tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29235786133930345942024-03-27T23:53:24.208+00:00TenHornedBeastUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger185125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2923578613393034594.post-71631836575152904652011-04-23T09:27:00.003+01:002011-04-23T09:36:53.230+01:00Nature & Time<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivWxUKI8zx2VBgc_-JYLPrGYj5bhLoZc-Ex9dM8HdxBBAJSdNImSKoY7VRHJ8Ry5w_h0qtyF3i_ndz5PR_9f33eY5ZTwZ12FELCf_wDNVgSGNOnkTJamZioZo2FSH6KfMMO27s05FgZIF9/s1600/P1010104.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivWxUKI8zx2VBgc_-JYLPrGYj5bhLoZc-Ex9dM8HdxBBAJSdNImSKoY7VRHJ8Ry5w_h0qtyF3i_ndz5PR_9f33eY5ZTwZ12FELCf_wDNVgSGNOnkTJamZioZo2FSH6KfMMO27s05FgZIF9/s320/P1010104.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5598694559129579170" /></a>
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<blockquote><span style="font-style:italic;">I had planned to visit the Cheviot Hills in Northumberland but with my day arranged and my maps prepared I awoke in the middle of the night with the desire to see anemones. I have just spent five days in London and while I enjoy the feeling that I am walking the same streets as Doyle, Wilde and Machen the vulgar crowds with their self-aware obsessions and the noisy filth of the city soon becomes tiresome causing the train ride home to the cooler, greener hills to quicken to an irresistible urge.</blockquote>
<span style="font-style:italic;"><blockquote>In the small hours, with my watch glowing on the bedside table, the desire to see anemones filled my mind. I was tired but could not sleep. I ran through all the references to the flower in Dunsany, for whom anemones were a totem of spring and the triumphant resurgence of nature. He wrote about them time and again, as a signum for life and beauty, as a numeral on the clock face of the year by which he ran his life. As I lay waiting for the graying of the dawn I thought about Dunsany’s story Nature & Time, in which the two spirits have a domestic argument on the streets of Coventry (Dunsany seems to have had a special place in the darkest corner of his heart for the industrial cities of the Midlands) and I knew that with the unseasonably warm spring now was the time to find the flowers at their best.</blockquote></span>
<span style="font-style:italic;"><blockquote>By morning I had abandoned my trip to the hill forts on the Cheviots and set out for a piece of woodland where I knew few other people would trouble to go. I walked amongst fresh green beech leaves, newly sprouted bracken fronds uncoiling from their winter sleep and small clusters of blue dog violet amongst the white wood sorel. And by a small stream, no more than a ditch, on a bank covered in young nettles and brambles, was a patch of wood anemones, their starry flowers blushing pink and white. I sat and listened to chaffinches calling from the tops of trees, the warming sound of early bees on the wing and I forgot everything I knew about London.</span></blockquote></span>
<blockquote>Through the streets of Coventry one winter's night strode a triumphant spirit. Behind him stooping, unkempt, utterly ragged, wearing the clothes and look that outcasts have, whining, weeping, reproaching, an ill-used spirit tried to keep pace with him. Continually she plucked him by the sleeve and cried out to him as she panted after and he strode resolute on.</blockquote>
<blockquote>It was a bitter night, yet it did not seem to be the cold that she feared, ill-clad though she was, but the trams and the ugly shops and the glare of the factories, from which she continually winced as she hobbled on, and the pavement hurt her feet.He that strode on in front seemed to care for nothing, it might be hot or cold, silent or noisy, pavement or open fields, he merely had the air of striding on.And she caught up and clutched him by the elbow. I heard her speak in her unhappy voice, you scarcely heard it for the noise of the traffic.</blockquote>
<blockquote>"You have forgotten me," she complained to him. "You have forsaken me here."She pointed to Coventry with a wide wave of her arm and seemed to indicate other cities beyond. And he gruffly told her to keep pace with him and that he did not forsake her. And she went on with her pitiful lamentation.</blockquote>
<blockquote>"My anemones are dead for miles," she said, "all my woods are fallen and still the cities grow. My child Man is unhappy and my other children are dying, and still the cities grow and you have forgotten me!"</blockquote>
<blockquote>And then he turned angrily on her, almost stopping in that stride of his that began when the stars were made.</blockquote>
<blockquote>"When have I ever forgotten you?" he said, "or when forsaken you ever? Did I not throw down Babylon for you? And is not Nineveh gone? Where is Persepolis that troubled you? Where Tarshish and Tyre? And you have said I forget you."
And at this she seemed to take a little comfort. I heard her speak once more, looking wistfully at her companion. "When will the fields come back and the grass for my children?"</blockquote>
<blockquote>"Soon, soon," he said: then they were silent. And he strode away, she limping along behind him, and all the clocks in the towers chimed as he passed.</blockquote>
<blockquote><span style="font-weight:bold;">Lord Dunsany, 1915</span></blockquote>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com110tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2923578613393034594.post-61089560267440597422011-03-13T14:22:00.002+00:002011-03-13T14:27:16.611+00:00Spring In Town<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8zkEMJEplNGovhSMDYlTtJqIOYN0qpSxs5sXvSkQCkyRCjyDU9xsCL9ihbju3QJ5BDXBvIiZSMCbeeGaARsKz3muq2Z18juaMLQgpnOOHMEJVMZO1InULohDmMy2n7oQuGtpEo3osaOWl/s1600/P1010098.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8zkEMJEplNGovhSMDYlTtJqIOYN0qpSxs5sXvSkQCkyRCjyDU9xsCL9ihbju3QJ5BDXBvIiZSMCbeeGaARsKz3muq2Z18juaMLQgpnOOHMEJVMZO1InULohDmMy2n7oQuGtpEo3osaOWl/s320/P1010098.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5583571002478777506" /></a>
<blockquote>At a street corner sat, and played with a wind, Winter disconsolate.</blockquote>
<blockquote>Still tingled the fingers of the passers-by and still their breath was visible, and still they huddled their chins into their coats when turning a corner they met with a new wind, still windows lighted sent out into the street the thought of romantic comfort by evening fires; these things still were, yet the throne of Winter tottered, and every breeze brought tidings of further fortresses lost on lakes or boreal hill-slopes. And not any longer as a king did Winter appear in those streets, as when the city was decked with gleaming white to greet him as a conqueror and he rode in with his glittering icicles and haughty retinue of prancing winds, but he sat there with a little wind at the corner of the street like some old blind beggar with his hungry dog. And as to some old blind beggar Death approaches, and the alert ears of the sightless man prophetically hear his far-off footfall, so there came suddenly to Winter's ears the sound, from some neighbouring garden, of Spring approaching as she walked on daisies. And Spring approaching looked at huddled inglorious Winter.</blockquote>
<blockquote>"Begone," said Spring.</blockquote>
<blockquote>"There is nothing for you to do here," said Winter to her. Nevertheless he drew about him his grey and battered cloak and rose and called to his little bitter wind and up a side street that led northward strode away.</blockquote>
<blockquote>Pieces of paper and tall clouds of dust went with him as far as the city's outer gate. He turned then and called to Spring: "You can do nothing in this city," he said; then he marched homeward over plains and sea and heard his old winds howling as he marched. The ice broke up behind him and foundered like navies. To left and to right of him flew the flocks of the sea-birds, and far before him the geese's triumphant cry went like a clarion. Greater and greater grew his stature as he went northwards and ever more kingly his mien. Now he took baronies at a stride and now counties and came again to the snow-white frozen lands where the wolves came out to meet him and, draping himself anew with old grey clouds, strode through the gates of his invincible home, two old ice barriers swinging on pillars of ice that had never known the sun.</blockquote>
<blockquote>So the town was left to Spring. And she peered about to see what she could do with it. Presently she saw a dejected dog coming prowling down the road, so she sang to him and he gambolled. I saw him next day strutting by with something of an air. Where there were trees she went to them and whispered, and they sang the arboreal song that only trees can hear, and the green buds came peeping out as stars while yet it is twilight, secretly one by one. She went to gardens and awaked from dreaming the warm maternal earth. In little patches bare and desolate she called up like a flame the golden crocus, or its purple brother like an emperor's ghost. She gladdened the graceless backs of untidy houses, here with a weed, there with a little grass. She said to the air, "Be joyous."</blockquote>
<blockquote>Children began to know that daisies blew in unfrequented corners. Buttonholes began to appear in the coats of the young men. The work of Spring was accomplished.</blockquote>
<blockquote><span style="font-weight:bold;">Lord Dunsany</span></blockquote>
<span style="font-style:italic;"><blockquote>Photograph: derelict townhouse, Picadilly, London</blockquote></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2923578613393034594.post-90770455613774084152011-03-07T12:01:00.001+00:002011-03-07T12:04:02.544+00:00High Cup Nick<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY7nL-HdOd153Redkp7xLh2sR8x2eQdvSzpCiGxoFS0ZzQTgXvPJg6dxMPTu7xRelqarvfmu3U8zr2HNM7Lm9oUwT2qMm2OizSJoP-sKkc_0aLdC_7pXrj9H4PYvZHuDrAlUZzqMJvW6s6/s1600/High+Cup+Nick.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY7nL-HdOd153Redkp7xLh2sR8x2eQdvSzpCiGxoFS0ZzQTgXvPJg6dxMPTu7xRelqarvfmu3U8zr2HNM7Lm9oUwT2qMm2OizSJoP-sKkc_0aLdC_7pXrj9H4PYvZHuDrAlUZzqMJvW6s6/s320/High+Cup+Nick.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5581307554672311554" /></a>
