The Edge Of The World

I need to tell you about an epic walk of a few months ago. Epic both in scale, and in wonder, starting from a wee village near Sheffield to the awe-inspiring area of natural beauty that is Stanage Edge.

A short car journey from the ‘burbs of Sheffield takes you to the quintessentially English village of Hathersage, complete with a very old church and its charming lych gate...

(and half a motorcycle, because all lych gates need half a motorcycle) and a graveyard that houses the last earthly remains of Little John. Yup. You read that correctly.

“Here lies buried Little John, the friend & lieutenant of Robin Hood. He died in a cottage (now destroyed) to the east of the churchyard. The grave is marked by this old headstone & footstone and is underneath this old yew tree."

You leave the church and head north-ish through some delicious-looking countryside. Countryside of rolling hills and buttercup meadows...

... rolling hills and tiny farmsteads...

... rolling hills and drystone walls...

... all in the vibrant colours of late Spring!

Oh! Such surroundings, dear reader, are enough to set your heart beating rapturously. Or something along those Brontëan lines... Charlotte Brontë is said to have stayed in the vicarage of Hathersage visiting a friend, and the surroundings made such an impact upon her that she is supposed to have based her book ‘Jane Eyre' in an area that has much in common with Hathersage, including North Lees Hall as the basis of Thornfield Hall.

We passed North Lees Hall on our walk - it is slightly hidden to the left of the photo above, behind the trees and wall, and through the trees to the right is one of the first teaser view of Stanage Edge.

After walking a way further past the Hall, you approach Stanage Plantation, a small, but very pretty woods that fringe the bottom of the incline...

...which disguises how close you are the the Edge until you're almost free of foliage.

Looking at Stanage Edge from the Plantation on Google Maps you just see a pile of boulders that get steadily closer together, but the innocuousness of the the image belies the utter quantity of sweat that will pour from your brow (and other places) as you steadily (or unsteadily in my case) climb up the large and larger masses of gritstone that create the steep ascent to the top of the cliff.

But oh my. The first view from the top is worth every muscle-aching step.

And every view from the top after that keeps giving you extraordinary views at which to gaze in wonder.

Although some sights I gazed at more in slight fear, as there were many climbers with their mountaineering accoutrements working the more tricky faces, and there were plenty boulderers, too, easy to recognise not quite for their lack of ropes or harnesses but more for their use of brightly-coloured crash mats at the bottom of their smaller climbs.

I have absolutely no qualms in sharing an inordinate amount of photos of the views from the top. Every fifty yards or so there was a new and striking rock formation in the foreground, against a background of austere but incredible beauty.

And eventually you reach High Neb - the steep cliff edge you see in the distance in most of the photos above - with it's stone marker on the top that indicates you're at the highest point of the escarpment...

...with it's own beautiful view over to Higger Tor (another absolute Peak District favourite of mine) which you can see below to the middle right of the photo with the pale-coloured track winding up the front.

From there we walked a little further on, then started to work our way down again. I, foolish Hope Valley noob that I was, thought that was probably it for the sights of wonder, but suddenly as if from nowhere, a millstone graveyard appeared.

It is the weirdest thing indeed to see these abandoned mill- and grindstones, most of which are perfectly carved and finished and ready for use, in the midst of the wild and natural boulders of the cliffs.

Millstone production was a huge industry here from medieval times to the mid-eighteenth century, when the demand for white bread brought about the relatively rapid end of gritstone millstone use as these produced grey flour, whereas millstones carved in France were capable of producing the much more fashionable white flour.

There are dozens of finished, or near enough, millstones littering the landscape, lying where they were left by their carvers who were unable to see their finished articles sold.

It's rather poignant, in fact, to see these in situ. Hours and hours of back-breaking work by men who were losing their livelihoods even whilst they hammered and chiselled the very stones left here that we admire today.

But admire them we do. Even the smiley stone, whose face is re-chalked by walkers as they pass by.

The journey from Hathersage to Stanage Edge and back again is a beautiful one, and I heartily recommend it to anyone who is in the area. I was lucky enough to walk this for the first time on a bright and beautifully warm May day (perhaps a bit too warm...!) but I'm also looking forward to seeing this astonishing landscape in different kinds of weather and light. I think there are many stories here still waiting to be told...

A Whole New World!

Yes, a little cross-posting between here and my website blog, but I am totally justified, for although I do spread my words quite liberally across the blog posts of PORTAL (click on the link, go on - I dare ya!) I suspect going my usual BLAH down the screen might scare away potential clients. One must appear at least a little normal for the paying public, donchathink?

