Category: Trip Reports
From grey to blue to grey again
14th March 2015 My last big walk of 2013 took me to Derbyshire only a few days before that Christmas. In fact, I flew across to Ireland the day after I undertook a hike that started from Monyash and finished in Bakewell after taking in Lathkill Dale as well as two very full rivers, Lathkill and Wye. In the days before this, there were shorter strolls too. First, there was a morning visit to Buxton with designs on making a photo of Grinlow Tower in my head. The advance of clouds from the west put paid to that, so another visit in 2014 was needed and there has been a useful one in 2015 too. There was more in the way of blue skies, and sunshine on an afternoon visit to Lyme Park that followed on the day before my final incursion into Derbyshire of the year. 2013 had seen a lot of these and the Peak District album in my online photo gallery benefited a lot from such excursions.
What I have yet to add to it is a photo of Lathkill Dale. The prospect of revisiting the dale has recurred in my mind a few times over the last few months only for my being able to summon enough energy to make it happen. It remains outstanding for 2015. The cause in 2013 was a grey start to the walk from Monyash. There was no square of blue sky to relieve the greyness as I passed through the village and along the road towards the path into Lathkill Dale.
All was quiet and peaceful at this stage of the walk. As I went down through the dry part of the dale, there was but one person about, and she was going the other way. The only words exchanged were greetings appropriate to the time of day. Limestone outcrops much like what you would find around Dovedale lay above me without much in the way of unrestricted sunshine to light them. It is not that there was not a patch of blue sky to give a pleasant backdrop, but the clouds were rather too keen on imprisonment of the sun for my liking.
After a kilometre or two of trotting along a dry dale floor, it was time to meet the River Lathkill. December 2013 was a month of much rain, and the torrent that burst forth from a cave on the side of the dale bore testament to this just as clearly as all the flooding or the Somerset Levels. The volume of water scarcely could be contained by the low banks, which meant that much of the normal line of the path was submerged. That ensure that picking steps involved more in the way of concentration, and there were times when going higher proved necessary as well. Any weirs on the river's course may have been there to reduce downstream flooding, but they might have caused the river to flow all around its upper dale.
In time, what started as meadow became woodland that was partially trespassed by river waters. Palmerston Wood kept me occupied as I passed through it on my way towards Alport. Around Over Haddon, the woods turned into pasture and there were more folk about. More woods followed before Conksbury Bridge was reached. All grew very quiet after this point where I crossed the Lathkill to continue to Alport. The sun was doing better in its attempts at cloud avoidance at this stage and I spent some time trying to make something photogenic out of the wooded slopes across from me. Sadly, clouds won out again as I approached Alport where an intriguing sign directed towards vagabonds was sighted attached to the gable end of a house. From my reading of history, this thinking may date from a time before the existence of police services that we have today and when villagers had duties in relation to enforcement of laws and by-laws.
After lingering in Alport a while to see if the sun was about its magic, I set off up Dark Lane. Beyond the farm buildings, I took a right turn across Haddon-Fields to go down towards the A6 near Haddon Hall. The skies were clear by now, so the sun was doing its best for the surrounding countryside with the power that could be summoned on a winter afternoon. It helped that Haddon Hall could be seen through any trees too. The absence of leaves has its own beauty too, since the skeletal appearance of trees that is well cloaked during the growing season can be admired.
Once across the A6, it was a matter of following the path by the walls enclosing Haddon Park until a useful path took me through a wood and across fields on a getaway from the motor-infested thoroughfare that I was after crossing. Bakewell was not far now, and a very full River Wye was crossed; it too was flowing beyond its banks. Fields also were sodden of their own accord, so muddy strolling took me onward; for whatever reason, I persevered with this instead of picking up the drier Monsal Trail. There are times when you go a longer way around, while there are others when the shorter way was desired. It was a case of the latter this time around, and not because of any limitations either. Maybe keeping close by the river was what I wanted, but that is lost to memory now.
