Mosedale. Summit Poetry.

Each time we go away walking I have tried to take an original piece of poetry with me to read on the summit of the main peak we are aiming for. Sometimes the wind and weather make it a hurried affair, sometimes it is just ourselves, sometimes others are about. I am lucky, my friends humour me and listen. Some they like, some not, that is always part of writing, and if we are writing we need to let others hear what we are saying. This time on the summit of Pillar we met a group of walkers from Scotland doing a similar route to us, we played leap-frog all the way round, exchanging walk ideas and notes on places to go as we crossed paths. They listened to this one, and responded with polite applause at the end, I was surprised as mostly you just get a funny look for even admitting you write poetry, let alone read it to a captive audience on the top of a mountain. So a quiet thank you to those fellow walkers and my friends who listen every time, sorry guys, I’ll keep writing! You in the blog world have a choice of course, but thanks for stopping by as well, enjoy your travels.

Mosedale.

Mosedale

Hills rise on the swell,
crest and break,
roll away with new names.
Shedding wind and water
as they settle back into the land.

Pillar,
Red Pike,
Yewbarrow.

Lines drawn across the map,
running into one another. Places,
clinker built by Brimfull Beck,
Mosedale and Black Beck.

Each pulling together to hold fast
against the rain.
Contours dragged from an older world,
colder, left behind by the present,
only rocks as markers
to show where they have gone.

Walking, Charity and Trips Home

It’s the 24th May, I have only posted twice so far this month. Ruining my averages, because we are all stat monkeys really, there are reasons of course, travelling, walking, working. I’m back now though and have a window of opportunity to catch up with what’s been going on. We went back to the UK for a week, visits and birthday walking weekends, more of that soon. We finally gave up on our car and got a newer one. Cheaper than we thought more like a car than a van, and everything works. Our old one had a secret mind of its own. Windows opened randomly, doors locked and unlocked at will, ignition lock not working at all. So it has gone to the carshop in the sky. We’ll miss her, we’ve done some miles with her, seen some sights. Ah well, life goes on.

On to Charity, my next big walking weekend will be in July, the Welsh Three Thousand Feet Peaks. Over two/three days, wild camping. For the Grandson of some very good friends. Ollie and his family are raising money for a new wheelchair, information can be found here: Ollie Crawshaw – JustGiving site. Any help will be appreciated, thanks. The walk is 24 miles long and takes in the 14 peaks over three thousand feet high in Northern Wales. Pete, the birthday boy, will be attempting the challenge in one big hit with another fit friend. I’ll put more details up as the day approaches. I will be going over the weekend of 20-21-22 July.

While back in England I took the opportunity to go walking in the Lake District, Pete’s 50th Birthday weekend. He won’t mind me mentioning his age, nothing else was mentioned all weekend. Leaving Friday night we arrived near Kendal and our little rented cottage about 11pm. The following morning we headed west to Wastwater. Not to climb Scafell Pike as we have done on many other occasions, this time we turned west again at the lakes head and went with the Mosedale round. Black Sail Pass, Pile of Stones, Pillar, Red Pike, as hoped the weather cleared as we walked and we had splendid views all around the route.

I have to say my favourite was Pile of Stones, how can you not like a name like that?

Wastwater with Scafell in the background.

Clouds on the hill

Looking up the Mosedale Valley

Team Photo, almost normal?

Looking back, Yewbarrow to the right.

Yep, a Pile of Stones.

Looking across to Scafell Pike.

Somebody always stands on the edge! Pile of Stones.

Then someone else has to try.

Pillar summit.

Party Hats, False moustaches, Champagne and Butcombe beer. Happy Birthday

A Friend who carries Butcombe beer is a friend indeed!

The view down from Pillar.

Looking back across the Wind Gap from Black Crags.

Towards Red Pike, the others walking lower down.

Get the kettle on.

Red Pike Cairn.

Yewbarrow

We slid round the side of Yewbarrow, as time was getting on and we couldn’t see a route from the bottom. Maybe when we have a bit more time we can explore and find the route up. A good walk with lots to offer, and the views we had were magnificent. Anyone who has been to the Lakes will know how often (or not) you get weather like this for the day. 10 miles and 1300m of ascent roughly speaking. Next post will cover the walk we did around Sleddale. Now just to see if Pete reads all of this post, here you are Pete. How Old?

