tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18286567951587457612024-03-22T04:18:43.118+00:00Cluttered Mind, Wild HeartThe wildlife blog, general rambling and outdoor adventures of a small British girl as she strives to escape from sitting indoors working to the outdoors, her favourite place. Primarily based around my home in Hertfordshire, and new home from home in Sheffield, but may feature forays into the greater outdoors, accompanied by photography and nature writing. Annabel Leverhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01139267400152948473noreply@blogger.comBlogger11125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1828656795158745761.post-7801827100461493772018-02-16T16:41:00.000+00:002018-02-16T16:41:08.260+00:00Peak Accessibility: The Hope Valley Line<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">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. </span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">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 like the Peak District, and
you <i>can </i>explore it without freezing
to death, I promise. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">The Hope Valley Railway Line is one of my favourite things about
Sheffield. It runs from Sheffield to Manchester Piccadilly at 14 minutes past
the hour, every hour on weekends, and on that journey, it winds its way through
some of the most stunning and accessible areas of the Peak District. I'll never stop being grateful for the privilege it is to not only have a National Park on my doorstep, but to be able access it so easily.</span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">If I haven’t been able to interest you already through sheer force
of enthusiasm, I thought I’d run you through some of the closest stops on that
line, and some of the fun things you can do from them! And don’t be put off by
the “outdoorsy-ness” of it all – if you’re not at all into hiking (though if
you ask me, it’s always worth it for the views), there are plenty of
interesting historical sites, pubs, and cafés galore.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">First things first – if you love dogs, get the Hope Valley train
at 10.14 or 11.14 on a weekend morning. Never have I got on the train and not
instantly grinned at a dog (or four) and their cheerful owners, dressed up for
a walk. It’s a tiny Northern train of just two carriages, and more often than
not it’s filled with people in woolly hats and coats, excited to get out of the
city and into the Peak District. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 107%;">The first stop is Dore and Totley; as these are Sheffield suburbs,
I’ve never explored there so I can’t</span><span style="line-height: 107%;">
really say much about it, except that just after this station, there’s an
incredibly long tunnel (<span style="background: white; color: #222222;">the
longest wholly underland tunnel in the UK, in fact!). At the end of this
tunnel, almost immediately, is the station of Grindleford. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
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<b><i><u><span style="background: white; color: #222222; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Grindleford <o:p></o:p></span></span></u></i></b></div>
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<span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">It’s
a stretch to say that the Grindleford station is <i>in </i>Grindleford; the town itself is about a mile away, and the
nearest village to the station is in fact Nether Padley. What the station does
have, however, is the Station Café, and the start of a wonderful walk up Padley
Gorge.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">The
Station Café at Grindleford is quite a phenomenon in itself. It belongs to an
age I wasn’t quite sure existed any more, covered in handwritten signs
(favourites include: 'don't even ask for mushrooms' and 'Some days we are
nice to customers. Today is not your day') and information about the National
Park. It sells enormous breakfasts, the spring water comes from the very
grounds of the café, and the tea comes in pints. A quirky café for brunch it is
not, but an incredibly British, slightly grumpy, memorable experience it
certainly remains. It’s a bit like marmite – some love it, some don’t; the only
way to know what you think is to go. Don’t get caught out like I did – for the
most part, you’ll need to pay in cash, so make sure you have some!<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 107%;">After
you’ve eaten your weight in breakfast, you’ll need to burn it off, and that’s
where Padley Gorge comes in. Famous among Peak District photographers, the
gorge is stunning in all seasons, with a well-laid path running up the
righthand side. I recommend </span><a href="http://www.peakwalking.co.uk/wp07.htm" target="_blank">this route</a><span style="line-height: 107%;">, which I’ve used myself. The
gorge always feels magical to me, as if I’ve wandered into a fairytale. The
main path has alternate routes signposted as well – Bole Hill Quarry is worth a
look, as it’s abandoned and filled with silver birch trees.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">At
the top of the gorge, you reach Longshaw Estate. The views here are wonderful,
and the lodge itself is run by the National Trust and has a tea room, if you
weren’t quite full already! From here you can easily walk out on the moors and
up to Surprise View, a fantastic view point from which the whole valley is laid
out before you. A photographer’s dream, rocks for scrambling, and beautiful
ancient woodland – go to Grindleford!<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<b><i><u><span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Hathersage<o:p></o:p></span></span></u></i></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 107%;">Literary
fans, historians, and walkers alike flock to Hathersage, our next stop. For our
lovers of the classics, Hathersage is well-known for having been associated
with the Eyre family, who were once local landowners.</span> <span style="line-height: 107%;">Charlotte Brontë is thought to
have used the nearby North Lees Hall as a model for Thornfield Hall, in her
novel Jane Eyre. Within the village, the churchyard of St. Michael’s Church
reputedly holds the grave of Little John, Robin Hood’s famous companion, and
there are other local associations with the legend, including Robin Hood’s
Cave. To tie in all these locations, and a walk along the beautiful Stanage
Edge (which I’ll come onto in a minute!) I recommend </span><a href="http://www.peakdistrict.gov.uk/__data/assets/pdf_file/0017/500633/Jane-Eyre-Hathersage-Trail.pdf"><span style="line-height: 107%;">this trail</span></a><span style="line-height: 107%;"> – not least because it starts at
a pub!<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 107%;">Walks out of the village allow access to some stunning places. </span><a href="http://mediafiles.thedms.co.uk/Publication/DS/cms/pdf/Carl-Wark.pdf"><span style="line-height: 107%;">Carl Wark</span></a><span style="line-height: 107%;">, the remains of an Iron Age hill
fort, is worth an explore. Stanage Edge, a famous place for rock-climbing (or
watching people rock-climbing), is good for walkers, bikers, photographers,
writers…the views are out of this world, and, if you catch bad weather, this
only makes the place more atmospheric. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<b><i><u><span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Bamford<o:p></o:p></span></span></u></i></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 107%;">My apologies – this is another one where the station is a little
walk from the actual town, but the town itself is a treasure, with lovely pubs,
cafés, and a bakery. It has its own </span><a href="http://www.derbyshire-peakdistrict.co.uk/bamford.htm"><span style="line-height: 107%;">heritage trail</span></a><span style="line-height: 107%;">, and runs several events
throughout the year. For me though, Bamford will always be the gateway to the
beautiful Ladybower reservoir. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Ladybower and the paths up to and around it, form lovely, easy
places to walk, with views across the reservoir. If you feel more adventurous,
you can head up Win Hill and maybe even down over the other side of it into
Hope, our next station. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 107%;">Another characteristic mixture of
moorland, gritstone edge, woodland, and open water, this is a destination that
has all the Peak District charm you could want. </span><a href="http://derbyshire-peakdistrict.co.uk/bamfordwalk.htm"><span style="line-height: 107%;">Here</span></a><span style="line-height: 107%;">’s a good walk, from the railway
station itself!<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<b><i><u><span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Hope (and Castleton)<o:p></o:p></span></span></u></i></b></div>
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<span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Hope, and its more famous (station-less) neighbour, Castleton, are
special to me because they’re where I finished a 24km day of my Gold Duke of
Edinburgh…and I still thought they were beautiful then, exhausted to my bones
though I was. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">The station, once again, lies just outside Hope, but turning right
at the bottom of the station road quickly leads you into the village. If the
weather’s good, there’s a path beside the river that you can take between Hope
and Castleton – and if not, the road has a pavement and is safe to walk along. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Hope itself is a great place to walk up Win Hill, or start the
Great Ridge walk, up towards the ‘shivering mountain’, Mam Tor, which dominates
views up the valley from this end. Castleton is one of the number one
destinations in the Peak District for charm, beauty, and activities – I could
quite literally talk about it for hours but in brief: caves, castle, cafés.