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<blockquote>For many years High Cup Nick called to me. I have studied it on the map and driven by its vast open mouth, looking up into the rolling clouds that cap its top. I have planned expeditions that have never happened, over night wild camps on the slopes above the trough, long walks down the steep gills that fall into the vale of Eden and then steeper climbs back to the summits but all in vain. But I had never set aside the time to visit the place. The call of this wild and remote place seemed as far away and faint as the moon but like all things it is there for the taking, and if we stop thinking about it and start doing it we get a little closer.</blockquote>
<blockquote>On a grey and ordinary March morning I set off to finally see this place. A long drive to the trail head on the banks of Cow Green reservoir, a few minutes to boot up and check equipment and I was off, striding along the rough tarmac road that leads down to the dam wall that holds back the might of Condatis’ Tees, across the dam and onto the Pennine Way heading west. I have sometimes pondered what it would be like to do one of these long distance walks and today I realised that this is definitely, positively not for me. I have no problem walking long distances, no problem wild camping or doing the day after day after day slog that comes with the challenges – what I dislike, maybe even despise, is the pedestrian nature of these walks.</blockquote>
<blockquote>Other than physical stamina and mental dullness I can see little else that is needed to complete these trails. The Pennine Way is as wide and well marked as a suburban street. At every mile there seems to be a sign post showing the way, a helpful information board provided by some do-gooding organisation and in places where the ground may be a little muddy for gentlefolk they have even provided duck-boards, huge stone slabs and footbridges to get those who lack the initiative across the becks and gills. What is the point of venturing into “Englands Last Wilderness” if it is impossible to lose ones way? I appreciate the arguments about erosion and the impact of thousands of boots on delicate ecosystems but I really do not want to be herded along sanitised corridors in the landscape like so many day-trippers on a bus to Blackpool.</blockquote>
<blockquote>Not only is the walk to High Cup Nick insultingly well marked it is also insultingly boring. Mile after mile of dull heathery hills rising with that rounded convex slope of the North Pennines, a shifting mirage that places the summit always beyond the next ridge. Here you find yourself among some of the highest hills in England – Mickle Fell, Meldon Hill, Dun Fell, Cross Fell but the path winds sheepishly around their lower flanks, across miles of soggy featureless upland plain on which the only point of interest is the soft chuckle of startled grouse and calling lapwings and curlews.</blockquote>
<blockquote>I reached High Cup Nick in a poor humour. The walk had been tiresome and dull, the weather was neither warm and sunny or cold and cloudy – both of which I would have welcomed for their own reasons – but just the sullen dull grey of very early spring. Too early for the flowers of the famous Teesdale Assemblage, too late for the snows that linger long in this sub-arctic microclimate. Even so, when one stands at the head of the vast glacial trough of High Cup Gill and beholds the majesty of the place all the bullshit and interference that has clung to you like the scum of the modern world blows away, leaving you cleansed and quiet. I sat for a long time, a lone tiny figure in this enormous landscape, looking out into the sky. Sat like a falcon on a crag, ready to launch into the shifting clouds, suspended in a world of sky and rock, of greys and black, lost in the soft fall of water and cold whine of wind. But I knew when I had stayed too long. The chill bit and worried any area of exposed skin, hands began to tingle then scream in the coldness, tuning to the pink of boiled lobsters. Taking photographs was difficult, fingers began to stiffen and lose their dexterity, the pain increased until ones whole consciousness was reduced to the need to put on gloves. If there is a Genius Loci of this wild and viscous place it is not to be taken lightly.</blockquote>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2923578613393034594.post-13760896541219899162011-03-07T11:57:00.001+00:002011-03-07T12:00:39.933+00:00Maize Beck: I<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3TdwEEuJdlSmwX4txHWDUtXDB3k1W52ogttAhh5p3kJoduvW73peJF6ma00dcjLwwZaKLmpmFmK_qnsERbiA_-MVYr3S4sRfHSxDtszKfK-gXGeOym5RWvlel1kZ7HNyxnhlq3p7CA5_A/s1600/P1010053.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3TdwEEuJdlSmwX4txHWDUtXDB3k1W52ogttAhh5p3kJoduvW73peJF6ma00dcjLwwZaKLmpmFmK_qnsERbiA_-MVYr3S4sRfHSxDtszKfK-gXGeOym5RWvlel1kZ7HNyxnhlq3p7CA5_A/s320/P1010053.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5581306682964626834" /></a>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqj3cA8pMSmzivvTNHh60psgcJsm2htLqzPSDtLzwEUgJeq5gTS2ONV510Py1DlLD-8y-FqjA9w20NC3nSgd1I5cNo0TucfbxxUyqV46qJltdFnIQOXtXb3rP3sVb0kHlSwHoY0-DPxTcP/s1600/P1010071.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqj3cA8pMSmzivvTNHh60psgcJsm2htLqzPSDtLzwEUgJeq5gTS2ONV510Py1DlLD-8y-FqjA9w20NC3nSgd1I5cNo0TucfbxxUyqV46qJltdFnIQOXtXb3rP3sVb0kHlSwHoY0-DPxTcP/s320/P1010071.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5581306671915968978" /></a>
<blockquote>I did not have the heart to return by the same route. I had not walked so far just to turn around and go through the same dullness so I consulted my map and looked for an alternative. I had considered walking up the southern slope of Meldon Hill to its rounded summit, 767 metres above sea level and on the walk in the perfectly flat surface of Cow Green reservoir had reflected the hill like a mirror, making it seem nearer and attainable but now I wanted something more interesting than an endless climb to the top of an unremarkable hill. The clouds were starting to roll in like massive white curtains pulled across a stage. On the walk to High Cup Nick I had crossed Maize Beck, a small upland stream flowing roughly north-east to join the Tees and decided that this was where my route lay. I would reject the paths, do away with the duckboards and follow this small mountain river where it lead me.</blockquote>
<blockquote>Maize Beck rises in the huge blanket bogs of Dufton Fell. Water falling in this catchment gathers in the thick peaty soil, thatched with sphagnum moss and tussocks of grass before making its slow way into ditch and sike, runnel and gill. Even it its upper reaches the beck is wide and rocky, alternating between stony rapids and deep dark pools where the water moves slowly, swirling in dark depths that call for wild swimming on warm days. Today is not that day, the wind is rattling the dry heather, the sky is threatening rain and this high in the hills small becks can flash flood, sweeping down turfs and stone in their force. I decide to keep my clothes firmly on my back.</blockquote>
<blockquote>The geology of these hills is varied. There is shiny black limestone, washed smooth and dimpled by millennia of water, vast igneous intrusions of whin sill form cliffs and pinnacles while sedimentary layers lie in slabby formations. The beck cuts down through this landscape, a cold serpent of water, a living presence in a place that can evoke a sense of emptiness and stillness. There is a modern footbridge across the beck and this is where I begin my journey. The map shows a footpath running along the southern edge of the beck – in reality this is a faint and elusive trail that winds between the heather and the stones, sometimes lost from view. This is the kind of place I love, a place where it is not certain where the path lies and where ones skill and strength are tested. Leave the Pennine Way to the ramblers and their Skye Terriers, this is where I want to be.</blockquote>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2923578613393034594.post-51184086746554665972011-03-07T11:53:00.001+00:002011-03-07T11:57:03.738+00:00Maize Beck: II<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjFitJNaATIhEncSmOT8-QGNIMMVfevCgArnRAiiYPCKxhMLGiFA8hTr4g2_SNNkGvgSG9pac92s3fMA8Mu6wTOYHBnUpKg8OAuZRyZbczIB_yc5lolCkNpJ0KgwSve6EEq6COzcpmxO7D/s1600/P1010067.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjFitJNaATIhEncSmOT8-QGNIMMVfevCgArnRAiiYPCKxhMLGiFA8hTr4g2_SNNkGvgSG9pac92s3fMA8Mu6wTOYHBnUpKg8OAuZRyZbczIB_yc5lolCkNpJ0KgwSve6EEq6COzcpmxO7D/s320/P1010067.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5581305753554746802" /></a>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgChpFmQxUTQCEioWH9r_Per1obMQ7FjNcJZY6qNgOdqfftFMri92x-M-Oy_JAcQAe_4itsll2jJ7zI_rGjgFl-8Jqfo_IeQFjIp7-WDrErTWb-pfDrDOJtKtQP6ABTQYBzQ-x5ZKht5Los/s1600/P1010062.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgChpFmQxUTQCEioWH9r_Per1obMQ7FjNcJZY6qNgOdqfftFMri92x-M-Oy_JAcQAe_4itsll2jJ7zI_rGjgFl-8Jqfo_IeQFjIp7-WDrErTWb-pfDrDOJtKtQP6ABTQYBzQ-x5ZKht5Los/s320/P1010062.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5581305753342095650" /></a>
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<blockquote>But even in these wild and remote places you are reminded of the outside world. The Army has a firing range at Warcop on the southern side of the hills and the Ministry of Defence has annexed hundreds of square acres of moorland for its own use, planting their ugly signs in this wilderness, telling people to Keep Out. Let the army mind its own business and I will mind mine. </blockquote>
