Some poems

Langdale

A transformation happens,
The lid is lifted from the world
And the land rises up.
Windermere, Wastwater, Derwent Water,
The whole reptilian glory of the fells,
Scafell Pike, Great Gable, Skiddaw,
Pike o’Stickle like a leviathan
Rising from the flood of Langdale.
The palm that cups Sprinkling Tarn
Raises us up onto Great End’s Band.
On this titled ridge
Our hands grip rocks.
Immy, the Mountain Gazelle,
Pushes her boots down on her apprehension.
‘You might call it “exciting”,’ she says before,
And adds afterwards, ‘I prefer it flat.’
Matt grips his own fear,
Finding distraction in others,
No pack on his back
Having served his time as Sherpa for the boys.
Great End, Esk Hause, Esk Pike
And then, like a gift, the summit of Bow Fell
Is all mine.
With an act of generosity, of grace,
The great unsettled stones
Convey me to the top,
Familiar ground blanketed beneath me
Under a sunny sky.
Evan empties Skittles into his mouth
And Erica finds another bottle of water
In her bottomless pack.
Dehydrated Coxy is dreaming of Primavera
But the only beat is the bassline
Of his pounding heart,
The only dancing his old man shuffle.
Another Band leads us down
To the Old Dungeon Ghyll.
Dave’s knees have gone.
I’m jogging.
As I walk back into camp I hear,
‘Hello Phil,’ from the twinned voices
Of Ailsa and Evelyn in the stream
And I float back on the warmth of that welcome.

The Obstacle
The obstacle is not in the way,
The ridge is not impassable,
The summit is not unreachable,
The snow is not an abyss.
My wilful steps take me onwards,
This path I have made for myself,
A ragged pattern of peaks and gullies
Tracing a line on the graph,
A line on the map, a distortion of hills.
My heart’s insistent motor whirs on.
‘Auscultation of the heart revealed
A soft murmur in the aortic area.’
It murmurs as I cross the ridge,
Climb the rake,
Pass the chockstone that is
Lodged in the artery of rock.
The obstacle is not in the way,
The obstacle is the way.

Shipshape

(Gunvor 1912)
Two tall mainmasts spearing the grey sky,
The topsails furled, drawing black crucifixes
Against the vanishing ocean.
The other sails are square and true,
Though shaded darkly –
Washing drying on a sooty day.
The fore-and-aft sails are perfect triangles of white
Tethering the mainsails to the prow.
A full rig that could drive the barque around the world,
Through storms round the Cape,
Through dark nights in Biscay,
Over mammoth graveyards in the German Sea.
A strong ship faring forwards strongly,
As if the ocean were endless
And sailing were just a matter of belief.
There is no ending if you keep on going
With a breathless wind to fill your sails.

Only an end has come,
The angle of the masts is all wrong,
They cant to one side
And the decks are awash
As wild white waves foam over them.
The ship is perfect but for the sea crushing it against the rocks.
It has heaved half up, stoved in.
The men who drove it forwards have all left.
Their perfect ship, holed below the waterline,
Drowned, wrecked, no more use in the world.
What seemed perfection was flawed all along
And in a moment, all that seemed endless is gone.

Grace works this way too,
Lives spared for the loss of something else –
Possibility, potential, calm sailing
Through untroubled seas.
A ship with a foetid cargo shattered against rocks.

In Memoriam: Jim Sanderson

I wanted to say a few words about what dad did for me, what he gave to me and how lucky I was to have had him for a dad.  As everyone will testify, he was good company, easy to chat to, a sympathetic listener.  He loved a terrible joke, something the three of us have picked up.  He was always there to support us, whatever we might have put him through – and I fear we put him through quite a bit.

He loved music and loved to sing, indeed would sing at the drop of a hat.  The Parish Hall Players in Elvington provided him an outlet for this.  I joined in for a while, in pantomimes and other shows, before stepping away.  Then one year they were putting on a performance of Calamity Jane, with him typecast as a character called ‘Curly’, and he asked if I could help bulk out the chorus.  I reluctantly agreed but as time went on my part started to build up, rather against my will.  My reluctance cleared showed through because, after one rehearsal, he took me aside and asked if I could deliver my lines with a bit less sarcasm.  Thankfully I was saved from public performance when my brother kindly gave me chickenpox.  So thanks for that, Mikey.