But you lot know me better, for which you all win one Internet each. Well done! I'm proud of you!

And of course you already know that I am nothing if not a creature of habit! A typical Taurean (should your beliefs meander in that direction) who is happy to follow foot-paths already well-worn. Taking the road most travelled, as it were. But I'm slowly learning that sometimes outside influences of the positive variety can lead us to take that road not previously taken, and when one doesn't fight against the instinct to stay safely in one's rut, there's a wealth of photographic opportunities of which to take advantage!

So where did my anti-rut travels take me then, I hear you mutter? Well, thank you for asking! This counter-custom excursion took me to ... ENGLAND! Dun dun DUUUUN! (With a side of SHOCK! HORROR!)

Just banter, dear readers, just banter! I'll have you know that some of the dearest people in my life happen to have been born south of Hadrian's Wall! Mind you, talking of said wall, I do have to admit that my foray into foreign climes didn't actually make it that far down the country, as I got no further that the border county of Northumberland - specifically the coastal village of Alnmouth, and the delightful market town of Alnwick (which is pronounced ‘Annick').

Yes, as you can see below, the weather was pretty naff at times, but (as my father says) skin is waterproof, and anyway, who cares about a little rain when you can get skies like this as a backdrop to somewhere as enchanting as Church Hill on Alnmouth Beach?

The beach itself makes for a lovely walk (and the sand makes for some well-worked leg muscles!) and although the river itself changed course out to sea in 1806 after a storm which caused much of the fishing and trade to go into sharp decline, there are still boats to be found up the estuary, ‘resting' or otherwise! 

You can also find evidence of anti-tank concrete cubes from WWII making a long snaking line up the dunes, and a many-varied bird population to keep the most Twitchery of Twitchers happy! Including a majestic barn owl who flew elegantly, and surprisingly languorously, around us while we traversed the beach. 

Five miles inland and you arrive at Alnwick, a rather pretty little market town sitting on the River Aln, which lies in the shadow of Alnwick Castle, the ancient seat of the Earls (and now Dukes) of Northumberland. 

There are quite a few tourists traps, including the austerely marvellous castle, but I have to say that the river walk is a MUST. Seriously. It's not obvious where to find the start of the path leading to the Aln, but if you walk into the grounds of the castle and instead of walking towards the castle, turn right around the perimeter of The Alnwick Gardens you'll find a pathway leading down towards the river. It's somewhat counter-intuitive, but absolutely worth the search.

And you might find it pretty much deserted, too! A beautiful morning in the light of a hazy sun, and we were the only two people there taking advantage of both the scenery and the decided lack of rain. It's a beautiful walk, with plenty of captivating views, plentiful wildlife, deliciously loud and bubbly weirs, and elegant bridges spanning the Aln.

And the odd folly/guard-house hiding amongst the trees!

The Anlwick Gardens was another delightful destination, and a must-see for anyone down in this direction, and although the rain and dreich conditions proved to be too much for my poor phone camera on the day of my visit, there was still enough magic in the air to capture something of the essence of the place. I'm looking forward to going back and discovering more sweeping panoramas, and secret arboreal corners to share with you all!

And yes, of course there were doors! Many doors! Both Alnmouth and Alnwick were stuffed to the gunwales with wonderful examples, most of which have been added to the Portals page on the website, but one of my favourites was entrance to what will now always be called The Most Wonderful Place On Earth™ if you're like me and a fiend for a good book or ninety...

Barter Books. Oh. My. Word. (Pun possibly intended.)

Barter Books is a wonderful second-hand book shop situated inside Alnwick's old railway station, and is stuffed (although in a very organised way) with books on all subjects by every author. (Probably!) Tall shelves are everywhere, reading nooks abound, the cafe sells everything from a relaxing cup of tea to the most delicious haggis, neeps and tatties soup that has to be tasted to be believed, and it is just the best way to spend an hour or two (possibly) should you be overtaken by a bout of bibliophilia!

Now I know that bookshops aren't normally in the scope of a blog about walking and losing weight, but really, you have to see this place to understand that an hour or four (realistically) under its roof will definitely add a good few thousand steps to your pedometer. And relieve you of a few pounds. Sterling, not lbs. (Especially if you want to partake of Barter's delicious food!)

I'm going back. Considering Alnmouth is a mere two hours by train (or three should you choose the route that changes in Edinburgh) that statement will probably come as no surprise, but there's still so much more to see, walks to take, gardens to visit. And I'm really looking forward to it!