In fact, I got to Bakewell soon enough and had a little time to spend there before I set off home again. Though I was not caught short, a little extra Christmas shopping ensued following some temptation. While The skies were grey and leaden in the failing light, I was far from bitter. There had been a good walk and I fancy a reprise with more in the way of sunshine. Aside from pleasing weather, what is needed is to have my life energy batteries sufficiently charged to make it happen.
Travel Arrangements:
Bus service 58 from Macclesfield to Monyash and from Buxton to Macclesfield after coming from Bakewell on the TransPeak bus service.
Spaisteoireacht and stravaiging
12th March 2015 While playing with the Google Translate menu that I recently added to the navigation bar of this website, I discovered that words like explorations, jottings and wanderings are not always translated into other languages. One of these occasions was with the Irish language (the term "Irish Gaelic" is not one that I abide) that I learned during my schooling in Ireland. However, I also rediscovered a word that sounds wonderful to me: spaisteoireacht (try pronouncing it as spash-tore-ukt, speeding that up after practising it a few times). An entry in the online dictionary from Foras na Gaeilge translates the word as walking, strolling, sauntering or promenading. To my mind, that makes it sound like the Scottish word stravaiging, albeit without any insinuation of aimlessness about the business.
Unlike much of last year, much of my walking this year has fallen with the confines of spaisteoireacht rather than anything more strenuous. It also has remained largely local too. For instance, my return from Ireland after my father's funeral was disrupted by snow and I took the opportunity to get out for a walk around by Prestbury with a lot of melt water around in the places. That was enough to overwhelmed my "knocking around" pair of Regatta boots and drench my feet though the whiteness was a delight to the spirit. A pair of Wellington boots has been acquired from Go Outdoors since then in preparedness for a return of any such conditions later in the year or beyond that again. Later that weekend, I paid Lyme Park an afternoon visit and the white covering still was very much in evidence everywhere I looked or trod and the photos show what I mean.
Several trips to Buxton came to pass too and the first of these had me crossing the hills from Macclesfield on one of the few buses that travelled that way on the day. There was plenty of snow up there so that may explain why my bus for the return journey was conspicuous by its absence. A train journey was in order since the temperature very was dropping at that stage. More recently, I repeated the journey with buses carrying me both ways, though the outbound one broke down and had to stop at the Cat and Fiddle Inn and await a replacement. The beeping noise being made as the ailing bus limped the final part of the way to the inn certainly had me thinking that it would not been a bad afternoon to be disrupted up there with unexpected sunshine lighting all the surrounded us. Others may have pondered the prospect of patronising the pub but it was photos that I was after. When I finally got to Buxton, I made for Grinlow Tower and without ignoring the delights of the Pavilion Gardens. It was blustery up high and the gusts that came made photography a shaky business so I could have done with a tripod. Even so, pleasing images were made and I came away happy.
There was a trip to Edinburgh too and that had me revisiting old haunts from my university days up there. Places like Blackford Hill, Morningside, Bruntsfield, the Meadows and the city centre, along with Dean Village, Stockbridge, the Botanic Gardens and Inverleith Park gave shape to what essentially was a stravaig. The sky was blue, and the sun was out too so it was a glorious day for some strolling and there is more exploring to be done around Blackford Hill and another trip along the Water of Leith towards the Edinburgh would not go amiss either.
My mind has been travelling overseas too but I am reminded that I should be making time for some hill country wandering too. The closest that I have got is what I have mentioned above and there was following a stretch of the Macclesfield Canal too. Ideas have not been collated but catching up on trip reports from the past year of too may sort that.
Released?
9th February 2015 As anyone with elderly parents should know, life can be a roller coaster ride when their health declines. It certainly has felt that way over the last few years for my family and me. However, escaping out into the countryside has helped in its own way when dealing with life's rougher moments. Getting through December 2012 certainly called for those head clearing escapes, be they into Tatton Park near Knutsford in Cheshire or along Irish country lanes. Both of my parents were frail then, with my mother having been shaken up by a hospital visit and my father's strength in free fall since the summer. By Christmas, he really needed to be in a nursing home but mentioning the subject only resulted in angry exchanges. It took a brush with death due to a kidney infection for the matter to be forced and the issue to get resolved as it needed to be. He still was not intent on staying where he had to be, and it was a nice place too, so no one could relax and a walk along the Macclesfield Canal between Congleton and Macclesfield as well as a shorter stroll around Buxton were well needed.
