Introduction
Spring is undeniably here although still with cold says. I walked in one of my habitual places checking on the wild flower progress. Most striking however were several large areas of meadowsweet, my summer favourite. It looked like a messily farmed field with cut grass which had fallen and died. I thought it was a grotesque act of garden management, as if to encourage new growth, but that made no sense. The flowers are prolific, some higher than me, like a small scented forest.
Then I remembered the floods, maybe two months ago, because it’s a drainage area when the River Mersey gets too high. I’ve seen this happen several times, making walking impossible and flowers unlikely. Not far away there’s a patch of bistort I like seeing every year. Five years ago they were destroyed under deep water and needed two or three years to recover.
Also nearby there’s another meadowsweet field with an additional display of orchids, but it was in the same condition. The phrase “no orchids this year” struck me as a good but sad summary. What did it remind me of? I’ll explain that below, after I reminisce.
Wild Camping Version
This is a story worth telling. I’ve been thinking about it.
Terry Abraham was part of my introduction to Twitter, which was 13 years ago. I made a comment about something he said at a blog he used to have, at a web site I used to have. He said he was punching his fist in the air, celebrating the idea I’d shared. I forget what it was. Something about appreciation and respect for the hills.
I signed up for Twittter and there he was with a few others, including Martin Rye and Alan Sloman. Those are the people to know about if you’re a backpacker, which includes questions about gear. If you’re not sure about a tent or jacket they will be, although Alan is sadly no longer with us. I asked him about his Duplex tent compared to previous tents he’d used extensively in Scotland.
Martin said to me, is that you, who made those good comments, because you’re never sure at Twitter. Shortly after, Alan wrote at his blog that Terry was going to take the outdoor media world by storm.
It was more like enormously hard work for several years before anyone noticed him. He shared early footage with us, asking for honest feedback. Did we like it?
Now he’s winning awards and is acknowledged by the BBC, Cumbria University, Royal Geographical Society and Oxford University students curious about red squirrels.
He basically does the same as a production company with a crew of ten and budget of twenty thousand. It’s the “wild camping version.” In the hills with all the gear, not returning to a hotel every evening for dinner, expensive wine, and updates with London. Terry’s updates were with his wife: are you OK?
I’ve talked with him since the beginning, and met him at a presentation in Manchester.
No Orchids This Year
I felt the poignancy immediately. I will miss them, even more so the meadowsweet, but the orchids capture it best. Capture what best? Why did the line occur to me?
Then I remembered. It’s the same sentiment in Rachel Carson’s Silent Spring, an unbearable scenario in regard to pesticide destruction. Her study is technical and scientific, long outdated, but you don’t have to read all of it. I do however recommend the introduction, where you find this:
| There was a strange stillness. The birds, for example—where had they gone? Many people spoke of them, puzzled and disturbed. The feeding stations in the backyards were deserted. The few birds seen anywhere were moribund; they trembled violently and could not fly. It was a spring without voices. On the mornings that had once throbbed with the dawn chorus of robins, catbirds, doves, jays, wrens, and scores of other bird voices there was now no sound; only silence lay over the fields and woods and marsh. |
No bird song. Heart breaking. Imagine if that were to happen, then reflect on the significance bird song has. We love it of course, especially after a bleak winter, but don’t normally reflect any deeper. Carson makes you do so. Don’t make the spring birds silent, fields empty of flowers, bees disappear, lakes and rivers full of poison.
Featured Walks
If you’re in south Manchester I advise you visit Fletcher Moss Gardens, which is the place I described above. It doesn’t need a route. Just go there and wander although it is possible to get lost. It’s amusing to think I once did, now I know the place so well. There is a small patch of ragged robin, not obvious, slightly hidden, I visit every spring. It’s the only place I’ve seen it.
Fletcher Moss was the birth place of the R.S.P.B. and inspiration for summery jazz. I’ve had evenings like this and know roughly where these trees are. I saw Matthew Halsall play at a renowned venue called Matt and Phreds.
If you’re in north Manchester, or want some variety, Heaton Park is a pleasantly expansive place with the highest point in the city.
I don’t know why I said “pontificating” at the end because it’s not correct. That can happen when you’re improvising, walking along and thinking what to say. What I meant was “pondering” or “reflecting.”
The Ullswater valley was my second Lake District love. First it was Keswick and Borrowdale. Third was Eskdale. In all three places I walked a great deal and returned there constantly.
If you visit Ullswater that suggests Glenridding and Patterdale. There are various bed and breakfast possibilities, an expensive hotel, convenient shops, good outdoors shop and two camp sites. I’ve stayed at both, this one multiple times where I am a connoisseur of the pitch. I know the best one, second best, for quietness and the views. There is, or used to be, an unusual flower beside the lake. It’s near black, but I forget the name of it.
It’s easy to overlook another area you pass through to reach Ullswater, driving east. I recommend you explore there to enjoy Brothers Water and several walks, one of which is this. It’s the quieter end of the valley although in summer you can find the camp site is full and even near full, it will be noisy, because of the walking distance pub.
When I drive to Scotland, I stop at Glencoe. It’s the first place you reach for the very best walking and when if I’m going further, it’s good to rest and walk. I tried another area for this near Loch Tay but there’s a feeling of not quite being in the Highlands. Look south from there and you see lowland countryside, pleasant but not the hills.
After two or thee days I drive again although Glencoe is itself a rewarding place. I recommend you get there, then choose a walk as you feel inclined. Loch Leven is nearby for more walks, and possible better weather if you’re suffering.
There are a few camp site possibilities but I always use the Red Squirrel. The facilities are basic, but that doesn’t really bother me when the location is so good. It’s a large site, which made me nervous when I first saw it, but I’ve never had a problem with drunken midnight parties. Or you could stay at the Clachaig Inn which is well known and convenient for food although sometimes very busy, and you might have to wait for a table.
Conclusion
I’ll conclude these Footnotes with unforgettable lines about spring swifts from nature poet Ted Hughes. It’s too early, but they’re not far away, which quite soon means flying the skies.
| They’ve made it again, Which means the globe’s still working, the Creation’s Still waking refreshed, our summer’s Still all to come |