Driving through the debateable lands - porous and permeable borders - reivers, smugglers, drovers
Early autumn, sunshine and morning mist, driving through the shifted border lands to see the lie of the land. Eastwards with Hadrian’s Wall, the border of AD 122; northwest to Jedburgh and Hawick and southwest along the 1237 Solway-Tweed border through Liddesdale.
This is the first time in four months that I’ve ventured over the border, although I see the other side every day. I’ve thought about it a few times: to see the Tour of Britain arrive into Castle Douglas; to look for my Scottish ancestors in Fairlie; to see the firth from the other side. I've thought about the border more - the referendum outcome and its aftermath, only two weeks after my relocation forced that - in a few years I could, in the ideas of some, be living within a few miles of the frontier of the European Union, as well as on the frontier of the roman empire.
Sunny Cumbria gives way to misty, cloudy, mizzly Northumbria, Steel Rigg’s panorama magnificent with rolling cloud behind the ridges. A factory chimney makes a dark cloud superimposed on nature’s lighter ones. At the first crossing of the Tyne, a fisherman casting in the middle of the river; by the city crossing a group of canoeists. A few days later on the radio, I heard the Tyne is now the best salmon river in England and Wales.
Having filled the car with flatpacks, I head north towards the now-distant border. The North Pennines through Redesdale to the Cheviots are rolling, lumpier and less bleak than Shap or Orton fells, but just as empty-looking, distinguished by firing ranges and grouse moors, and the site of the battle of Otterburn in 1388. As a child we knew about the permeability of the border and the ability of the border reivers to traverse it to raid livestock. But I'm not sure how much of the context we understood and I've been trying to sort that out whilst thinking about this border and other borders.
Edward I's invasions into Scotland from 1296 marked the start of 300 years of conflict in a significantly militarised zone that continued until the union of the crowns. The invasions and the allegiances of the landlords on either side of the established border left local populations well-armed and happy to plunder from their farther neighbours, without pissing in their own backyards. We understand that to mean raiding across the border, but they probably also raided other families on their own side, but less frequently - it was easier to evade punishment under another country's law than your own, even if the law of the Marches was set out to deal with cross-border crime. Some raids were economic, stealing cattle for food during the autumn raiding weeks after the summer grazing was done; some raids were tribal blood feuds; some raids were political acts.
But the porous border allowed people to cross easily for ordinary business as they do in most of the world - taking goods to sell at markets, for pilgrimage or education. Even in borders with checkpoints, local people routinely cross each day to carry out their normal business. The 300 years had periods of heightened Troubles and periods of calm, and the militarisation ebbed and flowed along with England's inclination to fight with France.
If this land was the intra-Irish border in the time of the Troubles, most of the 23 road crossings would be closed, with crossings at perhaps only the three major roads. But the big empty spaces in the middle and west Marches could still be crossed by those who knew the lie of the land, who knew the mosses and the hills and how to ride them, just as they were 500 years ago.
Across the Solway, smugglers brought goods into Scotland, an economic act driven by the differences in customs regimes between the countries. The sea border harder than the land border, but less bloody. The union of the crowns led rapidly to the end of reiving, with the vigorous removal of some of the notorious reivers and gentrification of others. Instead, the cross-border droving trade grew (along with smuggling, until the union of the parliaments), especially in the west Marches, for the next 300 years, until superseded by the railways.
The border is marked by a viewpoint, a chance to look down on Scotland. Car parks with a burger van and a huddle of bikers. Ten miles on, at the sudden and unexpectedly striking Jedburgh Abbey - saved for a future visit - I head west and then southwest via Hawick towards Liddesdale. A leaflet from the last century tells the bloody stories of the Liddesdale Armstrongs and gives me some idea of where to go to return to the great border city. Liddesdale is deserted - I pass only two other vehicles on a single track road with very many passing places. Looks like a great place to wander and lose oneself, and perhaps to wild camp - note for future reference. Empty and probably quite bleak in winter but very appealing today.
Suddenly a railway engine - this must be the heritage part of the Waverley line. The line has been restored from Edinburgh to somewhere north of Hawick, re-opening last year, but it's not clear whether it's likely to come back down here.
Crossing into Dumfries, a sign for a Carlisle estate agent - knowing that the purchase process is different in the two countries, I hadn't expected that, but maybe for the estate agent the difference isn't so great - just operating a closing date and working with the buyer's solicitor more than with the buyer? I hadn't thought of Carlisle being the urban population centre in the western borderlands south and north - I expected the border to be harder than it maybe is. But I could easily enough live here and travel to Carlisle to work, crossing the border daily (and be able to vote in any second referendum). When I got to Newcastleton, running out of fuel, I wondered which country the nearest petrol station was in, and where Newcastleton looked for its big town, supermarkets and estate agents - to Hawick or to Carlisle? Detoured towards Gretna on the offchance of fuel, thinking still of the power of the border and the differences in legal systems, the reason the English know of Gretna.
Crossing back into Cumbria, to the east a rainbow with one foot in each country; later, turning south of the firth, a half rainbow rooted in Eskmouth.