<blockquote>There is evidence all along the beck bed of the special microclimate of this place. Ice forms where spray from the small falls has frozen on the cold stone slabs that face away from the sun. Icicles grow where water drips from exposed faces in the peat, making beautiful and delicate shapes against the dark, muddy background. Walking in these places you can hear the popping suction of air squeezed up from the bog or the hard crunch of frozen ice just beneath the surface. There is a feeling of cold in the land, that on these tundran hills the last ice age was yesterday and may come back again tonight.</blockquote>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2923578613393034594.post-25393403903821109402011-03-07T11:42:00.002+00:002011-03-07T11:45:03.551+00:00Maize Beck: III<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZQ08F0V09usR2xMBvFi_4rqRTdI3PNaeZIKFkSdMa5FMScqsCvLWM2lmqiBKzL-WV6zrnA2APwcTN-jVfGsQoiAD2d66GsRUXo16QZBgB3y2Uv-ExsOF1CwHE8meWqfZ5lqAJ-lq8noPp/s1600/P1010072.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZQ08F0V09usR2xMBvFi_4rqRTdI3PNaeZIKFkSdMa5FMScqsCvLWM2lmqiBKzL-WV6zrnA2APwcTN-jVfGsQoiAD2d66GsRUXo16QZBgB3y2Uv-ExsOF1CwHE8meWqfZ5lqAJ-lq8noPp/s320/P1010072.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5581302653583144626" /></a>
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<blockquote>The beck reaches its most southerly point at the confluence with the Swarth Beck, which drains the northern slopes of Arnside Rake. Confluences are special places, places of joinings and powers merged. These waters are hallowed to Condatis, the god of the confluences, a God known only to the northern Brigantia people who lived in the valleys between the Greta and the Tyne. At this southern point of the beck there are a series of wide rapids and beautiful water falls, water rippling and singing as it drops over the plucked, bare rocks. This is a place to sit and linger. A place to be, even on a day as cold and grey as today, with the snows not yet melted on the tops of the hills and the wind sniffing round gaps in clothing like a hunting dog.</blockquote>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2923578613393034594.post-20242097352984669102011-03-07T11:38:00.001+00:002011-03-07T11:41:48.642+00:00Maize Beck: IV<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzR3PKOQ7RyqY6iaFeVGgKgmWbpOylu42jbf32xbSAkLSB_rr-tK2IxAgsfX6pZ4cW2l5_8SMC5zr5cJnQKrqNZkT66APZ4uO4ec5EXpiyIEopdwJxjhH1D8LD_u5MQ525WoQDt5xzu_5w/s1600/P1010083.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzR3PKOQ7RyqY6iaFeVGgKgmWbpOylu42jbf32xbSAkLSB_rr-tK2IxAgsfX6pZ4cW2l5_8SMC5zr5cJnQKrqNZkT66APZ4uO4ec5EXpiyIEopdwJxjhH1D8LD_u5MQ525WoQDt5xzu_5w/s320/P1010083.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5581301843313696850" /></a>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCVyF3zeTfTF1-y4O58unVAa-88fr0jYNMAkc5ipSMSoktMEePleitgMCJGTj9EyCu_XLhNdojPJWjJ6SxaBWJ28440w9iO78vxtYByCN81MKKBoPjuz9X5k0ky8W3hwbZuBFtqA4RlTNm/s1600/P1010084.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCVyF3zeTfTF1-y4O58unVAa-88fr0jYNMAkc5ipSMSoktMEePleitgMCJGTj9EyCu_XLhNdojPJWjJ6SxaBWJ28440w9iO78vxtYByCN81MKKBoPjuz9X5k0ky8W3hwbZuBFtqA4RlTNm/s320/P1010084.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5581301833394316914" /></a>
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<blockquote>Upland rivers have a life a vibrancy that fills me with joy. They are young and reckless, capable of acts of destruction and acts that create the most beautiful places. In these hidden valleys where few people visit there are pools of water that are known only to the dipper and the otter. A dipper has been my companion for the last mile, flying back and forth, its white throat flashing in the grey of the day, a small black bullet skimming the surface of the beck. The water runs quickly now, anxious to get to the bottom of the valley. From its source in the bogs to the west to its confluence with the Tees the Maize Beck drops over 200 metres in something a little over 10 kilometres, not a particularly steep drop but one that keeps the water running fresh and fast.</blockquote>
<blockquote>Now the beck seems to be a series of small falls, one following the other as the water flows between square boulders, around rocks and slabs that have taken a strange orange-brown colour, as if stained by the peaty waters. Here it is possible to cross backwards and forwards from one side to the other at will. The rocks are smooth and flat, wide surfaces that make perfect steps. The water flows beneath me as I walk from side to side, feeling the pull of the landscapes, flowing with the water downwards towards the valley bottom.</blockquote>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2923578613393034594.post-71775421811364907232011-03-07T11:35:00.001+00:002011-03-07T11:38:06.825+00:00Maize Beck: V<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjzujsrNxoRBsZXReH23Bket82NJlttb13uqsKVRYci3Hju7YqKq6wx7615evjjSq09S270DvaqEs88_mcxS0ra9lOBmQN25F7TwQAUNs0Sig53plGKyukh2TgXn-DgZFG7P6MmhfRXuWu/s1600/P1010089.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjzujsrNxoRBsZXReH23Bket82NJlttb13uqsKVRYci3Hju7YqKq6wx7615evjjSq09S270DvaqEs88_mcxS0ra9lOBmQN25F7TwQAUNs0Sig53plGKyukh2TgXn-DgZFG7P6MmhfRXuWu/s320/P1010089.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5581300882473636066" /></a>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzSZ9qmaWCzuZmf1sKxzXAXXnV4fv_-rUqcTwdQEmFa7LOiCBOQ8ZcfNCnJ-zrmOP1-AIDuX71eIK-ySDP8aB-Lw-aPr0jN8_BPMoZge7gxV2ycQKXnU4lFTSezj-RjD9UUjnRVH8dAbT4/s1600/P1010088.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzSZ9qmaWCzuZmf1sKxzXAXXnV4fv_-rUqcTwdQEmFa7LOiCBOQ8ZcfNCnJ-zrmOP1-AIDuX71eIK-ySDP8aB-Lw-aPr0jN8_BPMoZge7gxV2ycQKXnU4lFTSezj-RjD9UUjnRVH8dAbT4/s320/P1010088.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5581300876405389938" /></a>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpG_G8QVIQ0kaInHHqEApSfvnuaFn1FvwCbs1uPHIPwl18oUtFigpDY4nCQC-ksjguRT57jumieLYW5ETPmYpYryq1YXThHs1hG9lKJYcGzU5lsROee1rF7C53fW0EuSIapz5P0CRiXhlb/s1600/P1010094.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpG_G8QVIQ0kaInHHqEApSfvnuaFn1FvwCbs1uPHIPwl18oUtFigpDY4nCQC-ksjguRT57jumieLYW5ETPmYpYryq1YXThHs1hG9lKJYcGzU5lsROee1rF7C53fW0EuSIapz5P0CRiXhlb/s320/P1010094.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5581300864493616482" /></a>
<blockquote>I am suddenly arrested dead in my tracks. There, on a large flat slab of brown rock protruding from the water is a fresh otter spraint. There are three pieces of scat, all deposited on the higher edge of the slab. I have seen similar depositions of otter scat in other places – sometimes on large flat rocks by the river side, sometimes on tussocks of moss. It is classic territory marking behaviour – leaving a spoor in a place that will warn those who need to be warned and entice those who should be enticed.</blockquote>
<blockquote>Of the three individual spraints the central deposit is the largest, showing that curled and twisted morphology characteristic of mustelids. There is wide seasonal variance in scat morphology amongst otters and these pieces range from 2cm to 5cm in size, with a very soft mucousy texture. This would suggest that the animal who marked this place is currently subsisting on a very meagre diet of slugs, earth worms and possibly frogs, if they have yet woken from their winter hibernation in these cold hills. The external colour of the spraints was a rich dark brown but when broken showed a greener colour, there were no fishbones or any solid particles in the spraint. The spraint gave off a sweet musky smell, not unpleasant. It is because of this smell, blown down the valley by the near constant winds, that the otter chose this rock.</blockquote>
<blockquote>Interestingly the otter had deposited the spraint over a grouse dropping, showing that this particular rock – perhaps owing to its flat tabular form and prominent position in the river affording a clear view down the valley – is favoured by more than one species as a marker point. I have found other communal latrine sites where different species have marked the same places – specifically roe deer and hares during snow coverage, but this is the first time I have found otter using a communal site with other species.</blockquote>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2923578613393034594.post-11975873582094078652011-03-07T11:31:00.001+00:002011-03-07T11:34:28.972+00:00Maize Beck: VI<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhE6i-BGQD2v1jfghh4wadggqtm7pEVAXchZ74xoS1-Pvvai9o0eEpOEeGY7kegfYZWMiF2NWFGypHlus_9J5RZY76U3JBNkuySIkEuvLXS02bmFcoAD9FpHPgUI5yCFuFRQR2DiPogiXCA/s1600/P1010095.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhE6i-BGQD2v1jfghh4wadggqtm7pEVAXchZ74xoS1-Pvvai9o0eEpOEeGY7kegfYZWMiF2NWFGypHlus_9J5RZY76U3JBNkuySIkEuvLXS02bmFcoAD9FpHPgUI5yCFuFRQR2DiPogiXCA/s320/P1010095.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5581299931273359634" /></a>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBJRWfw6QuzKYd4cK08w9hFuiMNfnG6wJXcWDK9wMJHt2NpLYC-jqQQeR5KKECFOwZQ_N7-5hh1JrXLlBKJ9UejKeaCe5ZdYoYijCoSNJTI_jzBtuhjEtyQ-xI21TZe03yEARk0IBvih8_/s1600/P1010099.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBJRWfw6QuzKYd4cK08w9hFuiMNfnG6wJXcWDK9wMJHt2NpLYC-jqQQeR5KKECFOwZQ_N7-5hh1JrXLlBKJ9UejKeaCe5ZdYoYijCoSNJTI_jzBtuhjEtyQ-xI21TZe03yEARk0IBvih8_/s320/P1010099.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5581299925334050162" /></a>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9MCqyOOc2Valfyb47NWW0uFoISl2cHdiwXTAjouA7f8uiLIQJwclUd29ZzB0omRu3KDV3iHfLTmihNPqck0TvLaPbel7KCA8evTynEpLNh6k35CY3_O9H1oXPYy5-m4D0_-VYeNtKIJbN/s1600/P1010100.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9MCqyOOc2Valfyb47NWW0uFoISl2cHdiwXTAjouA7f8uiLIQJwclUd29ZzB0omRu3KDV3iHfLTmihNPqck0TvLaPbel7KCA8evTynEpLNh6k35CY3_O9H1oXPYy5-m4D0_-VYeNtKIJbN/s320/P1010100.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5581299921725767090" /></a>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3iUCENo2Y0DyY3szp_JBJ69ZYtavYTk2yv2_y3ld-fbFs8mJgRDYH1C8t1wVrwlD4u-TwGdUc4fBM5yDMqP0S9uu-v796KiFTWiUeYIGPeK_e_J3bSULY83zNlC_GEXo6UuOZ7zrCD2Yf/s1600/P1010101.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3iUCENo2Y0DyY3szp_JBJ69ZYtavYTk2yv2_y3ld-fbFs8mJgRDYH1C8t1wVrwlD4u-TwGdUc4fBM5yDMqP0S9uu-v796KiFTWiUeYIGPeK_e_J3bSULY83zNlC_GEXo6UuOZ7zrCD2Yf/s320/P1010101.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5581299916854321810" /></a>
