Kentdale
Approaching Skeggleswater on New Year's Day 2010
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Blue moon over Skeggleswater
'Brightly shone the moon that night.' On New Year's Eve my darkened study was flooded with moonlight. There was a keen overnight frost with Arctic weather coming in on a north-east wind. Once in a blue moon. Rarely, how rarely? A blue moon comes once in two to three years. Most calendar months have a single full moon : a complement of twelve a year. There was a first full moon on 2nd December 2009, and a second full moon- a blue moon- on 31st December. On New Year’s Eve a blue moon rose in a cloudless sky: the year ended with a thirteenth moon and a partial lunar eclipse as the moon came within the earth’s shadow. ‘Brightly shone the moon that night, though the frost was cruel.’ |
Snow had come in mid-December and a range of Lake District locations could only be reached by Land Rover. The Kirkstone Pass was closed, with minor roads inaccessible. On St Stephen’s Day Good King Wenceslas came carolling, and stayed for a week of winter walking. Each morning, we had to dig ourselves out in a hearty prelude to the day’s excursion. Daylight hours were short so we opted for the moorland between Kentdale and Longsleddale: Skeggleswater under winter conditions. We donned crampons and winter gear and headed up beside the plantation just north of Millrigg Knott in the direction of Staveley Head Fell, past disused lead mines and close to the burnt mound- all invisible under snow. A group of Swaledales wearied themselves by trotting ahead of us on the track and there were signs of a farmer having driven up here on a quad bike with fodder for his sheep.
The day was inspirational. To the south east, crepuscular rays fanned out below the clouds in shades of rosy dawn. ‘ Sunlight and cloudscape worked magic upon the snow which reflected light from all over the sky and the fells ranged before us in dazzling, sun-struck white, in soft blues and grey cloud shadow. At our feet, tussocks rippled under snow with a rhythmic hatching of shadows. Snow-melt and refreeze gleamed off ice.
Look south into the sun from the footbridge over Skeggleswater Dike and its water was molten silver, look north for intense blue. A fortnight of December weather was imprinted in the snow and a few footsteps crossed the bridge and followed the bridleway in the direction of Longsleddale but no one had chosen to head for the tarn as we did, following a path marked on the map but obliterated by virgin snow. How would the red grouse fare with feeding and roosting patterns disrupted in their heather habitat, with tips of the shrub showing here and there above the snow? We picked up a fence following the curve of the dike, came to another footbridge and crossed into a zone marked boggy ground- the sump surrounding Skeggleswater. With the track invisible we crossed direct, with only a few rushes breaking the surface of the snow. Where were those boulders shown on the OS map? What slow progress we made! Through a week of winter walking my friend had played Good King Wenceslas and I his page. The snow was deep and crisp, sometimes two feet deep, and I trod boldly in his fresh-cut footsteps that shone in sunlight. For each step, we had to lift our feet clear of the snow. Too close on Wenceslas’ heels and I had to dodge crampon spikes descending on my boot. We slogged toward Skeggleswater but knolls beside the tarn didn’t seem to be getting any closer. Our feet went deep in the deepest snow and into soft, boggy ground. A biting north-east wind hit us as we approached the tarn and I lurched away on a pioneering photographic venture, struggling to plant my feet steadily in the snow, my fingers freed from outer mittens and rapidly numbing. A dark peat fringe bordered the farther shore close to the outlet where the ice grew thin and gave way to dark water and vestiges of aquatic plants. King Wenceslas could not resist walking on another frozen tarn, then made his way off the ice to a cluster of rocks convenient for our lunch stop. Golden rushes on the far side of the tarn gave warm colour, a dry stone wall ran up north in the direction of Shipman Knotts and the sun cast our rock-enthroned shadows majestic upon the ice, shadows deeper and fainter by the moment. Waves of sunlight and cloud-shadow played upon Skeggleswater ice through sky-blue, cloud-grey, and white. A beautiful, harsh and forbidding solitude at sub-zero temperatures and we needed to be on the move to keep warm. With a rush blade for a pointer, Wenceslas showed me his provisional route on the map ( no more of that deep, deep snow for either of us thank you). The best way was said to be ‘across the ice,’ but I opted to follow a shoreline blurred by snow and to take a photo-sequence of a king skating in crampons and taking photographs on a tarn whose ice was patterned with a dusting of wind-blown snow and with an inscription he had carved.