Find your own favourite café or pub (there are so many and the only way to know
which is best is to try them all!) and go for some truly stunning walks. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<b><i><u><span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Edale<o:p></o:p></span></span></u></i></b></div>
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<span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Edale is the last station I’m going to talk about. Despite being
the furthest away from Sheffield at about half an hour’s train journey, you can
get a return ticket here for just £9 if you don’t have a railcard, or £5.95 if
you do! Magical. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 107%;">Edale
is most famous for being the start (or end) point of the Pennine Way long
distance walk, and for being the base from which to walk up Kinder Scout, the
highest point in Derbyshire. The landscape around here is fascinating, the
classic ‘Dark Peak’ rugged moorland of heather. Jacob’s Ladder forms a very
popular </span><a href="http://www.near-chesterfield-derbyshire.com/jacobs-ladder-walk.html"><span style="line-height: 107%;">walk</span></a><span style="line-height: 107%;"> and
destination for experienced mountain bikers. The climb up Kinder Scout itself
can be done by anyone (here’s a </span><a href="http://www.telegraph.co.uk/travel/destinations/europe/united-kingdom/england/articles/great-autumn-walkskinderscout/"><span style="line-height: 107%;">route</span></a><span style="line-height: 107%;">) but really,
before you go, do your research, read a few routes, look at a map, and really, know how to confidently use a compass too. Kinder is a boggy plateau and on moors it’s
very easy to get lost, even in good weather, so it’s important to be careful. Don’t
be scared off though – it can make a great day out! <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">So,
there you have it! The information is laid at your fingertips, the trains are
cheap and frequent, and there’s literally nothing standing in your way. There
are youth hostels in Hathersage, Castleton, and Edale, if you fancy a whole
weekend out there (perhaps later on in the year when it’s warmer and the
weather is slightly more predictable!). Get out of the city for a day, go for
an explore, and have a wonderful time – see you out there. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><span style="line-height: 107%;">Disclaimer: </span></b><span style="line-height: 107%;">This post isn’t the be all and end
all, especially if you’re going hiking – it’s up to you to be prepared and
remember that in wild places, you need to keep yourself safe. Wear sensible
clothing, know how to navigate and stay safe on the moors, know your train
timings, have a backup plan, and let people know what you’re doing and where
you’re going. It never hurts to be too prepared </span><span style="line-height: 107%;">😊</span></span><span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"> Also, this is just things <i>I’ve </i>done in the Peaks – there are
hundreds more fab things to do, and I’m always up for hearing new ideas!</span><span style="font-family: "Calibri Light", sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
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Annabel Leverhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01139267400152948473noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1828656795158745761.post-90369562548213996932017-12-12T19:22:00.002+00:002017-12-13T23:06:22.785+00:00A Great Day on the Great Ridge<div style="text-align: justify;">
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. </div>
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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. </div>
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So far, this has made walking in the Peaks a pretty independent experience. The university has some fantastic walking and mountaineering groups, but for me the adventure is in exploring, and that's something that going with a large group of people, some of whom are strangers, doesn't have the flexibility to allow. What this does mean, however, is that I've now gained the experience and the knowledge to give the people I can drag out with me a proper experience.<br />
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The weather was incredible on the day I decided to take my Mum down the Great Ridge: Mam Tor, Hollin's Cross, Lose Hill. It was one of those days when you genuinely ask yourself what you've done to deserve such weather: a bright November day with a sun which was hot but clouds which gorgeously patterned the landscape in shadow, with little wind and a bite to the air that made you want to keep moving. The hills looked sharp, defined by that clarity which Winter air brings; their flanks patterned gold and auburn with the turning trees. <br />
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The accessibility of Mam Tor blew me away. My Dad is 77 years old and he's been climbing mountains for as long as he's been able to walk, but things like that get harder when you've got two replacement hips and a dodgy ankle, and it was wonderful to be able to walk to a mountain top with him.<br />
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As I said - we really couldn't have wished for better weather. The Hope Valley was spread out before us, and I'm a sucker for a route where you can see the whole of the walk before you walk into it. When I picked this walk for us, I'll be honest, I wanted to show off the Peak District. I wanted something simple, which we could walk together without having to worry over much about navigating or losing the path or any actual hiking stuff, just somewhere where we could be together and appreciate the landscape. Great Ridge, you delivered in spades.<br />
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It was a Saturday, and the ridge was full. Sometimes I hate it when routes are busy, but this wasn't one of those days; people were making themselves at home and drinking tea from thermos', everyone was greeting everyone, dogs were absolutely everywhere. The whole walk was just full of people simply there to enjoy the landscape, together.<br />
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If I had one complaint about the entire walk, it's that I got incredibly muddy on the walk down, from lifting my dog over stiles. As complaints go, it's a very tiny one, and honestly unless your dog is about 30kg and loves mud, like mine, I'd say you're pretty safe.<br />
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So then, advice for the day: wait for a crisp Winter afternoon, and go walk the Great Ridge. Get someone to drop you off at the top of Winnat's Pass and pick you up in Hope, or just lengthen your route a bit and go on a round trip from Castleton or Hope. You'll have a brilliant time, I promise.</div>
Annabel Leverhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01139267400152948473noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1828656795158745761.post-59777134505812196662017-11-02T15:02:00.002+00:002018-03-05T23:39:14.292+00:00Mountain climbing: Why am I doing this to Myself? <div style="text-align: justify;">
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.</div>
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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.</div>
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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 one piece, but my Mum's family are southern through and through and yet they too spent holiday after holiday driving themselves up the sides of Welsh ridges, through Yorkshire dales and up Lakeland slopes. Perhaps there's just something in our brains - and those of no small proportion of the British population - that makes us just a little bit crazy, driven to self-punishing lunacy? Or perhaps not. Perhaps we simply feel less constrained in these landscapes; more ourselves.</div>
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Landscapes like these have a reputation throughout history for inspiring something profound. Lakeland is arguably most famous in this respect for producing Wordsworth, but the poet I always think about in this landscape is his friend: Samuel Taylor Coleridge. On the 1st of August 1802, Coleridge left his home in the Lake District, with no particular destination in mind, and found himself, four days later, on the summit of Scafell: the second-highest peak in England. Elated, he transferred the experience onto a background of the Alps, leading later to the writing of the poem "<i>Hymn before Sun-rise, in the vale of Chaumony</i>". From the summit, he chose to descend into Eskdale - making the irrational and foolhardy decision to negotiate the dangerous face of Broad Stand. Coleridge recorded this descent in letters to Sara Hutchinson:</div>
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<i>"My limbs were all in a tremble - I lay upon my Back to rest myself, and was beginning according to my Custom to laugh at myself for a Madman, when the sight of the Crags above me on each side, and the impetuous Clouds just over them, posting so luridly and so rapidly northwards, overawed me. I lay in a state of almost prophetic Trance and Delight - and blessed God aloud, for the powers of Reason and the Will, which remaining no Danger can overpower us!"</i></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img alt="Symonds Knott, Broad Stand and Sca Fell" src="https://s0.geograph.org.uk/photos/89/30/893080_731e9da8.jpg" height="266" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="400"></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Scafell and Broad Stand as seem from Scafell Pike.</span><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Photo by Steve Partridge (see references). </span></td></tr>
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The thing that I love about the story of
this experience, during which Coleridge remarked that the
"tremendous" feats he had to make could result in him having
"of necessity falling backwards and of course killed myself", is that
it emphasises the fine line between physical exertion and elation. Fear can
play a large part in this as well - and while I'm not, repeat: NOT,
recommending that any of you go diving down Broad Stand, there's no denying
that navigating ridges like Striding Edge, Sharp Edge or Jack's Rake, or even
just standing on a summit, certainly draw awareness to height and stimulate our
adrenaline responses. This is a natural, human, survival response - and for me,