Sunday, 13 November 2016
Wednesday, 2 November 2016
Searching for moonscapes, finding microworlds
Back in the days before free pixels, when I took 40 photographs in a fortnight, not an hour, when you waited weeks to see the pictures you'd taken, the first time I went to Fleswick Bay my photographs came back a month later with a picture of the moon's surface.
Being out west, I walked over St Bees south head to blow away cobwebs and look for moonscapes. I expected wind and got autumn sunshine, too hot in my fleece layers. The last time I was here, on a blustery November day with the carpenter, we huddled in the lee of the lighthouse, determinedly eating our picnic and taking our first ever selfie to prove it.
After a beachful of round pebbles, dog-walking families and sandcastle builders, a heavily eroded cliff path, a headland of miniature memorials, bright gorse and big, big views. The clifftop fairly busy with the dog-walking families, the new path inland from the collapsed one not wide enough for passing in gangs.
To the west, the sea, Snaefell and the Isle of Man; to the north, Criffel and the Galloway hills; to the east the Western fells; to the south, Black Coombe and the Factory. This is where my parents grew up, the views they grew up with, there throughout my childhood but not ingrained on my mind - I can map the western valleys, but not the western fells. The post-industrial coastal towns are different from the eastern market towns in my mind, and I'm certainly snobbish in the way I think about them. When the Gap was open earlier this year, there was talk of the north-south divide in the county, but the east-west divide (with a dialect divide going back to the different varieties of Vikings) was more present in my childhood. As an adult I recognise the importance of the west - far more populous than the east, economically important, but harder to reach.
Over the cliffhead and down to the beach, past an array of discarded plastic in which I can see little to collect, even as a frequent forager of other people's discards.
My Cumbria Coastal Way guidebook, published in 1994, says "Fleswick Bay was once the haunt of smugglers, and it is easy to imagine the small dark caves concealing kegs of brandy and bottles of whisky. The bay is a good place to look for semi-precious stones such as agates and has a wonderful sculpted sandstone shore."
My moonscape is no longer in a cave - the cliff must have receded and the caves shrunk, leaving my moonscape outside. In what remains of the cave, 100-year-old public school boy graffiti, in elegant script, and just one moonrock.
Limpets had gathered in the craters of one outside moonrock; back in the cave I arrange pebble eggs in the shallower crater cups of the younger indoor moonrock.
And then out into the light for a quick look at the barnacle rocks, huge lumps of sandstone crusted grey with barnacles, barnacles on barnacles, barnacles on limpets. One rock has lots of inch-wide dark circles, looking from a distance like indentations, drip cavities, but with no cliff cover to provide the drips. But the darkness isn't shadow - each indentation is a mussel-nursery, two or three dozen tiny mussels crammed together in their cradle, protruding slightly, ready to open when the tide comes in. Some of the indentations are slightly larger, mussel-free, still with water. Something dark and spherical, like a large marble, below the water in one - thinking it might be a baby urchin, I gave it a prod and got an unexpected squidge. I'd forgotten about sea anemones. And as looked further the rocks were covered in slightly bigger pools, very round, looking manmade as though scoured in concrete. Something about the geology of the sandstone leads to very round pools and very round pebbles. The pools contain pink and green seaweeds, dark red anemones, indigo mussels, yellow-white limpets, and astonishing microworlds.
Next year, when I stop making things from other people's patterns, I'll make embroideries of Fleswick beach - barnacle rocks of linen thread on linen cloth stained with Egremont Red, and lots of dense French and bullion knots, and circular rockpools, tiny aquaria peered at through a light surface veil.
I went over an eroded cliff to see the unexpected moonscapes that had amazed me as a child when the photos came back, and found an eroded cliff had exposed my moonrocks to the light. I walked over fallen pieces of cliff and found unexpected microworlds that amazed me as an adult. My world has changed and the coast has changed, and Fleswick Bay has new wonders to discover.
Being out west, I walked over St Bees south head to blow away cobwebs and look for moonscapes. I expected wind and got autumn sunshine, too hot in my fleece layers. The last time I was here, on a blustery November day with the carpenter, we huddled in the lee of the lighthouse, determinedly eating our picnic and taking our first ever selfie to prove it.
After a beachful of round pebbles, dog-walking families and sandcastle builders, a heavily eroded cliff path, a headland of miniature memorials, bright gorse and big, big views. The clifftop fairly busy with the dog-walking families, the new path inland from the collapsed one not wide enough for passing in gangs.
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| St Bees beach with Black Coombe | The old path |
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| Bright gorse | Looking south beyond the Factory |
To the west, the sea, Snaefell and the Isle of Man; to the north, Criffel and the Galloway hills; to the east the Western fells; to the south, Black Coombe and the Factory. This is where my parents grew up, the views they grew up with, there throughout my childhood but not ingrained on my mind - I can map the western valleys, but not the western fells. The post-industrial coastal towns are different from the eastern market towns in my mind, and I'm certainly snobbish in the way I think about them. When the Gap was open earlier this year, there was talk of the north-south divide in the county, but the east-west divide (with a dialect divide going back to the different varieties of Vikings) was more present in my childhood. As an adult I recognise the importance of the west - far more populous than the east, economically important, but harder to reach.
 |
| View south with gorse |
Over the cliffhead and down to the beach, past an array of discarded plastic in which I can see little to collect, even as a frequent forager of other people's discards.