The day was inspirational. To the south east, crepuscular rays fanned out below the clouds in shades of rosy dawn. ‘ Sunlight and cloudscape worked magic upon the snow which reflected light from all over the sky and the fells ranged before us in dazzling, sun-struck white, in soft blues and grey cloud shadow. At our feet, tussocks rippled under snow with a rhythmic hatching of shadows. Snow-melt and refreeze gleamed off ice.
Look south into the sun from the footbridge over Skeggleswater Dike and its water was molten silver, look north for intense blue. A fortnight of December weather was imprinted in the snow and a few footsteps crossed the bridge and followed the bridleway in the direction of Longsleddale but no one had chosen to head for the tarn as we did, following a path marked on the map but obliterated by virgin snow. How would the red grouse fare with feeding and roosting patterns disrupted in their heather habitat, with tips of the shrub showing here and there above the snow? We picked up a fence following the curve of the dike, came to another footbridge and crossed into a zone marked boggy ground- the sump surrounding Skeggleswater. With the track invisible we crossed direct, with only a few rushes breaking the surface of the snow. Where were those boulders shown on the OS map? What slow progress we made! Through a week of winter walking my friend had played Good King Wenceslas and I his page. The snow was deep and crisp, sometimes two feet deep, and I trod boldly in his fresh-cut footsteps that shone in sunlight. For each step, we had to lift our feet clear of the snow. Too close on Wenceslas’ heels and I had to dodge crampon spikes descending on my boot. We slogged toward Skeggleswater but knolls beside the tarn didn’t seem to be getting any closer. Our feet went deep in the deepest snow and into soft, boggy ground. A biting north-east wind hit us as we approached the tarn and I lurched away on a pioneering photographic venture, struggling to plant my feet steadily in the snow, my fingers freed from outer mittens and rapidly numbing. A dark peat fringe bordered the farther shore close to the outlet where the ice grew thin and gave way to dark water and vestiges of aquatic plants. King Wenceslas could not resist walking on another frozen tarn, then made his way off the ice to a cluster of rocks convenient for our lunch stop. Golden rushes on the far side of the tarn gave warm colour, a dry stone wall ran up north in the direction of Shipman Knotts and the sun cast our rock-enthroned shadows majestic upon the ice, shadows deeper and fainter by the moment. Waves of sunlight and cloud-shadow played upon Skeggleswater ice through sky-blue, cloud-grey, and white. A beautiful, harsh and forbidding solitude at sub-zero temperatures and we needed to be on the move to keep warm. With a rush blade for a pointer, Wenceslas showed me his provisional route on the map ( no more of that deep, deep snow for either of us thank you). The best way was said to be ‘across the ice,’ but I opted to follow a shoreline blurred by snow and to take a photo-sequence of a king skating in crampons and taking photographs on a tarn whose ice was patterned with a dusting of wind-blown snow and with an inscription he had carved.
The etiquette of winter mountaineering requires each walker to take a turn in leading and making steps in the snow but good King Wenceslas would not hear of it and I had no thought of usurpation. As we headed in the direction of Birk Rigg the uphill gradient seemed exaggerated by deep snow and I lost my balance and stepped heavily on one of my walking poles which snapped in two. Good King Wenceslas instantly entrusted me with one of his and I find I favour a benevolent monarchy. Cloud came down behind us as we picked up our morning tracks: crampon spikes showed distinctly and those Swaledales had left a trail of droppings. As we reached the plantation a raven croaked and once more we heard coal tits in the conifers.
Saturday 30 January. Potter Tarn and Potter Fell
Last night, clear skies with a beautiful moon and a bright planet: Mars directly opposite the sun in the sky, a position that occurs once in 2 years 2 months. Tonight, the full moon.
An Arctic wind came from the north west and brought a cold, clear light. A rare day that lifted the spirits, coming after grey days and a feeling of entrapment from winter ice.
My friend Monica and I were in investigate mood en route for Potter Tarn. Sunlight transfigured everything it touched: bank barn, hazel coppice and winter woods; resplendent strutting and crowing cockerels; fresh-frozen mole hills; dags of sheeps’ wool stranded on a fence. Descending from Brunt Knott and the open fell, a beck flowed through pastoral, by farmsteads to the River Kent. Climbing toward Potter Tarn, we turned to look west upon the dale surrounded by open moorland, and toward the distant snow-covered Coniston Fells. The clarity of that January day tugs at my heart! A winter landscape, with the detail of an early Italian painting with men working in the fields on tasks needful to the season. Muck- spreading and tree pruning were the labours of the month, with a kitchen garden frost-wrapped, snowdrops hunkered down and jackdaws huddled in bare branches; this was a long, cold winter and spring was not in a hurry. Trees fringed the beck and undulating green pastures rose above, marked out by patterns of stone walls and tracks- destination outworn and lost in time, a landscape of agricultural and historical resonance.