certainly, it ties very strongly to the feeling of immense satisfaction on reaching
a mountain summit. It's why, as someone who is excited by, rather than scared
of, heights, the ascents that I enjoy the most are perhaps also the most
challenging or the most physically exhausting. It's the moment of realising
"actually, I can do this", that sticks with you.<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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In a world that is increasingly becoming so cerebral, so technologically focused, escaping into the mountains brings me a deep sense of peace that I can't find at home. Weather doesn't bother me - I've been in this game for a long time, and I've got good gear. Strong, trusted, worn-in walking boots are a must, plus, at the least, a good-quality waterproof coat. I <i>love </i>putting my hike gear on. Just sitting on my bed pulling on my thick walking socks makes me excited; the feel of my old fleece against my skin is a known, comfortable precursor to a good day. I plait my hair out of my way, I roll up my sleeves, and I can't wait to be out.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6glAjmuAOpjYkFmjf7IIW1By8iYXkyng13kWw81sZGwMXajrVHbrF1TATs-u_MZBtHlTjEzD9BBWn5_mSEE0dwtJR375FYg6O36o65MOI3cYID55bIEEfc0FCsKzQHCA1zZL_DxX9jro/s1600/Me.Watermarked.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1125" data-original-width="844" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6glAjmuAOpjYkFmjf7IIW1By8iYXkyng13kWw81sZGwMXajrVHbrF1TATs-u_MZBtHlTjEzD9BBWn5_mSEE0dwtJR375FYg6O36o65MOI3cYID55bIEEfc0FCsKzQHCA1zZL_DxX9jro/s400/Me.Watermarked.png" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Me in my natural habitat on Hallin Fell, Lake District.</span></td></tr>
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It seems so dramatic that you might think I must be lying, but genuinely - especially now that I spend most of my time in a city - one of the first things I do once I'm in the mountains is stop still in my tracks, close my eyes, take a big lung-full of sweet fresh air, feel the wind rush past me, and just breathe. Just this simple act floods me with a sense of serenity. When I was little, my family even had a special destination for this: on the long drive up to the Lakes, we would stop after about three hours in a lay-by, get out of the car, and breathe in Northern air, rolling in across the Pennines. Whatever the weather, we would do this.<br />
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For me and my family, perhaps this sense is something archaic - it may be that, even when I'm on my own, I find so much peace in landscapes like this because I associate them with the people I love most, and the experiences that unite us. Equally, perhaps it's the tie between physical exertion - which can be hard to find in a natural way, one outside of the gym and concrete jungles of our world - and elation. Perhaps it's the incredible success I feel at the summit of a mountain; the satisfaction of achieving a goal and looking down from the height of your achievement back over where you've come. Perhaps it's artistry, inspiration found from the landscape for words and paintings and photography. Perhaps it's detachment from the 'real world', into somewhere where I need my brain to stay safe and concentrate on the task of the climb, and I feel that the stress of the rest of my life is far away. Perhaps, it's simply because I want to see the view.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZbUaAM4fXezPq0WXzMsPBptMIhyphenhyphenYL7H1K3zf-WsA8RE4TL-8XKfyfnsJ8UivyNBa4xiArJ6Er9UYhqEF4yfp_jifbyLHGJGmKGZ8x6R3q8rGPDtUE9b64Awf2kLocgi7p4OUKmcLykPg/s1600/SurpriseView.Watermarked.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="359" data-original-width="1600" height="142" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZbUaAM4fXezPq0WXzMsPBptMIhyphenhyphenYL7H1K3zf-WsA8RE4TL-8XKfyfnsJ8UivyNBa4xiArJ6Er9UYhqEF4yfp_jifbyLHGJGmKGZ8x6R3q8rGPDtUE9b64Awf2kLocgi7p4OUKmcLykPg/s640/SurpriseView.Watermarked.png" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Surprise View, Derbyshire.</span></td></tr>
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The culture surrounding British mountain climbing, particularly in the areas that I know, and especially in the Lake District, is possibly one of my favourite things. Everyone is so friendly - really, genuinely friendly - and when you look at other people, how you feel is reflected on their faces. There's a sort of collective sense of achievement and wonder that is almost tangible, and though I don't know the people, don't speak to them past maybe are "how're you", I feel united with them. Also, there are dogs everywhere, like, absolutely everywhere - and I love dogs.<br />
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I could write forever about the mountains of England, but I suspect that's enough for one post. I will say, though, how much joy it brings me that I'm not alone in my adoration, and how glad I am that the community of fell walkers within whom I feel so included, are as defensive as I am about the protection of these landscapes.<br />
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The world is changing, and we need to stand up for the places we love the most.<br />
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<i>"The fleeting hour of life of those who love the hills is quickly spent, but the hills are eternal. Always there will be the lonely ridge, the dancing beck, the silent forest; always there will be the exhilaration of the summits. These are for the seeking, and those who seek and find while there is still time will be blessed both in mind and body"</i></div>
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- Alfred Wainwright<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXNDO676kEZnWFCVdIx_pRQHriQPfQri9n0sfU22lhAOLkRSmAwUmVb1W03IUl-5KviBnt4VYeUT_uJDSPgb5R8J0AIPGn8I-qeG7C6gCL4GJFqA3V-ToNrmK46KLeG9uPhINhTHjUaZA/s1600/Glaramara.Watermarked.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1066" data-original-width="1600" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXNDO676kEZnWFCVdIx_pRQHriQPfQri9n0sfU22lhAOLkRSmAwUmVb1W03IUl-5KviBnt4VYeUT_uJDSPgb5R8J0AIPGn8I-qeG7C6gCL4GJFqA3V-ToNrmK46KLeG9uPhINhTHjUaZA/s640/Glaramara.Watermarked.png" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">View from Glaramara, Lake District.</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><b><span style="font-size: xx-small;">References:</span></b></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Coleridge: <a href="http://www.ronaldturnbull.co.uk/articles/colwalk/colwalk.html" target="_blank">A Long Walk – and a Broad Stand. Ronald Turnbull.</a></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Broad Stand photo: <a href="http://www.geograph.org.uk/photo/893080" target="_blank">Geograph</a></span><br />
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Annabel Leverhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01139267400152948473noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1828656795158745761.post-11129366574602846792017-04-10T18:39:00.000+01:002017-04-10T18:40:49.543+01:00Country Roads (Take Me Home)<div style="text-align: justify;">
I am not, and I don't think I ever will be, a 'city girl'. I was brought up in Hertfordshire which, as I found when I first arrived at university, is apparently a county seen as 'basically London innit?' No. For the most part, no, it is not.<br />
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My Hertfordshire has very little to do with London, or any other city for that matter. My Hertfordshire is a small town with a street of shops and a street of restaurants, a wide town park, and beyond it fields on fields of crops, spattered here and there with tiny villages of increasingly ridiculous names (my favourite is 'Loudwater', because it truly belongs to a Tolkien novel). It's home to narrow country lanes and wide open spaces and the occasional forest. Not well known (9/10 people assume that I said 'Herefordshire' when they ask where I come from), nor very large, and certainly not a 'city' place, it has put deep roots in me that long to be surrounded by skies and grass, not buildings.<br />
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But so much of modern life demands buildings. Buildings are where jobs are. Cities are where jobs are. And, for me, cities are where universities are - so, through weeks of planning and applying and deliberating, I ended up in Sheffield.</div>
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I have often read of Sheffield that it is one of England's 'most under appreciated' cities. Its merit is then argued in many ways - the culture, the music (nearly always hand in hand with mention of the Arctic Monkeys), the food...<br />
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For me, the greatest merit of Sheffield is that, quite by chance, in it I stumbled across one of the least 'city-like' cities I've ever been in. Sheffield is on my Dark Peak OS map. Sheffield has more trees per person than any other city in Europe (a fact I genuinely quoted when explaining why I wanted to come here), outnumbering people 4 to 1. Over a third of the Sheffield district lies within the Peak District National Park. It has more types of habitat than any other city in the UK, and large parts are designated Sites of Scientific Interest.<br />
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I live approximately 35 minutes from Sheffield city centre. I live approximately 6 minutes from the start of a valley walk that brings me into the Peak District, that makes me feel at home. <br />
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I may live in a city, but if I walk 20 minutes from my home, I am a equal distance from that city and from one of England's most beautiful National Parks.<br />
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My new 'local patch', if you will, is the Porter Brook Valley. It says something about Sheffield that this valley - one of at least 5 which lead into Sheffield - has its own charity, the 'Friends of Porter Brook Valley'. It says something even more that the symbol of this charity - of a river which lies IN Sheffield, is a dipper.<br />
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Walking the Porter Valley from Sheffield outward is like an exercise in rewilding.. The river widens, the trees thicken, houses give way to rolling fields of sheep; sometimes I swear you can even feel the air getting fresher around you. <br />
