncanny stillness, but this was not enough for me to linger. It was too grey and I was getting cold. So heading south I followed the main ridge that rolled its way to the subsidiary top of Great Rigg, then taking the south eastern spur to descend down to Stone Arthur and the valley floor.

On my way down from Stone Arthur I met a older couple ascending. The time was now late afternoon. We stopped to talk and I discovered they were regular walkers, he was 77 and his partner in her late 60's. They were attempting their third round of all the Wainwrights.

I was worried it was getting late, as their ascent was understandably slow, but they were experienced and knew what they were doing. I hope I have their fitness when (and if) I get to that age.

The shadows were long and though the day offered a tepid, low winter sun it was good to see colour and brightness.

Every valley in the Lake District has its own distinct quality. This can be due to its combination of mountain and lake, or created by its dramatic rocky summits peering down at you, but with Duddon it is more subtle. There are no obvious big mountains, there is no lakes, but there is a seemingly endless winding valley, that is accompanied by an energetic beck. The valley changes at every turn and the seasons seem to drift by as you head further into the hinterland. Soon you are in the heart of the lakes,but it is empty of people and soon you are in winter.

Duddon is possibly the remotest and quietest valley in the lakes, but undeniably the most beautiful.

I headed up (and down) through the boulder strewn, Tarn beck valley, crossing bog, stream and tributary valleys. The journey was wet, my boots and socks sodden almost from the off, but also joyous due to the tranquility and almost perfection of light, shade, the colour of the rocks, bracken, silver reflection off the many streams and the ever changing sky against an ever imposing skyline.

This valley is always quiet. Other valleys can be inundated with folk in peak season, but never Duddon. Why? It is purely location as it is too far around the Cumbrian Coast for people to travel. In fact this whole area of Cumbria is almost untouched by the inevitable influence of the commercial, money making world that infects the central Lakes. Here the pace is slower and people work to earn money, but to live.

After climbing a delectably wild Tarn Head Beck valley, above the reservoir of Seathwaite I eventually reach the summit of Great Carrs. The mountain, from around 2000ft was covered in a thin layer of snow and hoar frost. This forced me to take some care, plus the wind had now increased forcing me to put on more layers and having to cover my face as the skin was freezing. The final difficulty was the sudden lowering of the cloud this, combined with the whiteness of the snow, made for a flat, low contrast landscape where each part of the mountain became indistinguishable. I was cold and did not want to be forced to use map and compass, but there are some steep,drops or long detours if the wrong route is taken. Hmmm!

From Great Carrs it is a simple stroll to reach the summit of Swirl How. This tops sits astride three ridges and in better conditions the views are extensive over much of south lakes. Today was a cloud and the summit edge had to be carefully reached due to the wind and slippery surface.

Retracing my steps I now dropped to the col and headed up the eastern ridge of Grey Friar. This quiet Fell looks over Seathwaite Tarn, Duddon and would normally also look into the heartland of the Lake District, with the great fells of the Scafell range. Not today with the cloud base so low.

Not wishing to stay in the wind and cloud I headed back down, using the main western ridge of Grey Friar. The route is uncomplicated and soon I was back out of the cloud and enjoying the last of the low winter sun.

Winter had arrived overnight and left the mountain tops covered in snow. At times like this the lakes are imposing and take on an Alpine quality and it is days like this my pulse races as a boyish enthusiasm takes hold as I eagerly make haste to get up onto the whitened summits.

Today's route would be over very familiar territory as I have been walking this particular group of Fells for over 35 years. I was heading into the Langdale Pikes, the most recognisable of any mountain group in the UK (and maybe the world).

As it is extremely quiet at the moment I decided to take the main route up Stickle Ghyll. The stream is a long and continuous drop of water that descends in a series of waterfalls and rills before reaching the main valley base. At one point there is a large 40ft waterfall that cascades wide and fast and is a dominant feature from the valley floor. This fall can be seen at all times of the year.

Though the sun regularly broke through the cloud, creating a benign and beautifully colourful setting, the rocks were slippery due to being covered in a wet 'lichenous' slime. I and to take care as at times the rocks were more like sheet ice. Further up the mountain the snow now covered the wet lichen making a medium for Torvill and Dean performing to Ravel's Bolero.

With The Bolero now an 'ear worm' I plodded on to Ravel's beat. On reflection this is apt as the drummer repeats his pattern for over 15minutes which mirrored my thigh burning ascent. And as I drudged higher, step after step like the final bar of Bolero, my ardour of the ascent abruptly ended on reaching the glory of Stickle Tarn.

The tarn sits in a glacially formed bowl and is a wide, flat of water found at just under 2000ft. The tarn nestles under the fierce buttresses of Harrison Stickle and Pavey Ark. These high mountains that guard over the winding valley of Langdale, stand broodily over the tarn. Access into their upper reaches is not obvious.