Pete, in his party T-shirt, hogging all the food. 50! How old?

Looking with a new perspective.

We all need to change things at some point in our journey. Last week I took a visit with friends to a place we all know well. It is our home ground, our little hill on the doorstep. We come here so often it seems like a back garden.

Before this visit I took the time to not only look at the map, but also at some aerial photos I found on the internet, a bit better than google earth’s quality. I found some footpaths (animal tracks?) we had not yet trod. And a bit of the Mendips seen from a new perspective. A change they say is as good as a rest.

Yes the footpath is here!

After leaving the car park, full of daytrippers, and skirting the edge of the peaks’ lower extremities we hit the flank to sneak up on it. You can see from the green grass that this is not a well used part of the network of tracks around the area, and since we are seeking that sea of tranquillity in the noise of life it is a good place to start. Spring has attacked and the birds are singing, trees are budding and flowers, well, flowering.

Hidden spaces in the woods.

Wild Pansies.

White flowers of the old hedgerow favourite Hawthorn. The new-found track leading the way.

The Gorse bush, harsh spines but a great yellow colour.

The tracks up here weave through the bushes and trees, clinging on to the thin ground of this part of the Mendip limestone. It’s not deep under the surface and weathered rock shows up all along the paths. Looking in each direction as we gain height you can see Cheddar gorge one way and the Bristol Channel the other. Looking south you have the wide spaces of the Somerset levels, drained from marshland over years you can still see the marks in the fields where this is achieved.

Rock is not far below the soft earth.

The Somerset Levels

Brent Knoll in the Distance.

We climbed around the edge of this end of the hills, gaining height quickly to look out and admire the April calm. Unseasonable, so little rain last week. This week has changed and we are now catching up. Farmers and gardeners are smiling again.

Looking along the hills towards Crooks Peak.

The two faces of a climb, Kaths’ beaming face and Johns’ leave me alone while I breathe face. Good far all levels of fitness this walk.

A happy smile

The air gets thin at this height.

Cheddar and Axbridge

Last Leg to Crooks Peak, lovely drystone wall and wide rabbit eaten grass track.

Once on Wavering Down there are more people, and it is easy to stroll along without wondering about losing the track, The drystone wall has been repaired over the last few years and is a fine example of the art. They have been burning the gorse, to clear the growth back, It can get a bit aggressive.

The approach to the Peak is impressive and just to prove we get sun here in England, my shadow on the ground.

Crooks Peak

That's me, and rocks.

The whole walk is about 5 1/2 miles, short enough for an afternoon. It does as ever, throw up fantastic views. And the company of friends is always good. Seeing a well known place though, from a different perspective made a difference to the trip. In walking as in life, straying to see the sights is a good thing.

Back on track this week, finishing work up in the UK, and next week we head South to France. I’ll post before we leave, and see what I can find on route to talk about. Have fun and enjoy the ride.

A short Haiku for you to mull over, for those who know the perils of the Gorse Bush!

Gorse.

Yellow violence
wearing green, a spitefully
casual catching.

Chaos and the Journey

I am the Anti-list, chaos incarnate, fear me. I will come to you in the night and disorder your life. Those best laid plans of mice and men, are mine. Put your list out of sight for only a second and I will appropriate it, and only relinquish it back to you when it is too late to do anything about the most important thing on your list.

Do not think for a minute there is the possibility of order in your life, I am the butterfly on the far side of the world, setting in motion a chain of events so tortuous you will not plan for the consequences. There is only me and fate to control your destiny. Faith and prior planning will not avail you anything.

I will wake you in the night, with a forgotten list, with that one thing you must not forget, the date not in your diary. A single obscured digit in the phone number to save your world. Do not take me lightly, I will reduce your itemised shopping list to dust, lost in the sands of time. The wedding planner despairs when my cold hand rests on their shoulder. That one simple thing you went into the shop for, the one you forgot when you saw the glossy magazine, it is all in my domain and I am a demon of details.