We did more laddish things too. We watched the motorbike racing at Oliver’s Mount at Scarborough and I remember seeing the legendary Barrie Sheen racing, with his back wheel skidding away from him round a hairpin bend as we stood on the outside.  Health and safety was less of a thing then.

We went to Church Fenton airshow a few times, watching classic aeroplanes like Vulcans, Nimrods and Harriers, and we were reminiscing about this the last time I spoke to him, how loud the jets were and how he particularly liked the Lightnings.  And they were particularly loud.

Being an engineer, he was into technology, like cameras, hifi and TVs.  One year he brought home a computer, a Sinclair ZX81, that he had borrowed off a work colleague.  I was fascinated by what it could do and soon became hooked.  We got a computer of our own and I gave up my dreams of being a fighter pilot for the more glamorous and romantic role of computer programmer, which has been my career ever since.

He introduced me to rugby too and we used to go to watch Hull Kingston Rovers at (the old) Craven Park with his dad, my grandad George.  I enjoyed myself and became a big Rovers fan.  One year we went to the Challenge Cup Final at Wembley, though sadly we lost.  Some years later he switched to watching rugby union, which he came to prefer.  In the end I switched codes too (to the horror of my cousins– sorry) and when I became a Sale Sharks fan, I took him to a few of our games, returning the favour from earlier.

He was one of the founding leaders of the Elvington Scout group and I joined up too, going camping and hiking around Yorkshire.  He taught me valuable lessons in map reading and navigation that I still use today.  We went to the Lake District with some of his work colleagues a few times, climbing bigger hills than you get in East Yorkshire, and that left me with an enduring love of the Lakes.  In later years we did a few walks together in the gentler hills of the Wolds, though he still set a cracking pace on the flat that had me scurrying to keep up.

It's a bit of a cliché that people live on in the people who are left behind but like all good clichés there’s an element of truth in it.  All these things that he gave to me and inspired in me, things I still do all the time, give me a way to remember him and always be grateful.

 

 

The Dales Way June 2023

The Dales Way runs for around 130km from Ilkley to Bowness-on-Windermere. Obviously the end section isn't in the Yorkshire Dales, but the creators of the walk thought that finishing at the Crook of Lune, in the middle of nowhere, wasn't very sensible, so they decided to keep on going. I had fancied the idea of the walk for a while and came up with a five day schedule with the assistance of a friend who would transport my luggage and shuffle us between each day's start and end points, and wherever our accommodation was.

Day 1: Ilkley - Burnsall: 22km

It started off wet, got a bit wetter, then settled into steady drizzle later. Whatever the sales blurb says, I have never found anything 'waterproof' that can hold off that amount of water. After a couple of hours, I was getting wet. Unfortunately, that encouraged me to race along somewhat, meaning I didn't give myself enough time to admire the lovely scenery along the Wharfe, beautiful despite the weather. I was also a little more tired by the end of the day than was planned, given my schedule.

Plaque on a stone bench at the start of the walk in Ilkley.

I didn't risk the stepping stones at Bolton Priory, seeing as a few of them were underwater. Groups of schoolchildren were sheltering under the trees nearby.

The Strid, a narrow gorge on the River Wharfe. Given how dry it had been in all the weeks leading up to my walk (yeah, cheers), it could have been a lot less dramatic here.

There were lots of bridges and lots of crossings and re-crossings of the Wharfe. After this point I put my camera away as it was getting too wet, as you can tell from the spots on the lens. It was a great relief to arrive, dripping, a little out of sorts, at the Red Lion in Burnsall.

Day 2: Burnsall - Hubberholme: 25km

After an excellent overnight stay at the Forester's Arms in Grassington, the first of our two nights there, I was dropped back at Burnsall in much finer weather, allowing more time for the views. This is Loup Scar.

As well as bridges, this walk featured a lot of stepping stones. Hebden's narrow bridge offers an alternative to these but I used the steps.

These ones lead to Linton Church, a slight diversion off the path.

Linton Falls.

After passing back through Grassington, the route climbs onto the edge of the hills, following limestone scars to parallel the river's course, here at Conistone Dib. It was pleasant, easy walking up there, with few people around.

Conistone Pie, a rotund outcrop of stone, is too much of a temptation not to climb. The views down Littondale and Upper Wharfedale were excellent.

After Kettlewell, where I passed a couple chatting to their two alpacas in the front garden, the path returned to the river. I pushed on past Starbotton and Buckden to arrive, somewhat weary-legged in the heat, at the George, a popular place for Dales Wayers to stay, it seemed, though we were back at Grassington after a couple of pints.