<blockquote>I sat on the river bank and pondered this find. Tracking is about understanding animal behaviour, not just about locating track and sign, and to understand the significance of this spraint one needs to understand the landscape. Here was a small and stony beck in the highest hills of the Pennines. Winters up here are cold and hungry times, certainly no place for a large mammal like otters. It seems more likely that this is a sign of a spring migration. Signalled by warmer days and increasing daylight a dog otter has travelled upstream looking for a new territory – beyond the hay meadows, beyond the tree line into a place where few others will go. I have no idea what quantity of fish Maize Beck holds – certainly the massive waterfall at High Force, down in middle Teesdale, forms a barrier to migratory species but above that there are grayling and small brown trout in the river. The Maize Beck with its alternate stretches of deep pools and rocky shallows is an unspoilt habitat but fish would first need to navigate the extensive obstacles of Maize Force. Even so, the presence of otters so far up the beck suggests that there is sufficient prey in the river to support a breeding population, even if these resourceful animals do supplement their diet with everything from slugs to the eggs and young of ground nesting birds. </blockquote>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2923578613393034594.post-69884122970518627532011-03-07T11:28:00.002+00:002011-03-07T11:31:06.130+00:00Maize Beck: VII<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZDmL5kOCY2P7GLdp62-zWIg291hjjSBlKGbsUQEKsY6x2-nYvV3E_FSI3nu1qykPKgePi39-uhmI2W_Z9z6bCWUEYxgZGLnxO7q6fRgToQuaR15EaW3VgAihDrg-KYMyWAl8y6p_mGfWA/s1600/P1010003.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZDmL5kOCY2P7GLdp62-zWIg291hjjSBlKGbsUQEKsY6x2-nYvV3E_FSI3nu1qykPKgePi39-uhmI2W_Z9z6bCWUEYxgZGLnxO7q6fRgToQuaR15EaW3VgAihDrg-KYMyWAl8y6p_mGfWA/s320/P1010003.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5581299056320724610" /></a>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIcnIm3N0rR_-8ceoeIdxQkX2xW4Km2GHqGpDBnPehNZE3buhWEoT7V99dal-A5ZiV7V6t2H5I9mTx0DLgzRspjCcRekWWQAFNEDW0tyJx-mcHESWjlVDOJT5l36F4c7MRtAUDkmC4a0yZ/s1600/P1010006.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIcnIm3N0rR_-8ceoeIdxQkX2xW4Km2GHqGpDBnPehNZE3buhWEoT7V99dal-A5ZiV7V6t2H5I9mTx0DLgzRspjCcRekWWQAFNEDW0tyJx-mcHESWjlVDOJT5l36F4c7MRtAUDkmC4a0yZ/s320/P1010006.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5581299055139350034" /></a>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaybNSjz2qm09T5sUhx5oq2ZB5D92FiiEpEq4Isx4VhOEgluyYGlzWuSXWGg0gYIZFqf_ijid5wNUAUF1JYJp99_Z-B71I6z8ldT2FUNAAegD5PwcGwbUfdvRbn9VurU7K90xSbIq3wJAd/s1600/P1010007.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaybNSjz2qm09T5sUhx5oq2ZB5D92FiiEpEq4Isx4VhOEgluyYGlzWuSXWGg0gYIZFqf_ijid5wNUAUF1JYJp99_Z-B71I6z8ldT2FUNAAegD5PwcGwbUfdvRbn9VurU7K90xSbIq3wJAd/s320/P1010007.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5581299051508231058" /></a>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHSZJc6YndK4zPS-X-Gq2qysVwwcCLFAL4jpZwqAm-d5aK7ht7RjZ3fUJ1GhqY0JxDarxUSVlWC0E2aTQpG0Vigr8RNtuoak4XUB0hTgULbMZlyWVP7OwQi10qRAELxci65AjfiWvbTvz_/s1600/P1010008.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHSZJc6YndK4zPS-X-Gq2qysVwwcCLFAL4jpZwqAm-d5aK7ht7RjZ3fUJ1GhqY0JxDarxUSVlWC0E2aTQpG0Vigr8RNtuoak4XUB0hTgULbMZlyWVP7OwQi10qRAELxci65AjfiWvbTvz_/s320/P1010008.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5581299044424160322" /></a>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHaVsHt37uwS5ojQGlOrc3KbtbnfDsCPGXIoZD8c9kPhm-hv3ZHrX2EFPZUiy1fkHgyXvS5u-wNZcjbN5AWg_iTBS1JEKADuEtDbV44K2do-ogM_795tpGm6nGpJDxKoanq4p0KI-4JU9f/s1600/P1010009.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHaVsHt37uwS5ojQGlOrc3KbtbnfDsCPGXIoZD8c9kPhm-hv3ZHrX2EFPZUiy1fkHgyXvS5u-wNZcjbN5AWg_iTBS1JEKADuEtDbV44K2do-ogM_795tpGm6nGpJDxKoanq4p0KI-4JU9f/s320/P1010009.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5581299040222403794" /></a>
<blockquote>The spraint documented and the location assessed I carried on down the valley. The beck falls in step after step, fed by small runnels and sikes that flow down the hill sides. Tracking otters across this substrate is impossible, I look for soft muddy pools where a print may be found but there is nothing. I concentrate on the grassy band and at a place where the bank rose high above the rocky flow I found more otter spraint – this time left in four small deposits along a 10 metre length of bank. Each spraint was between 3cm and 5cm in length and were of the same semi-solid mucousy texture that had been deposited several kilometres upstream on the slab. It seems that the animal was taking no chances in marking its area clearly and thoroughly.</blockquote>
<blockquote>I have found similar otter deposition sites in woodland areas, it would appear that dog otters move through the landscape using both the river and the bank, depositing spraint on high points above the water to allow the scent to move down the valley, signalling presence and ownership. This is a satisfying find, telling me that my reading of the landscape was correct, affirming things that I only suspected to be true.</blockquote>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2923578613393034594.post-40177583621795652582011-03-07T11:24:00.001+00:002011-03-07T11:27:27.938+00:00Maize Beck: VIII<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7VtnXd22AyO2AQXtlkyY90wkYutK_Ps85iGw_mRzaMWbjUzRobcjoO3CGcKNVD6ZCPaYLz6tmj4EeWRq0eUGgmp48nyojfCDPoAPtoQWfpBujjWg_z8fGKoegCcQ2jfkDKgKSedcPt27a/s1600/P1010105.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7VtnXd22AyO2AQXtlkyY90wkYutK_Ps85iGw_mRzaMWbjUzRobcjoO3CGcKNVD6ZCPaYLz6tmj4EeWRq0eUGgmp48nyojfCDPoAPtoQWfpBujjWg_z8fGKoegCcQ2jfkDKgKSedcPt27a/s320/P1010105.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5581298062062051346" /></a>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiblK0xEpeGvP7TYpL7T4STvDOFx0Xxe1qIGfr3qbQGoVGikJXr9357Gs16XSKuUh3LkSA3f9txCxI7wT2xyzMbNQEiQODbvoS61ZLGYUZRQRD2yoES2S0mW_OJe8p2oRjQ3Nge62S63e9L/s1600/P1010010.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiblK0xEpeGvP7TYpL7T4STvDOFx0Xxe1qIGfr3qbQGoVGikJXr9357Gs16XSKuUh3LkSA3f9txCxI7wT2xyzMbNQEiQODbvoS61ZLGYUZRQRD2yoES2S0mW_OJe8p2oRjQ3Nge62S63e9L/s320/P1010010.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5581298053295128530" /></a>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg36AdM-kgOx5n4gPs9LOCtELWcgPl6uKipL-647ETJUo33aFVZI6WLf3bO727QAfliPKgOIN0aQfUmKdewH2wzRGJzaLZt6WPkARz0BRTA7GSmsB1972o-HHS3WMK5B76_SHtlpQ9aL9aZ/s1600/P1010005.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg36AdM-kgOx5n4gPs9LOCtELWcgPl6uKipL-647ETJUo33aFVZI6WLf3bO727QAfliPKgOIN0aQfUmKdewH2wzRGJzaLZt6WPkARz0BRTA7GSmsB1972o-HHS3WMK5B76_SHtlpQ9aL9aZ/s320/P1010005.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5581298050584404962" /></a>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoW3q5zvSKSXLZg3g25Vw-j2_7JHxxvVtMzRJqj_odG14iw22WIoTFjnQc_7R4OqttLy5ECN9TgC2lEZLrUiWaXr6_53voGc04SawD4Vwbq3LfVBEvAkQUsugjrjrNsM1_41LcCg8kcZ5g/s1600/P1010011.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoW3q5zvSKSXLZg3g25Vw-j2_7JHxxvVtMzRJqj_odG14iw22WIoTFjnQc_7R4OqttLy5ECN9TgC2lEZLrUiWaXr6_53voGc04SawD4Vwbq3LfVBEvAkQUsugjrjrNsM1_41LcCg8kcZ5g/s320/P1010011.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5581298044359417490" /></a>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIkTlgQl3tRS1OMfAtXEdmXOZ3eg-Z5nm0RPGfSF1FUnTuvMcGUjj7HQzK5dJeJInWbL2Pe-I83d6neMiGEnvJo-gE1ZSJSi9Ho600lfMzNc65BqMv7fDRbodj5L0a42Yw9rUacJ7Q8tpm/s1600/P1010012.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIkTlgQl3tRS1OMfAtXEdmXOZ3eg-Z5nm0RPGfSF1FUnTuvMcGUjj7HQzK5dJeJInWbL2Pe-I83d6neMiGEnvJo-gE1ZSJSi9Ho600lfMzNc65BqMv7fDRbodj5L0a42Yw9rUacJ7Q8tpm/s320/P1010012.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5581298042543607506" /></a>
<blockquote>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.</blockquote>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2923578613393034594.post-72910992203600737422011-03-07T11:20:00.001+00:002011-03-07T11:23:37.805+00:00Maize Beck: IX<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjp2oTZHiqYDJ7uwOAEOmoyWFsN5mMje1qrYB3IcpzE00335t8UIuNEdIkbdPgWoRHwFtRMibJw1q-ljM58GH7nIrvTcuLegXMLdM3GN8ASQh7sbAWnRrAaGsMAkyyVfjiSKMctr8RwhQNB/s1600/P1010013.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjp2oTZHiqYDJ7uwOAEOmoyWFsN5mMje1qrYB3IcpzE00335t8UIuNEdIkbdPgWoRHwFtRMibJw1q-ljM58GH7nIrvTcuLegXMLdM3GN8ASQh7sbAWnRrAaGsMAkyyVfjiSKMctr8RwhQNB/s320/P1010013.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5581297153963717938" /></a>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipHDTgPVUdqKnTv4RLLV0U1Fyb-mEfnzFQXJteQmYrgnfUd8iuhF7-ySot72yr5hRMM1nY1p0VZUG5CpZZUAKMQOIUkeaJ1KakqKS5TrHsbwcm7XJxakbtkGgu50sDrsJeiiTS9ZVJpu5e/s1600/P1010014.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipHDTgPVUdqKnTv4RLLV0U1Fyb-mEfnzFQXJteQmYrgnfUd8iuhF7-ySot72yr5hRMM1nY1p0VZUG5CpZZUAKMQOIUkeaJ1KakqKS5TrHsbwcm7XJxakbtkGgu50sDrsJeiiTS9ZVJpu5e/s320/P1010014.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5581297146465948770" /></a>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7scP7Ma8dDzN8DIEMxass_uv6wxAE-C8OZIcMvlJU6bVU5D56I88JLIdWKA9gDzTuPZ7nrcRmWjioFAQTtf4QGelC67DtZowHgYyOxA-8l8BNpBYlA28nVv7XHnzXtYUVvwQ91PDDl4iA/s1600/P1010016.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7scP7Ma8dDzN8DIEMxass_uv6wxAE-C8OZIcMvlJU6bVU5D56I88JLIdWKA9gDzTuPZ7nrcRmWjioFAQTtf4QGelC67DtZowHgYyOxA-8l8BNpBYlA28nVv7XHnzXtYUVvwQ91PDDl4iA/s320/P1010016.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5581297144527883730" /></a>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSHxWFST-jEXJKGpuIKTQqrFg0OM-85dr8uH2QTXNsgz7fyV4FArF7IIZkRuR-IBHBM6uS3bd4Xtoq5CmTj_ZZwvKq91_J-MIRxd3yl0kl1LSh6X_7iaG_7TOvP7zE4q1OXoRPdnDNcc3h/s1600/P1010017.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSHxWFST-jEXJKGpuIKTQqrFg0OM-85dr8uH2QTXNsgz7fyV4FArF7IIZkRuR-IBHBM6uS3bd4Xtoq5CmTj_ZZwvKq91_J-MIRxd3yl0kl1LSh6X_7iaG_7TOvP7zE4q1OXoRPdnDNcc3h/s320/P1010017.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5581297141477673522" /></a>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivPBqsebMxZtt_7vgP_Udic6p7gIh8CazugV1b42e71I4LreT8UV5jA2UQXR0vvfk1eH2GUQ2gniXVKj8FbDdczWEbNAbdpeNP8vydmuznX4-SPbjadwcHZi3J3U-iWeOmJg5gMezCNHfx/s1600/P1010020.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivPBqsebMxZtt_7vgP_Udic6p7gIh8CazugV1b42e71I4LreT8UV5jA2UQXR0vvfk1eH2GUQ2gniXVKj8FbDdczWEbNAbdpeNP8vydmuznX4-SPbjadwcHZi3J3U-iWeOmJg5gMezCNHfx/s320/P1010020.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5581297130246680866" /></a>
