I love...

Grindsbrook Clough, Fairbrook Naze and a guilt trip

Saturday June 27

Kinder Scout is my favourite hill in the peak, so back again - this time to explore the western side and northern edges. The plan is to ascend Grindsbrook, cross to the Downfall, then over to Fairbrook Naze, traverse Blackden Edge and return via Golden Clough. It's going to be an energy-sapping one today, with a hazy sun that makes the atmosphere sticky and airless. A weary looking couple come by near the bottom of the gentle walk-in. The guy, looking back to the hill, says 'I wouldn't bother mate' and we laugh when I say I've got 10 miles planned. It's one of those days when you enjoy the crack with strangers and I have a lot of it because the whole route up is peppered with walkers. I drink at least a litre of water on the way up and most of it seems to sweat straight back out so my ultra lightweight shirt and trousers are soaked by the time I take a coffee break at the top and enjoy the views.

I'm sometimes amazed at how ill-prepared some folk are in these hills. I've seen a family, wearing trainers and sandals, perilously scrambling down earlier - the overweight woman complaining in an American twang 'I'm kind of scared of heights and I need shoes with better grip' as her Birkenstocks slip on the arid scree. No shit missus. I feel like pointing her to the Edale Mountain Rescue website for stories of similar stupidities that lead to people like her regularly being stretchered off or airlifted with compound fractures and worse.

At the top a young student couple ask me the way to Kinder Downfall. They have no map and although they say they have a compass, it's never produced. Unless the guy means his iPhone's built in version, which is apparently low on battery anyway. They look at my map and I urge them to write down the compass bearings they'll need. They don't. I suggest they walk with me, or just keep me in sight, but they don't take me up on the offer. I'm tired. I want to chill with a fag and my drink and I'm not paying close enough attention to the landscape when I inadvertantly send them off up the wrong path. Later when I realise my error, I feel a bit guilty. The poor buggers have wandered off toward Edale Head but at least it's an easy route down to the village from there. They'll be safe enough. And as I head across toward the Downfall I realise they would have struggled to find it in this landscape anyway.
 

It's teatime when I reach Kinder Downfall and drink in the view with Kinder Reservoir sparkling far away in the evening sun.

My 2 litres of water are all gone now and there's another 6 miles to go. Now it's going to be all about the rocks. Big rocks. Weird shapes and wide vistas.

Time to strike out across open moorland again to take in the beauty of Fairbrook Naze, explore Seal Edge and eventually Blackden Edge.

There are no walkers around these parts. It's off the beaten track now and most people are probably back at one of Edale's typical walkers' pubs anyway. It's quiet, apart from some peculiarly haunting bird calls.

It may be a tired old cliche but, to me, the rocks are alive in some way. Endlessly battered into shape by wind, rain and the freeze/thaw of millions of winters. I sometimes fancy that I can sense the people who once lived up here among them. In the days when it was all dense forest. That vibe is part of the magic of Kinder. Everything about it gives me a feeling of groundedness and connection with all that is bigger than my own petty everyday concerns. They were always here and, unlike me, they always will be.

It's 9:15 by the time I've descended Golden Clough and reached the Rambler Inn, with 11.5 miles showing on the GPS. I feel strangely fresh and the pint of iced coke I down in the beer garden has got to be the finest liquid to pass my lips this year.

Track recorded by GPS - 11.5 miles, starting from Edale.

Some miles are harder than others

Saturday June 20 - Black Hill and various moors

Black Hill is always wet but it’s got nothing on Wessenden Head Moor. The route up from the A635 is easy but the going gets tough as soon as I turn right at Soldier’s Lump and head north west.

The footpath that exists on the map is generally obliterated on the ground by standing water and sodden peat that feels like walking in thick butter. Think energy-sapping sand dunes, only black and wet. With a constant stiff breeze from the south west.

 

It’s a cheerless moorland trudge. Sometimes they happen. Good job my GPS is waterproof, as I plunge knee deep into black peaty water and submerge it several times as I scramble out. Dry feet are out of the question up here, even in boots and gaiters I’ve waded successfully across streams in before.

I’m pissed off with the terrain and the only relief is the birdsong that constantly fills the air. One sound stands out. I'm loving that sound.

 

Later I’ll spend ages looking at books and bird identification websites trying to decide if it’s a Curlew or a Whimbrel. I want it to be a Whimbrel because they are in severe decline but I think it’s a much more common Curlew.

So hacked off with the last 3 miles, when I come to re-cross the A635 I consider simply turning right and heading straight back to the car instead of doing another 5 miles around Featherbed Moss, Black Moss and Wessenden Moor. But after a drink and a smoke I continue north westand feel relieved that the route is being ‘paved’ now. At last each step doesn’t feel like 3 on the bits they’ve finished.

And the landscape begins to change after I swing east at Black Moss Reservoir. Evening sunshine makes the colours rich and at the crossing of Wessenden Brook before it reaches Wessenden Reservoir it’s as beautiful in its way as the top of Kinder.

Even the gentle climb south east for the last 2 miles now feels like a guelling hike. Stops to enjoy the view back are increasingly frequent.

The bogs have really taken their toll and I’m wiped out. The last half mile feels like it will never end. Finally reaching the car the GPS says 10.1 miles. It felt like 15.

 

3 D's and a breakdown

Saturday June 13

D is for Delamere Forest. It's a lovely venue, packing 5,000 and good stage views wherever you are. The weather was perfect.

D is for Delphic. They rocked. Using a mix of guitar, bass, drums and various electronic boxes and keyboards. Hard, driving and danceable, they played a seamless non-stop half hour that won me over completely. I loved them. People danced...and not just because they were pissed.

D is for Doves. A moody band at the best of times, you're never quite sure what they'll be like. Typically uncommunicative and serious (albeit with the big tunes to justify being as moody and uncommunicative as they like), but not tonight.

They were having more fun than I've seen them having for several years. And the whole set was powerful, soaring and deliciously uplifting. A beautiful set delivered with passion and pizazz. And this time they played The Cedar Room. It was the first encore and gave me wet eyes, just like the time in 2006 at Manchester Apollo. How I missed that tune, last month in Leeds.

The breakdown came later, when my clutch died during the melee to escape the car park. Never mind. Rescue came, gear changing was restored. Then the M62 was closed between junctions 22 and 24, forcing a long moonlit Pennine moorland detour. A bit worrying with a potentially dodgy clutch. But I made it to bed for 3am. And I'd seen Doves at their absolute incandescent best.

 

X's and anniversaries

On Thursday I got to put one of those X's on a ballot paper here
 

Call me old fashioned but every time I get the chance to declare my preference in political representation I think about the people who paid the highest price for my right to do that. This time, with another anniversary of the Normandy landings in the news, I felt a bit sad that the choices being offered to me were so tawdry (topping the list was a party that bans non 'indigenous Brits' from even being a member). I voted Labour as a tactical anti-BNP step, thinking about how National Socialism turned into Nazism.  I love being able to vote. And I love these men for guaranteeing my right to do it.

I had the accidental privilege of mixing among some D-Day veterans, on holiday in Normandy 15 years ago when the 50th anniversary celebrations happened to be in full swing. One of those happy coincidences. I recall one group in particular. They were all pissed and laughing like drains. There was a beautiful glamorous French woman who must have been knocking up 70, serving them drinks outside the bar. She turned out to be a bit of a legend who lived there as a girl and remembers being liberated by the Allies. All of them were acting like flirtateous boozed up teenagers. She was loving it and they were knocking back the beers and laughing uproariously under a gloriously blue sky. I still smile when I think of them.

Pictures taken without permission from the BBC here.