Where the Heart Is

The overhanging branches were so tightly entwined that they blocked out the sun and thus provided much-needed shade on that day of cloudless, azure skies in August 1989.  After half a mile, I emerged from under the leafy canopy back out into the glaring light and stifling heat.  The road now ran parallel with the sparkling waters of the lake and on the opposite shore, the shattered screes stood menacingly in the shadows.  Never before had I seen such stark contrast of light and dark, tranquillity and danger.  Ahead lay the Wasdale valley encircled by an arc of bare high mountains; to the left, Yewbarrow - shaped like an inverted boat, then the great steep bulk of Kirk Fell with the inn at its foot, and to the right; Lingmell and the Scafells.  In the centre stood the pyramid-shaped Great Gable, its height emphasised by a purple-red hue and the deep gulf separating it from the other fells.  It was love at first sight. 

It was the scenery, the chocolate-box images of Ullswater and Grasmere that initially drew me to Cumbria and those early visits represented escape and freedom.  I wanted to be in contact with the natural world and beautiful landscapes.  I was preoccupied with ‘bagging’ fells, panoramic views and covering as much ground as possible.  I studied maps and guide-books but soon realised that they could only tell me a limited amount.  My sense of Cumbria was changing and with it, the nature of my activities.  It  became more important to take things at a slower pace, dispense with goals and pre-set destinations and just ramble and explore. I decided the best way to gain a real knowledge of the place was to abandon day walks and instead trek and wild-camp high among the fells.

Only a walker knows the sheer joy of putting one foot in front of the other along a mountain path, feeling the earth beneath your feet and the sense of freedom that comes with big skies and open space. Walking is the best way to fully encounter a place as the close contact with the physical environment fosters intimacy with it.  During my many walks I followed in the footsteps of the Vikings and Romans, generations of local farmers, shepherds and miners, poets and artists.  I explored the ruins of farmhouses and castles, visited abandoned mines, handled the debris of megalithic axe factories and traced the carvings of stone circles with my fingers, wondering all the while about those past lives and feeling the mystery and magic of these places. I spent time observing birds and wildlife, peering into tarns and wild flower heads, observing the changes of the seasons and the cycle of birth, growth, death and re-birth.  I learnt to read and interpret the subtle changes in the atmosphere, to understand and recognise the moods of the high places.  I slept under star-filled skies with the base of the tent beneath me, aware of my body pressing on the earth and the smell of the grass reaching me as I slept.  I bathed in the rivers and drank from the fast-flowing streams and waterfalls.  I cooked food and shared it with the birds and wild animals, came to know the red squirrels, deer, pine-martins, the sheep and cattle.  I had been a stranger here without  familial or links of any kind, a visitor, but Cumbria ceased to be a mere holiday destination, a place that provided rest and relaxation and aesthetic beauty.  My growing experience and knowledge of the geography, geology, flora and fauna, history and stories, developed into a deep admiration and attachment to the area.  I was beginning to see the world with new eyes and appreciated the small, the ordinary even more than the majestic and the sublime.

 

In her book ‘The Living Mountian,’ Nan Shepherd says of her walks in high places: “I have walked out of the body and into the mountain.”  I think this is such a beautiful and heart-felt way of expressing the feeling that I too experience when walking across the fells.  Among the ageless mountains and streams, the vastness of the sky and rolling hills and fields, you lose yourself. But then around the next bend, or over the brow of the hill, you bump into yourself.  There are no words to aptly describe the phenomenon but it happens.  It is a fleeting glimpse, a momentary deep understanding of the bigger picture of life. Such close contact with the natural world has left me feeling more at-home with the universe and I feel part of something bigger, greater and mysterious.  The sights, sounds, colours and creatures I have encountered have given me a heightened sense of being alive. The years of walking and wild-camping experiences in Cumbria have taught me that this county is only a tiny part, a microcosm of the wider world and represents what I truly love; the natural world, the living planet.  

Back in the city, the fells and running water called to me endlessly. Images of particular fells, lakes, tarns, paths, ridges, sunsets were the scenes that blocked out the buildings, shops and pavements. In the end, I realised I could not live so far from what I loved.  My beloved called, and frequent visits did not fully satisfy the craving so finally, three years ago I relocated to Cumbria. I left the concrete and steeI, the traffic-jams and noise to settle amid the birdsong and flowing streams, with the fells as a backdrop to my daily life and the horizon stretched out in front of me.   

Water, water, everywhere

The recent floods here in the north of England have reminded me of the immense power of nature, and that the belief we are in control is merely an illusion that can be shattered all too suddenly.  To stand and watch the waters rising over bridges, submerging roads and fields while man and animal seek out dry land and shelter is both frightening and humbling.  

For several days over the Christmas holiday, I and many other people were drawn to the waters edge, then to stand awe-struck at the expanse in front us.  The river, so gentle-flowing on a summer's day, its murmur whispering an invitation to sit on its peaceful banks and watch the sunlight glistening in its water, was now, a deep menacing sea moving over the fields devouring all in its path, pushing trees, gates, everything out of its way.

Turkey, presents, and sales were all forgotten as people stood on the road with water lapping at the tips of their wellingtons, looking helplessly at the abandoned cars filled with water.  Standing on higher ground with five or six other people, the only sound was the wind in the trees and the now constant noise of gushing water, running to meet its tributaries, swelling its ranks like an army advancing in power as it progressed.  Indoors, those of us mercifully escaping the trauma of having our houses flooded, listened to the strains of 'The Sound of Music' while outside, even from the garden gate, the river's chorus resonated across the landscape.

For several days, I was struck by the absence of man's noise - the sound of traffic, machinery, human voices, people going about their work and lives.  But it was not total silence, for the wind blew, gale-force, making the trees creak and snap their branches, gates rattled and there was the now constant background noise of the raging river.  Nature's voice rang out across the fields and hills, powerful, dominant, in control while man fell silent, subdued.  People waited, hoped, feared, helped each other, did what they could, powerless against these natural forces.  This was what our fore-fathers experienced, understood, respected. 

"For the most appalling quality of water is its strength.  I love its flash and gleam, its music, its pliancy and grace, its slap against my body; but I fear its strength.  I fear it as my ancient ancestors feared the natural forces that they worshipped.  All the mysteries are in its movement.  It slips out of holes in the earth like the ancient snake.  I have seen its birth; and the more I gaze at that sure and unremitting surge of water at the very top of the mountain, the more I am baffled.  We make it all so easy, any child in school can understand it – water rises in the hills, it flows and finds its own level, and man can’t live without it.  But I don’t understand it.  I cannot fathom its power."

(Nan Shepherd)