Cluttered Mind, Wild Heart

It may have become clear by now that I'm a student. If not - I am, at the University of Sheffield. The stereotype is fully fulfilled: I don't have much money, I don't have a car, I like cheap things and discounts...and as a result, I am incredibly grateful for the Hope Valley Railway Line. These small, hourly trains allow me access to the place that keeps me sane, the Peak District National Park. I don't know if any of you come from Sheffield, but if you do, or if you live nearby or visit relatives there (or have never been, in which case here's your chance to come!) - save the planet, leave the car at home, get this train.  Sheffield has absolutely fantastic transport links, and there’s no better time to explore them than right now. I know, I know, it’s Winter, and you’re cold, penguins have set up camp in your kitchen, and you don’t remember the last time you wore less than three layers, but hear me out. Even in the depths of British Winter, there’s no place ...

Given how much of my family culture comes from spending time together in the mountains, it's no surprise that when my family come to visit me in Sheffield, we don't actually spend any time in Sheffield at all. The novelty for me is that the Peak District is the one place I know better than my parents. They've given me so much knowledge about the Lake District - you don't get to name every mountain in a view without some teaching! - and this is the root of what has made me educate myself about the Peaks. "Educating myself" makes it sound very formal...the truth is, I know things about the Peaks because it's a landscape that I can't keep out of. When I'm there, I want to feel as immersed as possible - part of the landscape, if you will - and for me this means learning all the place names, poring over my maps and reading endless blog posts of walks in the hills. So far, this has made walking in the Peaks a pretty independent experience. The u...

There's something euphoric and insane about the act of mountain climbing. A bizarre spectacle, that is almost worshipped in some areas of our small, odd island, where brightly-clad people of all ages, backgrounds, and fitness levels go to areas of hills and decide, without questioning, that scaling one would be an excellent way to spend a Sunday afternoon. For me, this strange desire was bred in from childhood - most, if not all, of my childhood memories are in the Lake District or the Derbyshire Dales or the Yorkshire Moors; anywhere but the rolling agricultural landscapes of Hertfordshire, where I grew up. When I first decided to move away from home, to go to university, again it was this landscape that drew me in, that made me feel something that the gentle grasslands of my home county could not. Maybe it's my Northern blood - for hundreds of years, Lancashire-born family on my Dad's side have been throwing themselves at hills and hoping that they come back in o...