Day 3: Hubberholme - Dent: 34km

I had given myself a bit of a challenge on this walk. It's mostly pretty flat, so I thought that I could get away with some long days. Flat or not, this was tough going. The scenery of the higher reaches of the Wharfe near Beckermonds is rather nice though. It felt like being in the heart of the Dales. Again, it is easy valley walking.

I was following the 'watershed alternative' route, so at Cam Houses, I turned right and switched onto the Ribble Way to tmke my way across the tops. It was, for me, the best section, with straightforward walking on the Pennine Bridleway and with huge views to all kinds of hills whose names I didn't know (except, obviously, for the Yorkshire Three Peaks). Once again, out of the valleys, it was very quiet.

Climbing Great Knoutberry Hill is optional  and, perhaps foolishly, I decided to add this too. In retrospect I should have dropped down Arten Gill to give myself an easier day but a certain kind of stubbornness took over and I hauled myself up to the highest point of the walk at 672m.

After a lot of road walking from Dent Station to Lea Yeat, I had a lot of valley walking through Dentdale before arriving at the Sun Inn, our rooms for the night. By this point I was footsore and something like a zombie having pushed along overgrown paths and stumbling on hidden roots and rocks. A few pints and a meal at the George and Dragon (just behind me when I took this picture; the Sun doesn't do food) helped make things better. It had been a hot day and I had drunk pretty much all my 2.5l of water on the way.

Day 4: Dent - Burneside: 34km

Obviously two long days back to back is madness, but I was locked into my schedule and determined to do it. Each morning I set off feeling pretty good and then got wearier and slower as the day progressed. There was a slight drizzle at first, not warranting a waterproof, before the day settled into a blanket of grey warmth. Dentdale was green and lush.

After a slight climb, the path drops towards Sedbergh and the Howgill Fells before swinging west again to reach the Lune Valley. The Howgills are in view all along this stretch as you head north. It was a beautiful, peaceful area, with the river running gently over rocks.

Crook of Lune Bridge.

Lowgill Viaduct. The end of the Dales with the M6 roaring in the background. After this was a lot of dispiriting wandering through farmland, switching direction, missing turns (the signage was poor), and watching the rain arrive over the Sleddale fells before falling on me for hours. I stumbled, dripping once more into the Jolly Anglers in Burneside, glad to take the weight off my aching feet.

Day 5: Burneside - Bowness: 16km

We stayed in a cottage in Kendal and had a great night - dinner at Ye Old Fleece and pints at the Indie Craft Bar. The relief of having a short day to finish with put me in a decent mood. First there was a walk along the River Kent to Staveley, then some low, rolling countryside, punctuated with rocky lumps and bumps. It gave the landscape a proper Cumbrian feel to it, and I enjoyed the familiarity of that.

It was dry, after a brief shower in the morning, but with a chilly wind higher up. There were no difficulties with the terrain or the route-finding today, and in no time at all, it seemed, I arrived at Ilkley's twin bench, just on the outskirts of Bowness. All that was left was to wander into horribly busy Bowness, meet my friend at Boater's Bar then head back to Kendal for celebratory drinks.

The walk was a bit of a lesson to me to think more carefully about my abilities. I've done lots of multiday walking and long distance routes but never anything with such long days back to back. I had rather overestimated what I was capable of, or rather, because I suffered no real problem (tendons, muscles, blisters), I had overestimated what I could do and still enjoy. Long days are fine for me as one-offs, but it would seem better to take my time over these multiday routes and spend more time enjoying them, not enduring them.

I've walked in the Dales lots of times in the past and done all the obvious hills. This walk gave me a different perspective, readjusted my viewpoint and gave me ideas for visiting some of the more out-of-the-way areas. There's a lot of them and I've been inspired to go and explore some more. Perhaps that's the point.
 

Castlerigg to Grasmere 9th June 2023

Having an unexpectedly free day at work, I immediately booked annual leave in order to take advantage of the continuing warm and dry weather. I had planned this route some time ago and now had the perfect opportunity to put it into practice. After an early start, I parked up just outside Grasmere and waited for the 555 bus, which I had passed near Staveley on my way up. The £2 bus cap is still in operation and it seems too good to miss. A line from a Neil Rollinson poem, which always comes to mind when I see this bus, goes, 'Empty your wallet and take a seat on the 555 to Keswick.' Not at the moment, thank goodness.