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The walk along the Porter Brook essentially consists of walking through a succession of parks, each less suburban than the one before. Every time you cross a road, from one park to the next, the habitat gets slightly denser and the landscape becomes less manicured, until you've escaped urban life altogether. <br />
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Endcliffe Park, the first and nearest to the city centre, feels almost-but-not-quite like a city park. 'Almost', because it is, for the most part, long and narrow and surrounded by houses, and has ponds where claggy bread floats on the surface from over-enthusiastic duck feeding...but 'not quite', because of the dedication of the space to nature.<br />
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This is not just a 'recreation ground' style park - it is taken over in majority by deciduous trees that lean over the bubbling Porter brook, which itself runs in cascades of tiny waterfalls, the water the glorious brown of a wild river. It is landscaped, with a main concrete path, ponds, bridges, some too-big-to-possibly-be-real stepping stones - but not so much that it feels artificial. My favourite route is the dirt track on the nearside of the river to where I enter the park, which is narrow and muddy and best trodden in walking boots. At the moment, the far banks of the brook here are carpeted in purple crocus, waving daintily up at the tree boughs above them. Some are trodden down by dogs or plucked by children, but most stand tall, the unfailing sign that Spring is on the way. <br />
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From Endcliffe Park, you cross the road into Bingham Park, which is as urban or as rural as you want to make it. The main park has bowling greens and tennis courts, and lies a brisk walk up the steep valley side, while continuing on the lower path brings you into Whiteley Woods. Legend has it that the park came about just after the death of Queen Victoria, when the wealthy Mr Bingham asked his wife if he should buy her a set of pearls, or buy all the land within sight and donate it to the city for the children to play on. She chose the latter. The extent to which this is true, I'm not sure of...but it's a nice thought.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJbtN9mNbhZfHzLgKvhOuLqqbw6TnOWVQUjhoCgD_-_9EMNEh0TxjJTVl2bEVtsPXkLyhzAkdlUJwpCw46QcVDUOgsb6e6jdadm6q0-xRZrNuJ5-0HSzfvVahg0KY-2Qa-KzS8WBU3h-Y/s1600/IMG_3546.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJbtN9mNbhZfHzLgKvhOuLqqbw6TnOWVQUjhoCgD_-_9EMNEh0TxjJTVl2bEVtsPXkLyhzAkdlUJwpCw46QcVDUOgsb6e6jdadm6q0-xRZrNuJ5-0HSzfvVahg0KY-2Qa-KzS8WBU3h-Y/s320/IMG_3546.JPG" width="240" /></a>A steep, muddy climb on a narrow path through the trees leads you up the side of the valley to a wide track through the woodland, where the air is still and you feel quite alone. The sun gleams through the trees, illuminating the slippery drop down to the valley bottom through row on row of shrubs interspersed with saplings and their parents. This is the place for finding fungus, the place for finding quietude and peace. If you don't feel like peace and quiet, or you're wearing nice shoes, a concrete path leads along the valley bottom into Whiteley Woods. <br />
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I've made the lower path seem like the worse option - it isn't. Along the valley bottom, the Porter Brook is a gurgling backdrop to what is starting to feel like a proper woodland. On the other side of the river, allotments spring up, and houses start to give way to nature. This part of the valley is laden with history, and home to the Shepherd's Wheel Museum, a tiny building packed with Sheffield's industrial past. The mill pond beside it is a mirror, reflecting trees so clearly you forget that they aren't real.<br />
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Crossing another road brings you truly into Whiteley Woods. This is where the real nature starts, where areas off the path are wild and boggy and, from a stone in the river, the grey wagtail bobs in greeting. You walk on, cross another road, reach my favourite place - a set of stepping stones beside a ford, which are often covered by rising water after rain. This is a place to be intrepid, a place to be glad you put on walking boots. Something about crossing stepping stones is innately childlike - it triggers memories of leaping them when you were little, crossing them with your hand clasped tightly by a parent who's certain you'll slip and fall. If you're like me, you'll remember falling in, too. The story of how I 'jumped' into the River Dove as a two year old is legendary in my household.<br />
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The woods now are dense around you, like a cloak. The houses are concealed behind them, the steep valley sides rising to enclose the tree-lined river in its own private world. <br />
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Now you have to start making decisions. The path to the left of the river is incredibly well-maintained; without being concrete, it is well-constructed with drainage tunnels, preventing the quagmire that Winter in Sheffield does its best to encourage. A higher path runs beside a large pond, with views up hill to the twisting road to Ringinglow and the fields of sheep that run up to it, now that the houses are gone for good. A lower path runs beside the river, with frequent bridges lest you regret your choice of path and wish to switch. The left-hand path is steeper and muddier, but runs closest to the river and gives impeccable views of the light shafting through the green leaves, the rich browns of the Earth and water, and the 'wildest' (muddiest!) experience. If you can't decide, not to worry - you can always take the other path on the return journey!<br />
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Just as you've been walking for a little while, and are thinking that perhaps you might like to stop and have a drink and a little snack of something, and perhaps a sit-down to breathe in the fresh air you've travelled to, you reach Forge Dam.<br />
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Forge Dam is a remarkable place for, though I know it's barely a five-minute walk from Fulwood, a full suburb of houses and streets and cars, it feels as though you've driven to a remote place somewhere in the Peak District. There is a little park (with an extraordinary slide!), and an adorable café which serves, though I may be biased, some of the most delicious food a walker could possibly ask for. The amount of cake concentrated in that one small building is incredible. The wide array of chips and breakfast food and, if you're feeling slightly fancier, paninis, on offer, along with full meals, is all you could want and more. To top it all off, there's an all-year-round ice cream kiosk, and lots of seating outside. There's also a large pond, with plenty of ducks to feed (birdseed please, not bread!). <br />
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The café is one of my happy places, but for now we'll bypass it and press on up the river. Taking the steep bridleway up to the left of Forge Dam, looking down on the pond and the people enjoying their gorgeous food, you start to feel as though you are truly, now, in the English Countryside. The field to your left is filled with sheep, to your right is a wood, and in front of you, the landscape opens up and you sigh in satisfaction because, now, you are in the Dales. <br />
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From here on in, you're in the National Park. You're in the Peak District. It's been 45 minutes, and you're out of Sheffield so much so that the traffic noise and bustle seems worlds away.<br />
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Your options are spread out across the hills before you. Up to the left lies Holly Hagg Community Gardens in the pretty Peak District village of Ringinglow, through whose streets the path up towards Stanage Edge winds. Holly Hagg has recently seen a boom in popularity because of its 'Alpaca Treks' - certainly worth looking into!<br />
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The track before you begins to wind uphill, through a wooded valley where the river burbles and cascades every now and again into a proper waterfall; it becomes, in its higher reaches, the free-spirited stream you feel every natural river should be. The trees grow close around you, the floor is dense with leaf litter and slippery now with mud. You are in Porter Clough now, truly wild.<br />
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Just as you push your thighs into action, climbing the increasingly steep track, five picturesque bridges cross and recross the path, until you appear out of the trees, blinking in the sunlight, onto a country road. You look behind you now, down the hill, to the buildings of Sheffield far away. This is where you have been. You are in the countryside now, just an hours walk away.<br />
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Having walks like this so accessible gives me strength. When I feel alone, when I miss my family, when I need escape, the Peak District is just there on the horizon, and it calls me home. Somewhere in the silence of wild spaces is a voice that soothes me to the bone, and I am privileged to find it so close. <br />
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">All photographs are taken by and belong to me, Annabel Lever. </span></div>
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Annabel Leverhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01139267400152948473noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1828656795158745761.post-44067926607932564542017-02-13T21:55:00.001+00:002017-02-13T22:26:26.825+00:00Deep roots are not reached by frost. <span style="text-align: justify;">A couple of months ago, as happens every so often, I was sent a survey from a student discount organisation with which I have an account. Often I completely disregard these - and if I do complete them, it's the multiple choice answers only, I'm never engaged enough to write anything longer.</span><br />
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This particular survey, however, was from the Woodlands Trust. I'm a Zoology student and a conservationist, and it's safe to say that I care about trees, so I was more than willing to put in a little extra effort. The questions were as you would expect, until one in particular: "Is there any tree in your life with special significance?". I can imagine a lot of people answered a quick 'no' to this question and asked themselves what sort of a person <i>did </i>have a significant tree in their life. </div>
