The silent moor

I feel nervous. Apprehensive. Scout is below me waiting for permission to jump into the stream. I watch the water, the blackness edged with silver, the whole mass moving down through gritstone boulders as one continuous body, it’s sound drowning out any noise from the road nearby. I give the command and Scout moves his body as though to dive, then hesitates and looks back at me. A line of cars crosses the bridge that Scout stands below. I give the command again and in he goes, all excitement into the blackest part, and then disappointment that he didn’t float. He crashes along the stream bed, looking for deeper water, hacking at bubbles with his mouth. Then he gets out, and runs back to his launch pad, turns to me and waits for another command. My eyes though are on the stone arch of the bridge which was beautifully tooled, made from the same stone that lay in the stream the same stone that held back the waters of the great dams further up the valley. I am always gladdened when I see workmanship like this, skill that would hardly be seen, but care still taken in its creation. In the weak sun the stone added a little honey warmth to the brown of the decaying bracken and the greyness of the muddy path. I give Scout one more moment of fun and then call him up to me and we stand to one side whilst a woman with a small dog comes through the gate. She’d been watching Scout in the stream and said that her dog liked to do it too and I watched as it tried to steer her to the stream, but today she wasn’t having anything of it and shoos him forward along the muddy path, she tiptoeing around the edges, her feet slipping precariously on the grassy slope. We cross the road, go over a stile and stand on the track.

My apprehension escalates. No dogs says the sign, a picture of a dog and a red line striking it out. I know we shouldn’t be there, not the two of us, not Scout. If we are stopped by a gamekeeper I have three strategies going through my head. The first is to ignore and keep moving. The second is to engage and tell them Scout was an assistance dog, he is attached to me via a waist belt and this may lend the excuse credibility. The third is to engage, but in battle. The least attractive. Of course there is a fourth, which was just to leave. But the track invites onward travel. It winds up through trees as it moves away from the road head, the sun casting a glow as it leaves the small plantation of Scots pine, the curve of the track leading into the realms of fantasy at the top of the blind summit. I move along trying to relax and feel the beauty of the place, but my eyes scan the skyline looking for the gamekeeper, my ears search for the sound of a quad bike. There is no one and nothing but silence. The silence will not impact on me until the day after, when it will dawn on me that I heard not a single bird, saw not a single form of wildlife. What I did encounter was the loamy smell of the wet peat and the tang of water and gritstone and the brown mediocre bracken and grass. And something else that my body sensed, but my mind did not. But Scout did.

It is easy walking with the views opening out across the valley and out to the west. Scout is fixed to me, this land is full of snares to keep predators low in number, never giving them the space to gain a toe hold in the landscape. And to prevent Scout getting a paw in a wire noose I keep him close to me, which is not to his liking. His nature wants him out there on the moor, and his training has underpinned his right to roam freely. But not today. He pulls occasionally, wanting to drift off to follow up some interesting scent that is barrelling across the moor with the strengthening wind. He keeps putting his snout high in the air, taking in ribbons of information that flow with the wind across from the south, skimming the moor top then dropping down into the small clough that we are working our way out of. A few minutes later we are on the top working our way along a thin edge path that winds through shin high heather, the wind from time to time banging into me as gusts reach forty miles per hour. A couple of hundred meters later I begin to cough, something is catching in my throat, stinging the soft tissue. Then I can smell acrid smoke, but the only smoke I can see is from a tall industrial chimney and I don’t think this is the source. The smoke is woody as though someone is burning old tarred timber. Would they be heather burning today? It seems improbable but I lack the knowledge to be certain. As we work our way across the gritstone edge a couple walk towards me. Can you smell it I ask? No, they reply. Can you feel it in the back of your throat? No, they cannot. They move on, away from this strange individual that is asking about smell. The clough is now a good kilometre behind us and I realise that is where Scout first sensed the tang of the wood smoke, first showed an interest in the anomaly that was present in the land. Reaching the summit there is a group of Chinese students taking selfies with their phones. They are all wearing paper face masks. For a moment one removes the mask and giggling, poses against the backdrop of one of the few peaks around. Then they put the mask back on, walk away from the gritstone edge, and only then do they gather around each other and look at the image. They seem pleased, and another one rushes to the edge, hands held out for support as they step across a small gap, the giggles drifting away on the wind. Scout lays at my feet his coat moving in waves as the wind runs through it. I cough some more, my lungs trying to eject the foreign molecules that are slowly coating the inside. Turning away we head down wind and the sharp smell leaves me. The ribbons flowing through me now, driven onwards, away from me by the wind, the acrid smoke no longer being driven into my lungs. And there is silence and no birdsong.


