There’s a sense of freedom to walking in the wide open spaces of the hills, that you just don’t get from a stroll in the park with all its clutter and constant chatter. As you reconnect with the simplicity and timelessness of the landscape, a sense of perspective returns, and cares are shed in waves. There’s a natural resonance, similar to being fully absorbed in a good piece of music, and all else is left behind.
The glare of the white stony track is left at a kissing gate, and exchanged for a deeply rutted narrow path in the shade of a dry-stone wall; slippery mud in winter and a haven for midges in summer. A second kissing gate marks the boundary of open country, and a chance to pause for a refreshing drink. In the quiet you can hear the rhythmic swish as your legs brush past the long grass, slowly making their way up the steep hill. Worn footholds in the bank are suggestive of the many who have trodden the path before you. Level stretches allow an opportunity to rest, look back and absorb the ever-changing view.
At the brow of the hill a wooden fence-line provides the first hurdle in the form of a weathered stile, now a long way up from the eroded ground. Here the grass is replaced by heather moor; a mass of honey scented purple when in bloom, the hum of busy bees all pervasive. Managed for the rearing of red grouse, it forms a patchwork of feeding areas, with bright green tufts amid short brittle stalks burnt to skeleton white, alternating with sections of longer mature plants, to provide cover for the game birds. Black peat snakes between the knee deep scratchy stems, worn down to a gritty base of grey stone by the passage of time, rain and many footfalls. Small brown birds, meadow pipits, flit from stone to stone ahead of your path with a light chirp. Or squabbling pairs suddenly rise in a fountain of flapping wings and claws.
A further stile to clamber over leads to the gurgle of water down a shallow brook, and another chance to pause and take in the scene. Larger outcrops of gritstone now dominate, as the narrow grassy path winds up and along the edge to large flat slabs. Deeply eroded layers of stone stacked in towering piles, and scattered down the hillside below where they have fallen, provide a seat for a snack and a last view down the valley, or a climb for braver souls. They also provide a home for ants in drier spells, who are more than happy to share your lunch. Windhovers, or kestrels, often silently ride the thermals at the head of the valley here, hunting for their own lunch amongst the tumbled rocks at the base of the narrow waterfall.
The ascent is gentler again now, on an undulating path of gravel and stones alongside a shallow stream. Water drifts lazily across the sloping layers of bedrock glowing with lime moss, between grassy banks of rock and peat, occasionally tumbling down a step with a splashing sparkle of sunlight, or collecting in dark tranquil pools where the stone has been steadily worn down to smooth bowls. Black tipped stoats make their homes in the bends of the far bank, and if your approach is soft enough, may sometimes be glimpsed darting for the safety of their holes.
In places the path widens, as alternatives are sought to the gelatinous patches of dark peat, with brown water standing in the deep footprints of those who have gone before. Some of the holes run very deep into the peat, and may even form eroded caverns. A sudden movement at your feet is often the first sight of lizards that shelter in these tunnels, and among the damp grasses by the path. Tussocks of grass and clumps of reeds provide stepping stones across greener marsh and sphagnum moss, as the path levels out towards the broad ridge. In dry summer these damp hazards become dusty shadows and firmer ground.
Crossing the now narrow stream with a small bound, a smaller tributary is followed between head-high walls of deeply eroded heather-topped peat. Hares, in their brown summer coats or winter white, sit watchful amongst the peat gullies as you pass by, or streak off across the moors with their long legs and ears. Winding back and forth, and sometimes scrambling up to follow the drier edges, you emerge at last between the last black sentinels onto the stone-topped summit, marked by a white painted triangulation pillar, or trig point. These shoulder-high pyramids were used to survey the hills, and though with satellites they’re now obsolete, most were retained by popular demand as important waymarks. Although this is not the highest point of the plateau, it affords the best views of the surrounding hills, and their fine valleys.
Shelf Stones
Grass stalk hiss
gravelly stone crunch
peat soft squelch.
Warm sun soothes
peaceful solitude
open space.
Birds fight flight
kestrel silent soars
hares watch wait.
Cool green shade
tinkling water falls
still brown pools.
Summit view
white pyramid stone
journey home.