My Cumbria Coastal Way guidebook, published in 1994, says "Fleswick Bay was once the haunt of smugglers, and it is easy to imagine the small dark caves concealing kegs of brandy and bottles of whisky. The bay is a good place to look for semi-precious stones such as agates and has a wonderful sculpted sandstone shore."
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| Fleswick beach south |
Fleswick cliff north |
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| Fleswick cave | Barnacles |
My moonscape is no longer in a cave - the cliff must have receded and the caves shrunk, leaving my moonscape outside. In what remains of the cave, 100-year-old public school boy graffiti, in elegant script, and just one moonrock.
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| Posh graffiti | More posh graffiti |
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| Moonscape 1986 (approx) |
Moonscape 2016 |
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 |
Limpets had gathered in the craters of one outside moonrock; back in the cave I arrange pebble eggs in the shallower crater cups of the younger indoor moonrock.
 |
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| Limpets | Eggcups |
And then out into the light for a quick look at the barnacle rocks, huge lumps of sandstone crusted grey with barnacles, barnacles on barnacles, barnacles on limpets. One rock has lots of inch-wide dark circles, looking from a distance like indentations, drip cavities, but with no cliff cover to provide the drips. But the darkness isn't shadow - each indentation is a mussel-nursery, two or three dozen tiny mussels crammed together in their cradle, protruding slightly, ready to open when the tide comes in. Some of the indentations are slightly larger, mussel-free, still with water. Something dark and spherical, like a large marble, below the water in one - thinking it might be a baby urchin, I gave it a prod and got an unexpected squidge. I'd forgotten about sea anemones. And as looked further the rocks were covered in slightly bigger pools, very round, looking manmade as though scoured in concrete. Something about the geology of the sandstone leads to very round pools and very round pebbles. The pools contain pink and green seaweeds, dark red anemones, indigo mussels, yellow-white limpets, and astonishing microworlds.
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 |
 |
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Next year, when I stop making things from other people's patterns, I'll make embroideries of Fleswick beach - barnacle rocks of linen thread on linen cloth stained with Egremont Red, and lots of dense French and bullion knots, and circular rockpools, tiny aquaria peered at through a light surface veil.
 |
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| Winkles | Barnacle textures |
I went over an eroded cliff to see the unexpected moonscapes that had amazed me as a child when the photos came back, and found an eroded cliff had exposed my moonrocks to the light. I walked over fallen pieces of cliff and found unexpected microworlds that amazed me as an adult. My world has changed and the coast has changed, and Fleswick Bay has new wonders to discover.
Tuesday, 1 November 2016
Seaglass and limpets
Fell road and factory - dunes and rockpools - pebble and seashells - what a beach should be
To Seascale to see if the beach is deserted. My grandparents lived in Seascale from the 1950s, my parents were married there, we went there in summer, for half terms and for Christmases. Driving from Cockermouth, took an impulse turn onto the fell road, the road that routinely made me car sick as a child, the road Grandad attempted to drive up in the snow one winter despite the Road Closed signs.
To the left the western fells, to the right the sea appearing, on the iPlayer Southernality singing a song about driving and freedom and escape And from the mountains to the sea... don't it feel like Heaven is close. And in front, in the dip between two hills, the Lune Gorge moment for heading west, as the Factory appears on the shoreline with the Morecambe Bay wind farm beyond. We still call it the Factory, a family folklore word from when it, and Grandad, manufactured electricity. Nowadays it's the Site.
At the beach, after a detour to visit Grandma's bench, I went to look for the dunes. When the world was smaller and my legs were shorter, they seemed to be further away along the beach than they are today. And they are much diminished - just about possible to picnic in the first one, but I'm sure there were more and deeper dunes 40 years ago, that a family group of six or more could happily picnic in.
The rockpools are largely submerged by a tide that behaves correctly here - six and a quarter hours in, six and a quarter hours out, not this head-of-the-firth two hours in, thirteen hours out thing. The beach is fairly busy with families with dogs at the start of half term. Sometime after I'd left, in the early 1990s, the people left the beach as the Sellafield scares started. My book of the Cumbrian Coastal Way, published in 1994, describes an air of neglect, and for some years that seemed a fair description to an infrequent visitor, lessened from what it had been.
I remember being back here sometime, probably with my brother, alone on the evening beach drawing alpha-beta-gamma particle was here signs in the wet sand. I remember making flippant jokes to southern student friends about glowing in the dark. I remember my ambivalent anger at the disuse of a great beach, my uncertainty about the Factory and nuclear power as a member of the Green party and a member of a family that worked there. Knowing its importance to the Cumbrian economy and - working alongside academic experts on energy policy - knowing about the long-term costs.