Last night, clear skies with a beautiful moon and a bright planet: Mars directly opposite the sun in the sky, a position that occurs once in 2 years 2 months. Tonight, the full moon.
An Arctic wind came from the north west and brought a cold, clear light. A rare day that lifted the spirits, coming after grey days and a feeling of entrapment from winter ice.
My friend Monica and I were in investigate mood en route for Potter Tarn. Sunlight transfigured everything it touched: bank barn, hazel coppice and winter woods; resplendent strutting and crowing cockerels; fresh-frozen mole hills; dags of sheeps’ wool stranded on a fence. Descending from Brunt Knott and the open fell, a beck flowed through pastoral, by farmsteads to the River Kent. Climbing toward Potter Tarn, we turned to look west upon the dale surrounded by open moorland, and toward the distant snow-covered Coniston Fells. The clarity of that January day tugs at my heart! A winter landscape, with the detail of an early Italian painting with men working in the fields on tasks needful to the season. Muck- spreading and tree pruning were the labours of the month, with a kitchen garden frost-wrapped, snowdrops hunkered down and jackdaws huddled in bare branches; this was a long, cold winter and spring was not in a hurry. Trees fringed the beck and undulating green pastures rose above, marked out by patterns of stone walls and tracks- destination outworn and lost in time, a landscape of agricultural and historical resonance.
Saturday 27 March 2010. St Cuthbert’s Church and Kentmere Reservoir
Side-tracked and lingering suits me sometimes. I’m drawn by the light, and that’s what photography is- drawing with the light. Walkers head for the tops or choose a valley walk - usually a route with destination and some sort of track. A place that goes nowhere can be special. That intermediate fell-side zone often offers the undisturbed habitat vital for wildlife, and thank heaven for untrodden places.
Winter trees against a sky of blue, larch up on the crags, descending through boulders, scree and deciduous trees to the barn of the place in a setting of stone, naturally. Elements of barn find an echo in fellside: a door of larchwood, crow-stepped gable, roof of slate, gathered stone in the abutting wall. Someone cherishes this out-of-the-way location. A nest box is nailed to the trunk of an ash tree and above the door a slate-framed entrance would serve for a barn owl. A green woodpecker called and a tree creeper climbed a shadowed trunk. A perfect habitat for woodland birds! Here were the last of the intakes before the open fell.
There was something odd in a fast flowing water-track, a twist of membrane attached to a gelatinous mass of frogspawn- the last of a predated frog. For longer than I know, I was on my knees puzzling it out and I stood up to find myself surrounded by a flock of horned Swaledale ewes, come to investigate. The tables turned: being curious is what I do.
Side-tracked and lingering suits me sometimes. I’m drawn by the light, and that’s what photography is- drawing with the light. Walkers head for the tops or choose a valley walk - usually a route with destination and some sort of track. A place that goes nowhere can be special. That intermediate fell-side zone often offers the undisturbed habitat vital for wildlife, and thank heaven for untrodden places.
Winter trees against a sky of blue, larch up on the crags, descending through boulders, scree and deciduous trees to the barn of the place in a setting of stone, naturally. Elements of barn find an echo in fellside: a door of larchwood, crow-stepped gable, roof of slate, gathered stone in the abutting wall. Someone cherishes this out-of-the-way location. A nest box is nailed to the trunk of an ash tree and above the door a slate-framed entrance would serve for a barn owl. A green woodpecker called and a tree creeper climbed a shadowed trunk. A perfect habitat for woodland birds! Here were the last of the intakes before the open fell.
There was something odd in a fast flowing water-track, a twist of membrane attached to a gelatinous mass of frogspawn- the last of a predated frog. For longer than I know, I was on my knees puzzling it out and I stood up to find myself surrounded by a flock of horned Swaledale ewes, come to investigate. The tables turned: being curious is what I do.