“Runnin’ watter allus meks m’ tinkle!”
Charming! And I’m not called Alice.
Movement is everywhere, and life is plentiful, if you are alert and observe at appropriate scales…
“Ah’m norra lert!”
’Shh!
Frogs croak from peaty moorland pools teeming with spawn…
“Why’d th’ croak it?”
They didn’t die! Croak, a deep hoarse cry.
“What’s an ’oss got to do wi’ it?”
Not a horse! Never mind.
Peaty moorland pools teem with frogspawn, while pond skaters dance on the surface. Sunbathing lizards dart for the safety of damp shade, and bees drone amongst the heather or dig sandy holes in the path. Red grouse call ‘go back, go back’, as they weave through the heather to draw you away from their young, while the ‘peewit’ of lapwings and the cry of curlews with their long curved beaks, fill the air as they wheel overhead. Though the rasp of grasshoppers may often be heard by the side of the path, you have to search hard to see one of their camouflaged bodies.
Shelf Moor
Grass head sea ripples
sunlight dances on water
small copper flecks flit.
A sloping expanse of black exposed peat is crossed as you start your descent to the valley. This eroded area is slowly being re-vegetated with grass seed and heather brash, to protect the moorland and clarify the water that drains from this enormous storage sponge. The new swathes of long grasses sway in the breeze, in great connected waves like a pale green ocean.
More eroded rock formations are reached, then a steeper drop to a lower plateau. Footholds along the water carved gully have been ground down by the loose grit, which lies like ball bearings beneath unwary feet. The path then winds across the more level ground, crossing peat ditches on narrow bridges of heather, or taking longer detours around the wider channels. A final huge peat grough is descended and the far bank scrambled up, to cross over a rocky ridge with a panoramic view down the broadening valley.
Moving down the tussocky grass slope on the far side, the landscape softens to rounder hills of green. Sounds are muted too, as turf replaces the barer surfaces. At the bottom a rickety stile over a wire fence has to be negotiated, to arrive at a large reedy pool. The expanse of blue reflecting the sky, stands out amidst the greens, browns and greys of the hillside.
Another short descent past overgrown tumbled stones, with a muddy puddle to skirt at its base, leads to a long gentle incline topped by a grassy track. Sheltered from the wind by the bank alongside, this is often a suntrap, and insects fill the air with the sound of tiny beating wings and jewelled flashes of colour. Around the corner, the site of an old shooting cabin is crossed, marked now only by a flat grassy sward, and half a dozen stones still set into the bank at the base of the hill, which once formed part of its walls. A nearby spring can be heard, bubbling up through the marshy vegetation, and attracting midges.
A wider track is now followed down alongside pasture, and a forest of plastic tubes shielding newly planted tree seedlings, which form part of a flood management scheme for the brook below. The track becomes stonier, and the sound of footsteps harsher, as you approach the broad farm track over the bridge at the bottom of the hill.
A popular circuit of the valley, this final section is often crowded with people out for an afternoon stroll, and their families and dogs, or cyclists making the most of the level route. The sudden noise and bustle can be quite jarring after a peaceful day on the hill, as you make your way back to the start of the track.
Often the walks are simply for the pleasure of being outside amidst the wide open spaces, and paths are chosen or changed as the mood takes you at the time. Such are the benefits of extensive local knowledge, and a weather eye on the horizon. Sometimes there’s an objective in mind such as a natural feature, or one of the numerous remains of plane crashes, well preserved amongst the peat and reclaiming heather or sheep-cropped grass. Of course, there are always favourite routes to draw upon, that are oft repeated.
Worm Stones
All looks dry, autumn’s early,
harvest hues golden grass.
Feel that warmth around your knees,
ruts return hoarded heat.
Soft new growth as you brush by,
purple peaks heather heads.
Ground’s so firm, easy to cross,
crevassed cracks parched peatbog.
Boots on flags echo around,
snaking stones paving path.
Time to eat on grassy sward,
silver sheets perished plane.
Crest the ridge, welcome cool breeze,
mountain mist hazy hills.
What was that? Scared me to death!
Startled spray grumbling grouse.