As I've always done, I picked up handfuls of pebbles - smooth eggs of St Bee's sandstone, tiny fragments of mussels, limpet, periwinkles, cockles, tellins, razorshells, towershells. One day I will take a handful to Julie Gibson and ask her to make me a mosaic picture of Seascale beach.
Sand dunes for picnics, wet sand for castle-building, dry sand to wiggle toes in, rockpools to investigate, smooth pebbles and seashells, marram grass and thrift, wormcasts and bladder wrack, seaglass and driftbricks. Everything a beach should be. With the optional extra of a nuclear reprocessing plant.
To Seascale to see if the beach is deserted. My grandparents lived in Seascale from the 1950s, my parents were married there, we went there in summer, for half terms and for Christmases. Driving from Cockermouth, took an impulse turn onto the fell road, the road that routinely made me car sick as a child, the road Grandad attempted to drive up in the snow one winter despite the Road Closed signs.
To the left the western fells, to the right the sea appearing, on the iPlayer Southernality singing a song about driving and freedom and escape And from the mountains to the sea... don't it feel like Heaven is close. And in front, in the dip between two hills, the Lune Gorge moment for heading west, as the Factory appears on the shoreline with the Morecambe Bay wind farm beyond. We still call it the Factory, a family folklore word from when it, and Grandad, manufactured electricity. Nowadays it's the Site.
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| From the mountains to the sea... | Heading West |
At the beach, after a detour to visit Grandma's bench, I went to look for the dunes. When the world was smaller and my legs were shorter, they seemed to be further away along the beach than they are today. And they are much diminished - just about possible to picnic in the first one, but I'm sure there were more and deeper dunes 40 years ago, that a family group of six or more could happily picnic in.
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| Rockpools from the dune | Snaefell |
The rockpools are largely submerged by a tide that behaves correctly here - six and a quarter hours in, six and a quarter hours out, not this head-of-the-firth two hours in, thirteen hours out thing. The beach is fairly busy with families with dogs at the start of half term. Sometime after I'd left, in the early 1990s, the people left the beach as the Sellafield scares started. My book of the Cumbrian Coastal Way, published in 1994, describes an air of neglect, and for some years that seemed a fair description to an infrequent visitor, lessened from what it had been.
I remember being back here sometime, probably with my brother, alone on the evening beach drawing alpha-beta-gamma particle was here signs in the wet sand. I remember making flippant jokes to southern student friends about glowing in the dark. I remember my ambivalent anger at the disuse of a great beach, my uncertainty about the Factory and nuclear power as a member of the Green party and a member of a family that worked there. Knowing its importance to the Cumbrian economy and - working alongside academic experts on energy policy - knowing about the long-term costs.
As I've always done, I picked up handfuls of pebbles - smooth eggs of St Bee's sandstone, tiny fragments of mussels, limpet, periwinkles, cockles, tellins, razorshells, towershells. One day I will take a handful to Julie Gibson and ask her to make me a mosaic picture of Seascale beach.
Sand dunes for picnics, wet sand for castle-building, dry sand to wiggle toes in, rockpools to investigate, smooth pebbles and seashells, marram grass and thrift, wormcasts and bladder wrack, seaglass and driftbricks. Everything a beach should be. With the optional extra of a nuclear reprocessing plant.
Monday, 3 October 2016
Harvesting in the hedgerows
Firthside we have hedgerows. Fellside, they have drystone walls. We have hedgerows because we don't have stones, just mud. Our houses are built from clay (on boulder and cobble plinths and with cruck frames and thatch roofs) or bricks. Their houses are built of stone - slate, old red sandstone, limestone. Our hedgerows have willowherb and meadowsweet, old man's beard and roses, blackberries, elder and haws. Their hillsides have mountain ash and bilberries, bracken, foxgloves and heather.
Two weeks ago as well as looking for art I looked for rowan berries. Most of the trees on my route were 'public trees' in town streets and on village greens, which I wasn't keen in picking from. Up the east fellside returning home there was a promising looking woodland which included many rowan trees - but unreachable behind a drystone wall (not to be climbed), a deep ditch, and a thicket of nettles. Finally two tall trees laden with fruit - one of them yielded well over a kilo of fruit, enough for rowan jelly and a fifth share of hedgerow jelly. Picked over they went straight in the freezer until the rest of the fruit was ready.
One week ago I was in London dropping off half a dozen jars of jam and replacing them in my luggage with a dozen limes to pickle (half the price in London greengrocers than in major supermarkets), half a dozen figs to eat, thin-skinned lemons for preserving and the unexpectedly elusive dill for the dill-pickled cucumbers that have been waiting their time for three weeks. The last week has been pickle week.