We went for a walk yesterday. Scout and I. The two of us, are now we. That I like.

It wasn’t a walk I was particularly looking forward to. It started with ascent, lots of it, and added more later, and somehow my back just didn’t want that. But, I had to do the walk, deadlines awaited and the most pressing was one I couldn’t see. Would the virus shut us down again before I got my work finished and could wrap the book up. Trying to beat an unknown, uncertain shut down, had turned finishing the book into a slog of constantly checking weather reports for those sunny days, or half days, organising other aspects of our life in such a way to enable us to not be tied down should the sun shine, and grinding out the miles when we managed to get out. The days were drawing in too and that meant earlier starts to catch the most of the daylight. Somehow, my days had become pressured.

But, here’s the thing. It’s often times like this, when I am feeling the pressure of things to be done, of feeling that something of joy is drudgery, that I get a lesson in expectations.

The first part was the ascent, straight in to the hardest bit of the walk. I have developed a format now in getting up there without becoming a plastic bag filled with heat and sweat. Walk a hundred paces, then rest for a minute. Repeat. Scout gets attached to my waist harness and that gives him some resistance training, or so I tell myself. The top is always a surprise. After spending 30 minutes or so looking directly at rock and grass and soil, suddenly there is nothing, the top is just sky, and it always surprises me. We had it to ourselves, so we could take the by now obligatory trig pose photo of Scout. He has become so used to this that when he sees a trig pillar he goes and sits beside it, waiting to be lifted on. A haze hung in the air misting over the hills beyond. When lockdown happened the haze went and we had crystal clear air, you could see detail for miles. Now the country had returned to almost a normal way of life, the haze was back. It seemed to be a symbol of how stupid we were, how self destructive we were. A few people joined us on top so we packed up and set off down, working our way west into a forest.

Forest walks are lovely in autumn, the smell of leaf litter, the sound of it crunching underfoot. The leaf had not turned yet, so there was still greenery all around, but the warm air was lifting the scent tones and making a pleasant walk through a quite woodland. What was missing was water. Scout kept heading over to gullies and stream beds, only to find them dry, which meant the moors above would be dry too.

Coming out of the forest we turned for the moor and the section of the walk I was least confident about. I still hadn’t worked out where I was heading here. The old road and pub, or the unknown moor. Scout found a stream in the valley full of rushing water and raced up and down, enjoying the splashing. We passed an old farm, the ruins now almost gone, but a small flight of steps lead to what would have been a doorway and the grain or hay store. Beautiful winding tracks, now a green sward that was lined with grey stone walls that curved into what would have been the yard, came from the fields. I stopped and traced the outline of everything, picturing in my mind how people would have lived and worked and used the space. The view from the farmstead was beautiful, hills that rose into the sky, a stream in the valley floor, pasture land nearby. Across the valley was a deep cut clough, that cleaved its way up to the high point of the land and the old pub. The pub or the hill that rose into the sky was our next objective and still my mind was not made up.

As we moved up through the clough, we neared lunchtime, two hours of walking meant a break, and the eastern side of the clough had shade for Scout. The map showed that concession paths met a third of the way up, and as we approached I saw a gate, with the open access sign leading up on to the high moor. That was our way, the pub would have to be part of another walk. We crossed the brook and found a shady spot to lunch. Scout first, then my boots and socks off, lunch box out and sit back and relax. I like this little ritual, the process of settling down, time slowing, my body merging into the landscape for a brief moment. Scout was soon snoozing and I was studying a beautiful old sheepfold tucked into the clough bottom. The stones were from the land here, probably where we now sat in this shady hollow, and being local they helped the fold to sit in the landscape and be part of rather than some addition. Generations of craft had produced a work that stood against the elements and looked beautiful, natural, fitting. I laid back in the bilberry and moss watching Scout snooze, content, comfortable, in the moment.

We walked up the steep hillside onto the moor. It was dry today, but the carpet sphagnum moss that laid as far as the eye could see told of a wet land, one to be picked over in wetter times. There was no discernible path across the moor, no signs of tracks, just moss and grass. I realised this place was little walked on, access being out of the way. It was a beautiful place. The views across to the hill we had climbed earlier in the day were wide and expansive. All that could be seen was moor, pasture and drystone wall. We worked our way south, crossing tumbled down drystone walls, Scout mooched around, investigating smells, setting off in big arcs of the moor, catching scents and following them up. The ground was easy to walk, the vegetation short, no tussocky grass heads to dance around. To the north a ridge ran eastward and at points rocky outcrops protruded out in to the moor. Above these soared buzzards, quartering the land their movement kept in check by two crows who constantly heckled them. In the centre of the moor hovered a kestrel, its eyes fixed firmly on a pinpoint on the ground. I felt that sense of happiness that always happens at some point on a walk. A feeling of contentment.