A Portal To My Soul

I am insanely fortunate to have been able to spend hours and hours partaking of beautiful walks, taking photos, getting fit (or at least attempting to...) and I hope I shall always be this fortunate.

I am equally fortunate in that I appear to have the temperament that allows me to enjoy spending hours and hours editing photos from the hours and hours of beautiful walks, into creations that make my soul sparkle with happiness.

Walking begets photos, photos beget editing, editing begets blog, blog begets writing. And that makes me happy too, as I'm also fortunate in that I love playing with words!

It is, however, another world entirely to try and set up, for example, a website to showcase the end results of hours and hours of editing photos from hours and hours of partaking of beautiful walks!

Nevertheless, walking, photography, writing: a trifecta of happiness that come all wrapped up in this blog, has now been spread a little further across the interwebs in the form of my new PHOTOGRAPHY WEBSITE! WHEEEEE!!!!

Yes, it's called PORTAL! I was, at first, trying to find a name that suited both me, and the photos I like to take, and kept coming up with such pretentiousness that it was impossible to take myself seriously! (Well, as seriously as I can possibly take myself, at any rate!)

In the end I came back to the name I originally came up with when I first added my door photos to a facebook album back in August 2013: Portals. But just singular this time, to add a teeny bit of ambiguity. For portal does not only mean door, but it can also mean (amongst many meanings and now the word ‘meaning' has lost all meaning)... wait, I'll let Dr Google take over:

portal

ˈpɔːt(ə)l/

noun

noun: portal; plural noun: portals

1. a doorway, gate, or other entrance, especially a large and imposing one.

   synonyms:

   doorway, gateway, entrance, way in, way out, exit, egress, opening; More

   • an Internet site providing access or links to other sites.

I'm still tweaking the look here and there, adding pages there and here, and valiantly battling against fiddling too much!

And there is so much to fiddle with, given half the chance! From the layout, to the font, to the choice of... everything really. I'm rather impressed with Zenfolio for this. It's not all straightforward, although on the whole it's simpler than Blogger. (I won't begin to tell you how long I enjoyed playing with colours and fonts and layouts and backgrounds to arrive at what I have just now on here, though!)

Fonts, for example. Give me a facsimile of Henry Purcell's Orpheus Britannicus (a collection of songs posthumously published in 1698 and 1702) and I'll be just as enamoured of the beautiful type as I am with the beautiful music... 

Some of the (many) reasons I adore ancient books is the feeling of the raised ink against a less-than-smooth page; the slight irregularity to every printed word, the unevenness of each letter. The font I chose for this blog is called ‘IM Fell DW Pica'. It's a Google font by the designer Igino Marini, based on the typesetting work of printer John Fell (1625 - 86) and his personal typesetter, Peter de Walbergen, and to me feels like the internet text equivalent of an exquisite late 17th Century air.

But I couldn't have everything I put online look the same. Well, I could, of course, branding and whatever other business ideal it would be to have everything I did look the same... but not everything I do is the same. 

And so we come to ‘Century Gothic', the font I decided to use for the new website. I am split, and always have been, between the typographic ideals of the baroque and the 1920's, and ‘Century Gothic' (released in 1991 by Monotype Imaging), based upon a font called ‘Twentieth Century' (1937 by Sol Hess for Lanston Monotype), itself designed as a competitor to ‘Futura' (designed in 1927 by Paul Renner of the Bauer Type Foundry), has always been a favourite of mine. Although supposedly influenced by the Bauhaus School (I'm more of an Art Deco person myself), I'm still drawn to this font style as something synonymous with the glamour and modernity of the inter-war years. And it looks pretty!

So yes, I'm sure you can imagine the massive amount of enjoyment I get in playing about with page-designing tools, considering the amount of space I've just taken up on here discussing font choices! 

The hardest thing about creating the new site, however, has been choosing the photographs that I think, to get down to brass tacks, may bring in some revenue. I could very easily add every photo I've taken that has received, for want of less tragic example, a ‘love' on facebook, but 1) I'd quickly fill up my allotted (and paid-for) space on Zenfolio with photos already taken (oh yes, a little blowing of my own trumpet there!) leaving little space for future ‘loves', and 2) as much as I delight in knowing my facebook friend list is filled with dears who share, at least in part, my artistic temperament, this is sadly not an accurate representation of the money-spending world at large. Because we all know artists, musicians, and anyone associated with the arts, whether literature, performing, or visual, are pretty much as poor as church mice!

So yes, choosing photographs to has been a bit of a challenge, and I suspect I'll change my mind many times about what belongs there and what doesn't, but that's half the fun, no? Why not keep everyone on their photo-procuring toes!