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I am the sort of person that does. My community are the sort of people who do.</div>
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A month or so after, when I was home from university at Christmas, I took my dog on a walk of which a part passed through an disused quarry near my home. There are several gravel pits like this in our area: one has been brilliantly transformed into a nature reserve, and another is on its way to becoming equally as good (credit for both of which is owed to Herts and Middlesex Wildlife Trust, not the quarry company). This, the third, is as much a quarry as when it was in use, except that it's deserted. It consists of 'danger' signs and fences, graffiti-ed walls, tracks from dirt bikes and dystopian, lonely, abandoned machines. A path through this wreckage - of which an 'attempt' has been made to salvage by planting some scrubby trees and grassland herbs - leads up and onto a beautiful agricultural field and a wood. On the walk up this path, we encountered an older lady, walking poles in hand and waterproof on, who was stopped and staring over the gravel pit.</div>
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"Do you know if they'll manage to do this to the field up there?" she asked.</div>
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Her eyes were looking both at the quarry and beyond it into the past, and her tone quavered slightly with emotion. She told me about the times when this marred landscape was a field - when she was young, she said, her family used to walk through it and down into Waterford to the river. She remembered it as green and natural and whole. She, like me, had lived in the area her whole life - but she, unlike me, saw the transformation of this rural, greenbelt beauty into quarry.<br />
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We both knew that the opportunity for me to experience it was less that a hair's breadth away, because the field above us was under threat. The feeling hung heavy on the air. It was windy and rainy, desolate weather to match the mood, and her eyes were probably only watering from the cold - but there was enough emotion as we spoke that it could have been tears. My heart felt heavy.</div>
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What lightens my heart - what gives me, and her, and many other people in my community hope that this quarry may not come to pass - is the conviction and force with which the locals have risen up in defence of our greenbelt land.<br />
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There is a tree in the centre of this field - the Lonely Oak, we've always called it. This is our Significant Tree, and it has come to represent everything we value about the countryside we are so lucky to live beside, that we want to protect. When I saw that question in that survey, and I found myself writing what must have been paragraphs of answer in the small box beside it, I knew I had to write this post.</div>
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The truth is, I haven't managed to be that involved in the campaign. I've been too caught up in school work, too busy, too distracted - which only makes me value more the people who have invested so much in it. I'm writing to talk about these people, and this tree, and the strength of the community standing up for it.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://stopbengeoquarry.org.uk/wp-content/uploads/2016/08/CIN_7699_edit-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://stopbengeoquarry.org.uk/wp-content/uploads/2016/08/CIN_7699_edit-1.jpg" height="272" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This photo belongs to the Stop Bengeo Quarry website, stopbengeoquarry.org.uk</td></tr>
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The force behind this tree, protecting this land which I've loved and lived in and walked through my whole life, is overwhelming. It is a kind of tireless dedication to fundraising and spreading awareness that I did not expect, and it fills me with overwhelming pride. There have been surveys; letters to councillors; petitions; articles in the local paper; videos; meetings; posters; family walks; activities celebrating the field and its natural beauty; bag sales; a fun day to raise money and awareness...the list goes on. The Lonely Oak stands adorned by ribbons and posters; tokens of the love of our people for the greenbelt countryside we grew up in, that we want our children to grow up in.</div>
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This is a field that I have adored. A field my family, my friends, my dogs have adored. It's where we walked every Boxing Day since before I was born to get to the pub at Chapmore End; where I took small steps as a toddler and escaped to on summer evenings as a teenager and screamed at the sky on a run when heading towards adulthood was becoming too much. It's where my dog loses his toys and where Red Kites land in the Lonely Oak, and where I go with my Mum to catch up with each other's lives.</div>
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It's a field that I don't want to lose. I don't want my community to lose it. I don't want the next generation to be unaware of what it was, to breathe air filled with dust from the quarry, to be kept up by the noise or to drink water that's tainted by it. </div>
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I'm so proud of the people who've taken this into their hands, proud that so many people share this strong attachment to such a simple place. </div>
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It's a hard path, defending something you love; particularly when it can't speak for itself, and the way in which you love it cannot be quantified by numbers or dates. It's easy to feel that the battle is futile, to assume the weight of a foregone conclusion and give in - but we have not. </div>
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We have stood up for our countryside. </div>
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We have stood up for our children. </div>
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We will fight for our fields, our flowers, our birds, our greenbelt.</div>
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I hope to God that we win.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This photo belongs to the Save Bengeo's Countryside Facebook Page</td></tr>
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<b>To SUPPORT the campaign, please: </b></div>
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<b>LIKE </b>the Facebook page: <a href="https://www.facebook.com/savebengeo/?hc_ref=NEWSFEED" target="_blank">Save Bengeo's Countryside - Stop the Quarry</a></div>
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<b>VISIT </b>the website to find out more about the threats and how you can help: <a href="http://stopbengeoquarry.org.uk/">stopbengeoquarry.org.uk</a></div>
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<b>GO TO </b>the stall in Hertford on February the 18th (details on the Facebook page)</div>
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<b>GET INVOLVED, </b>however you can. </div>
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Annabel Leverhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01139267400152948473noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1828656795158745761.post-66049291061630765902016-06-02T01:18:00.002+01:002016-06-02T01:18:49.233+01:00The Epic Ballad of Springtime<div style="text-align: justify;">
It begins with the whispering of a wind which speaks of warmth and Winter's ending. The soft sprinkling of dew on grass that isn't frozen to tiny ice castles. It begins with a sun whose rays are nourishing, slanting through trees whose leaves are buds of green, waiting to burst forward. </div>
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It begins with blossom on a cherry tree, the lining of a street with radiant blooms and the slow hum of pollinating insects; the unhurried waltz of a bumblebee whose legs are stained with pollen. Listen. The insects sing of a Spring awakening as the slim, delicate form of an Orange-Tip Butterfly settles on a newly budded wild mustard plant somewhere by your toes. </div>
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'I want to do to you what Spring does to cherry trees': you read the creased words by Neruda and look up from the book as a blossom falls beside you, its petals a tiny perfection of pink, winking the sun towards you with all the hope of new beginnings. Feel. </div>
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It spreads from the cherry trees to the woodland, where trees which not long ago shed their glowing gowns of autumn auburn before the cold kiss of Winter, clothe themselves again now in the blushing bright green of the beginning of Spring. It spreads to their carpet, now a glowing blanket of bluebells, an inescapable perfume of secret, hidden, precious things, which gives way later to the rampant ramsons, wild garlic, a waving swathe of white flowers against the browns and greens of the woodland floor, dotted with jewels of primroses. Hidden wood anemones and celandines bow their heads before their companions, shy smiles by the wayside. The dark caterpillars of a Red Admiral butterfly make their important ascent up and down leaves of the newly leafed stinging nettles, the labyrinth of holes behind them often the only indication they are there. Watch. </div>
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It spreads from the abandoned nests and sleepy dreys of last year to the wild, frantic activity of mating time. The river livens from its frozen slumber to a babbling, giggling Spring flush of water, rich with oxygen and wild movement within which the cuckoo flower starts to grow and the reeds rise lush and tall. The cuckoo spit arrives, the frogspawn, the hustle and bustle of a river that is not just a home but a hive of activity. The old bank, having survived the unpredictability of winter, is home now to nests; the bright flash of a kingfisher streaks from river to home, river to home, determined to do the best for its brood. Wait. </div>