With a canvas bag of whips slung over his shoulder, a man was hedge-planting in the double-fenced border along the track. The ground quivered and quaked as he thrust in his spade so wet it was. All nectar-rich to attract insects, butterflies and moths, the whips were hawthorn, with blackthorn and hazel and a few crab apple and alder- fruit-bearing species, for mice and voles which are food for owls and raptors. A wildlife corridor linked up channelled water courses that criss-crossed the flood plain to the River Kent. A cross-roads of smart new gates trafficked sheep safely into pastures new, keeping ewes out of the beck and protecting saplings from grazing. New posts and fencing, including the barn rebuild, comes under the aegis of landowner Jim Sharp. More conservation work on the double-fenced hedges, with willow flowering beside the road.
Just north of the church, Brow Top is an 18 century farmhouse, in the ownership of the Hayton family from 1881. Lambing would begin as the grass first showed green but it had been a harsh winter with snow covering the ground from 19 December to 19 January. And the sting in the tail, extreme winter weather would return on Monday.
Easter Sunday. 4 April.
St Cuthbert’s churchyard was resplendent with Easter daffodils. Through a step-and-squeeze stile, over the footbridge on the River Kent, above waterfalls and bluebell wood, a network of green lanes gave onto the oak trees and crags of Calf Howe, and Raven Crag. Mist drifted about the crags and fresh snow streaked the tops. A curlew called and flew through mizzling rain, I watched a buzzard come down in a larch.
Lights showed in the barn at Brow Top Farm at 7.00 am: lambing began here in early March for their Blue Faced Leicesters which are not hardy and the lambs have such fine wool they are almost bald so they are kept in a barn for six to eight weeks, until early May. Their horned Swaledales lamb from the beginning of April and when the scan shows twins they too lamb in the barns. Throughout the dale, pregnant ewes clustered close about farmsteads, barns and feeders. Mick Booth of Hartrigg Farm drove out, the flock following and surrounding him as he seemed to seek untrampled ground to place fresh fodder. A track-side site of replenishing bales where a farmer loaded up his vehicle was a deep churn-up of mud. The laboriousness of caring for stock through this long, hard winter! The hill farmers slogged on, delivering extra-high energy supplements, hay and haylage to their flocks. So, a glimpse of the reality of pastoral. Easter Monday brought heavy rain to add to the poached ground.
Just north of the church, Brow Top is an 18 century farmhouse, in the ownership of the Hayton family from 1881. Lambing would begin as the grass first showed green but it had been a harsh winter with snow covering the ground from 19 December to 19 January. And the sting in the tail, extreme winter weather would return on Monday.
Easter Sunday. 4 April.
St Cuthbert’s churchyard was resplendent with Easter daffodils. Through a step-and-squeeze stile, over the footbridge on the River Kent, above waterfalls and bluebell wood, a network of green lanes gave onto the oak trees and crags of Calf Howe, and Raven Crag. Mist drifted about the crags and fresh snow streaked the tops. A curlew called and flew through mizzling rain, I watched a buzzard come down in a larch.
Lights showed in the barn at Brow Top Farm at 7.00 am: lambing began here in early March for their Blue Faced Leicesters which are not hardy and the lambs have such fine wool they are almost bald so they are kept in a barn for six to eight weeks, until early May. Their horned Swaledales lamb from the beginning of April and when the scan shows twins they too lamb in the barns. Throughout the dale, pregnant ewes clustered close about farmsteads, barns and feeders. Mick Booth of Hartrigg Farm drove out, the flock following and surrounding him as he seemed to seek untrampled ground to place fresh fodder. A track-side site of replenishing bales where a farmer loaded up his vehicle was a deep churn-up of mud. The laboriousness of caring for stock through this long, hard winter! The hill farmers slogged on, delivering extra-high energy supplements, hay and haylage to their flocks. So, a glimpse of the reality of pastoral. Easter Monday brought heavy rain to add to the poached ground.
Wednesday 12 May 2010. Kentdale pastoral
Clear skies with an overnight frost and the coldest May morning for fifteen years. Peregrine on the crags, swallows twittering on a wire and the white blossoms of blackthorn flowering in the dale, mistle thrush and wren in the shelter-belt of trees beside Hartrigg Farm. Water levels in Kentmere reservoir were low, the stony edges exposed. By the track was an ash pollard- its poll a nursery for ferns, holly and a thick clump of flowering bilberry.