I'd planned for a wet weekend with a long list of household tasks, but unexpected sunshine sent me out in search of the rest of the fruit for the hedgerow jelly - hawberries, sloes, rosehips, elderberries and blackberries. The west side of the road is hedged mainly with hawthorns, invaded from time to time by blackberries and occasional roses, whereas the east side is more varied and includes the elders and more of the roses. The hedges have been largely cut back - this road sees cows and sheep frequently walking down it, and the trimming is presumably for their benefit. With nettles and a wet ditch defending the hedges, much of the fruit is out of reach unless I can get into the fields. Hawberries are abundant and one bush yields the necessary quantity - the next 99 can be ignored. Elderberries are in short supply and it seems to have been a bad year for blackberries - it's not as though other people have been out picking first, just that the fruit didn't form properly to start with. As for sloes, after picking eight from a neighbour's hedge, there are no more to be found for an hour. Are we too close to the sea? I knew the mountain ash wouldn't grow down here but I didn't think sloes wouldn't. Eventually I find one small bush, but that's not enough. I may have to go down the manor field boundary later in case there are more there.
And then, on the way home, a sloe hedge on a neighbour's garden. About three foot thick, that means 18 inches depth is public, right? The sloes are not abundant in number, but they're the size of American blueberries. Quite glad that no one drives past in the time I spend almost inside the bush collecting what I need.
When I get home, my hands are purple and deeply scratched. The perfect moment to move the salted cut lemons that are a preserving work in progress from one jar to another - ouch!
Two weeks ago as well as looking for art I looked for rowan berries. Most of the trees on my route were 'public trees' in town streets and on village greens, which I wasn't keen in picking from. Up the east fellside returning home there was a promising looking woodland which included many rowan trees - but unreachable behind a drystone wall (not to be climbed), a deep ditch, and a thicket of nettles. Finally two tall trees laden with fruit - one of them yielded well over a kilo of fruit, enough for rowan jelly and a fifth share of hedgerow jelly. Picked over they went straight in the freezer until the rest of the fruit was ready.
One week ago I was in London dropping off half a dozen jars of jam and replacing them in my luggage with a dozen limes to pickle (half the price in London greengrocers than in major supermarkets), half a dozen figs to eat, thin-skinned lemons for preserving and the unexpectedly elusive dill for the dill-pickled cucumbers that have been waiting their time for three weeks. The last week has been pickle week.
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| Raspberry vinegar, fig vinegar, pickled plums | Two sorts of pickled cucumbers, pickled horseradish | Cucumbers, preserved lemons, pickled limes, horseradish vinegar |
I'd planned for a wet weekend with a long list of household tasks, but unexpected sunshine sent me out in search of the rest of the fruit for the hedgerow jelly - hawberries, sloes, rosehips, elderberries and blackberries. The west side of the road is hedged mainly with hawthorns, invaded from time to time by blackberries and occasional roses, whereas the east side is more varied and includes the elders and more of the roses. The hedges have been largely cut back - this road sees cows and sheep frequently walking down it, and the trimming is presumably for their benefit. With nettles and a wet ditch defending the hedges, much of the fruit is out of reach unless I can get into the fields. Hawberries are abundant and one bush yields the necessary quantity - the next 99 can be ignored. Elderberries are in short supply and it seems to have been a bad year for blackberries - it's not as though other people have been out picking first, just that the fruit didn't form properly to start with. As for sloes, after picking eight from a neighbour's hedge, there are no more to be found for an hour. Are we too close to the sea? I knew the mountain ash wouldn't grow down here but I didn't think sloes wouldn't. Eventually I find one small bush, but that's not enough. I may have to go down the manor field boundary later in case there are more there.
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| Abundant haws |
Rosehips |
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| Meagre blackberries |
Solitary sloe |
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| Firth with hedges | Fell with hedge |
And then, on the way home, a sloe hedge on a neighbour's garden. About three foot thick, that means 18 inches depth is public, right? The sloes are not abundant in number, but they're the size of American blueberries. Quite glad that no one drives past in the time I spend almost inside the bush collecting what I need.
When I get home, my hands are purple and deeply scratched. The perfect moment to move the salted cut lemons that are a preserving work in progress from one jar to another - ouch!
Wednesday, 28 September 2016
You Say 'Tomato', I say 'Tomato'
Recently @NotJustLakes wanted to know how we all pronounce Scafell, i.e. the Scar vs Scaw debate which I'd recently been having with my mum. The modern pronunciation is Scar (or ska!) - but western roots know it as Scaw. Twitter and Wikipedia quickly confirmed that "Formerly the name was spelled Scawfell, which better reflects local pronunciation." Someone spelled it wrongly on an eighteenth century map; unusually Ordnance Survey didn't reinstate the local pronunciation; visitors and offcomers to the second and third generation start to pronounce it how it's spelled, long-rooted locals, nearby offcomers and the curious pronounce it the old way.
There are Sca*fell Roads all over the county - about half spelled each way - and it's likely that a high proportion of those are estates built in the last 70 years, suggesting that spelling as well as pronunciation isn't long fixed.
That reminded me of Scaws Infants in Penrith - on the Scaws estate - I guess there was Scaws Juniors too (but I was too young,and they merged to become Beaconside. Between Scawfell and the Scaws estate we have two very similar names showing the east and west Viking incursions into Cumbria. Scawfell in the west is from the Norwegian Old Norse skalli fjall, where skalli is shieling (skiul in Danish) or bald (try this) or skagi fjall, where skagi is headland*. Scaws estate in the east, on the other hand, is from skoven, Danish woods (skogen in Norwegian)**
In August's Cumbria Life, Caz Graham suggested that useful things kids should learn at (Cumbrian) schools included "how to say Torpenhow, Bouth, Burgh and Skelwith in a manner that will confuse tourists". Even when you know Burgh, how about the nearby Powburgh beck? Pohbruff? P-ow-bruff?