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The garden becomes a riot, home to more drama than a Shakespearian tragedy, as everyone attempts to do the best for their family. Slugs entwine indiscreetly in trees, their slime trails followed eagerly by hedgehogs just woken from hibernation and determined upon as much prey as can be found. On the bird table, families do battle for the best spots, first pickings on new food. The starling families arrive suddenly in hordes, the blue tit parents chirp anxiously from the nest and, above my window, the house sparrow male calls quietly to his female in her nest under the eaves, and receives the chirps of seven hatchlings in reply. The sparrowhawk mother watches on from her nest as her mate makes a kill, the young of one family essential to the survival of her own. A fox family play amongst the dandelions of an urban garden after the family have all tucked themselves away in bed, their yips and playful fighting likening them to puppies as the parents watch on. Stay awake. Become enthralled. </div>
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In the corn fields, as the crops grow tall under the luxurious sun, the soaring song of skylarks fills the air as you walk slowly down the dirt track worn by many feet of Sunday walkers. Among the stems, a rustle reveals a field mouse, crouched, small nose twitching. An earthworm dries out slowly on the path. At twilight, the crepuscular barn owl swoops silently with wings that make no sound, waiting for the prey that will sustain its brood: hidden in the oak tree, downy chicks hatched days apart to increase the chances of at least one surviving. Back in the wood, the shy badgers emerge from their den with cubs following at heel, enjoying the last warmth of the sun in twilight as they sit and scratch amongst the bluebells. Be patient.</div>
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The bubble of activity spreads not only around our waters but in them too. In the ocean, the longer days and increase in sunbeams penetrating the swirling surface give rise to plankton blooms as they photosynthesise more effectively, beginning the food web of so many ocean species. The migration begins; as the days lengthen the terns arrive, partnered with the smartly dressed guillemots, the puffins with their caricature summer beaks, the dashing razorbills. Rocks that have stood untouched all Winter become havens for hundreds of families, cleaving out a life on the bare rock, as the pink tufts of thrift begin to bloom. Experience.</div>
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It is the beginning again of a cycle that never ends, that surrounds us and encompasses us just as it always has and always will. </div>
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Listen for the whisper of Spring; the dramatic unfolding of life which is all around. </div>
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Annabel Leverhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01139267400152948473noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1828656795158745761.post-89475714923604592622016-03-28T15:20:00.002+01:002016-03-28T15:20:57.664+01:00Easter: Eggs, Evolution and Existentialism<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIHiNXcjQsB7284RZQJasF5p1t6fQllfVIwDEOgNj0azMSjvTMsBoFUYSg6SuRP8s5GlFs-xx5jI9LBg9O9pO8BLWbKNQZa2R864asn15gWmKrBu2XQyUm1g4kOfYnCAHVvWaPJ_jn9Kw/s1600/easter-daffodils-e-card-lg.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIHiNXcjQsB7284RZQJasF5p1t6fQllfVIwDEOgNj0azMSjvTMsBoFUYSg6SuRP8s5GlFs-xx5jI9LBg9O9pO8BLWbKNQZa2R864asn15gWmKrBu2XQyUm1g4kOfYnCAHVvWaPJ_jn9Kw/s200/easter-daffodils-e-card-lg.jpg" width="181" /></a><br />
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Easter is the time of year when card-designers get highly excited about Spring. You can't move without a picture of a lamb, or a chick, or a daffodil, dipping it's yellow head softly in an imaginary breeze; a motion Wordsworth would be proud of, immortalised on a card. As a fan of daffodils, chicks and lambs, I'm not against this in the slightest. But, as an aspiring biologist, as I receive my colourful Easter eggs from kindly relations, and read the cards whose pretty yellow borders sing of sunny Spring, I can't help but wonder what made the human race act like this - why is it that we are so devoted to what is essentially just a Sunday? What makes us hold onto this concept that, because of a story that approximately only 32% of the world population believe in, this day is a special time deserving of celebration?</div>
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The surface answers are obvious: for Christians, Easter is a celebration of Jesus' resurrection, raised from the dead, from death on the cross for the sins of humanity, by God. It is arguably the most important date in the Christian calender, and the celebration of the most joy, as it illustrates freedom from suffering, the triumph of life after death. Others perhaps, who are not devoted to belief in Christianity - a group I would currently place myself in - perhaps celebrate and enjoy Easter still for the representation of new life and life defying death, but in the more pagan following of Winter with Spring, respite from the darkness and cold and the beginning of new life in the natural world. Eggs, therefore, represent this new life, and work both for delicious satisfaction and for metaphorical meaning as gifts of joy at this time. </div>
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The deeper question, however, the one I really wanted to answer, is this: genetically speaking, why is it that humans have evolved to have this need to celebrate religious occasions, to come together in this way and celebrate what is, in actual fact, just a Sunday. Evolution, of course, is the answer - an idea that would freeze the hearts of the religious population of Victorian Britain: science is behind religion. </div>
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Religious behaviour has occurred in all societies throughout the world at all stages of population development. It holds a genetic basis, which means it is an evolved behaviour, existing in our DNA because natural selection determined it useful for survival. Evolution in this way has given people a genetic pre-disposition, as is also present for language, to learn the religion of their community. From there, culture, not genetics, determines what we learn and what we choose to believe. </div>
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Scientifically, there are two schools of thought as to why this evolution occurred. The first is that religion itself evolved due to natural selection for survival, and is therefore an adaptation giving evolutionary advantage. The second follows the belief that religion was a by-product of different adaptations, without being initially selected for for its own benefits.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This image belongs to <a href="http://www.iflscience.com/plants-and-animals/chimpanzee-friendships-are-all-about-trust" target="_blank">Nick Biemans/Shutterstock</a></td></tr>
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It is easy, perhaps, to see how in a hunter-gatherer society, as the human race began in, religious activities and rituals lead to stronger bonds and therefore higher chance of survival through the age old 'safety in numbers'. Rituals such as dancing created social bonds which lead to greater cohesion and cooperation within the group. This in turn makes it more efficient, and leads to a better chance of survival and reproductive success. Social bonds are illustrated in a similar way in chimpanzee groups, wherein grooming between two chimpanzees leads to increase levels of the hormone oxytocin, which plays an intrinsic role in non-kin cooperation. Religion would have served these early human societies, formed of small collaborative groups, as a sort of intangible law through which individuals would be socially obligated to put the needs of the group before the needs of the self, in fear of a 'divine punishment' or social ostracisation. As a result, the group both had a reason to avoid harm to each other, and a belief to inspire confidence in warfare and conflict, resulting in a society which had greater survival rates and social strength. Groups who had some form of religious structure would hence prevail of those that did not, and the allele frequency of genes 'for' religious thought and ritual would become more numerous until they were universal. Religion also became tied to natural occurrences - festivals in Spring and Autumn helping get the crops planted and harvested among celebration, inspiring labour and organisation. The 'God Gene Hypothesis' suggests that a particular gene, VMAT2, predisposes humans towards spiritual or ritualistic experiences, and is seen by some to act as an agent to increased optimism, leading to positive effects on other factors like health and reproductive success, though this has not been convincingly proven. </div>
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The theory of religion as a by-product follows really the evolution of the human mind for consciousness, the realisation that we are mortal and the realisation that one must deal with their </div>
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inevitable death. Religion therefore served a fitting purpose for our anxieties - for ourselves, our lives, and about things we cannot, or could not, explain. The coordinated anxiety with others, through the outlet of religion, may have served a reassuring purpose, in which we feel meaning and can therefore manage our fear through the outlet of action. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">belonging to <a href="http://simplecapacity.com/2014/08/collection-25-inspiring-quotes-charles-darwin/" target="_blank">simplecapactity.com</a></td></tr>
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It is easy, perhaps, to assume a biologist is an atheist. Indeed, when Darwin first published the Theory of Evolution it was considered incredibly blasphemous, against all concept of religion. But really, the idea of religion as an evolved trait perhaps negates neither atheism or religion. Critics of religion emphasise the negative effects caused by extreme religious leaders - in particular warfare and the act of extremist groups who by no means represent the entire religious population. But religion as a means of social cohesion, as a means for survival, in its most basic function of encouraging morality and humanity, is still very much a part of the functioning of today's society. The beliefs of entire religions is in no way represented by the extremist acts of the few, and even the most solid of atheists feel a unanimity in their mutual unbelieving. As a social bond, and a means of facing the reality of human existence, we can see indeed how religion is a trait naturally selected for to improve our chances of survival, as a species. </div>