Dig up glass could cause a fire,
dusty down rocky road.
Simple food eaten at beautiful viewpoints is another joy of longer days out, if you can avoid ant-hills, shady midges and the marauding hungry sheep that inhabit the most popular spots! The self-sufficiency of a small rucksack of provisions increases the sense of independence and freedom from urban trappings, and allows a greater range of exploration.
“Th’ll nivver mek it up them ’ills if th’s allus troughin’!”
Thanks! I’ve told you; I’m not called Alice.
Crook Hill
Bacon bap
cool ice cream
comfort stop…
“That’s a bit posh innit, ‘comfort stop’? Wha’s wrong wi’ ‘quick tinkle’?”
It’s more polite, stop interrupting.
Woodland climb
poolside shrine
ridge crest view.
Sandy ruts
lizards dart
bees mine holes.
Cheese and tomato sandwich
chocolate chip scone
blackcurrant squash.
Sloping fields
lamb mown grass
wood gates latch.
Rock outcrop
tumbled stones
lichen crust.
Banana
piece of cake
chocolate bar.
Road hard black
noise cars fast.
Blue haze banks
lime light leaves
dappled shade.
Pine strewn path
muffled tread
squirrels fight.
Ducklings bob
Blue water
green field trees.
White stones scrunch
parked car waits.
Ridges offer lengthy panoramic views for relatively little effort, once you’ve reached the crest, and are a wonderful way to spend a leisurely day out. They are often punctuated with marvellous weather worn sculptures and tors of more resistant rock, whose shapes conjure up images of animals and other familiar objects.
The last pink foxglove spires of summer punctuate the road verges. Robins sing from hedgerows and fences, then swiftly dart to the ground for food. A young grey squirrel lopes gracefully across the grass bank beneath the mature oak trees.
Old worn stones curve up through the recently cut wildflower meadow, the flagged path now stark against the shorn grass, the red and white sweet-scented clover, purple self-heal, and delicate sky-blue harebells just a memory. As you pause by the old barn, a dragonfly rises from the stream beyond the stone wall, in shimmering loops of flight against the backdrop of a dark belt of trees. Closer to hand, a small copper butterfly dances amongst the grass stalks by your feet.
Deeply eroded mountain bike ruts weave channels of water between walls of fresh green or dry coppery bracken. Numerous chirps of unseen grasshoppers accompany your passage. Ancient stone slabs then lead uphill through the heather, the sunken route showing many have trodden that way before. Grand silhouettes of rocky tors stand arrayed along the skyline, whose crest is finally reached.
Derwent Edge
A Lost Lad
goes out the Back door
with some Cakes of Bread.
Doves come down to eat
he shakes a Salt Cellar at them
making the ground White.
In a Coach and Horses
he goes Hurkling off
down Whinstone Lee to Lead Hill.
“Tha’s norra bad way t’ lern’ order o’ them storns. Allus do ’em t’other way about tho’.”
You would! Why do you keep calling me Alice?
“Tha’s th’s name, ‘Allus in Wanderland’.”
I wish I’d never asked!
The valley now lies displayed below you, a sparkling necklace of blue reservoirs set amongst the dark green pine forests, the brighter green larch just starting to turn autumn gold. Pairs of square stone-blocked castle towers mark the ends of the dam walls, separating the expanses of stored water for Sheffield, famous for their role in the Dambusters. In spring, melting snow from the hills swells the levels, and sparkling sheets of white water noisily cascade over the full width of the dam walls. Whereas in a hot summer, the reservoirs can be reduced to their original rivers with grass returning to the banks, and the stonework of the drowned villages is once again exposed.
Occasional purple spikes of young tufted heather edge the ridge path, but most have now faded to a pale bronze. A covering mound of muddy sandstone has levelled the once more-attractive route, but in places you can still clamber over and weave between the bleached stones and boulders, whipped into sinuous shapes by rain and wind. Swirls and troughs, bowls carved to collect rainwater for the grouse to drink. Small birds chirp and cheep as they skim low over the heather for insects on either side of the path.