Earlier in the year, before I left London, Lord Oakeshott asked me over dinner (I worked with his wife; I was amused to have dinner with a lord) whether my home town was pronounced PENrith or penRITH? Given that Virgin Trains and their often Scottish crew, say CarLISLE and penRITH, and that's where I'd most commonly heard the names spoken for 25 years, I found myself uncertain about the town I grew up in. Mum explained: in general in a two-syllable name we stress the first (and wherever possible we put a schwa in the second syllable). So
CARlisle, PENruth, THRELkuld, SCAWfull (allegedly; the 'full' is debated here!), WAZdull, WARcup, etc.
But there's no accounting for Aspatria, of course.
* https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Scafell_Pike and http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/scaw
**Cumberland & Westmorland, Ancient and modern: the people, dialect, superstitions and customs (1857) Jeremiah Sullivan, p49, p95
Milli fjallanna og fjarðarins
There are Sca*fell Roads all over the county - about half spelled each way - and it's likely that a high proportion of those are estates built in the last 70 years, suggesting that spelling as well as pronunciation isn't long fixed.
That reminded me of Scaws Infants in Penrith - on the Scaws estate - I guess there was Scaws Juniors too (but I was too young,and they merged to become Beaconside. Between Scawfell and the Scaws estate we have two very similar names showing the east and west Viking incursions into Cumbria. Scawfell in the west is from the Norwegian Old Norse skalli fjall, where skalli is shieling (skiul in Danish) or bald (try this) or skagi fjall, where skagi is headland*. Scaws estate in the east, on the other hand, is from skoven, Danish woods (skogen in Norwegian)**
In August's Cumbria Life, Caz Graham suggested that useful things kids should learn at (Cumbrian) schools included "how to say Torpenhow, Bouth, Burgh and Skelwith in a manner that will confuse tourists". Even when you know Burgh, how about the nearby Powburgh beck? Pohbruff? P-ow-bruff?
Earlier in the year, before I left London, Lord Oakeshott asked me over dinner (I worked with his wife; I was amused to have dinner with a lord) whether my home town was pronounced PENrith or penRITH? Given that Virgin Trains and their often Scottish crew, say CarLISLE and penRITH, and that's where I'd most commonly heard the names spoken for 25 years, I found myself uncertain about the town I grew up in. Mum explained: in general in a two-syllable name we stress the first (and wherever possible we put a schwa in the second syllable). So
CARlisle, PENruth, THRELkuld, SCAWfull (allegedly; the 'full' is debated here!), WAZdull, WARcup, etc.
But there's no accounting for Aspatria, of course.
* https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Scafell_Pike and http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/scaw
**Cumberland & Westmorland, Ancient and modern: the people, dialect, superstitions and customs (1857) Jeremiah Sullivan, p49, p95
Milli fjallanna og fjarðarins
Wednesday, 21 September 2016
To the Mountains
Searching for heather, looking for firth from fell - temporary roads - awesomeness - home and away - peak-bagging - heather mattress - release the hounds
I don't think of heather as being a particularly Lake District plant. I think of it primarily as Highlands and, if pushed, Peak District. I included heather in the colours for my Dancing on the Fells blanket, but wasn't entirely convinced. I'm obviously wrong here - just look at the Skiddaw massif in August - and need to reprogamme myself. I decided it was time to walk up Skiddaw, partly in search of the heather, partly to see the view of the fell from the firth, partly to walk one of the high fells for the first time: my first Furth.
The radio news show is discussing distractions from taking a hands-free phone call – but what about distractions from seeing a buzzard take off and hover over the field beside the road? The first autumn skein of geese flying in? The mountains on a beautiful early autumn morning? Entering the National Park, the view of the back of Skiddaw causes me to pull off the road just to look at it.
On the last stretch of the road to the car park, a Temporary Road Surface sign, which I don’t place too much store by. I had forgotten: when I was a child I thought “temporary” meant “bumpy” because in Cumbria, a temporary road surface was a lumpy one. In this case, “temporary road surface” means “not much road surface at all”. It’s obviously a post-Desmond issue – but having experienced some post-storm roads in Africa, that one really ranked up as a strong contender for the worst road surface I’ve ever encountered. And I encountered it too fast, not having interpreted the sign correctly. Swearing followed.
I assumed that before 9am was early enough to still be able to park , but the parking area was close to full already, noisy and smelling of bacon cooking. The British junior hill-running championships were due to start around 10am. Not only do you need to check the fell weather forecast when planning a trip to the high fells, but also the fell running forecast (and I don’t have a twitter link for that). The marshals have arrived now to set out the course, which is exactly the route I will be taking, as far as Skiddaw Little Man – solitude and serenity will be in short supply today.