The weather now changed as sleet was carried thick and fast on an increasing wind. The sleet quickly covered the rocks making further ascent difficult. I visited the summit of Pavey Ark, which sits on the edge of 400ft drop, looking back down to Stickle Tarn, then onto Harrison Stickle, the highest of the Langdale group. I steered clear of any obvious rocky outcrops as the surface was now treacherous.

Though the weather improved a little, it did little to improve the security of walking across steep falling mountainside. Therefore it was a slow descent and it was good to reach the valley again as my knees ached from the jarring. Unlike Torvill and Dean no one threw bouquets of flowers along my path, so I headed to the warm fireside of the New Dungeon Ghyll Hotel.

Today I experienced some better weather. It was very windy, cold, but dry, so a huge improvement on previous days.

Today's journey started from the curving and twisty valley of Tilberthwaite. The valley was quiet with only a few sheep grazing amongst the old mine workings for company. Some sheep were also trying to find shelter from the wind behind boulders that line the fast flowing Yewdale Beck, but this looked a wet option as the ground adjacent to the stream was sodden.

My ascent was steep and with each metre of height the wind increased in strength. I started to become concerned as I knew the upper section of Wetherlam (the mountain I was ascending) required scrambling over several hundred feet of rock. The mountain, on this North Eastern side, rose in a series of closely linked, narrow ledges. These were relatively easy to climb, but they were running with water, so slippery and the wind kept pushing away from the mountain.

After some careful manoeuvring I eventually reached the summit where, strangely, the wind was less strong. The downside was that the cloud base had dropped, so any hope of a view was a forlorn hope.

I decided to descend, rather than follow my usual route over Swirl How and beyond, as I was keen to get out of the wind. Therefore, I took a gradually descending path alongside Swirl Hause Beck. The route wound it's way downwards wth steep, rugged and rocky buttresses crowding in on either side. The crags were now wreathed in misty raiment, that drifted in and out of the gullies and crevices of the mountainside.

Eventually I reached Levers Water, a large tarn high above Coniston. This is a damned tarn, as it was once a resource for the Copper Ore Mining that took place here centuries ago. It is now a beautiful, though rather somber tarn (especially today) that stretches itself out across the wide amphitheater of mountain and crag.

The journey back to Tilberthwaite was now relatively easy, but it was getting dark. The cloud was thicker and lower now and it seems the weather is on the turn again. It was a brief excursion in slightly better conditions, so a joyous moment stollen.

As soon as I left the car I was greeted with heavy rain accompanied by a strong and gusting wind? I wanted to get back in the car, turn on the heater and just be comfortable and safe.

Days like this you cannot help question your own sanity. Why do this? Why head off into that wilderness of rocks, steep paths covered by overflowing streams and be blasted by a devilish wind that comes at you from all angles? A wind that even blows your leg as you lift it to step forward, making it land not where you planned and certainly not somewhere you will be balanced and able to make the next step?

Rebecca Solnit (American Author) argues that, "travel offers the opportunity to find who else one is, in that collapse of identity into geography". I could not agree more and know not only my proposed walk would better define me, but it would also impart some of myself into the landscape! as a memory, that I could return to time and time again. Therefore, I pulled up my waterproof zip high to my throat, put my head down and wandered off into the geography of me.

It seems the universe wished to reward me for my decision as having not gone more than a few hundred metres up the marshy, though infrequently visited Greenburn Valley that I was visited upon by a Red Squirrel. I had hunkered down behind a stone wall, as another storm was rolling up through the valley, when I noticed the Squirrel run across the track 30m below me. I lost where it went, but next thing I know it is running towards me along the wall I am sheltering behind. Soon we were both face to face and only a few feet apart. We starred at each other for a few seconds, enough time for me to observe and fully appreciate how beautifully red it's coat was and how wonderfully poised and able it was in these harsh surroundings. It's claws nimbly held onto the rocks that made up the wall, limbs ready to spring away if required. It's dark eyes seemed to penetrate mine as if it was trying to see into my soul....should I trust this human? With no alarm it sprung off the wall and headed towards the only tree, I guess on its constant mission to find food.

After this encounter I carried on with enthusiasm, even the rain had stopped. Climbing steadily I eventually met the main ridge and I also met an almost impenetrable wall of wind. I had been in relative calm whilst walking up the valley, but now I was in the thick of it. The wind pushed me back, trying to flatten me into the soil of the mountain. This would be too much geography for me.

I fought on, keeping myself parallel to my route, but just below the crest of the ridge. This way I could avoid the main power of the wind. Later after reaching the summit of Steel Fell I gingerly descended back to Grasmere (the wind threatening to blow me off every steep crag I approached).