What really changed everything was my mother's passing away not so long before what would have been her eighty-first birthday and the loss was a raw one that not only resulted in next to daily evening walks by the River Bollin but also had me venturing further afield is search of a spot of solace. April 2013 saw me make two trips to Derbyshire; the area was to see me more than any other in that year. The of those April visits had me encountering banks of snow left over from a late winter as I hiked from Hayfield to Glossop, rounding Kinder Scout from below as I did so. The weather was much milder later in the month when I embarked on a circular yomp from Bakewell that took in both Ashford-in-the-Water and Monsal Dale. These were followed in June by a walk from Bamford to Edale that took in the southern edge of the Kinder Scout plateau and a walk from Monyash to Bakewell via Lathkill Dale. That last big walk of the year had me passing swollen rivers too; it had been a month of heavy rain and much flooding. A July escape to Fort William that took in Glen Coe and Glenfinnan could not have been more different with its sweltering temperatures and dry sunny weather. There also were sunlit walks from the Cat and Fiddle Inn back to my home that took in Shining Tor and Lamaload Reservoir. The first of these took me onto Rainow and Bollington, while I passed close to Shutlingsloe on the second.
The combination of the scare that began 2013 and the loss of our mother meant that I tended to be more precious about my father; I suspect that my brother probably felt the same. The sense that pervaded most of 2013 was that we could lose him sooner rather than later. It sounds churlish to say it now, but I started to wonder in the light of my father living longer than we might have expected if it was not before time to abandon any putting of my life on hold that there might have been. That does not imply that there was any sense of abandonment because, if anything, my visits to Ireland became more frequent. For much of 2014, I crossed the Irish Sea on a monthly basis.
In between those, though, I began to get out and about again; last summer saw me make three visits to the Lake District. The first was to Buttermere when I crossed the top of Haystacks, while the second facilitated a walk from Patterdale to Grasmere that went over the top of St. Sunday Crag and the last revisited Orrest Head and Loughrigg Fell. January and November saw me spend time around Llantysilio Mountain near Llangollen. Of these, the first trip enjoyed bright sunshine all day and the weather disintegrating to spells of rain while I was up high during the second. That makes an excuse for another return sometime, though I did get more than a little compensation from spending some time by the Mawddach estuary near Barmouth the next day. There were more Welsh visits though: a summer solstice one that visited Ysgyryd Fawr and Sugar Loaf near Abergavenny and a September retracing of steps between Rhossili and Port-Eynon in glorious weather. Yorkshire too saw a visit before the Tour de France did: that took in Pateley Bridge and Brimham Rocks in Nidderdale on a largely grey day. Northumberland was paid a visit during October, with the delights of the coastline around Bamburgh being sampled on a day that felt more like it belonged to summer. Local trots around Macclesfield were not neglected either; Alderley Edge and Hare Hill got two visits. A pesky Jack Russell terrier took a set on my left leg the first time around so a hospital visit was advised and no such intrusion was experienced the second time around, though I could have done with more sun.
There was more to my normalisation; a bike trainer was put to good use to see if my fitness could be bettered. The second half of 2014 also had my father see a good run of health that lasted until last month. Though there was a smaller scare in February 2014, things steadied after that. Still, he was growing weaker as I found during last Christmas and I returned to Britain before New Year sensing that we might be on the cusp of a big change of some sort. In fact, I also wondered to myself how he would fare if he caught an infection. That question was about to get an answer only weeks later. A heavy chest infection was to confine him to bed after a traumatic experience when the nursing home thought him strong enough to sit up in a chair for a while. With that in mind, I made what, I thought, was a flying weekend visit in case there were to any further developments. Much of Saturday was spent with him; my brother came later than I did. When we left, he was comfortable enough for us to think that a peaceful night was in store. When that changed after midnight, we dashed to the home. By the time that we got there, he had breathed his last only moments before. While some would find that heartbreaking, the final peace is what I recall. That his suffering had ended was more important than we might have felt.