Eventually, I reached the old bridleway, crossing it took me down a narrow high sided clough and onto the final leg of the walk. We passed a shooting cabin, cottage it was called on the map, but it hadn’t seen residence for many years. The basic kitchen, a sink and stove, had plastic bottles filled with purple fuel and cartons of paper towels. In the next room was a table and chairs and shelving along the walls. Adjoining the cabin was an open shed, plastic chairs were piled up a plank stretched across two piles of stones making a rudimentary seat. This was the beaters cabin, open to the elements and no niceties to relive a bad weather day.

We finished the walk along a green sward of a track, unused by vehicles, that was a delight to walk along. This walk, so unloved at the beginning had transformed into a diamond of the Peak District. The fact that it is hidden from view, surrounded as it is by high hills and deep valleys, adds to its special qualities of solitude and beauty. Scout and I were happy.

Chew Road

The Chew Road rises eight hundred feet in a little over a mile from the reservoir at the bottom in the valley to the reservoir at the top on Long Ridge Moss moor. In summer it is a hellish slog along the rough tarmac that carves its way along the northern side of the Chew Valley. There is no shade and what water is available, has spent millions of years slicing a narrow ‘V” between north and south. The side so precipitous to the streambed and so strewn with a tumble of rocks and steep scree, that it will break a leg as easily as snapping a twig. The landscape is bleak and barren devoid of what any normal person might call beauty. In winter it is hell.

            The Devil’s reign over this domain is further buttressed by the names that accompany each major geological feature. Wilderness Gully, Charnal Clough, Charnal Hole, Deadman’s Layby, Indians Head, and The Wilderness. Many people have died and have come to die here. Some brought by the thrill of climbing the vertical crags, only to be reminded for a final time that gravity makes no allowance for skill, wealth, age or beauty. There have been few escapes from the rocks that line the water below. Others possibly attracted by its remoteness fancy it as a final resting place, Deadman’s Layby being the layby of choice for at least two people.

            Scout and I now crouch down in Deadman’s . We are waiting to commence a search and getting low gets us out of a biting wind that runs up the valley and cuts straight through us. Scout chooses his position well and uses me as his windbreak, his nose pointing out into the wind sampling the scents that are being driven airborne up the road to the top. Border Collie dogs are noted for their ability to survive and thrive in harsh conditions.

            My attention is drawn to the rime ice from the low cloud that has formed on the heather and long grasses that cover the moor. The ice extends from the plant stems growing one crystal at a time in the direction of the north wind.  I study the one nearest to me. Fine horizontal icicles twinkle as I move my head around to study the structure. It is made of blocks of ice so delicate I can see how each has formed from the previous one, gradually building outwards like a suspension bridge.

            I give Scout his release command and he darts down the slope towards the water. The wind is coming up the valley so I need to guide him to the top then we can work our way down heading into the wind. His nose is around two hundred million times more powerful than mine, I use my eyes to map the ground, and he uses his sense of smell. My aim is to keep him at ninety degrees to the wind, working in a zig zag pattern as we progress down one side. I watch him carefully as he explores the boulders that lay under inches of snow. This makes my progress slow, as I have to take care not to have my leg down a deep hole or leg breakers as they are known.

            As Scout quarters back and forth I watch from vantage points to note if his nose goes up in the air indicating he has locked on to a smell. Humans shed forty thousand cells every minute. They fall to the ground forming a pool around our feet that then begins to dissipate on the wind making rafts of scent over the landscape. This is what a dog detects when you see it nosing the wind. The difference with Scout is that it tells him there maybe a body close by and if there is a body that means playtime with his toy if he gets me to the location. It sounds simple but in practice there are a thousand things that can affect that flow of cells. Wind and temperature are the most crucial. A rising temperature will take a scent up hill and vice versa for cooling air. Wind can do strange things with scent. It can lift it hundreds of feet into the air then dump the cells on to a plateau whilst the body lies on the valley floor. Water has a similar effect. If Scout starts to track along a streambed chances are that the water is transporting scent down from a location higher up.