Further along the muted grey and brown tones of the ground sparkle, the gritstone glinting in the sun as it crunches underfoot amidst the dusty peat. In summer, young grouse chicks can sometimes suddenly appear from the heather. Startled, they waddle frantically away along the path, then dart for cover on the other side, while their parents call softly so they can find their way back. Towering stacks of rock are reached at regular intervals, eroded into many imaginative shapes and providing shelter for both plants and animals. Micro-gardens of reeds grow in small caves at their base, which glow with bluish lichen.
The peace and quiet is broken at times by jets screaming down the valley below, or helicopters buzzing overhead, and snatches of conversation from passing walkers on this popular route.
Puffball mushrooms stud the downward grassy slopes, along with bright yellow flowers of tormentil, and occasional molehills of dark rich earth. Nesting curlews can sometimes be found hiding amongst the stones at the bottom of the hill, or circling overhead, easily identified by their long thin curved beaks.
Yet another flagstone path winds floating on a suspended peat bog, the hard surface tiring to walk on and harsh to the ears, but maybe better than sinking into the wet marshy ground. Sometimes the paving stones unexpectedly tip with a sucking squelch into the black peat, releasing the wonderful aroma of the stagnant water. Deep dark pools lie alongside, their surfaces rippling with pond skaters or tadpoles.
A descent down a steep sandy gully follows, whose stones roll beneath your feet. Strands of spider silk festoon the path, revealed by the low sunlight, and ants scurry for cover. A warm earthy smell rises from the sun soaked bracken, and small tortoiseshell butterflies flit over the fronds. Curtains of water and green weed fall down a steep stream in the side bank.
The soft background murmur of wind in the treetops is hard to differentiate from the water in the brook below them, behind the stone wall. The woodland provides welcome cool shade. Gnarled dappled roots and broken stones are carpeted with layer upon layer of beechnuts.
The edge of the reservoir at the bottom is usually busy with walkers, cyclists and occasional work trucks stirring up the stony dust. The first golden leaves drift lazily across the track, and a shimmering path of light dances across the water. A last woodland path zigzags beneath the soft green light through overlapping panes of spreading leaves.
However often you visit, there are always new routes to explore, and hidden gems off the beaten track to discover. In the cool green twilight, woodland tracks glow with emerald and white wood sorrel amidst the folds of the tree roots, edged with foxgloves and white-flecked red fly agaric mushrooms, magic or otherwise. Grey squirrels bound across the muffled forest floor, to scurry up the trunks and hide in the branches. Tiny goldcrests twitter overhead, amongst the magnificent sweeping arms of the deep green spice scented conifers.
In sharp contrast, harshly harvested areas of timber stand like old grey graveyards. Jagged trunk bases jut out starkly, from amongst the litter of broken spars strewn all around. Paths now obscured and unsafe, wildlife homes destroyed. Occasionally an old abandoned farmstead is stumbled upon, nettles growing amongst the tumbled stones showing the area was once more fertile. In the middle of the clearing, an old sundial carved into a large boulder now lies half hidden by luxuriant moss, as nature reclaims her own. Old familiar paths can always be reversed, or connected and combined in a variety of novel ways, to provide ever-changing experiences and vistas.
Crook Hill Woodland
Woodland gate leads on
high dry route round corner curves
parched grass crickets call.
Rocky outcrop breeze
bracken walls fading foxgloves
cool shade tree tunnel.
“Dus that mek th’ a ramblin’ roars or is th’ jus’ ramblin’ on aggen?”
I’m not called Rose either.
Paths through or alongside gorges can offer dramatic and gorgeous routes onto the hills. Water courses and valleys usually provide their better views when foreshortened going uphill, especially where there are a series of waterfall steps to admire. Feathery rowan trees full of red berries, hang protectively over deep cool waterfall pools, and provide food for the local wildlife. Steep backdrops of rock hang damp with ferns and mosses. Darting lizards and green tiger beetles are often found along the sandy paths, small mounds around many tiny holes indicating the homes of mining bees. Grumbling grouse waddle their circuitous paths through the cover of heather and bracken, sometimes popping up their red-capped heads or hopping onto a low grey lichen covered rock to check all’s safe.