But enough talk, and more walk! The temperature has risen from the minus four of this morning to a robust zero degrees C, and the sun is shining its little heart out. I'm off to find my walking boots...!

Falling

One of the things about being large is that you fear falling over. It's a forty-fifty-ten mix of panicking that you'll not be able to get back up again without extraneous help; being afraid that there are witnesses laughing at your no doubt attention-grabbing pavement-plant; the dread that you might have seriously hurt something other than your pride.

So... 90% fear of dying from embarrassment, 10% fear of actually, yannow, dying.

I've had a few serious falls in my adult life so far. (The childhood falls through glass doors, off bikes, and from the top of bale forts totally don't count...)

The first was when I was at music college in Birmingham, outside our local pub; although I must point out it was on the way TO, and not coming home from said pub. It was a simple mis-judgement of a pothole that led to me being ambulanced away, my ankle being strapped-up rather firmly, and having to ‘walk' around with crutches for a week.

The second (already richly documented on this blog) version was a tumble down some Portuguese church steps in 2005 in which I broke both the zip of my dress, and my foot.

The third, in 2011, was really just a trip over a kerb-stone and an inelegant land on my right knee on the edge of the self-same kerb-stone. The kicker was that I was at my heaviest, and that innocuous fall gave me unspeakable amounts of pain, and an unresolved haematoma that is still slightly swollen to this day. To say that my right leg from mid-thigh to mid-calf was one massive purple-yellow mess is no exaggeration. I shared the photographic evidence with friends on Ravelry, and one dear friend was so impressed with the incredible colouration that she dyed a skein of yarn in the colours she saw, called it ‘Bruise' and sent it to me!

(I have yet to find the perfect project to show this off in the fashion it truly deserves, so if anyone finds a lovely pattern for a crocheted sling, or perhaps a pretty knitted neck-brace, please do let me know!)

I suspect fear of falling off anything is something that we come across in all walks of life, but I'm slowly learning that if you're so afraid of falling, whether it be off a bike; down some steps; in love; whatever, you'll end up cocooning yourself away from any hint of a trip, sitting in a safe place, by yourself, wondering how life got so boringly, achingly lonely.

Yes, yes, I'm totally speaking for myself.

Lately I've been testing the give on several safety nets of my own, though. Well okay, that sounds like it has been a decision made by myself rather than The Fates giving me a strong nudge in more dangerous directions, but, for example, venturing out onto pathways of a less flat and concrete state and more of a rocky, muddy, hilly state has given more than a tug or two on the threads of my particular tapestry of life.

What have I discovered? Well, for one thing my knees don't seem to mind bending so much these days. Okay, so yes, that discovery was made after slipping in the mud a couple of times and landing on a completely folded knee. You know - like when you kneel completely, sitting back with your heels on your behind. Now, just to let you know, the last time my knees did this without pain (well, apart from the initial ‘ow, I've just fallen' jolt) is before I hit my teenage years. Remember that knee disease? The one that stopped everything athletic and balletic in my life? Yup. No knee-bend with weight on since then. Actually, no real knee-bends of any sort since then.

But how long has it been since that full kneeling-sit pose has been possible? THAT is the question... How long have I been missing out on doing more because I had never even entertained the thought that it might be achievable? Possibly a couple of years if I take into consideration that that's when I started doing knee-strengthening exercises again.

So how long has it been since I didn't feel the fear (quite so much) of trying to do something that might or might not end up with me making a fool of myself? Um... perhaps a month. Why? Because being the clumsy person I am I was too scared to risk it before. I remembered the pain and let that remembered pain weave a web of doubt and dread that held me back from trying anything new. But having slipped and fallen several times in the last month doing things I haven't attempted to do in years and living to tell the tale has given me a new sense of possibility.

Fear of falling isn't enough to stop me any more. Well, it might slow me up a bit, as it is probably a good idea to remember just how much of a clumsy clown I can be, but I'm not going to let it stop me completely any more!

Just remind me I said that when you come to sign the cast on my broken ankle...

Scotland The Baked

“We haven't had rain for nearly two months (the covering of snow mid-April notwithstanding) and the ground is parched. We get the promise of rain with roiling clouds which then pass over without crying over our forgotten land [Ed: pretentious, much?] leaving blazing sunshine in its wake. (Oh woe for unseasonably gorgeous weather!)

The fields of wheat are turning brown two seasons too soon, the garden is alive but in stasis, yet the wildflowers and blossom of the countryside aren't bothered in the slightest! Vive La Nature!!"