A word said during one of the many conversations we had with others over the ensuing days remains with me: release. My brother and I felt it while nearby neighbours were stunned by our father's departure; they surely felt it more than we did; some were crying on the phone to us. There may be another factor: we both had our homes and our lives, while they see breakage in a continuity that they held dear. Also, the period with our father allowed us to come to terms with where things were going and have a partial glimpse of where things would go after he went. Of course, there are ups and downs as well as twists and turns of which we know nothing yet. The turbulence within me after my mother's passing has not come after my father's and there are times when I wonder why, though that is not to see that there was no weeping or no jabs of the heartstrings. Maybe it's that sense of release again.
Though there are matters that need attending yet, my mind also is starting to explore possibilities too. Visits to Ireland are sure to continue, albeit not at the same frequency and certainly not with the same purposes as before, though you hardly can abandon your relatives or former neighbours. There may be opportunities to visit places in Connemara, Mayo, Donegal or Wicklow that I have yet to see. That would be continuing something that they did after their own parents were deceased, when there were many trips to Kerry and West Cork. Some of those gave me the love of hill country scenery that has taken me around so much of Britain and the Isle of Man. Over the past weekend, I was strolling around old haunts in Edinburgh like Blackford Hill, Bruntsfield Links and The Meadows before crossing over to newer haunts like Dean Village and Edinburgh's Botanic Gardens. Except for the occasional incursion of rogue clouds, there was enough sun shining on me throughout to inspire ruminations on the possibility of spending a week in the city sometime. Even in a place like Edinburgh, there was much opportunity to wander down memory lane (I graduated from one of the city's universities) and have time and space to yourself if you needed it. Nearer destinations will remain attractive in a new life situation.
Speaking of memories, there is one that returns to my mind when I mention Edinburgh, since I gained a research degree in a science subject while there. My parents were hoping that I would find a job in Ireland afterwards, only for the world of science to be an international one, especially if you fancy a career in academic research. Some of my contemporaries gained post-doctoral jobs in the U.S. and that option did appeal to me not a little. The phrase "seeing the world" came to my notice and sharing it while on a trip back to Ireland must have tugged rather too strongly on parental heartstrings, for I was asked to leave such designs until after they were gone. Now that youthful naivety has been displaced by realism, I now am amazed at the sorts of thoughts that went through my mind back then, especially when after experiencing more of the delights of Britain and Ireland.
Even so, that is not to imply that I am not tempted by foreign destinations. Since the likes of the mountains of Canada or New Zealand or the American Rockies may be a step too far, other spots in Europe have a certain allure. For instance, business trips to Sweden appear to have cultivated a soft spot for Scandinavian destinations such as Norway, Sweden, Denmark or Iceland. There are areas of hilly and mountainous country in three of those. Any juxtaposition of mountain and coast is a stunning combination, too, as many photos of Norwegian fjords will evince. That brings its own reminder of the Faroe Islands; their compactness could help any explorations. Going there would build on a 2008 escapade that to Scotland's Western Isles and the islands of Orkney and Shetland have not missed my attention either. To return to the continental European theme, though, you cannot overlook the Alps or the Pyrenees, either. Yet, even they are but some of the mountainous regions on the continent that get mentioned in walking magazines from time to time.
None of this means that responsibilities are about to be overlooked. Sometimes, it does feel that you can make new obstacles for yourself, too. The ones that appear of their own accord are enough for anyone; life after my parents will bring its ups and downs soon enough. In between, pondering those other destinations may bring its own comfort, while realising that short visits only uncover so much. After all, I lived in Edinburgh for over four years and still have parts of it to see anew, along with those nooks and crannies that I continue to revisit. As ever, only time will reveal what comes to pass and what adventures may be had yet.
Not as roundabout a trot as I thought
25th December 2014 Hope and Edale are adjacent stops on the Hope Valley railway line that links Sheffield with Stockport and Manchester. As it happens, the expression "Hope Valley" is incongruous since the word "hope" once meant valley anyway. It is a collision caused by none other by the evolution of language and we need to live with that, a mere trifle in comparison with some of the trials of life.
