Mud maketh the walk (muddy!)

Dawn brought respite after the all night rain. We'd parked beneath a deciduous tree and all through the night the rain drops landed on the roof making our van as musical at a kettle drum. A lovely metallic sound...all..night..long.............all......... night........looooooong.......

I managed to get a fairly good night's sleep however Himself was very groggy and tired and needed a good strong brew first thing before he felt anyway human!

Moss dragged us out after breakfast  as we stepped into the woods. There were several other vans quietly hidden between the trees, most of the occupants seemed still asleep, although there was one sleepy eyed vanlifer clutching a steaming mug whilst he sat on the step, we nodded a mutual silent greeting almost like a secret club as we walked by. 

The air was filled with bird song accompanied by the steady crunch of our boots on the woodland paths. Moss bounded ahead, following invisible trails of scent as they pulled her along.

The path suddenly reached the edge of the trees and left us against the side of a vast open moorland with mounds of flowering heather and silver birch trees. A weathered abandoned fence post looked for all as a small wooden Easter Island statue, making us both smile at the incongruous sight. 

We re-entered the trees and began to head downwards along a puddle riddled track - Moss was delighted and threw herself into the mud and pretended to be a wallowing warthog, grinning and wagging as we walked towards her.

Along our route, we chanced across an abandoned hamlet so we explored and imagined who lived there and what the buildings were. We even found the old orchard with an apple tree weighed down with glossy red apples - unfortunately despite the urge to attempt a little scrumping - we were unable to penetrate the thorny scrub that protected the tree.

We walked for most of the day, through farmland, over moors, along tracks, through woods, by villages and alongside roads. We stopped and sat next to a fast flowing small brook for a break, giving time for Moss to swim while we drank tea and rested. A long section of the path had been hard going, mud filled, slippery and boot eating. We were tired. 

 On the return journey, the air cooled and the sky faded to a gentle blue, bird song turned from the daylight chittering and twittering to the garrulous evening chorus as they jostled for roosting space in the trees. The blackbirds being the most argumentative of them all. 

The last stretch to the van was the hardest - uphill with a section along the road - but it meant we were nearly 'home' or is that nearly 'van'?!

As we turned into the trees we discovered a small memorial viewing platform, so we stopped, breathed in the cooled air filled with the scent of autumnal decay and trees' breath. 

As we turned away from gazing at the valley we'd spent most of the day walking up one side and back down the other - we saw we were being watched!

It was bliss to take my boots off, to put the kettle on and to sit down. Moss had been fed and was fast asleep on her bed and our food was quietly cooking. That mug of tea was like nectar!

Then, after we'd eaten, I curled up in the bed, with the back door open and watched the woods gradually darken whilst I caught up with a bit of slow sew and Himself read his book.

Another good wild day - despite the mud - it was really good.

xxx

Flying high

We were making our way home - via a very long way round - after a magical couple of days out.  We'd followed yet another narrow track over the moors, where sheep were brazen and hills were huge. We bumped along the road, round the sheep and the potholes. Stopping occasionally to gaze at the amazing views.

We finally reached the col and decided to pull over and just appreciate the expansive vista.  We were not the only van up there, a small white one was parked closer to the edge and a third one was attempting to drive (rather unsuccessfully) through the mud.

The small white van produced a solitary bloke and his paraglider. Himself stuck the kettle on and we sat watching (in the warmth of the van and out of the brittle-cold wind) as we drank tea and munched chocolate digestives.

With a stride or two the red wing inflated and the bloke stepped into his speed-bag (the cocoon they sit in) and just lifted up and out into the void. It was amazing watching him free flying beneath the fabric wing.

It was magical watching him drift to and fro in front of us. Although he was not much higher than where we were parked, where he was flying he was above an amazing drop down to the valley below.

Then, just as our brews finished, he drifted back to the hill edge and landed. With a bit of tidy up of his equipment, he'd put it all away. I felt I had to go and chat to him - he'd provided a lovely 'show' for us whilst we sat in the safety in our van. So, with a nod to the advisory safe distance apart I thanked him for entertaining us and mentioned I had taken a fair few photos and would he like me to email them - so we swapped email addresses and I suspect if the wind was not so cutting we would have spoken longer.

