Most of the kids who live in Hebden Bridge, but attend Calder High School about 2 miles away, get the bus there. But these three look to have decided to walk it — and good for them, it was a very beautiful morning, and there’s no need to walk along the main road.
The Pennines are, definitely, the vertebrae of Britain (supporting the large, shaggy head that is Scotland). And today I, definitely, walked from one side of them to the other, starting a hike in Greenfield on the west and ending it in Marsden to the east: with the town seen in the background here being Huddersfield. Today, therefore, I definitely crossed England, in watershed terms anyway. The two guys seen here may or may not have done the same.
Can I note, though, that a lot of England’s spine is comprised of peaty, boggy shit. Get it cleaned up, England!
By British standards, Yorkshire has always been a big county. Chopped around with a bit since 1974, nevertheless, in terms of its historic boundaries it was the largest in the country. And Mickle Fell, at 2,585 feet/788m above sea level, was its highest point. Truly, therefore, between about 10.30 and 11.00 am, I was Top Yorkshireman — geographically, at least.
Of course, since 1974 this territory was allocated to County Durham instead — but let’s gloss over that little detail. If you want to find out more about my walk today, please do have a look at my other blog.
This blog has been going long enough (we approach 13 years next month), but my regular walks in the Lake District predate it: it was 19th July 2009 when the LD blog recorded ‘walk 1‘. Fifteen years have since passed, and with walk 215 today — I haven’t published the page just yet but will do so soon — I completed my bagging of every one of the 330 Wainwright fells therein: twice. Well, it’s certainly given me something to do (and to spend money on) in that time: but I am not upset it is finished, quite relieved, in fact. No broken legs, you know?
These guys stand at the top of Grains Gill, which runs into the heart of the District south from Borrowdale. I have just come off Great End, which would, toponymically, made a good finishing point but it turned out to be my penultimate fell — from here there is still Seathwaite Fell to come, just to the left of this shot.
Dumgoyne is a steep little volcanic plug that rises on the edge of the Campsie Fells, north of Glasgow. On the map it looked like a nice little prologue to the actual destination of my hike, which was Earl’s Seaat, one of the County Tops, although less photogenic. But in fact, I never made it to the top of Dumgoyne: one of those climbs that the nearer I got to it in actuality, the less appeal it had. No matter: CT #81 was duly bagged about two hours later.
I get the point of What Three Words, but should all combinations be permitted? If I were an emergency services operator and got told that my attention was required to Soggy Parrot Delusions I think the conversation would end there in gales of (my) laughter.
Wold Newton, where this path goes, was my 80th County Top, if you are interested in my other blog…
Among the activities booked in for this weekend in Milton Keynes was another County Top walk, which was a perfectly OK walk to do but turned out to be not all that exciting photographically. However, I quite like this one, if only for the way it seems to head back in stages through the landscape, starting with the allotments occupied by a mysterious single figure. This is the village of Woburn Sands, where I finished the walk: note that whatever it is named for, it’s not a beach — we are nowhere near the sea here.
Let’s have a lot less vehicle-related morbidity and much more healthy outdoor exercise, miles (well, OK, about a mile) from the nearest traffic. Alfred Wainwright, who does know what he’s talking about, describes the summit thus:
here, on the summit of little Helm Crag, a midget of a mountain, is a remarkable array of rocks, upstanding and fallen, of singular interest and fascinating appearance, that yield a quality of reward out of all proportion to the short and simple climb. The uppermost reaches of Scafell and Helvellyn and Skiddaw can show nothing like Helm Crag’s crown of shattered and petrified stone: indeed, its highest point, a pinnacle of rock thrust out above a dark abyss, is not to be attained by walking and is brought underfoot only by precarious manoeuvers of the body. This is one of the very few summits in Lakeland reached only by climbing rocks, and it is certainly (but not for that reason alone) one of the very best.
And he’s right. Even in the mist, this is a great spot. And those two rocks do look like a lion and a lamb, don’t you think? That’s their official name, anyway. (For more pictures from today see my other blog.)
This picture was taken — at least, according to the time stamp allocated by my camera — at two seconds past noon, so here we are with exactly 12 hours, or 1/730th, of the year to go. As it was Sunday and we had a dinner date at a pub above Todmorden, there was no excuse not to get out, have some exercise and enjoy the scenery. (The sheep do this every day, of course.) This kind of thing is a significant contributor to the fact I’m still living here in Calderdale after 21.5 years.
And so ends 2023, not a bad year at a personal level I suppose but no particular changes were noted, for better or worse — what enthuses me and what vexes me today are all more or less the same as they were a year ago, or indeed two. The rest of the world, well, that seems able to screw itself up without my active intervention. This blog will continue — generative AI-free — as long as I still have something to document. My favourite picture of the year? Probably the gloriously camp duck captured on 20th September. Getting that salmon leaping the falls in Scotland on 11th July was quite a coup, and Clare, taken the following day (12th July) insists she get the award for ‘best human’. Happy New Year to you all.
I did get better pictures today but none which epitomised the day quite so well. Garth Hill became County Top #2 of the weekend, but the weather on its summit was, to coin a phrase, utter shite. What this chair was doing up there I have no idea but perhaps it had just been blown there from someone’s garden half a mile away. For the full tale of woe see my other blog.
Being 42 