Near the bottom of the valley I saw a Lesser Speckled Woodpecker amongst a flock of Long Tail Tits. I was alerted to their presence by the almost elf like singing coming from the trees. Later, driving back, I came upon a herd of Red Deer, grazing in the woods alongside the road. I would, therefore add to R Solnit's supposition...travel offers the opportunity to find who else one is, in that collapse of identity into geography, it's environment and the life that they sustain.

The day had been dark. The sort of dark you only get in the North. The sort of dark you only get in the mountains. The distinction between day and night is subtle as the black lid lightens to dark grey.

The weather was still not condusive to head for the higher mountians so headed for Black Crag and Holme Fell. The tops of these relatively modest fells stood just under the foreboding roof of leaden cloud. The route to the tops were wet and slippery due to the recent heasvy rain.

On my way up I encountered two Buzzards who, in weaving, aerial dance, circled no more thsan 30ft above me. Their intermitant cry echoed around the surrounding mountains. Their plaintive song seemed to acentuate the barren nature of the fells and the dark atmosphere of the day.

By late afternoon the cloud started to break up from the west, revealing a deep red sky that extended across the horizon. With only the company of coots and ducks I was fortunate enough to experience this sunset from the now quiet and very tranquil shores of Coniston Water.

The whole country is experiencing a series of drmatic storms and the Lake District is no exception. Strong winds and flooded roads persist.

The few moments stolen between storms is used to walk the Fells and feels and like the rare and limited 'exercise period' granted to a solitary confined prisoner - there is a feeling of release, a sense of space, where all colours and smells are intense and brought into sharp focus.

Today I managed to get back up on the main ridge between Grasmere and Great Langdale. The Fells looked dark and sinister, with a fine dusting of fresh snow seen on the higher mountains. Occasionally the sun would break through the ink blue clouds, to light up the rugged fell sides, and all would be ablaze.

Since I have arrived in Cumbria it has been storm following storm. This has limited my exploration of my new home, particularly as many roads have been closed due to flooding. However, between each storm there is the 'quiet' where there is an opportunity to steal a few hours in the Fells.

I aimed for familiar ground and ended up climbing Loughrigg and Silver Howe, before descending to charming, slate quarry village of Chapel Stile. The greyness of the stone cottages starting to mimic the darkening skies.

Throughout the day the mountains were often resplendent, as Autumn colours seemed to be holding on for an extended stay. The colours almost vibrated when the sun, very occasionally, broke through the cloud. Unfortunately, this was only a temporary state, but one worth waiting for.

As the cloud lowered once again and the winds strengthened I headed into the nearest and cheeriest of hostelries.

As I am soon moving to Cumbria today's visit would be the last time I would enjoy the New Forest for a while. Every weekend, for the past 7 years, I have been traveling down from Guildford to walk through, around, over the New Forest. I have squelched my way across it's low heathland landscape, been blown around on it's exposed ridges, or sought shade under its leafy canopy. I have been here through every season and experienced rain, drought, wind and snow.

Over the years I have come to appreciate the beauty of the Forest and understand its wildlife. I now know where to find herds of Red or Fallow Deer, I know little used paths that can plunge deep into the woods like a track in a fairy tale. These routes wind down under the roof of leafy Beech and Oaks, crossing the small streams via rickety, wooden bridges.

Though I have never found a house made of Ginger Bread, I have come across hidden pools, the remains of decaying, fallen trees that no one heard and sunlit glades guarded by a parade of arboreal sentinels.

I hardly meet anyone when I am out, but the Forest is full of life. The famous and almost ubiquitous Forest Pony are a delight. They merge into the forest background, so well camouflaged as their coats mimic the colours of the trees. Their presence brings a feeling of peace and add a sense magic to the Forest.

As mentioned there are the many deer, especially Fallow Deer, that roam around in large herds and can often be seen silhouetted against the ridges of the park. Rutting time is an exciting time to see the deer (from a respectful distance). You will hear the Stags barking and if you are really lucky you will see them challenging each other.

Some parts of the Forest the majestic Red Deer can be seen, but for me the best is to come across the more rare and shy, though inquisitive Roe Deer. These quiet creatures will offer a challenge with a sharp bark, hop away a short distance, to stop and stare and bark their disgust again. Eventually they either lose the 'who will blink first' stand off, or get bored and move into the cover of the forest.

Other wildlife to come across are the Pigs! Big and small, they roam around freely at certain times of the year. I believe Autumn is best time to see them as they are introduced to eat up acorns and maybe find the odd Truffle.