            Scout is heading across the wind towards me now and as he does so his nose snaps into the wind and he brakes suddenly then turns into the wind and heads with purpose through the snow. He works his way through a boulder field, moving left and right, sometimes stopping to sniff between rocks as scent works its way under the covering of snow. I support him, telling him to ‘Find him out’, and the command to intensify his searching. His concentration is now total, nothing else exists, not even me. He disappears around a rock pinnacle and I hear his falconry bell chiming as he climbs the rock face. Then, all is silent.

            If the bell goes silent when he is intensely searching I know he has found a body. The bell starts again and I see him re appear at the top of the rocks searching for me. As he spots me he starts to pick his way down the face of the vertical rock. He loves this so much. I stay still watching him as he picks his way through the boulder field towards me. As he draws to my feet he pulls his head back and speaks. A single bark, full throated, I can see right down into his insides his mouth is that wide. Once the bark is out he spins around and returns the same way he came to me. This is his positive indication that he has found a body so I follow up behind him, telling him what a good boy he is. Again he moves out of sight and again he comes into view again and heads back to me to tell me there is a body. He will repeat this until I have arrived at the location where a human lies hidden under a thick blanket of snow.

            I squeal in delight at Scout telling him what a good boy he is then I launch his toy, his reward, the one and only thing he wants out of the whole process. I shout reward, the command for him to play and the signal for the body to come alive and play with Scout.  As they play I look back over the land we have travelled and make a mental note of how the wind is playing amongst the boulders. It has been a good half a kilometre from where the body is located to where Scout first caught his scent. The strike, as we call it, has been impressive, the wind has helped but the snow has chilled the scent rafts and the boulders with their nooks and crannies have absorbed much of the evidence. It’s a good find.  I bend down and secrete two dog chews into the body’s hands. As he gives them to Scout I remove the toy and hide it back into my pocket.

Scout sits there looking around for the toy then looks at me and indicates he is ready to go and find the next body. I ruffle his forehead and I’m sure he smiles then we head off down the valley and the strengthening wind.

A wet landscape

It was a bitter morning, the sky grey, dull clouds heavy and bulbous, hung low almost touching the hill tops, keeping afloat by the mattress of air that sat between them. This winter has been a disappointment, little snow and far too mild to make any impression on the ground meant time had been spent wading along muddy paths, the soil turned almost liquid by the constant downpours and the passage of boots that were too truculent to stay clean, at home, in the dry environment. The fields cannot take anymore water with each downpour, each group of three or more days of rain, new streams that cascade down hillsides create new paths within the land. It makes me wonder if this is how all rivers are made. A drop of rain, running off a hillside, cutting away grass and soil, getting down to bedrock, then speeding on until the water hits an uphill section and by the natural laws of physics turns to the lowest point and continues its search for the sea.

            The field we were slogging over had pockets of dry land interspersed with small lakes of waterlogged and cow dung laden water that swam with a green tinge and was oily on the surface. I wondered where the oil came from, the cows perhaps or some farm process that mixed effluent with lubrication oil? Why is it that country farms can contaminate land but not cities? We had passed by a hole that had been made using a mechanical digger. Chunks of metal and plastic sat at the bottom along with old fertiliser bags and the black bin liner wrapping used to encase silage. At some point it would be filled and then soil dropped over it and grass sown to hide its existence. How many are there in this field, how much industrial rubbish is buried in the landscape people call the countryside. And will these spots in hundreds of years time become a treasure trove for some digital archaeologists.

Merry Christmas Dad

I visited my dad’s grave today, to place flowers and show some respect. He died almost forty years ago, riddled with cancer and pain and the worry of when he would be able to get back to work, because what would become of us. He was never going back to work; he never knew he had cancer. My mother forbade us to talk about it lest what would the neighbours say. Mum and I looked after him for the most of his last days.

My lasting image is of returning from work one day to find dad in the sitting room worrying about work and money. Suddenly he broke down and I held him in my arms while he wept. I am weeping now while I type those words, a thing like that never leaves you, nor should it. 

It has taken me almost forty years to begin to understand my dad and finally I am starting to see what he gave for us and how much of a price he paid.

Merry Christmas dad. I love you.

The Ring Makers of Gardom

I hadn’t expected to feel such an impact of place on my psyche as happened when we visited Gardom’s Edge the other evening. Maybe it was the quiet, or the cool of the evening. Or the advancing ink black clouds of the storm rolling in from the west. Watching the dogs twist and turn there was certainly some sort of charge in the air. Or maybe they sensed something else.