After disembarking at Castlerigg Farm and walking up the road to Rakefoot, there was a steady climb up to Walla Crag, giving a fabulous view over Derwent Water and Keswick.

And in the other direction to Cat Bells and the Newlands Fells behind it.

There was a lot of bog cotton out on the climb up Bleaberry Fell, looking to Skiddaw and Blencathra.

Bleaberry Fell summit

There was a steep final pull up to High Seat.

Even after this long spell of dry weather, I'm sure the Pewits would have wetted a few boots. Not a problem these days with the flagged path.

I was feeling good and it was a grand day. 'It doesn't get much better than this,' said a bloke coming the other way, and I had to agree with him. Armboth Fell looked too tempting to be passed by, although that had been my original plan. And who can resist Wainwright's advocacy of the fell as 'not really worth climbing'.

There had been a path out to Armboth but nothing leading me back on my way, so I had to contend with heather and tussock grass for a while. It would have been much worse had it been wet.

This tarn on Long Moss was alive with dragonflies, damselflies, water boatmen and other surface-skaters.

Blea Tarn

Standing Crag.

Finally made the summit of Ullscarf. It got a little busier from here but wasn't overrun with people.

I had various options to return to Grasmere but I decided to carry on along the ridge where another slog brought me onto High Raise with views of Bow Fell and distant Scafell Pike.

From Sergeant Man I could glimpse Stickle Tarn poking out behind Pavey Ark.

I took the wrong path coming off Codale Head and discovered I hadn't downloaded the maps to my phone (having upgraded to the latest software). It was back to map and compass to get myself back on track to Tarn Crag from where I could see down to Easedale and Grasmere somewhere in front.

Sourmilk Gill looking rather lactose-free.

It got hotter and hotter the further down I went, like lowering yourself into a hot swimming pool and letting the water close suffocatingly over your head. Thankfully Tweedie's Bar was waiting for me with a cooling pint.

Lincolnshire Wolds

While in Lincolnshire for a party, I took the opportunity to have a walk in the Wolds, somewhere I am very unfamiliar with.

Typical scenery between Belchford and Fulletby.

A distant roe deer.

Bluebells.

St Margaret's Church, Somersby. Alfred, Lord Tennyson, was born and grew up in the village. His father was rector of this church and inside is a bust of the poet and a selection of Tennyson merchandise is for sale. From the Lady of Shalott:

On either side the river lie

Long fields of barley and of rye,

That clothe the wold and meet the sky 

Guinea Fowl.

Warden Hill, north of Somersby.

Glebe Farm, near Belchford.

The route was Belchford - Fulletby - Salmonby - Somersby - Tetford - Belchford. About 20km. I got it from Trail Magazine (via OS Maps) and adapted it a bit. Easy walking, very gentle hills, decent pint in the Blue Bell in Belchford.

Skiddaw and Bassenthwaite

After a night in Cockermouth, I made an early start for Peter House Farm, heading east into the rising sun.  It was a perfect morning and the hills looked astonishing as I pulled off the main road and headed up the narrow lanes, thinking I wouldn’t like to meet anyone coming the other way (I did on my return later in the day, and it was awful squeezing past them).  It was all quiet and I was the first person to park up in the small layby.  There’s always an eagerness to get going when the day is so good and the land is quiet, I want to have it all to myself.

A tarmac lane led across the fields full of Herdwicks.  Another bloke was walking his dog in the opposite direction to me.  ‘Beautiful day,’ he said.  ‘Aye,’ I replied, ‘Grand.’  A performative northern-ness emerges from me in these encounters, I suppose because I’m trying to assert my rightness to be there, my birth-right possession of the north.  It’s a kind of defensiveness too, a plea to be allowed to walk there.

There was a van parked at the end of the tarmac but no one around.  Just after here I turned off the main track to Skiddaw House and looked for the path up the fellside between Dead Crags and Dead Beck.  It was an official route but looked horrendously steep.  I had chosen it because I had wanted to avoid the horrendous steepness of Birkett Edge and the option of switching routes hovered in my mind.  This was a more direct way though, so I stuck with it.  At first I failed to find any real path and slowly stepped up the grass tussocks almost like climbing a ladder.  It was very hard going but for a while I didn’t feel too bad.  Eventually though my calves started stinging with lactic acid and I started to feel weary, zig-zagging left and right to try and ease the gradient.  Something like a path finally appeared, though it was still as steep, and bit by bit it led me to the top of Bakestall.  The compensation for all this effort was the view, especially to the low-lying country north and west.  The hills of Galloway were perfectly visible, not just the usual sight of Criffel, but something snowy-topped even further north.