This was the season of Kentdale pastoral, when hill farmers tend their flocks close to farm and barn. Against a backdrop of Tongue Scar, ewes and lambs lay on the grass. With his sheepdogs running beside his quad bike, Ivan Dickinson of Brockstones drove back down the dale, and Mick Booth of Hartrigg drove out with feed for his bleating flock.
I was walking before 7.00am and my photographs show cloud bubbling up out of a clear sky on a beautiful morning. By late afternoon it grew dark and snow fell up in Kentdale.
Tuesday 25 May
South of Kentmere Hall, Hall Gill flowed through pastures golden with kingcups. A reed bunting perched on a fence above cuckoo flowers and the bubbling call of a curlew came from the River Kent. Beyond the footbridge, tree planting would re-establish woodland habitat for bluebells and the woods of Low Lane were awash with blue. There had been little rain since the snow melted so grass wasn’t growing, then came a week-end of burning heat and young ferns shrivelled in dry stone walls. Today was much cooler, and low cloud blotted out the Kentmere tops.
In a morning of Gregorian chant the flocks gave voice throughout the dale, with bleating ewes and lambs running after farmers who drove out with trailers full of concentrates: pellets of cereal and minerals. Today’s temperature-drop of some 15 degrees was a reminder that there can be harsh conditions at any time of year, and ewes and lambs must be in optimum condition when they set out for a spring and summer up on Kentmere Common. I followed the flocks up the dale, past Brockstones, Hallow Bank and Overend, past Hartrigg Farm across the river. Ahead, Ill Bell was shrouded in cloud and a beam of light illuminated Tongue Scar and the grassy slope where a crèche of ewes and lambs lay close to the barn where Ivan Dickinson had been feeding his ewes since 17 December when the snows came. North of their pasture was the out-take wall and the rough fell. Gregarious, his ewes flocked to feed from the trough he had filled, jostling and butting in a melee of horned heads – there must be times when these Rough Fell ewes lock horns. Lambs in the pasture snoozed and snuggled up against their mothers and growing in independence they socialised in unruly gangs, springing into the air, precocious in mounting each other, buffeting and head-butting in this time of togetherness, almost ready for the adventure of the wider world . Once grazing on the open fell, their lives would become more solitary. Kentdale had its full complement of lambs, but in a few days time the first of them would be off . It was physically hard work and the weather impacts on the farmers’ daily lives and livelihood: the rate at which grass grows is crucial and the Ivan Dickinson told me they hadn’t lost animals through the winter because they had looked after them well.
A peregrine called, soared over crags and was lost in low cloud. Starry saxifrage was coming into flower and by the beck with alders, the new planting had flowering bird cherry. Swallows fed low about Hartrigg Farm and there were goldfinch in the Scots pine. I met Mick Booth who was gradually moving his sheep higher up the dale, soon to release them onto Kentmere Common. The Hartrigg bull was grazing beside my track with a couple of cows and they ignored me utterly.
Below the reservoir, there were bog plants where water drained off the fell: sundew, bog asphodel leaves, and budding butterwort and pink lousewort – water tracks were sluggish with no sign yet of the lavish flora to come. A whitethroat sang by Brow Top Farm.
Clear skies with an overnight frost and the coldest May morning for fifteen years. Peregrine on the crags, swallows twittering on a wire and the white blossoms of blackthorn flowering in the dale, mistle thrush and wren in the shelter-belt of trees beside Hartrigg Farm. Water levels in Kentmere reservoir were low, the stony edges exposed. By the track was an ash pollard- its poll a nursery for ferns, holly and a thick clump of flowering bilberry.
This was the season of Kentdale pastoral, when hill farmers tend their flocks close to farm and barn. Against a backdrop of Tongue Scar, ewes and lambs lay on the grass. With his sheepdogs running beside his quad bike, Ivan Dickinson of Brockstones drove back down the dale, and Mick Booth of Hartrigg drove out with feed for his bleating flock.
I was walking before 7.00am and my photographs show cloud bubbling up out of a clear sky on a beautiful morning. By late afternoon it grew dark and snow fell up in Kentdale.
Tuesday 25 May
South of Kentmere Hall, Hall Gill flowed through pastures golden with kingcups. A reed bunting perched on a fence above cuckoo flowers and the bubbling call of a curlew came from the River Kent. Beyond the footbridge, tree planting would re-establish woodland habitat for bluebells and the woods of Low Lane were awash with blue. There had been little rain since the snow melted so grass wasn’t growing, then came a week-end of burning heat and young ferns shrivelled in dry stone walls. Today was much cooler, and low cloud blotted out the Kentmere tops.