Thinking back to 2013 makes this an apt thought since my mother's passing away in March still left me prone to its aftershocks for many months afterwards. It was if a newer and rawer life had begun and I needed to find my own place in it without someone who always had been there up to that point. Making my way through that period was the cause of drawing me out on evening walks in Macclesfield's Riverside Park and further afield to the hill country near Hayfield, Glossop and Bakewell as well as that between Macclesfield and Buxton.
The Peak District was becoming the setting for quieter moments and a Saturday morning trip to Hope's train station stayed with that narrative. Another motivation was the idea of improving on a photo of Edale that I had made on the August bank holiday in 2001, with my first-ever SLR (a Canon EOS 300) after a week spent gallivanting around Scotland that took me to Edinburgh, Fort William, Skye, Mallaig, Glenfinnan, Oban and Mull. There also was another hike that started on a rainy September Sunday in Hope before I took to reaching the top of Win Hill and blundering across heather to reach a track that took me towards my final destination of Edale. As ever, there were photos made then too and a chance to better them would have been a bonus too. That was all for there was a trot made on a Saturday in November of either 2004 or 2005 (my memory has grown hazy on this) that saw me up head by Grindsbrook Clough, round the edge of Kinder Scout and then down to Edale again via the Pennine Way.
For my June 2013 walk, I ended up both assembling those and varying the result too. Instead of a damp Hope station, I got a sun-blessed one and, aside from periods where clouds got in the way as they always can do, that was the weather theme for the day. Once I had passed Aston, it was sweaty work on the way up to Win Hill via Top Plantation before I followed a handy concessionary and loping track down from it in preference to the blundering on that Sunday of improving weather over a decade ago. Not only were there views towards Lose Hill and the Great Ridge, but Ladybower Reservoir was there to be surveyed too.
My way towards Kinder Scout took me over Thornhill Brink and Hope Brink before I found the line of an old Roman road, one of a few that go through the area. The one I met appeared to be a favourite for groups of young people undertaking the Duke of Edinburgh Award, or at least that's how it looked to me. There were other walkers too and more were out on mountain bikes and the weather had lured us all out of doors.
All of those were left after me for an informal path through access land that took me up Crookstone Hill onto Crookstone Out Moor, part of Kinder Scout. As I followed the southern edge of that, the line of the Great Ridge rolled by me as did named sections and outcrops. Ringing Roger was among the more well known of those that I passed, but it appears that every twist and turn of that edge gets a name, with ones like Upper Tor, Nether Tor, Upper Moor, Rowland Cote Moor and Golden Clough all appearing on an OS map.
They were all passed before I reached the top of Grindsbrook Clough. Though I had come up that way once before, I didn't fancy how steep the initial descent appeared, so another course was taken, one that even involved an ascent: Grindslow Knoll. Using my right to roam, I went for as gentle a line off it as I could though there was a final sting in the tail as I ventured onto a concessionary path that dropped onto a stretch of the Pennine Way on the final approach to Edale. Though my surroundings were alluring, the prospect of a nearing train spurred me onto the train station where I gained some moments to look towards Mam Tor from a platform with more folk than you'd expect for the location. Clearly, others were inspired by the weather to go exploring too, though there was so much space for all of us that we hardly got in each other's way and I gained my own much-needed stretches of quite solace. That and the photos that were made had become enough to make the journey home a contented one.
Travel arrangements:
Outbound train journey to Hope with a change at Manchester Piccadilly and a truncated reverse of the same, from Edale.
A possible project milestone
18th November 2014 This past summer has been one that has seen me revisit the Lake District after a gap of more than four years. In fact, there was more than one weekend visit too and the first of these could not have enjoyed better weather. The source of my attention was Buttermere, a valley that I have overlooked for far too long since my first visit there over a decade ago. Though I played with the idea of going over Seat, High Crag, High Stile and Red Pike in a single push, I saw sense and stuck with Haystacks instead. The next object of my explorations was Patterdale from where I trotted over St. Sunday Crag and continued to Grasmere via Grisedale Tarn. For at least two weekends on the trot, this part of Cumbria defied predicted weather doom with the second offering up a sultry opening that got me engaging in more rocky fell walking. The last outing was tamer following a delayed departure and took in Orrest Head and Loughrigg Fell before the evening grew greyer and damper.