The blue sky continued to glow overhead as I trudged up the slopes towards Skiddaw.  The wire fence that took a sharp turn after climbing Birkett Edge was coated in places with rime ice.  Under the glare of the sun, short sections of ice from each individual section of wire had fallen onto the ground, like tumbled icicles or a fancy dessert.

There was still no one around until I approached the summit of Skiddaw, and then the hordes appeared.  Just before I reached the trig point, typically, some woman sat herself down on the base to laze around and hog it to herself.  I contented myself with the topographic pillar and gazed out at the western fells.  Each peak was picked out in perfect clarity, the still-brown slopes folded into the distance.  It would have taken an age to name each one but I let my eye rest on a few and let the memories of the times I had climbed them fill my mind.  There was a slight breeze, making it feel quite chilly, so I stopped behind one of the shelters to eat an apple and to contemplate the view.  I was joined by some noisy southerners who were looking for a geocache, so I packed my bag and moved on.

It was so glorious and, after the assault on Dead End (as I shall name the ascent), I had recovered my energy, so I added a quick out-and-back visit to Skiddaw Little Man.  Again, the reward for this was a superb view, passing even that of Skiddaw itself.  A curl of smoke rose from a field near Applethwaite, Derwent Water glowed a sublime blue, and the hills marched onwards before me.  It was worth the detour.

The drop off towards Sale How was rather boggy, particularly in the col and then nearer the bottom.  A few folk were ascending there as I walked towards Skiddaw House.  Ravens were calling from the faded larches around the building and there were some blokes climbing onto the roof, presumably doing repairs rather than anything nefarious, as I sat down for a bite to eat in a warmer spot.  Skylarks had been singing over the grasslands on my way down, with mighty Skiddaw looming behind, and a brown bird hopped about in front of me, though I couldn’t tell if it was skylark or meadow pipit or something else.

The road back to Dash Falls took me a little way before I branched off to climb Great Calva.  The path was a narrow trod between heather, boggy in places.  At one point I startled a basking lizard, warming itself in the midday sun.  Beneath the heather, sheltered from the sun, puddles were still glazed with ice.  It was a slow slog, but I was pleased my legs weren’t protesting too much, and I could make my way up without feeling I was going over my limit.  The top, nevertheless, was a relief, not just for the end of climbing, but for the views of the lonely countryside at the back of the superstar twins of Blencathra and Skiddaw.  There was a 360° view from the summit, looking north to Great Sca Fell, east down the River Caldew, south to St John’s in the Vale and Dunmail Raise, and west to Skiddaw’s slopes.  If there were people in that landscape, they were lost in its vastness.  I felt lord of all I could see.

The first part of my long walk out was over boggy terrain to the foot of Knott.  Here I turned left down a narrow, craggy, and very beautiful little valley – Hause Beck, AW identifies it as – which led to pastureland lower down.  The path curved around the fellsides in utter tranquillity and I felt I could walk here forever, gentle scenery all around, my legs working perfectly, the sun shining.

Across the road at Orthwaite, I followed the badly signposted Cumbria Way through fields of ewes and lambs, the first I had seen except from a moving vehicle, until I came to Park Wood.  A lot of the trees had been cleared, presumably because they are non-native spruce, and the forestry road I used passed through scenes of desolation and abandonment before dipping down towards the village of Bassenthwaite.  Just on the edge of the village was a little stand of trees with a profusion of celandines underneath them and also some primroses tucked under some banking.

After a refreshing pint or two in the Sun Inn, I finished my walk through more fields full of lambs.  It was surprising to find them so quiet as they usually kick up quite a racket.  Some of them looked very new indeed, not entirely confident in their ability to stand upright.  Some were a little lost, looking for their real mother.  I tried to keep my distance, not to disturb them, even if it was hard to keep moving in the sodden, clay-rich ground.

As I approached my car, I looked up again to the slopes of Skiddaw, still looking marvellous.  I felt that I could do the whole round again, just to be part of those beautiful hills for as long as possible.  If only my legs would have carried me that far.