500 metres of the 720 of ascent are in the 3km between the car park and Little Man summit, and getting them out of the way at the start dealt with high fell anxiety - can I do it? Yes, no problem!
The walk book says: “Little Man is a great lunch spot with awesome views”. My instant response to the word 'awesome' is, eugh, horrible devalued word. And then I realise it's not being used tritely here: if that’s not awesome, what, in England, is? If we don’t now call those views awesome, is that because we’ve seen too many other higher mountains in other countries? Yes, that view is awesome.
I feel a hymn coming on.
O Lord my God! When I in awesome wonder
Consider all the works Thy hand hath made.
... When I look down from lofty mountain grandeur
And hear the beck and feel the gentle breeze:
Then sings my soul, my Saviour God, to Thee:
How great Thou art, how great Thou art!
Then sings my soul, my Saviour God, to Thee:
How great Thou art, how great Thou art!
Yes, I did stand on top of Skiddaw south summit momentarily surrounded by no one and sing part of a hymn out loud. I'm not actively religious these days, but I love the big old hymns. Methodist upbringing.
About 11am, a little later than the forecast had said, low-flying clouds arrive, moisture steaming of the mountain's flanks and forming into small eddying clouds. Along the broad sweep between the south summit at the to summit they sweep up form western flank, cutting off the view. I've encountered this in the Julian Alps but I haven't explored my own back yard to meet it here before.
The final approach to the summit is increasingly crowded as people come up from the other faces. Some are clock-watching; one father and daughter couple have a chat while they catch their breath, ask my to take a photo of them with their hands on the trig point, and hare off in another direction. I don't understand the attraction of peak-bagging. I understand the completist aspect, of course, but not the enjoyment of doing it. I want the time to stop and wonder, not to tick off the next summit. I'm only here today for the curiosity of the high fell and the desire to see the firth from here; really I'd rather be over there in the much quieter, but lower, back o'Skiddaw fells, with the wheatears and the last swallows of summer.
The clouds are still largely obscuring my village, so I hide out in one of the summit sheepfolds away from the crowds, eat my lunch and wait for it to lift.
As I pass Little Man from below on the return leg, the unmistakeable sound of a helicopter. In King's Cross there are police helicopters every night – that's situation normal. And for the year and a bit before the migration the London hospital I worked in had a helipad on the roof - a helicopter is bad news but situation normal. In Cumbria – bad news, not situation normal. The air ambulance circles once then lands carefully just over the saddle behind Little Man, and it’s the best part of an hour before it takes off again.
Lonscale Fell is much more deserted than the Skiddaws, and the day is getting hotter. After soggy bog on the way, what looks like bog around the east summit turns out to be dry and cushiony - very comfortable for September sunbathing. As is the heather mattress a little further down - mostly finished flowering, but springy and comfortable. Although the 45 degree angle might make sleep tricky.
Across the valley, there are ten parascenders hanging out. From my heather bed I'm reminded of a former colleague's story. On a countryside adventure with a partner, they decided to take advantage of the solitude (and no doubt the heather bed) to get intimate. They didn't notice the parascenders - but the parascenders noticed them. As they found out in the pub that evening. Blushes.
After a steep barefoot descent, I'm surprised to see a huge number of cars parked - they seem to have overflowed the designated parking area and parked in a field, surprisingly. The path swings back a bit to cross Whit beck, taking the cars out of view. After crossing the beck, I'm approaching the corner which will give on to the car park when I suddenly hear a galloping sound. A moment later, a pack of hounds turns the corner towards me at full tilt. As a child I read that if confronted by a stampede of elephant, the correct procedure is to stand still pretending to be a tree (I was never sure whether I should stick my arms out or not) and the short-sighted elephants would just go round you. This also works with Lakeland foxhounds.
Note: Six hours. Baseline 5hrs for 13km plus 700m of ascent; add half an hour waiting for the cloud to lift to see the firth and half an hour sunbathing in the heather.
I don't think of heather as being a particularly Lake District plant. I think of it primarily as Highlands and, if pushed, Peak District. I included heather in the colours for my Dancing on the Fells blanket, but wasn't entirely convinced. I'm obviously wrong here - just look at the Skiddaw massif in August - and need to reprogamme myself. I decided it was time to walk up Skiddaw, partly in search of the heather, partly to see the view of the fell from the firth, partly to walk one of the high fells for the first time: my first Furth.
The radio news show is discussing distractions from taking a hands-free phone call – but what about distractions from seeing a buzzard take off and hover over the field beside the road? The first autumn skein of geese flying in? The mountains on a beautiful early autumn morning? Entering the National Park, the view of the back of Skiddaw causes me to pull off the road just to look at it.
 |
| Autumn morning Skiddaw |
On the last stretch of the road to the car park, a Temporary Road Surface sign, which I don’t place too much store by. I had forgotten: when I was a child I thought “temporary” meant “bumpy” because in Cumbria, a temporary road surface was a lumpy one. In this case, “temporary road surface” means “not much road surface at all”. It’s obviously a post-Desmond issue – but having experienced some post-storm roads in Africa, that one really ranked up as a strong contender for the worst road surface I’ve ever encountered. And I encountered it too fast, not having interpreted the sign correctly. Swearing followed.