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After all, religious or not, we are brought together at Easter, to celebrate together new life in the form of eggs and chicks and lambs and daffodils. Whatever social significance it holds and stimulus it arises from, we all feel it. </div>
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<i><b>Sources</b></i><br />
<a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2009/11/15/weekinreview/12wade.html?_r=0" target="_blank">http://www.nytimes.com/2009/11/15/weekinreview/12wade.html?_r=0</a><br />
<a href="http://www.washingtontimes.com/blog/watercooler/2012/dec/23/84-percent-world-population-has-faith-third-are-ch/" target="_blank">http://www.washingtontimes.com/blog/watercooler/2012/dec/23/84-percent-world-population-has-faith-third-are-ch/</a><br />
<a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Evolutionary_psychology_of_religion" target="_blank">https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Evolutionary_psychology_of_religion</a><br />
<a href="http://www.bbc.co.uk/nature/21131703" target="_blank">http://www.bbc.co.uk/nature/21131703</a><br />
<i><br /></i>Annabel Leverhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01139267400152948473noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1828656795158745761.post-88946828669361355332016-03-14T09:48:00.000+00:002016-03-14T09:48:26.573+00:00From Death comes Life <div style="text-align: justify;">
There is a small churchyard a few roads from my house. It's where I was christened, where my mother rang the bells for twenty years, where my younger brother was christened and countless family friends married. Though I myself am not overtly religious, I still value the church for its memories, and for the tranquillity that can always be found there. </div>
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Surrounded on three sides by roads, one of which I walk home along every day, the quiet and stillness maintained between its walls are a small miracle, and this time of year, the yew trees and tall building are lit below with a riotous carpet of colour, the beginnings of Spring. </div>
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As I first enter the churchyard, through the small wooden gate that so many different versions of me over the years has passed through, the sound of the road dies away and is replaced by the soft song of a blackbird, hopping along the path in front of me. As I crouch to admire the tree's blanketing cover of crocuses, a robin watches me from the branches, small beady eye daring me to try to get closer to him. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZrECe-7CqKMHfSrBe_RQLPigvBE9-fFW7eYU3Po2kEHyqXpuZ6mPjpaz4efOE3zeu7kynWgBfgfeLZpo4njWlpQONKMr1nXzHBxKbVxOiKGzZ0BpIsGYsjeNInlWZryC8SY39mVKpEeU/s1600/IMG_0974.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZrECe-7CqKMHfSrBe_RQLPigvBE9-fFW7eYU3Po2kEHyqXpuZ6mPjpaz4efOE3zeu7kynWgBfgfeLZpo4njWlpQONKMr1nXzHBxKbVxOiKGzZ0BpIsGYsjeNInlWZryC8SY39mVKpEeU/s320/IMG_0974.JPG" width="240" /></a>I think about the birds beginning their nests, as I walk the transition from crocuses to primroses to snowdrops, the occasional lesser celandine just starting to poke its head in too. Most of the graves hold cut flowers, but some have beds of living daffodils planted over them, bowing gracefully in the light chill breeze. </div>
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While I'm not sure how I feel about religion, I know how I feel about science, and to me the understanding of how these plants death and life and the death and life of the humans around them all influence each other in nutrient cycles to keep new life going, is almost reassuring. The cyclical nature of the seasons and life in this way comforts me in it's simplistic success: it gives death a reason, maybe. I read an article a few weeks ago about renewable ways for your body to return to nature after you die, one of which included using your ashes to plant and grow a tree. I would like that, I think. To give something back. </div>
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As I round the corner by the crumbling wall of the church tower, down rows of planted beds of flowers - hyacinth, bell hyacinth, row upon row more daffodils - and my blackbird friend hops behind me, I note the lack of one thing - insects. Perhaps it is too early in the year, the frost still biting too sharp, but I miss them. The lazy butterflies of summer moving gently from flower to flower, first sighting of a Brimstone and then the Orange Tips and Whites and Blues. But butterfly species are really suffering, at the moment, with a 76% decline of the UK's resident and migrant butterflies in abundance or occurrence over the last four decades ( <a href="http://butterfly-conservation.org/1643/the-state-of-britains-butterflies.html" target="_blank">Butterfly Conservation UK</a>). It makes me sad to think we might run the risk of losing even some of their beauty, so in addition to the huge buddleia bush that flowers decadently at the back of my garden every year, I'm going to try to introduce more butterfly-friendly species into my garden this year, including Ox-Eye Daisies, Dahlia, and Marigolds, all of which will also help support bees, my personal favourite insect, despite the fact I'm allergic to them. I'm also going to try to get involved with the Garden Butterfly survey also run by Butterfly Conservation UK, to do my bit towards their conservation. It's easy, free, and encourages you to sit in the garden just enjoying the life there for a while! For more information follow the link: <a href="http://www.gardenbutterflysurvey.org/" target="_blank">http://www.gardenbutterflysurvey.org</a></div>
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I would also encourage all of you to go and spent approx. 15 minutes in your local churchyard, like I did, not only to admire the beautiful life that has a chance to flourish in its sheltered habitat but also, as I did, to find peace. </div>
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Annabel Leverhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01139267400152948473noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1828656795158745761.post-55001747666362412412016-02-29T22:04:00.000+00:002016-02-29T22:04:00.580+00:00Spring is springing?<div style="text-align: justify;">
Just a short one now, following the mammoth writing effort of this morning! I wasn't going to write anything at all for a little while, but, important writings call for effort, and today was officially my first blossom sighting of the year :) </div>
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Blossom is one of my favourite favourite things, which I always forget about until the beginning of Spring comes around and I first start to see it again and I remember that I love it almost as much as I love the burnished reds and yellows of autumn leaves. </div>
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I would like to point out, before you even see the photo, that this is my <b>first blossom of the year</b>. It is very tiny, and very new, and was perched too high up on a tree for my (not tiny) reach to get a decent picture with a steady hand. Nonetheless, evidence, I felt, was required, and so I endeavoured to find a blossom that was at least sort of in reach. It was, of course, the last tree in the Sainsburies car park which I checked. And was, of course, right beside a car with a family just getting out of it, who looked at my ecstatic face with no small amount of fear...</div>
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Anyway, here it is. I honestly don't know what species it is, for which I am truly sorry; looking it up has so far proved fruitless (potential pun intended) partially because, as I've mentioned, it's very tiny and the photo is very bad, and secondly because of the lack of arboreal knowledge I've lamented in past posts. My apologies also for the darkness of the photo, it wasn't particularly nice weather and was pretty late in the day. Apologies over; here it is. </div>
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If anyone can tell me what species it is by this truly terrible picture which does the joy I felt no justice at all, I will be forever grateful!</div>
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So, tiny and new and struggling against the wind in a Sainsburies car park, here it is, my first blossom of the year, Pioneer of Spring.</div>
Annabel Leverhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01139267400152948473noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1828656795158745761.post-33403460996849637132016-02-29T10:41:00.000+00:002016-03-28T14:07:16.394+01:00Weekend in the Wet: The Land of "Stripey Cows"<div style="text-align: justify;">
When I told the girls I look after that I was going to be spending a February weekend in Yorkshire, their old home county, they were particularly insistent that I said "hello!" to the stripey cows for them. And the sheep. Of course. </div>
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I did indeed say "hello!" to a field of Belted Galloway cattle, a hardy breed perfectly happy left out on the moors in Winter in the fields above Malham Tarn, but I will admit it was said quietly and from what I consider to be a safe distance - I love many animals, but as a general rule, cows are amongst those I avoid if possible, having been on the receiving end of their parental wrath when aged about 8 years old. Old fears stick, it seems. </div>
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That's the second half of the title explained. The first half, as it happens, only applies to one of the two days I was there - the first day, in fact, dawned with a winter sun that brightened the chill of the shadows, the icy streams that criss-crossed the narrow roads gleaming in its gaze. This day was spent at an old childhood favourite place - the <a href="http://www.ingletonwaterfallstrail.co.uk/" target="_blank">Ingleton Waterfalls Trail</a>. </div>
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A year round attraction, on this particular day the river shone brandy-coloured in the sun, the path twisting up and up the valley of the River Twiss on a stone hewn trail right beside the river, offering an amazing view of the waterfalls and the feeling you were completely isolated in the valley, a small explorer of long ago, experiencing the woods always as if for the first time. </div>
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At the start of the walk, the bottom of the valley, the river is calm and smoothly flowing. It has the air of Sunday afternoon about it, gently bumbling along after accomplishing greater things in its earlier reaches. </div>