<blockquote>The valley was broader now. No longer the quick run of water between interlocking spurs of hills, the beck flows strong and broad over rocky beds. Rounding a corner in the land I came to the falls at Maize Beck Force. The word “Force” is used in Northern England and comes from the Old Norse “Foss”, which describes a fall of water. Here the falls are wide and strong, channelling water over flat slabs of hard whin sill and down strong flumes of white foaming spray. There are river rounded cobbles and angular, squared blocks. Wide flat pastures of rock. The sound of the falls fills the air but it is a peaceful sounds that allows the outside world to soak through, unlike the overpowering roar that comes from higher falls.</blockquote>
<blockquote>I explore the rocks, flat and inviting, purpose made for climbing and gripping. To fall in here and crack bones would be a poor end to the day and I am careful not to push either my own limits or the hospitality of the place. In the cool of the late afternoon I sit on a flat rock beneath the lower fall and drink the last of my water. The first midges of the year dance above the water in a shifting, changing orb. It has been a long and exciting day. A day of contrasts, the dull monotony of the featureless Pennine Way contrasted with the exciting variety of the Maize Beck. A day of biting cold at the cusp of High Cup Nick and soft warmth as nameless hollows of the hills caught the fleeting sun. I have never been happier to have abandoned the path and looked for my own way.</blockquote>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2923578613393034594.post-31293012792932746292011-03-07T11:16:00.001+00:002011-03-07T11:20:00.359+00:00Maize Beck: X<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2wqCKbh2PBvt7uc9HSaIGkuAONgnrUQiOvLMv7q6K3_G4UOEe6BYV2aaqNv9e-R_ezUVXTupVXP5yxuq7LSYxjqhSUP9R7fPfEHnS-WQP7JOg8krcuO-zWrN2Ogz4OrNaCvxIw2bsxN3j/s1600/P1010030.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2wqCKbh2PBvt7uc9HSaIGkuAONgnrUQiOvLMv7q6K3_G4UOEe6BYV2aaqNv9e-R_ezUVXTupVXP5yxuq7LSYxjqhSUP9R7fPfEHnS-WQP7JOg8krcuO-zWrN2Ogz4OrNaCvxIw2bsxN3j/s320/P1010030.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5581296205021828978" /></a>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggze1n7V96f6Gi3m8AbUysreu2iY58UosIhmkIcWnonlmIyefY2roFf2IYk12QCuAfAEDuJ_imBzk-WvXlXUTqFEmYemUtPvA0AJsIMY1PrI3pHTtU2__GYUZjpRYJYUeck5ZS64W_Qrwg/s1600/P1010027.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggze1n7V96f6Gi3m8AbUysreu2iY58UosIhmkIcWnonlmIyefY2roFf2IYk12QCuAfAEDuJ_imBzk-WvXlXUTqFEmYemUtPvA0AJsIMY1PrI3pHTtU2__GYUZjpRYJYUeck5ZS64W_Qrwg/s320/P1010027.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5581296199702152002" /></a>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiijf5XTEZTbfJ1Z0hGj35KBTnSPpn5QmAhyPD3g97eAdNSTwWBp42j_le-dUz_Ox85QMOuSEoBQFA2v8EwV0TKNkv1UjtFPAF-n4JixLzFnMIJy_vwJXhPny_1AH9SGr9OVW1mjoluL6sC/s1600/P1010026.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiijf5XTEZTbfJ1Z0hGj35KBTnSPpn5QmAhyPD3g97eAdNSTwWBp42j_le-dUz_Ox85QMOuSEoBQFA2v8EwV0TKNkv1UjtFPAF-n4JixLzFnMIJy_vwJXhPny_1AH9SGr9OVW1mjoluL6sC/s320/P1010026.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5581296196846950162" /></a>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhExuUyFu3-4nOPwBi99kIVjhRm3GcdMVlZNU0GG8mAMd7bl2SQuUf8CGrz-0p4CoJZ8araDwx6nsDVl9RMbVN4TkA1DBjdlQl7icmL_p5suiUZ44TO-AeO3eLeCOzhMKZWzV52JKx8LMpK/s1600/P1010022.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhExuUyFu3-4nOPwBi99kIVjhRm3GcdMVlZNU0GG8mAMd7bl2SQuUf8CGrz-0p4CoJZ8araDwx6nsDVl9RMbVN4TkA1DBjdlQl7icmL_p5suiUZ44TO-AeO3eLeCOzhMKZWzV52JKx8LMpK/s320/P1010022.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5581296191205840850" /></a>
<blockquote>I have promised to call home and let people know I am alive before 7.00pm. To do that I have to reach the car by 6.30pm and drive sufficiently closer to civilisation to get a signal. Reluctantly I get up and shoulder my pack, turn my back to the beauty of Maize Force and make for the trail. The last mile of moorland is boggy and wet but I learn to savour the comfort of walking on such a surface having slogged along miles of rocky road in the morning. I join the Pennine Way at the Grain Beck footbridge, rise up the slope to Birkdale farm where noisy dogs bark at me from behind locked doors and stride out towards the Cow Green.</blockquote>
<blockquote>This is a landscape of moving targets. Behind every hill there is yet another hill. The distances worked out on the maps can be doubled, such is the undulation of the land and the difficulty in moving through the terrain. My first real trip of 2011 has left me footsore and weary. I have covered close to twenty miles, most of it off-trail, and the last miles are the worst. Hip-flexors scream and strain. Calf muscles burn. Winter calories are burned off as I look at last on the buttress wall of Falcon Clints with the river Tees sweeping round in a broad loop and there on the right is the confluence of the Maize Beck as it joins the larger flow, a beck no longer but accepted into the flow of the main river, sweeping on to the sea.</blockquote>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2923578613393034594.post-85914040155767222372011-03-04T06:00:00.002+00:002011-03-04T06:02:12.918+00:00Icefyre I<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPwgVuTSJXbwmf2YjsEp6_YOTL4UB5j6ChYPX28jZNSOVrnfQJXyPdl2lRcu8ghh6Dy1PEpaG4b7RTrT_jvBiQ49jLp8c_Q65TMnkZeAz_TKkLK2rNHb2hFubUrpXlxr4rVvJBeBybDfA7/s1600/P1010109.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPwgVuTSJXbwmf2YjsEp6_YOTL4UB5j6ChYPX28jZNSOVrnfQJXyPdl2lRcu8ghh6Dy1PEpaG4b7RTrT_jvBiQ49jLp8c_Q65TMnkZeAz_TKkLK2rNHb2hFubUrpXlxr4rVvJBeBybDfA7/s320/P1010109.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5580101052101898578" /></a>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirqo7sDYAxaEa098WS6sq7-Dk34M52_zo7tasmHfoEWoTQk8Jj-Di2RvRk3WI0NSSxlEGcXZGQlurQr_4eG7v7fKCcBf1snVAhYnFltwADC_ta61Ww1mVx8A8LHLux7ybNkQp1UrF4kqpq/s1600/P1010103.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirqo7sDYAxaEa098WS6sq7-Dk34M52_zo7tasmHfoEWoTQk8Jj-Di2RvRk3WI0NSSxlEGcXZGQlurQr_4eG7v7fKCcBf1snVAhYnFltwADC_ta61Ww1mVx8A8LHLux7ybNkQp1UrF4kqpq/s320/P1010103.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5580101048784299714" /></a>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZ7NndKvNTmddPOaeB2Ot5Oj7PNr7LpzcfEkf_2ESdRHxV5vmy3MmoYDxtCZSe95JU5PFajTROUzmjETBQ15hCL3ramHBS4MqRnxpLtca384hwRuuDDw9EVZ_GHyRg1sUiYYj4tLXiJ_SY/s1600/P1010101.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZ7NndKvNTmddPOaeB2Ot5Oj7PNr7LpzcfEkf_2ESdRHxV5vmy3MmoYDxtCZSe95JU5PFajTROUzmjETBQ15hCL3ramHBS4MqRnxpLtca384hwRuuDDw9EVZ_GHyRg1sUiYYj4tLXiJ_SY/s320/P1010101.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5580101044605934914" /></a>
<blockquote>I was recently walking on the high moorland to the east of the Mallerstang valley when I found a beautiful frozen tarn. Down in the lowlands there had been no hard frosts for many weeks but up here in the High Places the cold was intense and long lasting, reluctant to relinquish its hold. The water level of the tarn had dropped since the first frost, it’s ebbing away causing the thick layer of ice to bow and sag, cracking in to large continental plates that lay stranded on the deep, dry yellow grass.</blockquote>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2923578613393034594.post-5903875447225788312011-03-04T05:57:00.001+00:002011-03-04T05:59:40.291+00:00Icefyre II<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJzEP2p-pjwJvc1NujTJzwwZZtsW7JKPhyYmkRkWTuDG5szem5FrGQHjhttHi0J6TfMWrf-Sua6M2YwaC8Js74S2NkYZBl-eeLvFeGCuTKZ_m_96UZhYpTnc2jD7VjlGWmBt5VksV4XTSq/s1600/P1010107.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJzEP2p-pjwJvc1NujTJzwwZZtsW7JKPhyYmkRkWTuDG5szem5FrGQHjhttHi0J6TfMWrf-Sua6M2YwaC8Js74S2NkYZBl-eeLvFeGCuTKZ_m_96UZhYpTnc2jD7VjlGWmBt5VksV4XTSq/s320/P1010107.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5580100407703204994" /></a>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLBloqsmK4_Odp0i11-Wln2R368WZaT1da5KKgIFvVhoAEeeFBOIhdusHaj83EQ8kAWuPJTPb0Ggo5ahDS4D2AowXJzJljZpFFWOSBjfoS-QjvyuRBjT5vrNiYFnaMh5uh950VS3w_ZJ4W/s1600/P1010106.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLBloqsmK4_Odp0i11-Wln2R368WZaT1da5KKgIFvVhoAEeeFBOIhdusHaj83EQ8kAWuPJTPb0Ggo5ahDS4D2AowXJzJljZpFFWOSBjfoS-QjvyuRBjT5vrNiYFnaMh5uh950VS3w_ZJ4W/s320/P1010106.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5580100408966494082" /></a>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4ohOlo15mfCnH1sltNT8ht9hyphenhyphenrXK8FyK2DI1peg0UmedwapxaiiqMG54XhGifElbcbeqdT4vwEzegLDQJaVyFZ-flksEonQ4SxIRws0hvv2zB6kT8TzJox8Ty2LeSqCzFqKRdbKFEGQ8k/s1600/P1010105.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4ohOlo15mfCnH1sltNT8ht9hyphenhyphenrXK8FyK2DI1peg0UmedwapxaiiqMG54XhGifElbcbeqdT4vwEzegLDQJaVyFZ-flksEonQ4SxIRws0hvv2zB6kT8TzJox8Ty2LeSqCzFqKRdbKFEGQ8k/s320/P1010105.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5580100401892555138" /></a>