In a morning of Gregorian chant the flocks gave voice throughout the dale, with bleating ewes and lambs running after farmers who drove out with trailers full of concentrates: pellets of cereal and minerals. Today’s temperature-drop of some 15 degrees was a reminder that there can be harsh conditions at any time of year, and ewes and lambs must be in optimum condition when they set out for a spring and summer up on Kentmere Common. I followed the flocks up the dale, past Brockstones, Hallow Bank and Overend, past Hartrigg Farm across the river. Ahead, Ill Bell was shrouded in cloud and a beam of light illuminated Tongue Scar and the grassy slope where a crèche of ewes and lambs lay close to the barn where Ivan Dickinson had been feeding his ewes since 17 December when the snows came. North of their pasture was the out-take wall and the rough fell. Gregarious, his ewes flocked to feed from the trough he had filled, jostling and butting in a melee of horned heads – there must be times when these Rough Fell ewes lock horns. Lambs in the pasture snoozed and snuggled up against their mothers and growing in independence they socialised in unruly gangs, springing into the air, precocious in mounting each other, buffeting and head-butting in this time of togetherness, almost ready for the adventure of the wider world . Once grazing on the open fell, their lives would become more solitary. Kentdale had its full complement of lambs, but in a few days time the first of them would be off . It was physically hard work and the weather impacts on the farmers’ daily lives and livelihood: the rate at which grass grows is crucial and the Ivan Dickinson told me they hadn’t lost animals through the winter because they had looked after them well.
A peregrine called, soared over crags and was lost in low cloud. Starry saxifrage was coming into flower and by the beck with alders, the new planting had flowering bird cherry. Swallows fed low about Hartrigg Farm and there were goldfinch in the Scots pine. I met Mick Booth who was gradually moving his sheep higher up the dale, soon to release them onto Kentmere Common. The Hartrigg bull was grazing beside my track with a couple of cows and they ignored me utterly.
Below the reservoir, there were bog plants where water drained off the fell: sundew, bog asphodel leaves, and budding butterwort and pink lousewort – water tracks were sluggish with no sign yet of the lavish flora to come. A whitethroat sang by Brow Top Farm.
Friday 28 May
With sheepdog escort, farmers on their quad bikes were zipping about tending their flocks. Seeking shelter in the angle of two walls, a ewe had just given birth and Ivan Dickinson waited to see her begin to lick her lamb. Some of his purebred Rough Fell ewes and lambs were already gone up onto Kentmere Common- this hardy breed has the resilience to thrive on poor grazing. A full white fleece drapes about their flanks and the ewes have a caparisoned look- stained by exposure to all weathers out on the fell. Their lambs have a short fleece, a black head with a white patch on the nose and black knee pads, with black spattered on white legs as if they’ve knelt in the muck. My way took me close to the farms, always sited just above the flood plain.
Cumulus in a blue sky, with a pulse of cold wind by Kentmere Reservoir where water levels were low, the spill way dry. Wild ponies grazed below the Nan Bield Pass, a reed bunting was singing and a scatter of pigeon feathers showed where a peregrine had killed. Kestrels screeched at mobbing jackdaws, too close to their rock-shelf nest in the heather.
In an instant, cloud came down over Rainsborrow Crag, down over haphazard ledges of fresh green bilberry and dark heather, with slender trees rooted in rock, above an adit in the rock face with scree spill and quarry spoil fanning out in buttresses below. Shards of slate splashed with the sharp green of parsley fern. A dark cave entrance tunnelled into the mountain, a home of dwarves, miners and makers of weapons for the Norse gods. A cave of making, a place of mystery. A sheep’s skull lay amidst mosses and a lost track descended from the cave, trickling with water and lush with spring flowers: yellow mountain saxifrage, alchemilla, violet, wood sorrel and wild strawberry. Hawthorn and boulders with pistachio-coloured lichen were strewn over the fell-side.