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It is here that we stopped and hunted for dippers: the giveaway white-splotched rocks sticking out of the river mid-stream our first hint of their presence. </div>
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Too fast to photograph, on my unprepared iPhone camera anyway, this small brown bird with its white splashed breast, looking quite the little gentleman, flashes in and out of the water in an instant, darting up and downstream through the crisp air with the speed almost of a kingfisher, and double the validity in camouflage in these mossy woodlands. Rivers at home in Hertfordshire are no territory for dippers, so it's always a joy to spot them when away up north. <br />
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As we progress into the higher reaches of the river, it becomes livelier, the bubble of the water moving from an adagio to a vivace, a fast, dance like staccato of falling water as we pass from one waterfall to another, from the swift progression of the three Pecca Falls to the vast roar of Thornton Force, which brings to mind much larger cousins in Iceland, and is hewn from the rock almost specifically to the method of a geography textbook. </div>
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Following a brisk walk between falls at approximately 1,800ft, my brother and I are distracted from a heated discussion about embryonic stem cell research, of all things, by a soaring buzzard above our heads. Looking over to the snow-capped Ingleborough, with the entrance to White Scar Caves a splash of dark white lower down on its shoulder, I imagine that the buzzard has the perfect view on this clear, frosty day. </div>
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My personal favourite fall lies on the River Doe, which we walk down on the return to the Falls Centre in Ingleton. This is the Triple Spout, just above Rival Falls and Baxenghyll Gorge (fantastically dramatic names for fantastically dramatic landscape). Lying in woodland which naggingly reminds me that my arboreal knowledge is by no means up to scratch, this fall has water almost the colour of ale, which cascades tighly round a bend with the sense that it knows exactly where it is going, and will take anything that gets in its way with it. No dippers here, the water moves too fast and with too much volume for them. </div>
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For those who have some sort of a head for heights, a seemingly rickety but of course technically </div>
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structurally sound metal bridge is then reachable, offering a look straight down to the Baxenghll Gorge beneath your feet.</div>
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The path then continues as the river once again finds its more leisurely way through the dramatic landscape of the other side of the valley through woodlands of silver birch, the bark peeling and shining in the sunlight. While not as rich as when Spring truly arrives, the sound of birds is starting to make its way back through the bare trees, their arms still stark of leaves but now perches for tiny virtuoso tits, robins and the tiny but unmissably loud shouts of wrens. </div>
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The second day was more illustrative of 'typical' February weather - as the title suggests, it was wet. Not just slight-drizzle-wet, smack-you-in-the-face-get-you-lost-in-cloud-at-1500ft-wet. The morning began dry, but bitterly cold; there was snow on the ground as we parked at Malham Tarn and breath steamed in the frozen unbroken air. </div>
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A more challenging walk today, which took us down past Water Sinks down the Ing Scar dry valley to a breath-taking reveal of the the height, breadth and grandeur of Malham Cove from above - the limestone pavement. </div>
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With grikes (gaps between slabs) ranging from a foot or so to a couple of metres, the slippery rock made interesting walking, particularly when I was completely distracted by looking into the gaps to witness the microhabitats they form. My particular favourite find was the beautifully named Harts-Tongue Fern, but sadly the photo I managed to get was both blurry (I was gripping my phone very tight for fear of it falling in the gap beyond return) and sadly also featured a large amount of litter which had been dropped into the gaps. Disgraceful really, how humanity value rare places like a limestone pavement of this size so much we drive miles to come and see it, only to then treat it like a dustbin. I did identify some plants I saw, however, despite my frustration with humans, and learnt more using this website: <a href="http://www.limestone-pavements.org.uk/ecology.html" target="_blank">Limestone Pavement Conservation</a>. </div>
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We then went on to walk to Janet's Foss (another waterfall) through the lovely Malham village and following Gordale Beck, which goes onto Gordale Scar, a waterfall in spectacularly dramatic landscape that was valued even in Victorian Times for its beauty, and is home to many rare mosses and ferns. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(please note this image is not mine, all other photographs on this blog were taken by me. This photo belongs to <a href="http://www.the-bee-bole.com/2014/07/malham-bee-library_16.html">http://www.the-bee-bole.com/2014/07/malham-bee-library_16.html</a> which is worth a look for more information about conservation in this area!)</td></tr>
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Janet's Foss was an opportunity for more dipper-watching time, where one tiny gentleman managed to <em>almost </em>let me get near enough for a clear photo, but not quite. I was also fascinated by the installation of 10 'bee boxes' (see above) through the short piece of woodland that leads to the fall, which smelt of Ransoms even now, months before their peak bloom. The boxes were installed only in the proud ash trees of the woodland, as a gesture to recognise the problems that have been had in the area with Ash-Die Back disease, which has infected 36.1% of all 10k squares in the country (<a href="http://www.forestry.gov.uk/ashdieback" target="_blank">http://www.forestry.gov.uk/ashdieback</a>) These bee boxes are an important effort to aid bee conservation, and seeing them was a fantastic addition to the walk, and almost made me forget quite how hard it was raining. </div>
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Despite the rain, it was a fantastic weekend of wildlife watching and walking in a spectacularly dramatic landscape that is always worth a visit, despite the weather or the season :)<br />
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<i>"I won't know for sure if Malhamdale is the finest place there is until I have died and seen heaven (assuming they let me at least have a glance), but until that day comes, it certainly will do."</i></div>
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Annabel Leverhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01139267400152948473noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1828656795158745761.post-46303546412755834552016-02-28T23:29:00.000+00:002020-04-08T23:46:53.834+01:00Species Guide: Your Blogger<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOLIgIaCJMPRB3Ac7owNYBV-bwepNgezpYikstmEjTSojL54dOuv2hwUJbJCfFnspBEXSTi-it_wjxAYDfrS-aiKl1VNOGII89Bb4-DJ2y2euiMnBpv77cycUUx_M7TJQ4tUMXjP6_8Y8/s1600/IMG_6315.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOLIgIaCJMPRB3Ac7owNYBV-bwepNgezpYikstmEjTSojL54dOuv2hwUJbJCfFnspBEXSTi-it_wjxAYDfrS-aiKl1VNOGII89Bb4-DJ2y2euiMnBpv77cycUUx_M7TJQ4tUMXjP6_8Y8/s320/IMG_6315.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
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As a newbie blogger, I find the idea of any of you reading my (hopefully interesting) future ramblings without any context of who I am pretty strange, so to start, here's a simple, non-eloquent, possibly slightly awkward sounding introduction of your friendly naturalist, conservationist, and first class nature addict: Annabel.<br />
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<b>Physical characteristics: </b><br />
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<li>long brown hair, good length for being thoroughly tangled by the wind when any considerable amount of time is spent outside. Has been known to contain leaves, mud and/or dried grass, much to disappointment of peers.</li>
<li>clothes often (always) comprised of those which can be made muddy at any moment, frequently already muddy</li>
<li>not in fact normally covered in meerkats, as above photo illustrates, however if it were an option, I wouldn't be wholly against it.</li>
<li>as a general rule, smiling, regardless of weather :)</li>
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<b>Habitat: </b>Small countryside town in Hertfordshire, England. Most often found extremely stressed and hence hiding in bedroom and/or escaping into the outdoors with two large golden retrievers, camera and notebook. Excellent at hiding, fieldwork and observing. Less good at remembering to bring a coat.<br />
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<b>Behavioural characteristics: </b><br />
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<li>extremely busy, potentially resulting in neglect of blog, but I will do my very best not to let that happen</li>
<li>gets extremely excited whenever the phrases 'did you see that' or 'hey I found out this amazing fact the other day' are mentioned. Is proud of this response.</li>
<li> has surprisingly impressive set of field skills and mountain-craft for someone whose slightly skewed sense of balance has them fall over fairly often</li>
<li>knows a remarkable amount about odd subjects, such as the phylogenetic history of whales. Completely fascinated by sea anemones and tardigrades.</li>
<li>loves to learn, write, and be in the outdoors </li>
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<b>Aspirations: </b>Frankly, very much hopes that at least one person out there enjoys anything I post.</div>
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I feel we're quite introduced now. Welcome :) </div>
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<br />Annabel Leverhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01139267400152948473noreply@blogger.com0