Wild Boar, Wild Fells, Wild Orchids and Golden Plovers
19th June 2014
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.