 |
| Temporary road surface |
I assumed that before 9am was early enough to still be able to park , but the parking area was close to full already, noisy and smelling of bacon cooking. The British junior hill-running championships were due to start around 10am. Not only do you need to check the fell weather forecast when planning a trip to the high fells, but also the fell running forecast (and I don’t have a twitter link for that). The marshals have arrived now to set out the course, which is exactly the route I will be taking, as far as Skiddaw Little Man – solitude and serenity will be in short supply today.
 |
| Shepherd's memorial |
500 metres of the 720 of ascent are in the 3km between the car park and Little Man summit, and getting them out of the way at the start dealt with high fell anxiety - can I do it? Yes, no problem!
 |  |
| Central fells with heather | Derwent water without Keswick |
The walk book says: “Little Man is a great lunch spot with awesome views”. My instant response to the word 'awesome' is, eugh, horrible devalued word. And then I realise it's not being used tritely here: if that’s not awesome, what, in England, is? If we don’t now call those views awesome, is that because we’ve seen too many other higher mountains in other countries? Yes, that view is awesome.
 |
I feel a hymn coming on.
O Lord my God! When I in awesome wonder
Consider all the works Thy hand hath made.
... When I look down from lofty mountain grandeur
And hear the beck and feel the gentle breeze:
Then sings my soul, my Saviour God, to Thee:
How great Thou art, how great Thou art!
Then sings my soul, my Saviour God, to Thee:
How great Thou art, how great Thou art!
Yes, I did stand on top of Skiddaw south summit momentarily surrounded by no one and sing part of a hymn out loud. I'm not actively religious these days, but I love the big old hymns. Methodist upbringing.
About 11am, a little later than the forecast had said, low-flying clouds arrive, moisture steaming of the mountain's flanks and forming into small eddying clouds. Along the broad sweep between the south summit at the to summit they sweep up form western flank, cutting off the view. I've encountered this in the Julian Alps but I haven't explored my own back yard to meet it here before.
 |  |
| Inversion over Bassenthwaite lake | Westwards |
The final approach to the summit is increasingly crowded as people come up from the other faces. Some are clock-watching; one father and daughter couple have a chat while they catch their breath, ask my to take a photo of them with their hands on the trig point, and hare off in another direction. I don't understand the attraction of peak-bagging. I understand the completist aspect, of course, but not the enjoyment of doing it. I want the time to stop and wonder, not to tick off the next summit. I'm only here today for the curiosity of the high fell and the desire to see the firth from here; really I'd rather be over there in the much quieter, but lower, back o'Skiddaw fells, with the wheatears and the last swallows of summer.
 |
 |
 |
| Salehow beck/River Caldew | Towards Skiddaw house YH, with heather | Salehow beck/River Caldew |
The clouds are still largely obscuring my village, so I hide out in one of the summit sheepfolds away from the crowds, eat my lunch and wait for it to lift.
 |  |
| Firth from Fell over Skiddaw flank | Firth from Fell over Skiddaw north |
 |
| Firth from Fell with Blencathra |
As I pass Little Man from below on the return leg, the unmistakeable sound of a helicopter. In King's Cross there are police helicopters every night – that's situation normal. And for the year and a bit before the migration the London hospital I worked in had a helipad on the roof - a helicopter is bad news but situation normal. In Cumbria – bad news, not situation normal. The air ambulance circles once then lands carefully just over the saddle behind Little Man, and it’s the best part of an hour before it takes off again.
Lonscale Fell is much more deserted than the Skiddaws, and the day is getting hotter. After soggy bog on the way, what looks like bog around the east summit turns out to be dry and cushiony - very comfortable for September sunbathing. As is the heather mattress a little further down - mostly finished flowering, but springy and comfortable. Although the 45 degree angle might make sleep tricky.
 |  |
| Derwent water with bog pool | Lonely fells |
 |
| Glimpsing Thirlmere over heatherbed |
Across the valley, there are ten parascenders hanging out. From my heather bed I'm reminded of a former colleague's story. On a countryside adventure with a partner, they decided to take advantage of the solitude (and no doubt the heather bed) to get intimate. They didn't notice the parascenders - but the parascenders noticed them. As they found out in the pub that evening. Blushes.
After a steep barefoot descent, I'm surprised to see a huge number of cars parked - they seem to have overflowed the designated parking area and parked in a field, surprisingly. The path swings back a bit to cross Whit beck, taking the cars out of view. After crossing the beck, I'm approaching the corner which will give on to the car park when I suddenly hear a galloping sound. A moment later, a pack of hounds turns the corner towards me at full tilt. As a child I read that if confronted by a stampede of elephant, the correct procedure is to stand still pretending to be a tree (I was never sure whether I should stick my arms out or not) and the short-sighted elephants would just go round you. This also works with Lakeland foxhounds.
Note: Six hours. Baseline 5hrs for 13km plus 700m of ascent; add half an hour waiting for the cloud to lift to see the firth and half an hour sunbathing in the heather.
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