All of this allowed me to capture a number of photos and that partially was the cause of me getting out and about in the first place with the YHA helping by having spaces in their hostels in the right places at the right times that I could uncover on their website. It was the quest for a better photo of Fleetwith Pike with Buttermere in front of it that drew me there in the first place and there was no disappointment, especially with a late summer evening spent in fading light with the only perturbation of a quiet valley being the tumbling waters of a gill. It was memorable bliss.
My St. Sunday Crag outing granted its share of photographic opportunities too with Ullswater and the fells about Helvellyn attracting my notice. However, my third excursions saw an envisaged photo of Grasmere denied by advancing cloud so that is one that could need repeating, and any excuse will do a hill wanderer when it comes to revisiting a pleasing location.
There are other possibilities, of course, with recent films made by Terry Abraham with Mark Richards and Chris Townsend drawing new things to my notice. An actual ascent of Helvellyn from Wythburn could become a reality yet as could a similar escapade to the top of Great Gable. The latter stunned me when I glimpsed it from Haystacks, and it looks manageable from Seathwaite too. In many ways, I am beginning to wonder if it is that little bit easier to get to the Lakeland fells than it is to their counterparts in north-west Wales. A recent promise of good weather around Anglesey and Snowdonia brought home to me how low my stock of trip ideas for those places is. Replenishment is ongoing.
One thing that might help with that is a perusal of my online Snowdonia photo album because it has been doing the same for its Lakeland counterpart that partly inspired me to return to Cumbria again year. In fact, a good number of photos from the past summer have found their way into the Lake District album during an overhaul that it received. That did take a share of time to do between selecting and processing photos as well as writing some descriptive text to go with them. Not unexpectedly, the time spent doing that took away from writing stuff on here so here is a list of the photos that I now have in this album (entry links to an actual photo too):
Looking towards Langdale Pikes from Orrest Head, Windermere
Red Screes & Wansfell Pike as seen from Orrest Head, Windermere
Caudale Moor & Thornthwaite Crag as seen from Orrest Head, Windermere
Looking towards Helvellyn from Place Fell, Patterdale
Looking towards Blencathra from Place Fell, Patterdale
Ullswater from Thornhow End, Patterdale
Helvellyn & Striding Edge, Glenridding
Dollywaggon Pike & Grisedale Tarn, Grasmere
Looking along Tongue Gill towards Grisedale Hause, Grasmere
High Pike, Low Pike & Red Screes as seen from Loughrigg Fell, Ambleside
Low Pike and High Pike, Ambleside
Great Gable as seen from Haystacks, Buttermere
Looking north from Scarth Gap, Buttermere
Fleetwith Pike & Warnscale, Buttermere
Whiteless Pike & Grasmoor, Buttermere
High Stile & High Crag, Buttermere
High Stile & Red Pike, Buttermere
Scales, Mellbreak & Crummock Water, Buttermere
Clough Head from Jenkin Hill, Keswick
Skiddaw as seen from Little Man, Keswick
Some of the above dates from I used to use film cameras and I fancy bettering the efforts on another visit, but digital photos dominate the album now that I finally caught up with various efforts from as long ago as 2007. Then, film photography was my mainstay and I only pulled out the Canon EOS 10D DSLR I had for making some photos for trip reports. The arrival of a Pentax K10D changed all of that, and I hardly use any film at all now. It wasn't the 2014 photos that took the time but the backlog from previous years too, along with enlargements of older photos originally captured on film. Hopefully, I will keep the album more alive from now on to avoid a backlog like this in the future because another hope of mine would be to keep visiting this wonderful corner of England. If anything, those excursions might be opportunities to correct any misimpressions that I may have as much as seeing new sights and improving on older photographic efforts.