<blockquote>The fractured ice marked the winter months of this lonely place like a talisman. How many people had passed by this small nameless pool on these cold pathless hills and stopped to wonder at this secret mystery? How many people had seen the fantastic bent forms of curved ice, seemingly beaten like steel into fantastic shapes. Ice as preserver and destroyer, frozen life and frozen death. Ice as a lens to focus the shy pallid sun that hides behind cloud and hills. Ice as the tracks of the Winter that will melt away before the warm winds of Spring but not easily, not before it’s time.</blockquote>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2923578613393034594.post-77127118757522159442011-03-04T05:44:00.002+00:002011-03-04T05:57:31.024+00:00Icefyre III<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglzzkXzkHvA6cGFfH3Qu_qUUGqSgAPqXnwfAUxWw61kjuscHl3WaW2H2IgQ_qk_2kC8yQA9_cUurWxWXaR7i6YXFqvPeRmJL8yVp17q-7oPL6jRXdqUIUdHuMfbvlLk0vMbSJ7PoeUMDnn/s1600/P1010121.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglzzkXzkHvA6cGFfH3Qu_qUUGqSgAPqXnwfAUxWw61kjuscHl3WaW2H2IgQ_qk_2kC8yQA9_cUurWxWXaR7i6YXFqvPeRmJL8yVp17q-7oPL6jRXdqUIUdHuMfbvlLk0vMbSJ7PoeUMDnn/s320/P1010121.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5580099845946382946" /></a>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggeHVRlIfEHfDF0OVB2WXIAwwegDPLlRs6A2rI55Z7GfLT9PD2GMtq642arh0y8G7-eH2RPEdo4StqoGjxtGDu5T_ZZvXyaQryIHqEWrZqf95cw8xdbKf55WOMgSFh_gZG_Qf-zVkq7cvw/s1600/P1010118.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggeHVRlIfEHfDF0OVB2WXIAwwegDPLlRs6A2rI55Z7GfLT9PD2GMtq642arh0y8G7-eH2RPEdo4StqoGjxtGDu5T_ZZvXyaQryIHqEWrZqf95cw8xdbKf55WOMgSFh_gZG_Qf-zVkq7cvw/s320/P1010118.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5580099834293075554" /></a>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj02Xk7KUS-EnXZ_Z2DEMjj3TnfK23jWai2CtqOY_6iKehfybtxHSqfiABIR6bTFlQkpl_RaG_eqbiWkYuYiMsaZyzYk0xkOzNwBtp1uiP-Ox3LceWvMUgeBNwlPDAyXeGgnft5ef9RaMHl/s1600/P1010114.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj02Xk7KUS-EnXZ_Z2DEMjj3TnfK23jWai2CtqOY_6iKehfybtxHSqfiABIR6bTFlQkpl_RaG_eqbiWkYuYiMsaZyzYk0xkOzNwBtp1uiP-Ox3LceWvMUgeBNwlPDAyXeGgnft5ef9RaMHl/s320/P1010114.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5580099831994456098" /></a>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFt0CSTOjRgql-QmYo9sHDTbKDq9QFg3xpSV5Nr8vrRaOPYKO3Plq6YKCZe_ha0AT6u0i18xI4GwThm-kBaaBQYhxt7A1nbd6UtbOVUl7NpbO9EyQ9jaC73KYYmf_Z70f5ByyBHuulyUU2/s1600/P1010113.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFt0CSTOjRgql-QmYo9sHDTbKDq9QFg3xpSV5Nr8vrRaOPYKO3Plq6YKCZe_ha0AT6u0i18xI4GwThm-kBaaBQYhxt7A1nbd6UtbOVUl7NpbO9EyQ9jaC73KYYmf_Z70f5ByyBHuulyUU2/s320/P1010113.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5580099829042787506" /></a>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuFVnFRWBMYUUDc52bYctiREgEqGvcqXUp4UlEtlJxXuJQY8WilytHdoM-F8CzJbQn1noK3o-lsYjlJG5sBRnKrkjEumoVKy29EIZ9vS97W12OZWMTOGGloRfXBokZ0f0VBHseKizEziiV/s1600/P1010111.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuFVnFRWBMYUUDc52bYctiREgEqGvcqXUp4UlEtlJxXuJQY8WilytHdoM-F8CzJbQn1noK3o-lsYjlJG5sBRnKrkjEumoVKy29EIZ9vS97W12OZWMTOGGloRfXBokZ0f0VBHseKizEziiV/s320/P1010111.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5580099824030816626" /></a>
<blockquote><strong>Fire & Ice</strong></blockquote>
<blockquote>Some say the world will end in fire,</blockquote>
<blockquote>Some say in ice.</blockquote>
<blockquote>From what I’ve tasted of desire</blockquote>
<blockquote>I hold with those who favor fire.</blockquote>
<blockquote>But if it had to perish twice,</blockquote>
<blockquote>I think I know enough of hate</blockquote>
<blockquote>To say that for destruction ice</blockquote>
<blockquote>Is also great,</blockquote>
<blockquote>And would suffice.</blockquote>
<strong><blockquote>Robert Frost, 1920</blockquote></strong>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2923578613393034594.post-25115949071163127282011-02-05T10:20:00.001+00:002011-02-05T10:24:27.218+00:00Megalithic Monday: Gamelands Stone Circle<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivtG1gAhRFQ542s9Rk5rrxTAoicoWNGvQxoItEEKVynPsl-oAIGC9pzt-rxVaNoeSUKAJCT9SIlvmI8lsCu_oy6hAycY6_YxOZi7uP0lzDphegarKF82A2o4MFqhVep4ZKZO_p5E5e8GCj/s1600/P1010001.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivtG1gAhRFQ542s9Rk5rrxTAoicoWNGvQxoItEEKVynPsl-oAIGC9pzt-rxVaNoeSUKAJCT9SIlvmI8lsCu_oy6hAycY6_YxOZi7uP0lzDphegarKF82A2o4MFqhVep4ZKZO_p5E5e8GCj/s320/P1010001.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5570149327646278418" /></a>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwv9qsXt6hoxc1eaP8Gv0XiuqE6vCEXvTpogG4vnMPQWz4G2b54uIj8HnetWEajoqja_c2REP_Xt5W74nVMg23ZHURJr8FkZtioRH7wSVTq2FkFHQCE9h5dSeVT-j8lhvXyLS1U-A7_uN3/s1600/P1010006.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwv9qsXt6hoxc1eaP8Gv0XiuqE6vCEXvTpogG4vnMPQWz4G2b54uIj8HnetWEajoqja_c2REP_Xt5W74nVMg23ZHURJr8FkZtioRH7wSVTq2FkFHQCE9h5dSeVT-j8lhvXyLS1U-A7_uN3/s320/P1010006.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5570149323633989362" /></a>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh26oHEo_EnFiXjuGI8mT9bOM64hywPRT5m12c50rVPE2xggNtVrdfoJz8ZS60QqlKCs1oLeyF6h5sPjzID9U9Aiqu97Mb1nUv2x7YzjQNqKop-emmwSMWWK98jXNeBzksX8TUvQPgJEwg8/s1600/P1010005.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh26oHEo_EnFiXjuGI8mT9bOM64hywPRT5m12c50rVPE2xggNtVrdfoJz8ZS60QqlKCs1oLeyF6h5sPjzID9U9Aiqu97Mb1nUv2x7YzjQNqKop-emmwSMWWK98jXNeBzksX8TUvQPgJEwg8/s320/P1010005.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5570149314439755586" /></a>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSFCLG4qn9kfpcZy2ahS58K-xDD51zQl9FKEAA0OxWedMciRr9cnuqOL-7xly6OWW8s48kKLklys_vY4LNje3Zdt83TgUvy6wg5bkbwFJthkVJGP_zEYjh-VoCPBOjuD6kADe8dZzniCio/s1600/P1010004.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSFCLG4qn9kfpcZy2ahS58K-xDD51zQl9FKEAA0OxWedMciRr9cnuqOL-7xly6OWW8s48kKLklys_vY4LNje3Zdt83TgUvy6wg5bkbwFJthkVJGP_zEYjh-VoCPBOjuD6kADe8dZzniCio/s320/P1010004.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5570149316518884018" /></a>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwwbWWikfhSsf_IB3vMrrwnyxDMSTH3_VN-vlW_Ljr7gaw0DjhA5DYvelaAE9UJsmHkFQbNjhGqvtI-h0NTeKemUVmNaAGAYNrfuVYbidHz7f62Oxtg1NxlX5SOmnF_YtLZV1aYSGm7Yy5/s1600/P1010001.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwwbWWikfhSsf_IB3vMrrwnyxDMSTH3_VN-vlW_Ljr7gaw0DjhA5DYvelaAE9UJsmHkFQbNjhGqvtI-h0NTeKemUVmNaAGAYNrfuVYbidHz7f62Oxtg1NxlX5SOmnF_YtLZV1aYSGm7Yy5/s320/P1010001.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5570149312455883218" /></a>
<blockquote>On a fine, bright winters day I set out to visit a series of megalithic monuments and stone circles in the east of Cumbria, a county which holds a third of all the stone circles in England. The concentration of prehistoric monuments in the county is testament to the importance of the area to our ancient ancestors but the questions I wished to explore by visiting these sites was what made this area so attractive, why were these sites chosen as special and then marked in such a visible way by the erection of massive stone monuments.</blockquote>
<blockquote>The night before my journey I had sat down with my 1:25000 OS maps spread over the floor and carefully planned my route so that I could cover as much ground as quickly as possible and it was with a light heart and a blithe spirit that I set out with my itinerary tightly scheduled. In the tangle of small lanes and minor roads that criss-cross the countryside south of Appleby my tightly scheduled itinerary began to unravel when I found the road I wished to take was being dug up by a team of navvies and was firmly closed. A quick glance at the map showed that I could get in from the west rather than the east but this would necessitate a lengthy detour however all was not lost as my new route would take me through the village of Orton and close to the circle at Gamelands. So I threw the itinerary out the window and trusted to my sense of direction.</blockquote>
<blockquote>Orton is a small and visibly affluent village sitting in a green low-lying hollow between the massive limestone scar to the north east, the Howgill hills to the south and Lakeland fells to the west. The village has all the necessary features of the chocolate box lid – white-washed stone cottages, a church with a high tower and large country houses with their own drives scattered around the perimeter. Leaving the village along the B6261 and driving east along the foot of the scar you come to Knott Lane, a small and rocky track leading to the stone circle. It was bitterly cold with the winds seeming to blow from every direction at once as I set off up the lane on foot. The map showed the circle to be on the eastern side of the dry stone wall, which at this point was around 5 feet high. I peered over the wall from the advantage point of a large mossy stone and there it was – 33 large pink granite boulders (actually 32, one of the boulders is limestone and badly weathered and pitted) in a rough broken circle with sheep tracks between. A quick look over my shoulder to make sure I was alone then an even quicker climb over the dry stone wall, here made with large stone slabs that acted as steps, and I was down the other side and among the circle.</blockquote>
<blockquote>Gamelands is a large structure, around 40 metres in diameter, with some very large stones, which although fallen still retain their sense of scale and presence. The stones themselves are glacial erratics of Shap granite, deposited in this predominantly limestone area by the retreating ice of the last glaciation. They have an easy and worn shape, like a boiled sweet that has been sucked smooth. The pink feldspar crystals, or phenocrysts, give the stones a fleshy, organic look – almost like the backs of subterranean animals breaching the surface of the earth. In the bitter winds I walked around the circle and touched the stones, noting the blue pieces of piping discarded in the middle – the ubiquitous agricultural litter of the British countryside. Nobody was around. Very few cars passed by on the road to the south. Only the sheep watched me and then only briefly, returning after quick glances to the grass that was much more important. </blockquote>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2923578613393034594.post-56837133995827033222011-02-05T10:17:00.001+00:002011-02-05T10:20:15.823+00:00Megalithic Monday: Gamelands Stone Circle II<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixhzjmBilthaEgFzKAko1yyYkp9LIpJXnmkXfaWy6MilRegKzVLJCWzqR4815eRLQo2ZozcPGPGlgDvKaluRIuUwiJA07OS5x4_s-qqZ6wOcXU4PIJBtu2QTj92FMn8BBTn6YpEAY6jayq/s1600/P1010013.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixhzjmBilthaEgFzKAko1yyYkp9LIpJXnmkXfaWy6MilRegKzVLJCWzqR4815eRLQo2ZozcPGPGlgDvKaluRIuUwiJA07OS5x4_s-qqZ6wOcXU4PIJBtu2QTj92FMn8BBTn6YpEAY6jayq/s320/P1010013.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5570148232725094514" /></a>
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<blockquote>What was special about this place? Why here? These are the critical questions with stone circles – purpose and location, location and purpose. For all the theories about stone circles as cattle pens, astronomical instruments, tribal centres and meeting places I feel that the answer is much more simple and often very obvious, if only one looks up from the theodolite, slide rule and tape measure. Such huge, megalithic structures require planning and resources – not just brute labour but intellectual resources and spiritual resources. The circle is here because ancient people wanted to mark this place – and if we look around we quickly see that the most dominant topographical feature is the massive bulk of Knot Hill looming over the stone circle from the north. The presence of this hill must be significant to the location of Gamelands stone circle – perhaps because of it’s shape, rounded and prominent, or the fact that it’s limestone geology and hydrology marked it as different and worthy of celebration. </blockquote>