My first Spring looking after a garden, and no rain. I mean, huzzah, because I can partake of a jolly good tramp around the countryside without worrying about slipping about in mud eight steps out of nine, but seven-and-a-bit weeks without rain? IN THIS PART OF SCOTLAND? This never happens even in the most Summery of Summers. No, scratch that. This just never happens, full stop.

Yet the earth along the track to Blebo begs to differ. 

I should have put something for scale in the photo, but that crack was about a foot long.

It's not like we've had record-breaking temperatures for the duration. It's been more of a long bake on a low heat than a short roast on a high setting! (Hey, look at that - culinary terminology in a non-Fake-Food-Blogger™ post - must mean that cooking lingo is starting to make sense in my old noggin at last!)

Still, it seems apt - the long leaves of the crops up Clatto Hill did look a little bit on the WE-SAID-FAHRENHEIT-NOT-CELSIUS side.

But for every desiccated piece of man-made ex-wilderness, there were ten examples of Mother Nature not giving a f*ck.

Broom

Perennial Cornflower

Common Dandelion

Red Campion

Gorse

Wild Violets

White Dead Nettle

Bluebells

Wild Cherry

She just didn't care about the drought, our Màthair Nàdar, she merely changed her style of creating art from watercolours to pastels and chalk! 

And Happy Birthday to my Granddad, who would have been 115 today. One day I'll get your garden back to it's full glory, promise xx

With Verdure Clad...

... the trees appear,
delightful to the ravish'd sense...*

As you'll have already realised, I'm a huge fan of the Clingendael Estate in the eastern part of Den Haag. So east that it's technically in Waasenaar. And I say ‘Clingendael Estate' but really there are several parks and estates incorporated into my generalised description: 

† Landgoed Clingendael (‘landgoed' meaning ‘estate' in Dutch);

‡ Landgoed Oosterbeek; 

the § Japanse Tuin (photo from May last year); 

and the ‖ Oud-Hollandse Tuin. 

I do have to admit here that I occasionally include a completely different park that's perhaps a mile closer to the centre of The Hague on the walk to Clingendael, called ¶ Landgoed Oostduin en Arendsdorp.

Worthy of inclusion, in my humble opinion!

Wikipedia tells me that ‘Clingendael' means ‘valley in the dunes', so I'm guessing ‘dael' is the Dutch equivalent of the English ‘dale', or the Scots ‘strath'. Just, yannow, a much less undulating version than the ones we know and love in the UK! ;) 

I was a good few weeks too early for the azaleas and rhododendrons to be doing their colourful path-enhancing fiesta when I was over, but Spring already had her green on, and was in the process of happily (at least for me) festooning the parks with her verdant bunting.

I love this time of year so much. (Oh, okay, I know you know I love all seasons except for Summer, but indulge me a moment or two...) You can still see the beautiful framework of the trees against the sky (something I find hauntingly alluring) but now smudged a little with the colours of new growth and Spring.

Tender, half-formed leaflets slowly opening to cloak black boughs in colour,

and bright, fresh greens softening the harsher greys of stone.

Likewise, a hint of rose-gold to draw together early blossom and the beautiful red bricks of an old Tea-House into a homogeneous whole.

It's true I get a little sad once Spring has completely clad her arboreal minions in green, meaning I lose sight of the esoteric structures I so love. I know, I know - it sounds somewhat topsy-turvy, as surely the bare branches are easier to comprehend without the all-encompassing shroud of Summer green? I have yet to come to a discernible conclusion, but for me, partly anyway, it may be because I think that if there is no mask of camouflage to hide behind, the inner, truer being must surely be given a chance to be recognised for its own beauty, not just as a simple framework waiting for something else more wonderful, or indeed, more disagreeable, to cover it, but truly just for its complicated self. And that's perhaps a thought to pursue another day...

* Lyrics shamelessly stolen and slightly amended from the work of Gottfried van Swieten.
† g pronounced like the ch in the Scottish ‘loch'. This is pronounced ‘Landt-choodt Kling-en-dahl.
‡ g pronounced like the ch in the Scottish ‘loch'. This is pronounced ‘Landt-choodt Oaster-bake, and means ‘Estate of the East Stream'.
§ pronounced ‘Yapansuh Town' and means ‘Japanese Garden'.
‖ ‘ou' in this case is also pronounced like the ‘ow' in ‘town'. This is pronounced ‘Owdt Hollandsuh Town' and means ‘Old Dutch Garden'.
¶ pronounced ‘Oast-Down' and ‘Arendsdorp' pretty much as written, and means ‘Estate of the East Dunes,
and the Village of Arend'.