As the seasons change the landscape constantly has something new to offer. Lazy days of summer sunshine give way to the purple haze of late August heather on the moors, interwoven with deep blue bilberries, wisps of bog cotton, and cloudberries. Hedgerows and woodland provide bountiful harvests of berries and nuts, mushrooms and the fiery shades of autumn leaves. Gossamer strands of spider web festoon the golden grasses, glinting in the sunlight. The sight of red fescue grass with the setting sun behind you is unforgettable, the whole hillside looks ablaze.
Derwent Autumn
Autumn’s end.
Sun glows low
golden larch
needles rain.
Yellow birch
copper beech
leaves carpet
forest floor.
Grey squirrels
scamper up
bare grey trunks.
Winter comes.
Colder weather and shorter days bring icy patches on the paths, and curtains of icicles along the stream edges, hoarfrost rimed grass, hares in their winter white coats, and majestic grey herons. Sparkling blankets of snow transform the hills, and can create new ones for those unwary of the changed contours. A day of sunshine in a cloudless blue sky following heavy snowfall is a real joy. The untouched snow squeaking beneath your boots, as you forge a path through the pure whiteness.
Bleaklow Winter
Sky deep blue
stars sparkle on snow
in the sun.
The wheel of time turns and new growth resumes, bringing longer daylight in which to enjoy it. Clouds of spring blossom and new-born lambs, dusty yellow catkins, woodland banks carpeted with bluebells towards the end of May, and meadows of colourful wildflowers. Dragonflies and the more delicate damselflies hover by ponds, small copper and green-hairstreak butterflies flit at the edge of your vision, while the paths are dotted with the green jewels of tiger beetles.
Spring White
Fresh white bud
snow patches linger
on far hills.
February Gold
Leaves dark curled
long catkins hang gold
bright sunshine.
It’s easy to overlook the smaller hills but they can have just as much variety packed into a more compact space. They’re often more accessible, particularly if you have less time or energy, and afford wonderful views of the surrounding peaks, moorland ridges and valleys.
The Nab
Old Road kissing gate
steep climb pasture slope
crumbling earth molehills
horses tear at grass
hawthorn bowl viewpoint
town nestles below.
Scratchy heather ruts
tripping exposed roots
seedling birch hollows
feather rowan trees.
Squelchy reeded marsh
murmuring stony brook
gorse coconut gold
spiky thistle fields
Monk’s Road fast traffic.
Narrow gorge ascent
Cown Edge summit ridge
drink refreshing view
broad upland expanse
whistling rusty gate
sheep-cropped turf plateau.
Bilberry edge fern fronds
cotton grass sprung moss
Turk’s head grass tussocks
paving downhill drop.
Windbreak woodland copse
stone-block high wall stile
wildflower meadow
milk churn shelf step-down
Monk’s Road crossing point.
Field brow drainage ponds
pine-scent shelter belt
homeward bound descent.
We are lucky enough to have low-level delights available nearer to home, when the weather and ground conditions make the hills too much hard work. Disused rail routes have been converted into trails for wildlife, walkers, cyclists and horse-riders to enjoy.
Woodland Trail
Damp
green
warm.
Treetop wind
dappled shade
flowers pink.
Red berries
birds calling.
Sloes
soft
blue.
I missed the hills when I hurt my foot, but my mind still wandered on the fells that my feet couldn’t walk, and I found solace amongst the trees on the paths I could still roam.
“Dunna b’ s’ soft, th’s on’ mend nar, th’ll b’ al’ reet if th’ lucks after thissen!”
Thanks.
Autumn Trail
Silver sapling ranks
sentinel stand.
Tree tunnel whispers
raining gold leaves.
Mosaic carpet
on the ground grows.
Hills are not there to be conquered, but to be appreciated for the experiences they offer. They are places in which to become immersed and absorbed, and to treat with respect and gratitude. As you quietly walk, or rest, you become just another part of that living landscape, no more significant than another rock or blade of grass, or another pool of peaty brown water. The life that’s all around you recognises that, and opens up to you, enriching your day and creating deep, lasting impressions.
[With thanks to Kevin McQuaid for his inspiring style.
“W’ere’s ’is stile then?”
Shut up!]