That night, once home, I emailed a few of the better photos and almost immediately he replied, thanking me and to say that wing was new to him and he was giving it a trial. We continued our conversation we'd started through gritted teeth and chilly breeze whilst we were on our way home.  He told me that the uk record for a glider flight is 305km and the world distance record is over 600km! 

It is amazing who you meet and what you find out despite these times. It is good to reach out (in safety of course) and try and keep those links with folk as we did before :)

 And the van struggling with the mud? It took several attempts, reversing, rushing forward and squelching through the puddles and making it worse. Some people just don't think or even consider what they doing and how it damaging it can be....

Surrender

We followed the smaller roads, the ones that went over old ridges and through ancient villages. Roads no wider than the van, ones as wild at the surrounding hills. We saw no one. Just sheep, clinging to the hillsides, and farms - stoic stone buildings bent by time and hunkered down out of the prevailing winds.

Our destination - Surrender Bridge, Swaledale. A lonely crossroads with a long history high up on Reeth High Moor. We arrived in the gloom and hurriedly took Moss out for a last evening walk before bed. We could hear the rushing water over the large red and grey boulders and the occasional car heading home from their day.   Lights and heater on in Zeb made a cozy and snug hideaway for the night. After we'd eaten, we curled up under the duvet and read and perused maps planning the next days walking.

Day break was marked by the chucking call of the red grouse as they confirmed their territories all around us. The air was chilly however, clutching mugs of steaming tea and wrapped in the duvet - we watched the birds antics and took in our view.

I walked Moss while Himself made our breakfast, we strode out in the early morning air, crisp and fresh. At the top of the little hill we'd gone, I turned, the sun warming my face. I was itching to walk - so Moss sorted, we strode back down to the van.  Breakfast and Himself were waiting as were my boots and haversack.

Our path took us up above where we'd parked, along an initially boggy and indistinct path which soon settled into a rocky and winding trail that wound its way around incredibly interesting industrial archaeology.

I knelt down and tried to stare down the tunnel - the collapsed roof revealed a beautifully stone lined flue from the smelting mill below. The flue continued up over 400 metres up the hill - built to carry the noxious and toxic fumes away from the once busy mill.

The valley was full of derelict farm buildings, kilns, slag heaps, tunnels and holes. Some farms appeared to have been purchased purely as residential homes and the land seemed abandoned. One or two farms looked to be working however the land itself seemed a hard creature - thin and either marshy or crumbling. Difficult to work - yet there were places of raw beauty and micro worlds of delight.

The narrow track widened and turned into the most shimmery mirror pool reflecting the sky and reeds fringing the edge.

Our route took us off this harsh beautiful space and we dropped down into a kinder valley filled with ancient woodlands with small and secret magic.

The path took on added frisson as it left the safety of the trees and clung to the side of a precipitates edge high above a rough and tumbling river. We loved it. We all did. 

The path finally took us down to the river which Moss took as a sign she was meant to swim in the tea coloured water. We reluctantly continued on and tore ourselves away, Moss even more reluctant that us had to be called several times before she slowly dragged herself out of the water.

The steps from the river back up the valley side were new and extremely steep! Moss took them in her stride, I had to work a little harder to get myself up them.

It seems that the easier path is no longer allowed - a shame, it was kinder on the knee and on the lungs.

Heather - burnt  to create grouse feeding grounds - surrounded the narrow stony trail we now walked on.  Below us was the remains of the Surrender Smelt mill - a name that has many suggestions as to why it is called Surrender - ranging from being the name of the original led mining company, to the 'surrendering' of toil money by the miners as they carried their wares across the bridge, or the name of the wild  Surrender Moss, a place higher up the moors.

With a bit of research I think that the company name is the most reliable as the first reference to 'Surrender' in connection with the area was noted in 1806 when there was a request to 'let the hearths' to the Surrender Company. 

We explored the old smelting mill, quietly wondering at it's history and the people that were involved. I find the views from the empty windows the most evocative. 

Once back at the van, the kettle on, Moss rubbed down and wrapped up - the wind was still cutting, we sat and watched a couple of sheep grazing, listened to the grouse cackling and scrapping over their territories. 

Sipping tea and eating fruit cake after a walk never tasted so good.