We sat by the ring and cup stone that lay along a line stretching form the Menhir to the Three Old Men of Gardom Cairns. This was a good place to live back then. Flat, protected by gritstone edges to the east and west with a long flat plain in between giving good line of sight. My mind conjured up a clearing in the trees, the round house to the south with an entrance in the north from Leash Fen. And, a young man or woman carving out the delicate intricate shapes on the rock. 

I fancied they did this not for art or ceremony but to leave something of themselves. Make a mark; speak down the ages to the young man or woman today. Did they have that sense of their place in time?

Something thick and heavy muffling out all other senses. I had gone through weeks of emotional extremes and that had opened a door in to a long passageway to the past. I leaned back against ancient gritstone and settled for the first time in many a day. 

Biting the hand that saves you.


Back a year ago I was volunteering as a Ranger for the Peak District National Park working out of Fairholmes in the Upper Derwent Valley. The job entailed keeping the place looking nice, I learned how to dig a post hole and put a post in that would stay upright true as a flagpole without the use of concrete. Then there was the guided walks, members of the public being shown the natural beauty of the place plus some interesting areas where, if you knew how to look, you could still see how early man had inhabited the landscape, burning platforms, rock marks, old ways. Another part was taking trainees out on patrol, I liked this bit because the newcomers were always eager to learn, until one day I met a man who’s name I now forget but I never forgot what he said.

He was a doctor from Sheffield. Due to retire at 50-ish he wanted something to fill his time and fancied himself as a Ranger. He came on a pre training day to see if he would like it before joining the official programme. As we sat in the Ranger centre waiting to be told where to go that day we talked and somehow the topic of Mountain Rescue came to the fore. The doctor says he hates them, always rattling their tins at people when everyone knew they wasted money, why only last month he’d seen around 40 people turn up on a callout just think how much that cost. I was stunned, I’d never heard anyone talk like that about MR. I explained to him how a callout works and about the fact that MR is full of volunteers, just volunteers, no one gets paid. He retorted that it was a waste of money and he wasn’t going to fund people who wanted to play hero.

I was asked to take him out on patrol and against my better judgement I did. The weather was poor, hail and snow blowing horizontally. We worked our way up to Howden Edge, him doing the nav. When we topped out he gave up and said he wanted to go down, this was no weather to be out in. What became of him I don’t know. I left shortly after that and partly because of that. If this was the kind of person the service was attracting it wasn’t for me.

This week Peak District Mountain Rescue teams received a callout to support one of the Pennine teams in the search for a man lost and injured on the Pennine moors. The operation had been going all night and it carried on into next day. A total of 100 Mountain Rescue members from teams across the north of England along with 13 search dogs and handlers, air support and police were involved in the operation. The gentleman was found safe and with only slight injuries. At the rendezvous point I surveyed the number of vehicles, listened to team members saying they had to get back to work and it was a three-hour drive back, so they best be on their way. Many had come straight from working a night shift or were heading back to do a full days work. They grabbed a cup of coffee and a biscuit and were off. None were paid; most had spent heavily to get there in lost wages, fuel and food. All for a man they had never met and probably never would. And they would do it all again because that is the kind of people they are, not heroes, just men and women who know that somewhere someone is in distress and is in need of help.

Old Ways – Peak District

The old salt route at Humber Knolls. Upper Derwent Valley. Peak District
The old salt route at Humber Knolls. Upper Derwent Valley

It is a couple of years now since I walked along the old way to Salter’s Brook from the Derwent Valley. The path has existed since the 13th century and closely follows the county boundary between Derbyshire and Yorkshire and before that Yorkshire and Cheshire, Salter’s Brook being the main access point into Yorshire and from there the port of Bawtry and on to Europe for the salt from the Cheshire mines.

The old way heads south from Salter’s Brook over the watershed and down into the Derwent valley where it closely follows the river’s course. At Humber Knolls the path is paved indicating it was so heavily used at some point the ground needed protection. Now the slabs are disappearing under the grass, the passage of feet is so infrequent. It is a lovely quiet spot and an unexpected one too, the Humber Knolls are a surprise when a walker first comes across them, closing in on the path as they do. They seem manmade but are merely deposits from the silt that flowed down the river millions of years before, the nearby Long Barrow in Barrow Clough is a similar deposit and not as the name suggests an ancient burial mound.

Following the path along eventually leads to the foot of Hoar Clough. Ascend this and you will meet up with the ghosts of the shepherds who met at the Shepherds Meeting Stones to exchange errant sheep, it is a wonderful place to sit and talk with friends specially in the dead of night.