<blockquote>We have lost the stories and lore that explained the significance of the location but it can be partially regained; with a sensitivity to place and lines of sight, with an understanding of the direction of valleys and passes, with an awareness of how the ebb and flow of the landscape impacts on the lives of plants, animals and people we can begin to rebuild the lost lore of Ancient British Animism that lies buried with the megaliths and rock-art of these islands.</blockquote>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2923578613393034594.post-19199893045983450852011-02-05T10:13:00.001+00:002011-02-05T10:16:24.994+00:00Megalithic Monday: Castlehow Scar Stone Circle<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcm_S-9tq6EosMXNsko5qCB5RXNiAeqwdZ4vlHlEHVFuhIHEB_CCuxriC78HAY9Jv6qCobUvHqx5NB68u5lATZ5coYZRWT4_72jlIvnsfop8bkL-_FJ0YauF4Z_p-pqmWATi3nXbg7boMo/s1600/P1010015.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcm_S-9tq6EosMXNsko5qCB5RXNiAeqwdZ4vlHlEHVFuhIHEB_CCuxriC78HAY9Jv6qCobUvHqx5NB68u5lATZ5coYZRWT4_72jlIvnsfop8bkL-_FJ0YauF4Z_p-pqmWATi3nXbg7boMo/s320/P1010015.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5570147198876223538" /></a>
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<blockquote>My route now took me through the moorland north west of Orton and on towards Shap. The small town of Shap sits on the far eastern fringe of Lakeland like a poor relation at a wedding celebration. Despite the efforts of the council and tourist board to market Shap as “Gateway To The Eastern Lakes” it remains a working class town with a very visible industrial presence along the length of its linear plan. It feels like a place where you are more likely to see hi-vis vests and rigger boots than designer mountain jackets, which is a good thing. Of course in the stone age Shap and the hill sides around the present town were at the centre of a large and complex ritual landscape marked by a network of stone circles, megalithic avenues, cairns and standing stones. Driving over the moors from Orton every other rock catches ones attention and it is possible to see broken cairns and opened cists at every bend in the road. I would love to spend more time here and test to see if my suspicions are bourn out but the day is already moving on and I have too many things to do.</blockquote>
<blockquote>Castlehow Scar is a small and ruinous stone circle that is, quite frankly, hardly worth the effort of visiting were it not that it is on the way to other, more impressive sites. One crosses the M6 heading east out of Shap, rising up to the long ridge that runs north-south from Penrith to Tebay. At the crest of the ridge and in the lee of a long narrow plantation of spindly, under-nourished sitka spruce the stone circle stands up against a wire fence and a dry stone wall. Public access is not allowed and I had to balletically climb and balance across the barbed wire fence but it really wasn’t worth the trouble. After the vast scale of Gamelands this is an anti-climax. The sense of bewilderment and let-down is increased by the obstruction caused by the plantation, which cuts off all views to the fells at the far east of the vale of Eden. But ones eye is drawn westwards to nearby Shap with it’s complex of megalithic monuments and the siting of Castlehow Scar stone circle must be part of this wider landscape, with its views to the amphitheatre of High Places that surround the Vale of Eden. Even so, Castlehow Scar circle is not something that I would travel to see again.</blockquote>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2923578613393034594.post-40663768729417107292011-02-05T10:09:00.002+00:002011-02-05T10:12:38.585+00:00Megalithic Monday: Iron Hills North<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0Mv0ZEYSRA8G6ibHwcQmdvDOon_7nVdOJPUNrk8j4j9mjhrmZeCZCg4nLhfS_UOODxPUTm7nYOWl_-EyB7KEWMTkDX6dXPAecRXqRLQkZgM8pVgXMf2ZvKPYICKVpRyfzbM4oPaLdZwcn/s1600/P1010025.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0Mv0ZEYSRA8G6ibHwcQmdvDOon_7nVdOJPUNrk8j4j9mjhrmZeCZCg4nLhfS_UOODxPUTm7nYOWl_-EyB7KEWMTkDX6dXPAecRXqRLQkZgM8pVgXMf2ZvKPYICKVpRyfzbM4oPaLdZwcn/s320/P1010025.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5570146287617147666" /></a>
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<blockquote>Carry on down the lane from Castlehow Scar, round the southern end of the ugly 1959 spruce plantation and onwards towards the isolated farmstead of Oddendale and you can visit the twin sites of Iron Hills North and South, otherwise known as Haberwain. There is a long straight green-lane leading up from the corner of the road, up towards the ridge line that attracted the eye of these ancient architects. There are so many erratics in the fields around Haberwain, and often in vaguely regular distributions that one can get confused and “stone crazy” but it is worth remembering that in this part of the world stone circles occur, like fox shit, in prominent places with clear lines of sight and that means the summit of the ridge</blockquote>.
<blockquote>There is some debate as to whether Iron Hills North is actually a stone circle or the remains of a ruined cairn with its base stones exposed. That there is a large cairn-shaped mound in the middle, with a dry stone wall cutting through it, would suggest the latter. Never the less this is an impressive site and one that affords clear lines of sight to other High Places around the panorama – including the large glacial trough of High Cup Nick, the edge-like summit of Wild Boar Fell, the massive of the Howgill Fells to the south and the wall of Grey Crag and Bannisdale Fell behind Shap.</blockquote>
<blockquote>Who was buried in a place like this? John Salkeld Bland’s 1910 book “The Vale Of The Lyvenett” has an anecdotal and frustratingly romantic account of the “careless” opening of the cairn “a few years ago”, which revealed a human skeleton allegedly of “gigantic proportions” (what else), fragments of red deer antler and a “bronze dagger” described as thirteen inches in length. We may snigger at the exaggeration of the size of the skeleton and Bland’s fanciful assertion that the man “opposed the advance of the Roman legions” – he may have been as removed from Roman Britain as us – but this is a place of obvious and significant importance.</blockquote>
<blockquote>At How Tallon above Barningham Moor – 40 miles to the east – there is a Bronze Age burial cairn that affords similar lines of sight to high hills along the valleys of the Swale, Greta, Tees, Wear and even (on a clear day) the Tyne. There is also a small stone circle at the head of a prominent gill, a place that provides a permanent spring and which is commemorated by spectacular rock art panels. Here at Haberwain is a similar site – a burial mound with panoramic views, sited within a large and complex ritual megalithic landscape. The effort of erecting these burial mounds in such places, with thin soil and steep ascents, must have been considerable. Are we confident that our family and friends would go to such lengths for us when we die? Will our graves occupy a place where the High Places can be seen? Will there be anything of importance for our souls to see?</blockquote>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2923578613393034594.post-71467965467618998532011-02-05T10:05:00.002+00:002011-02-05T10:09:14.971+00:00Megalithic Monday: Iron Hills South<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJ7xYz4PCk6911v7an5yvKMsTNu2zAqPalyNzNni9tyxa9EdQqAaIXsrNx6B7xGjFfajxjZKgyRXi3bXksEmFLnWBRyi2KQ4SWsU_T1HSUIPLb4V3SUrSptd7vHXtXfUuL1drbcKoW1M2V/s1600/P1010037.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJ7xYz4PCk6911v7an5yvKMsTNu2zAqPalyNzNni9tyxa9EdQqAaIXsrNx6B7xGjFfajxjZKgyRXi3bXksEmFLnWBRyi2KQ4SWsU_T1HSUIPLb4V3SUrSptd7vHXtXfUuL1drbcKoW1M2V/s320/P1010037.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5570145170128771058" /></a>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDkEzbr5XWgL1LW2XBllOP6Z7-46iZNOI7I-yKNva_15ZoNinBg90aPNU8swOkYvxZv5Ocail_3acXowBpj7FCAAISE7PEOV7SXnHsYv0mGVmRUqiwHvHwZgLiMBmMOWs0pLhufCcFcUWg/s1600/P1010031.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDkEzbr5XWgL1LW2XBllOP6Z7-46iZNOI7I-yKNva_15ZoNinBg90aPNU8swOkYvxZv5Ocail_3acXowBpj7FCAAISE7PEOV7SXnHsYv0mGVmRUqiwHvHwZgLiMBmMOWs0pLhufCcFcUWg/s320/P1010031.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5570145169225156450" /></a>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTe4DRhyphenhyphenJggIcvPAjjPHrHX-5Oe4uA8qMXznTQGSkhTR2kMSGtC2YlWfIE4gmgf_CO5J9A8z9jmYwZ03q49W-x_7CGWKLY30EUJCDYCHj_Hkh2Rh2dhqyCVF_SGF6NzW_EYDe_2ZAlPaNl/s1600/P1010026.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTe4DRhyphenhyphenJggIcvPAjjPHrHX-5Oe4uA8qMXznTQGSkhTR2kMSGtC2YlWfIE4gmgf_CO5J9A8z9jmYwZ03q49W-x_7CGWKLY30EUJCDYCHj_Hkh2Rh2dhqyCVF_SGF6NzW_EYDe_2ZAlPaNl/s320/P1010026.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5570145152794650354" /></a>
<blockquote>50 meters south of the burial cairn at Iron Hills North is the creatively named site of Iron Hills South. Nine stones form a ring around the top of a (very) low mound, with one stone about 2 metres outside the ring. Three other stones occupy the centre of the mound, with all the stones except one being Shap granite. Like its brother to the north this may also be a broken and dilapidated cairn, certainly some commentators have suggested this but there is no obvious raised structure around the remaining stones such as Iron Hills North, rather the ground within the circle is flat and level. </blockquote>