My list is not of order but of random acts. Murphy knew me personally, he just didn’t know my name, how could he? I am everyone and no one, the lost pen, the unwashed shirt and the washed out address in your shirt pocket. Everyone is prey to my whims and I know no mercy. I have toyed with kings and queens, magi and masters. Be Afraid.

I have found that when I head out for a walk, the easiest place to go wrong is as you leave the car park. The multitude of choice and the potential for taking the wrong path are greater here than at any other time while walking. Not strictly true but It’s my line and I’m staying with it. As you will see, my camera has got some dirt inside the lens as well, so my opening short story has really come to the fore this weekend. I need to find some-one who can take it to pieces now.

Navigation is always important, and on a clear sunny day with wide signed paths it can be easy, step off the beaten track or find yourself on a wide plain in fog with no landmarks and it is easy to take the wrong path. I headed to the Quantocks this weekend, weather forecast good, route decided, in the footsteps of Coleridge. Setting of I managed to turn left one turn too early, and with a combination of not caring about looking at the map, watching other things and the woodland lack of landmarks I found myself in a different place when I had a choice to make.

The Woods and the Trees

Any-time you are not where you think you are (notice I don’t use the word lost here!) you have a choice to make. Forward or back, is it more important to go back, lose the time, and get back on track, or can you carry on with the new track, find a landmark to confirm your new location and redraw your plan for the day? Since I was on my own, and was out for a look around, onwards it was. Knowing that at some point I was going to run into a road or car-park, in navigation terms called a catch feature. I wandered along in the mist and fog, thinking about the views I was missing. Enjoying the chance to use map and compass for the first time in a while.

Landmarks? Always useful.

The weather did clear later in the day, after I found a landmark at the car-park I knew was out there somewhere, although the National trust also helped by putting the grid-reference there as well. It was a bitter-sweet moment, we spend our lives knowing where we are. Marking the trip with known points along the way, never just letting go and getting out in the chaos that is the real world. Using the chance to get some navigation practice and seeing how I could relocate myself was fun, and added confidence to my map-reading skills. The big thing about being lost – Don’t Panic, make a choice. Enjoy the trip, and have confidence in your decision, if something feels wrong about your route it stands a chance your subconscious knows something you don’t.

Now this is a Landmark!

I’ll be writing up the Quantock walk next time, this post is for everyone who seems to be lost at the moment, I’ve been there so many times and now I am trying to not let it become a problem. Its worth remembering, it’s not usually the big event that throws the world out of line, it’s the combination of small things added together, and it’s not how you start or how you finish, it’s how you make the journey. Most of all, the journey is what we have, not the destination or the departure.

I’ll leave you with a fragment of writing from what I joyfully call my Cathartic period, emptying out the rubbish. This has never seen the light of day. And rightfully so, it’s awful! but it was a place I needed to visit to get on with other things,

Sweet confusion hold me
Take my mind away from here
I don’t want to have a memory
Just hold me nowhere near

Have a good trip everyone.

New Theme

I,m trying a change of direction with my theme, bear with me while I try out different ones.

The View towards Puy Ferrand from the Chaudefour Valley

Today, a rewrite of the notes I posted in my Flame Trees post.

I have a provisional title now of Old Bones Let me know what you think of the changes.

Old Bones

In the distance the mountain rises,
I can see the mass, white sided
draped in cloud.
A beast, a winter cat with
black eyes watching.
Old bones cold in the ground.
Rock only gives warmth
stolen from the sun, and here
the cloud lowers, a shuttering of eyes.
A landscape pressed down,
scraped hard against the sky,
a watching time-scale.

I thought the last section a bit cheesy so removed it all together, but now it may seem a bit impersonal, I’ll let it settle and see what I think. I liked the picture, the way the cloud hugs the hill. Always a fascinating sight I think, and since I haven’t been able to get out into the snow so far this year it makes me feel good to see old haunts. Here’s the original version of the poem, direct from the notebook.

Old bones cold in the ground
hard against the sky.
A landscape written against a slow step,
pressed down, washed over, grooved and cracked.
Forced and shaped by another time-scale,
to watch as we pass by so fast
you do not even weep at our passing,
our transience.