It was now late in the afternoon and the light was starting to fail. I was a long way outside of mobile phone coverage and still had any miles to go before I could regain my car parked at the reservoir. I picked up the pace, no longer examining every rock and tuft of grass for track and sign and set myself the target of covering ground quickly. This was easier said than done, there are no paths in this place and I was left hopping from rock to rock, conscious that this was neither the time nor the place to fall and get injured. I passed the relics of the forgotten industries of the North Pennines– shakes holes where subterranean galleries and shafts have subside, spoil heaps from century old lead mines now grown grassy and smooth, isolated piles of stones shaped into curricks, marker stones, and the remains of walls now broken down and mossy. Still the beck flowed on, gurgling and calling, running over deep still stretches in slow motion, pulling with it the white lines of foam made by small step falls and rapids.
Monday, 7 March 2011
Maize Beck: VIII
Posted by Chris Walton at 11:24