<blockquote>The feature appears to my untrained and unprofessional eye to be a small stone circle, of a similar size to the nearby Castlehow Scar circle but with a small stone assemblage in the centre. It could be anything – we really don’t know exactly what it was but like all the monuments in this complex it occupies a prominent location with wide, panoramic views.</blockquote>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2923578613393034594.post-54830559294689318072011-02-05T10:02:00.001+00:002011-02-05T10:05:21.141+00:00Megalithic Monday: Iron Hills South II<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwR72CM2g2dA3VW2dpEPYbILr867tHvBK9oPc6Wu8CPzWnLc91CC45QiWe1i5mmrEEHeHyLs6vVg_75tGqWo-Tc7z8f28_NkkhLJdW5h7yuacZzg579P9lMiNdUiHKu4zQZvRy7tFCblKo/s1600/P1010034.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwR72CM2g2dA3VW2dpEPYbILr867tHvBK9oPc6Wu8CPzWnLc91CC45QiWe1i5mmrEEHeHyLs6vVg_75tGqWo-Tc7z8f28_NkkhLJdW5h7yuacZzg579P9lMiNdUiHKu4zQZvRy7tFCblKo/s320/P1010034.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5570144405275375730" /></a>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5LEI_kf4kFN8-YbBrZDzpUtgdgRLTcvKrNMA24OPIPRo3xjD5DYfQ4ENFQy0qTSVnibA5Z9WfYTWj2RDAw0Qzbedf8dt7nWayPvAscpirDgYllFiH1NqgN9JTWTr-ovTrGrvw1bPJ_6yb/s1600/P1010033.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5LEI_kf4kFN8-YbBrZDzpUtgdgRLTcvKrNMA24OPIPRo3xjD5DYfQ4ENFQy0qTSVnibA5Z9WfYTWj2RDAw0Qzbedf8dt7nWayPvAscpirDgYllFiH1NqgN9JTWTr-ovTrGrvw1bPJ_6yb/s320/P1010033.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5570144403953385570" /></a>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnEass5QjYaPN7P4dXiqRlUe_6K3ooIeR_-M7UzM2LY6VB7cai9hpwtpJ6JEFIaaLqR1cp9W6IZR6acBMAHzVT-tlSsL9-1b1BugosXj6jbPXIlL5FhhCGraCNYuOmNa-gNN0czoBLUq65/s1600/P1010030.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnEass5QjYaPN7P4dXiqRlUe_6K3ooIeR_-M7UzM2LY6VB7cai9hpwtpJ6JEFIaaLqR1cp9W6IZR6acBMAHzVT-tlSsL9-1b1BugosXj6jbPXIlL5FhhCGraCNYuOmNa-gNN0czoBLUq65/s320/P1010030.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5570144390436410450" /></a>
<blockquote>Some modern commentators have expressed their dislike, even their disgust for the large open cast limestone quarry to the west of this site, claiming it to be a scar on the landscape and not in keeping with the ancient monuments that surround it. I feel that this attitude does not sit well with the tradition these sites represent. The North Pennines and Cumbrian fells have always been places of industry and extraction – coal, lead, iron stone, slate, granite, and limestone. The landscape has been shaped – not just recently but back into antiquity – by these actions and the modern, usually urban, expectation that the countryside be a beautified and genteel place of recreation is unrealistic and condescending. People need to make a living, money needs to be earned and this was as true for the people who quarried stone for axe heads from Glaramara, Langdale and Mallerstang as it is for the people of Shap today. I feel our Neolithic and Bronze Age ancestors, who were acquainted with the uses and properties of stone in a way that few modern people can rival, would have understood this perfectly.</blockquote>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2923578613393034594.post-22442202357468349242011-02-05T09:58:00.001+00:002011-02-05T10:01:50.540+00:00Megalithic Monday: Oddendale Stone Circle<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4ARSAxznoJJFMqJ_4CPA_zfpT4Izn1xKchnyvqANtWsOYAkFf1knTgbhVpMNvy3417_o4EIjFS3loDssoQO2PBF8lMLsIHPogo7mjGoXUN861xKJdJLk3oxzr3i8o6ajlslV0bSzy5Njr/s1600/P1010043.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4ARSAxznoJJFMqJ_4CPA_zfpT4Izn1xKchnyvqANtWsOYAkFf1knTgbhVpMNvy3417_o4EIjFS3loDssoQO2PBF8lMLsIHPogo7mjGoXUN861xKJdJLk3oxzr3i8o6ajlslV0bSzy5Njr/s320/P1010043.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5570143432625630530" /></a>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-f2OI-q7FLfxGz46VUvN0WxNsFaCkEbFjIJECMlmA1AwMTtFel_IR0gfKbUf5EBnQY3PB-LO8vJuATh2OGQnDdLyVhi1P_O4u-rEtkLPCXVbVJHaKRbd4vLNkSNA5mO4MgdbfRbaz4JOt/s1600/P1010038.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-f2OI-q7FLfxGz46VUvN0WxNsFaCkEbFjIJECMlmA1AwMTtFel_IR0gfKbUf5EBnQY3PB-LO8vJuATh2OGQnDdLyVhi1P_O4u-rEtkLPCXVbVJHaKRbd4vLNkSNA5mO4MgdbfRbaz4JOt/s320/P1010038.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5570143406234372274" /></a>
<blockquote>Some two kilometres south of Haberwain is the tiny, isolated hamlet of Oddendale. It would be hard to find a more remote place than this collection of cottages and farm buildings sheltering in the lee of huge beech and sycamore trees at the head of a small gill. There are no shops, no pubs and as the settlement shrinks behind its protective dry stone wall it takes on the character of a fortified farmstead, a place that keeps the outside world at bay. </blockquote>
<blockquote>When I arrived at Oddendale the weather had changed to one of those beautiful days of shifting winter light. The sun illuminated a low blanket of dark rolling cloud that shadowed the ground; shafts of light were cast down to the earth, bathing the landscape in a soft golden glow. In this spectacular place of earth and sky the winter grass was pale and dead, blowing and flowing in the strong wind. The moor seemed huge and empty, not even the movement of sheep or birds disturbed the peace.</blockquote>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2923578613393034594.post-1908553095751494762011-02-05T09:55:00.002+00:002011-02-05T09:58:18.888+00:00Megalithic Monday: Oddendale Stone Circle II<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiE9cnWwDc4P8ZSr2gvOFb9sz2hHpiv97E5aObiqnungzpETnlbelfLQbM9cn1WDGsOKDxAKepcQ4ZukuMy10rvN5yEOzCGRM8iMro3xyomCVM-CLzTMrHKSmNaFBc6jbnToDqEzUVG4hmD/s1600/P1010048.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiE9cnWwDc4P8ZSr2gvOFb9sz2hHpiv97E5aObiqnungzpETnlbelfLQbM9cn1WDGsOKDxAKepcQ4ZukuMy10rvN5yEOzCGRM8iMro3xyomCVM-CLzTMrHKSmNaFBc6jbnToDqEzUVG4hmD/s320/P1010048.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5570142419030428786" /></a>
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<blockquote>The circle is to the south of the hamlet, beyond a section of raised limestone pavement. The moor is scattered with glacial erratics, some of which are massive blocks of Shap granite weighing many tones. Approaching from the north the circle is hidden, concealed by the grass and the lie of the land but one learns to read the landscape and because Oddendale’s near neighbours are situated on the crest of a ridge of high ground with vast views in all directions I walked in that direction and found the stones, like scattered jewels, exactly where I thought they would be.</blockquote>
<blockquote>Oddendale is a concentric stone circle, with an outer ring of 34 stones measuring 30 metres in diameter. The inner circle forms a kerb around a low mound of approximately 7 metres in diameter. Outside the circle to the north there is another smaller structure, possibly another circle of 11 stones. Just like Gamelands to the south this is a large, imposing circle built with heavy stones that would have required considerable skill and energy to arrange, something that tells us much of the social structure of the people who celebrated this place. From this high ridge there are clear, unobstructed (except for the modern spruce plantations) views to the High Places all around – including the cairn at Haberwain on the northern horizon. From here I could see the Howgills, the fells above Shap, the west wall of the Pennines and even the pass that leads east over the hills to Stainmore and the valleys of the rivers Tees and Greta. </blockquote>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2923578613393034594.post-34576667549547372412011-02-05T09:51:00.001+00:002011-02-05T09:54:21.766+00:00Megalithic Monday: Oddendale Stone Circle III<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiR6XcqXPtEdw1DZ1LjdOxTR8_d4jvBDzYVmPYycxj_nbCNcTMOqe-wzEbEWHeNuE72Z1XZigS34Im1RzphYwFRCAU7RdZMU25oY_h20_bKST0WeoUgVzVUJ1_GBGgjVDJ3CJW3vAEMr8GV/s1600/P1010055.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiR6XcqXPtEdw1DZ1LjdOxTR8_d4jvBDzYVmPYycxj_nbCNcTMOqe-wzEbEWHeNuE72Z1XZigS34Im1RzphYwFRCAU7RdZMU25oY_h20_bKST0WeoUgVzVUJ1_GBGgjVDJ3CJW3vAEMr8GV/s320/P1010055.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5570141541100983858" /></a>
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<blockquote>This prominent location in an open and exposed landscape is not accidental. This place must have been chosen because it allowed clear lines of sight to other important places and conversely because from those places this site could be seen. In the landscape of 4000 years ago, with a warm and gentle climate it is not too difficult to imagine a hospitable, greener and more wooded location than the bleak atmosphere these northern uplands sometimes project. To the immediate west of the site is the modern M6 motorway, which occupies the valleys of the rivers Lune and Lowther. Beyond is the old A6 road connecting Shap to Penrith in the north and Kendal to the south. When I have tracked badger and fox I have noted their use of paths and trails through the landscape and I have wondered which came first – are the animals using our paths or are we building our roads and paths on animal trails that are far older. Animals and people need to move across the land, they naturally use the paths of least resistance – river valleys, passes across the hills, ridge lines that give clear views and avoid dark and dangerous places. The Neolithic population of Cumbria would have also used these routes, allowing them to move from the coastal peninsulars in the south – a place with another concentration of stone circles and monuments – to the ritual centres around Penrith, with its confluences of rivers, massive henges and stone circles. </blockquote>
<blockquote>It would be a mistake to assume that these sites are simple way markers, mere signposts that point the way for ancient travellers. Anybody who has ever walked in the countryside will quickly realise that no such help is needed – it is obvious where the best path is to be found, the landscape tells you very clearly by the pain in your legs but I feel that there is something deeper going on – the sites mark, maybe even venerate, special places in the landscape. From here people could see the High Places in the hills and mountains that surround the stones, as well as the surrounding valleys with their rivers and woodland. There is a genius loci about these places that is only grasped by looking up at the sky and hills, not down at the stones.</blockquote>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1