Footpaths in the Peak District

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I have been spending a great deal of time in the last 18 months walking the footpaths across the eastern side of the White Peak area of the Peak District National Park. I am writing a new guidebook about a landscape that is rich in natural and human history. Two of the aims of a guide-book is to entertain and inform, another is to produce routes that are pleasurable to walk along. It is a major task in the White Peak for two reasons.

The first is the lack of open access. This means that you are confined to public rights of way footpaths and trails. Where there is open access land there is often no access to the land itself, thereby obliterating the need for the access land. There is also a weird setup to access monuments of local and national importance.

Look at the map above and notice the two footpaths coming south out of Cales Farm. They both end at a road. A person may expect a footpath to be at the opposite side of the road. But this is not the case. The paths just end. There is no linking up with other footpaths so that a journey can be carried onward without resorting to walking along a road. This is not walking in the countryside, its walking along a road. The second thing to notice about the map is public access to Arbor Low. There is none. In fact a donation is solicited by the landowner. And access is only at certain times of the day. There are no footpaths leading to the site and parking for only a minute number of vehicles nearby. Yet this is a national monument of significant importance, so why make it so difficult to get to.

The second reason is one that is easy to rectify, if there was a will to do so. The state of many of the stiles and access gates in the white peak area is a disgrace. A person may have expected that the dark peak area with far fewer visitors and stiles may see more of the poorly maintained infrastructure but this is clearly not the case. Note the two stiles above, a random selection of the many thousands that I have encountered. The wooden stile is falling to pieces, creaking and swaying as a person attempts to stride over. The stone stile is much cleverer because it lulls the walker into a false sense of security. Only when the walker steps down on the opposite side and the stone step swings out of the way is the walker appraised of the stiles failings. These stiles are not unusual, nor is it unusual to find access blocked by any amount of metal. Signposts missing are par for the course. Stiles hidden beneath mountains of bramble and thistle are plentiful in supply.

The question has to be who is responsible. If it is the national park authority then what have they been doing since 1951 in achieving a footpath network that is complete in all aspects with footpaths linking up to make access much easier. And what about those stiles. Is this a cutback measure, are we waiting for someone to come a cropper before a defective stile is replaced. Is that now the plan. Or is the ranger service not aware of the problem, because they have not visited the paths due to a lack of time, or funding or desire.

Whatever the reasons there is much work to be done in the white peak to open up access to the public and make it safer for walkers to enjoy the land. The national park has its work cut out, whether it is capable is another matter.

Wensley Dale – Peak District

Wensley Dale in the White Peak area of the Peak District
Wensley Dale in the Peak District

I walked into Wensley Dale in the Peak District one afternoon. It had been a hot day and I was looking forward to finishing my walk. As soon as I entered it I knew I had found a special place. Its wide flat bottom rises almost imperceptibly towards the west; a dark green line of fresh grass indicating the central and lowest point. It reminded me of the keel of a boat.

Scout made for the shade of the northern slope and hugged the cool of the tree line for as long as he could. Sheep were taking rest a few meters in to the trees, and some moved out when they saw Scout but others stayed where they were, too hot and tired for a game of chase. Scout ignored them. Every now and again he would emerge to check my own position and progress then dart quickly back in to the shade.

I took my time, enjoying the gentle slope but not the heat. There were a few limestone outcrops all covered in bramble and tree, offering no shelter or comfortable seat on which to sit out the heat of the day. I could do nothing but press on. I kept to the line of the keel and perhaps this put the notion in my head of a Saxon burial, complete with boat and golden hoard.

Wensley Dale sits in an area that is rich in ancient sites, barrows, cairns and stone circles freckle the landscape. The land is also at the centre of druidic influences giving rise to a great deal of soul replenishment on midsummers day as those in concert with nature prepare for winter.

Dawn first touches the dale as it clears the rocks of Ravensnest Tor in the east, shining a beam of light directly down the length of Wensley Dale’s upper reaches that lay on an exact east-west axis. It then crosses the ancient Portway near Elton and hits the tumuli of Gratton Moor in the west. Each side of the life giving sunlight is littered with tumuli, barrows and lows, including the two most famous, Minninglow to the south and Arbor Low in the north. In the evening this process would be reversed as the light draws in and dusk falls along the dale from the east.

I could sense some strong connection with natural forces, but I was too far entwined in the modern world to be able to place a finger on its pulse.