Below Steel Rigg, spoil heaps form a plateau of grass and mosses, half-hiding a quarry deep in shadow with a tunnel gouged into the earth and swallowed up in darkness, a place of darkness ringed by sunlit rock walls. A startled peregrine flew off with its kill. All was silent but for wheatear squabbling and the sound of water dripping from slabs of rock hewn by quarrymen and seeded with rowan, ash and parsley fern. On a rock-shelf grew roseroot, and the ewe that grazed above the quarry rock face couldn’t reach the plants that spilled over the edge, exploiting a fault line and arching out from the shadow of a rock ledge toward the sun. The roseroot habitat lends the plant an aura of secrecy as it tumbles down sea-cliffs, and rocks in inaccessible gullies. Picking a way through splintered rocks, I could get up there for a close look. From last summer’s roseroot thatch , long, dead flower stems trailed down the rock. Fleshy new leaves tinged with purple revealed a cluster of buds that opened into tiny yellow flowers as the plant’s tight new structure loosened and its long flower stems stretched forth toward the light. Great woodrush and devil’s-bit scabious flowered on tall, erect stems offset by alchemilla and pale lichen on the rock, with violets. A rock garden regenerate amidst shards of slate and spoil heaps.
I walked out east of the river, with views of the U-shaped glaciated valley, and returned west of the river by Hartrigg Farm and wherever I was a cuckoo contrived a taunting note from woodland on the opposite side of the dale.
‘There are worse places’, said Ivan Dickinson on a glorious day in Kentdale.
With sheepdog escort, farmers on their quad bikes were zipping about tending their flocks. Seeking shelter in the angle of two walls, a ewe had just given birth and Ivan Dickinson waited to see her begin to lick her lamb. Some of his purebred Rough Fell ewes and lambs were already gone up onto Kentmere Common- this hardy breed has the resilience to thrive on poor grazing. A full white fleece drapes about their flanks and the ewes have a caparisoned look- stained by exposure to all weathers out on the fell. Their lambs have a short fleece, a black head with a white patch on the nose and black knee pads, with black spattered on white legs as if they’ve knelt in the muck. My way took me close to the farms, always sited just above the flood plain.
Cumulus in a blue sky, with a pulse of cold wind by Kentmere Reservoir where water levels were low, the spill way dry. Wild ponies grazed below the Nan Bield Pass, a reed bunting was singing and a scatter of pigeon feathers showed where a peregrine had killed. Kestrels screeched at mobbing jackdaws, too close to their rock-shelf nest in the heather.
In an instant, cloud came down over Rainsborrow Crag, down over haphazard ledges of fresh green bilberry and dark heather, with slender trees rooted in rock, above an adit in the rock face with scree spill and quarry spoil fanning out in buttresses below. Shards of slate splashed with the sharp green of parsley fern. A dark cave entrance tunnelled into the mountain, a home of dwarves, miners and makers of weapons for the Norse gods. A cave of making, a place of mystery. A sheep’s skull lay amidst mosses and a lost track descended from the cave, trickling with water and lush with spring flowers: yellow mountain saxifrage, alchemilla, violet, wood sorrel and wild strawberry. Hawthorn and boulders with pistachio-coloured lichen were strewn over the fell-side.
Below Steel Rigg, spoil heaps form a plateau of grass and mosses, half-hiding a quarry deep in shadow with a tunnel gouged into the earth and swallowed up in darkness, a place of darkness ringed by sunlit rock walls. A startled peregrine flew off with its kill. All was silent but for wheatear squabbling and the sound of water dripping from slabs of rock hewn by quarrymen and seeded with rowan, ash and parsley fern. On a rock-shelf grew roseroot, and the ewe that grazed above the quarry rock face couldn’t reach the plants that spilled over the edge, exploiting a fault line and arching out from the shadow of a rock ledge toward the sun. The roseroot habitat lends the plant an aura of secrecy as it tumbles down sea-cliffs, and rocks in inaccessible gullies. Picking a way through splintered rocks, I could get up there for a close look. From last summer’s roseroot thatch , long, dead flower stems trailed down the rock. Fleshy new leaves tinged with purple revealed a cluster of buds that opened into tiny yellow flowers as the plant’s tight new structure loosened and its long flower stems stretched forth toward the light. Great woodrush and devil’s-bit scabious flowered on tall, erect stems offset by alchemilla and pale lichen on the rock, with violets. A rock garden regenerate amidst shards of slate and spoil heaps.
I walked out east of the river, with views of the U-shaped glaciated valley, and returned west of the river by Hartrigg Farm and wherever I was a cuckoo contrived a taunting note from woodland on the opposite side of the dale.
‘There are worse places’, said Ivan Dickinson on a glorious day in Kentdale.