Other than the ponies, deer and pigs, there are cattle, badgers, rabbits, fox, squirrels and a vast range of bird life. The birds literally flock all over the Forest, with great displays of Finches, Linnets and Hedge Sparrows. Each step across the heathland disturbs a Meadow Pipit, who will protest with a short and sharp peep. In Spring you will hear Larks caroling high above the heather moorland, or come across a Snipe, hiding in a recess in the marshy ground. Far off the plaintive song of the Curlew is a special treat.

Today I saw much of of the above, and in particular a majestic golden brown Buzzard that lifted off a high branch with one skilled beat of his wide, and graceful wings. The trees, as if sensing and Angel passing seemed to part as the Buzzard glided by and into the ether. Like the fading glimpse of the Buzzard, the Forest too will disappear into the mist of memory and like Avalon, be pulling me back as it is part of my destiny. I miss this place that I have come to know so well.

Purbeck is a small, but beautiful corner of Dorset and despite the busy holiday towns many parts of the area remain quiet and peaceful. The coast path is often empty and today was no exception as I was to meet few people.

However, it was unfortunate that the path between Kimmeridge and Houns Tout was closed, so a detour had been put in place. The path normally follows a precarious route, seemingly balancing along the edge of steep cliffs. The bad weather of last winter has forced the detour, as these cliffs are now unstable.

The alternative route is still a worthy path, with high, extended views over the coast. The view extends from Bournemouth to the East and pans around West, along the impressive Gad Cliffs to Portland and Weymouth. However, one is constantly distracted by the sea, as ones consciousness is drawn as if Mermaids were calling from the deep. A seemingly ethereal force that is impossible to ignore, beckons you to return to the distant sea. Fortunately, the coast path is regained at Houns Tout - a vertiginous summit that overlooks the impressive rounded bay of Chapman's Pool.

Though the day was grey, the sun always threatened to break through the patchy cloud. Sadly this never happened as the day limped along, never quite developing the energy and the will to break through. This also meant the day remained chilly due to the north easterly wind.

The Purbeck coast is magnificent, with a mixture of steep cliffs comprised of rocky limestone, Chalk or Purbeck Ball Clay. The more rockier sections are peppered with needles of rock, formed by weather erosion, that stand unsteadily on the edge of steep, faling drops. Along this coast the sea has an azure / aquamarine tint and the waves roll persistently in against the huge rocky barrier of land.

The geology and weather has made the cliffs an ideal playground of climbers who, placing all their 'eggs in one basket' abseil down to sea level, leaving themselves no other choice, regardless of the difficulty, but to climb back up to safety.

This wonderful day was enhanced by a pint in the Square and Compasses in Worth Maltravers. A village built on and of the local stone, with wide views over the Channel. It is beautiful, but has a strange unreal tidiness to it. It's as if there is a secret being hidden, and each curtain slightly twitches as you pass by. It does not take too much imagination to feel you have walked into a scene from the Wicker-man when in Worth.

The Forest was experiencing a glorious, sun filled day and would have been quiet apart from an obvious Fox Hunt taking place. No matter which route I took, after many deliberate diversions, I seemed to keep crossing their path. Perhaps the fox was using me as cover(?)

The progress of the huntsmen (and women) through the Forest was rousing many animals other than the fox. As often I would come across the Hunters I would also be meet a deer moving away from the main direction of the hunt. This included a magnificent Fallow Stag, with an impressive set of horns, set upon his majestic head like two Hurley Sticks. He stepped slowly into the forest with an air of pride and grace, only the alertness seen in his eyes betrayed his worry.

The Forest had recently suffered from heavy rain, which made the going very soft and wet. In many places the water, accumulating in the many subtle dips and recesses, had formed ponds and streams crossing the path. This combination of water, light and clouds made the forest feel wilder, revealing the Forest's ancient origins.

Later that day, as the sun set over the bare and expansive landscape, the Forest was bathed in a red glow of light, it's warmth regretfully passing like the joy of the days walk.

The day started and finished grey. The fact that the leaden skies seemed to drain the countryside of all colour was a shame, as the New Forest was in glorious Autumnal raiment. Fortunately, the golden yellow leaves of the Silver Birch seemed able to standout against the monochrome day.

These condition meant any meaningful photography would be a challenge as all depth and clarity of the landscape was reduced. That said I made an attempt at some slow exposures of a stream. However, my success was like the day, a little mediocre.

The New Forest, though it can be very wet, has surprisingly very few well defined streams. The fate of the main streams is precarious as they can dry up for a large part of the year. The regular waterless condition of these streams makes me wonder how the localised flora and fauna survive. However, the streams of the forest are always rich with wild flowers and insects and must supply important drinking water for the free ranging ponies, deer and cattle.

Today I saw a small flock of Wagtails enjoying bathing in a small stream. On a summer's day I have seen Swallows skim across this same stream, taking away a small beak full of water. These streams, regardless of their consistency, support a vast range of life and are wonderful places to enjoy peaceful reflection.