I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills…

Betwix’ thi ’ills, s’ bleak an’ barren,

Lies a little town, bi the name o’ Darren.

For most of the first forty years of my life, I lived on the western edge of the Pennines: cradled by tall hills and rugged moorland; and for the latter half of that period, made my home on the edge of a small industrial town, whose low centre lies 172 metres above sea level; and whose most famous landmark – itself 26 metres high – stands on the “bleak an’ barren” (but utterly beautiful) moors 372 metres above the Lancashire coastline: with Blackpool Tower visible, nearly thirty miles away, on a clear day.

If you can see the tower, it’s going to rain.

If you can’t, it’s raining.

I therefore feel utterly at home when the terrain huddles around me – although this does not mean (especially as my legs grow older) that I need to be climbing; just that the altitude needs to be such that I know, even with my eyes closed (although that would just be plain silly, when there are so many delights to soak in…), I am not in the lowlands or the flatlands of our country’s varied topography.

Over the weekend, I therefore found myself driving through freshly-fallen snow and thick fog, as the sun rose – clearing the hilltops; but leaving the deep hollows in-between filled with thick strands of cottonwool – with an inexorable desire to don my walking boots, and retrace some familiar steps from that earlier existence. From the single set of tracks, and lone 4x4 sitting in the pristine, bright crispness, it was obvious that this would also be the peaceable experience I hankered after: complementing my memories with refreshing vistas (of the sort, I’m afraid, that you can only find many miles north of Tysoe…).

It’s not a long walk (about two-and-a-half miles) around Turton and Entwistle Reservoir – formed by what was the tallest dam (33 metres) in Britain, when it was constructed in 1832 – even when it’s cold enough to leave it partially frozen; and, on a less treacherous day (and without other commitments), I would have carried on around its lower sibling, Wayoh Reservoir, stopping for refreshments (and warmth) at the welcoming Strawbury Duck pub, right by Entwistle railway station; and which is therefore most easily accessed by train (especially tempting if you travel from the north through the remarkable over-a-mile long Sough Tunnel – the (debatable) source of a very local saying, which basically translates as “on the road to nowhere”).

When the fog cleared (before returning, and creeping slowly and surreptitiously across the valley), an almost Alpine landscape revealed itself: flecked with white, and mirrored perfectly under a crystal-blue sky. It therefore took me nearly two hours to complete the circuit: stopping both to admire and to capture the coolness, the calmness, the quietness and restfulness that was the perfect panacea for anyone’s troubles; my only companions being the tits, robins, blackbirds, ducks, gulls and herons scratching, digging and diving for sustenance.

I so love Tysoe; but I also, occasionally, miss the hills of the north (and usually more, the closer they are – approaching or departing): rejoicing in their rugged majesty; their snowcapped peaks; as well as the challenge they can present, when in the mood. They reward my efforts with a calm and a presence that I can find nowhere else. I will be back….

You ask me why I dwell in the green mountain;

I smile and make no reply for my heart is free of care.

As the peach-blossom flows downstream and is gone into the unknown,

I have a world apart that is not among men.

– Li Bai: Question and Answer on the Mountain

Arnside and the Knott…

Arnside – on the Lancashire/Cumbria border – is one of those places you pass by (with little, if any, thought) on the way to the Lake District. Ignoring it – as I have often done – is unfair, though. Looking to walk somewhere that I hoped would be quiet (and was), on a Saturday that hinted at a soon-to-be spring, I therefore parked early on the Promenade, and decided to be led by the signs drawing both the wary and unwary onwards and upwards to the summit of ‘The Knott’.

I know I’m not as fit as I once was (by a very long way): and the increasingly steep 159-metre climb from sea-level left me gasping for air, and in worse shape – temporarily – than the trees sculpted and stunted by the permanent on-shore winds (gusting up to fifty miles per hour, when I was there: although it felt like such gusts were actually the norm…). Fortunately, once you leave behind the bigger houses, with the bigger views, there are frequent benches for the weary of limb, but ambitious (and stubborn) of mind – although often at view-points (and, therefore, gust-points) that turn into one vast, glorious panorama, as you near the top.

I’m sure, on a clear day, the vista of the Lakeland fells would be more than enough reward; but, even on a day marked by gloom (only lifting in my rear-view mirror, as I headed back towards the M6), there was an air of rugged, blurred mystery about the scene below me: looking across to Grange-over-Sands and along Morecambe Bay and the Kent Estuary – clogged with orange, grey and dull brown, dangerous, deceiving sands – and this was sufficient a prize (along with knowing that I had, for a moment, overcome the permanent pain that sears through my body, that would hold me back; and appearing to be the only soul around).

If it hadn’t been so very breezy and chill up there (even the birds were hiding – apart from the odd intrepid, acrobatic raven), I would have stayed longer – there are paths and paths to be followed and tempted by: of scree, grass, rock, and occasionally mud. Even with gloves, and many layers, the plethora of coffee-shops and cafés on the Promenade was too tempting. My timing was good, as well: as, descending, I met a large party of hail fellows well met, who had cleared the tables of one of those eateries before setting off to also conquer the local summit.

The town itself puts up a staunch front against the prevailing weather; and, I suppose, could appear forbidding in its apparent greyness. However, it is an honest place; and the houses jostle agreeably for position and prospect on the slopes down to the Prom: a short walk taking you past what looked (and smelled) like an excellent chippy (not quite open for lunch) to a typically scenic coastal railway station – its long line stretching purposefully across the tide to Grange and beyond.

Returning to the town via Church Hill, I headed off, suitably fortified, towards New Barns Bay. I should have left my walking boots on, though: as the concrete path soon crumbles, once past the lifeboat station and old boatyard – so I sat, photographed, and collected my thoughts.

Definitely a place worth returning to: when the sun is shining (and not just a broken promise); the breezes are gentle; when the fish and chip shop is open. However, then, I fear, I will be amongst crowds – some of whom learned long ago of its secretive and subtle delights.