Saturday 6 November 2010 . Kentdale
Thursday was relentless rain and darkness. This morning was a November blaze: strong light on autumn foliage, bracken, sedge and rush. How simple and stylish the barn with its larchwood door and its gathered stone, with a backdrop of scree and wooded crags.
Geese were calling, flying high, glinting white, skeins strung out against the blue. The sound of water was everywhere: becks in spate, tracks awash. Coming steeply off Yoke and the open fell, Skeel Gill and Bryant’s Gill coalesce in culverts beneath the gated road, down to the River Kent, its course outlined with alders. Bracken picks out mounds of glacial debris amongst the rushes of the flood plain. There is a rock-step in the river bed, a waterfall, and the river spreads wide about shoals of gravels, soft rippling silts. The stronger current blocked the weaker and turbulence whipped up a froth of bubbles, caught in a whirlpool, circling and dissolving over water glowing with reflections of the fell and shadowed with alder and Scots pine. The river channel narrows, swallowed up in banks of quarry spoil. The Steel Rigg spoil heaps surround Reservoir Cottages and a causeway of slate launches out toward the river to link up with Jumb Quarry on the eastern bank, but the crossing, like the quarry, fell into disuse over half a century ago and the causeway spills into the river which cuts a deeply eroded channel. And the site looked stunning in strong light and shadow: interlocking cones and plateaus of green slate softened as nature works on reclamation. The quarry is a Site of Special Scientific interest for its geology. Of the Borrowdale Volcanics Group and the Kentmere Pike Formation, quarrying had exposed bird’s-eye tuffs, lapilli, fragments of erupted lava. Water clattered down the spillways of Kentmere reservoir, cloud gathered and as I returned along the eastern bank of the river the moment of transcendence was gone and Jumb Quarry appeared gloomy and forbidding.
Accompanied by his two dogs, Ivan Dickinson stopped his quad bike to chat. He had been checking that the Brockstones ‘ sheep haven’t shifted because of the rain: they’ll come down if it’s heavy.’ He had to move his male lambs from flooded pastures this week. Long Lane was a splash. Fieldfare erupted from a dark hawthorn and a mistle thrush defended his holly berries and warned them off. The light was gone long before mid-day so I was glad I had set out early, as I always do.
Thursday was relentless rain and darkness. This morning was a November blaze: strong light on autumn foliage, bracken, sedge and rush. How simple and stylish the barn with its larchwood door and its gathered stone, with a backdrop of scree and wooded crags.
Geese were calling, flying high, glinting white, skeins strung out against the blue. The sound of water was everywhere: becks in spate, tracks awash. Coming steeply off Yoke and the open fell, Skeel Gill and Bryant’s Gill coalesce in culverts beneath the gated road, down to the River Kent, its course outlined with alders. Bracken picks out mounds of glacial debris amongst the rushes of the flood plain. There is a rock-step in the river bed, a waterfall, and the river spreads wide about shoals of gravels, soft rippling silts. The stronger current blocked the weaker and turbulence whipped up a froth of bubbles, caught in a whirlpool, circling and dissolving over water glowing with reflections of the fell and shadowed with alder and Scots pine. The river channel narrows, swallowed up in banks of quarry spoil. The Steel Rigg spoil heaps surround Reservoir Cottages and a causeway of slate launches out toward the river to link up with Jumb Quarry on the eastern bank, but the crossing, like the quarry, fell into disuse over half a century ago and the causeway spills into the river which cuts a deeply eroded channel. And the site looked stunning in strong light and shadow: interlocking cones and plateaus of green slate softened as nature works on reclamation. The quarry is a Site of Special Scientific interest for its geology. Of the Borrowdale Volcanics Group and the Kentmere Pike Formation, quarrying had exposed bird’s-eye tuffs, lapilli, fragments of erupted lava. Water clattered down the spillways of Kentmere reservoir, cloud gathered and as I returned along the eastern bank of the river the moment of transcendence was gone and Jumb Quarry appeared gloomy and forbidding.
Accompanied by his two dogs, Ivan Dickinson stopped his quad bike to chat. He had been checking that the Brockstones ‘ sheep haven’t shifted because of the rain: they’ll come down if it’s heavy.’ He had to move his male lambs from flooded pastures this week. Long Lane was a splash. Fieldfare erupted from a dark hawthorn and a mistle thrush defended his holly berries and warned them off. The light was gone long before mid-day so I was glad I had set out early, as I always do.