Category Archives: walking

Kinder Scout

Kinder Scout is a mountainous plateau in the dark peaks of Derbyshire – a landscape populated with eerie wind sculpted boulders – some like the petrified forms of giants, others massive and layered, a city of the dead, a prehistoric world that must have perplexed and astonished generations.

Climb Kinder Scout and you are often in the clouds, as we were, in July 2023, a summer of rain. But when the clouds cleared the views were dizzying, to see so far, and so much, further peaks, pale and distant, the valley, villages, rivers, roads, a railway. The boulders on Kinder Scout take on many forms, of huge fists, monstrous mushrooms, lost peoples, alien civilisations. I hadn’t expected this, the weirdness of it, the wonder. Below us waterfalls cascaded into the valley and the world rolled away, it was breathtaking, magnificent and life enhancing. And it was not a straightforward climb, at least not from our starting point, Edale. It was a scramble up a steep ravine, or clough, of large boulders, this one called Grindstone. This meant taking extreme care, stepping from rock to rock, it would have been easy to lose concentration and slip. It’s not dangerous, but it’s not easy. But it is demanding, and it takes effort. To climb Kinder Scout up Grindstone Clough requires a certain level of fitness and persistence. You have to want to get to the top. Poor Cathy, my partner, half way up a well-meaning bloke behind us pointed out her boot was split, the heel detached. Cathy was, rightly, annoyed. What was the point, she said, in him telling me? It was worse, both boots had gone, both heels detached. But we had to press on, and we did, to the top, and the boots held. But later, they were given a funeral, fifteen years she’d had those boots, but Kinder Scout got the better of them.

Kinder Scout was the planned objective of the mass trespass of 1932, led by Benny Rothman, then just 20, a member of the Young Communist League, when groups of walkers gathered to protest against the landowners who, in 1877, had begun to close off the area, possibly to protect their grouse shooting an activity that took up, at most about two weeks of every year. In 1894 a railway station opened at Edale, giving Mancunians greater access to Kinder Scout. But in the 1920s more and more parts of Kinder Scout became closed off. The area had long been open to the public, most walkers were workers from Manchester who had, until then, enjoyed the free access, which now was being denied. Ewan McColl, folk singer, then 17 and plain Jimmie Miller, took part in the trespass, which probably never actually made it to Kinder Scout – they were waylaid by gamekeepers with dogs and eventually six of the young rambler were arrested and five imprisoned, the harshest sentence of 6 months.

The Manchester Guardian covered the trial, and this led to growing hostility towards the landowners. Eventually in 1949, the creation of National Parks – ten to begin with, but since then another five have been created. Although Kinder Scout is a symbol of the right to roam, the work of changing the law is probably more the result of the work of other groups – most significantly the Ramblers’ Association. The Sheffield Clarion Ramblers had made an earlier trespass, but this didn’t get the publicity – many rambling groups opposed the mass trespass of Kinder Scout, believing quieter methods would achieve access. Kinder Scout has become a symbol of the right to roam, but it was not a single blow dealt by the working class on landowners. It was not until 1958 that Kinder Scout became open to the public, and not until 2000, 68 years after the mass trespass, that the Crow Act – the countryside rights of way act, made provision for public rights of way further access to the countryside. And it should be noted all legislation to greater access to the countryside in England and Wales has come about under Labour Governments.

Even now only 8% of land in England and Wales is open to the public. In Scotland the access is far greater, where nearly all land is accessible to the public. Similarly people in some of the the Nordic countries, particularly Sweden, have almost complete access to the land – with laws stipulating that a hiker has a right to camp for one or two nights. There is a health crisis in the UK, with treatment for diabetes type 2, for example, being a huge drain on the NHS. And yet there is some evidence to show that exercise, and particularly walking, can lower the risk. So it’s not a huge leap to imagine that granting more open access to land could not only reduce the strain on the NHS, but save lives.

(this is a transcription of an episode of my podcast ‘These Weird Isles’ – available via Spotify, Soundcloud, Amazon, Apple etc.)

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The Hill of Dreams

Dominating the reclaimed marshlands of South Wales, Twm Barlwm stands as a barrier against potential invaders. I grew up below that mountain, in Newport, and every Good Friday a group of friends would undertake a strange pilgrimage to the top, an Iron Age hillfort, with its dome like construction at the summit.  We used to call it the twmp, or the pimple, but from a distance its not difficult to see the mountain as a reclining woman.  The pinnacle of Twm Barlwm is more like a nipple.

In The Silbury Treasure Michael Danes maintains that the Avebury stone circle in Wiltshire, and neighbouring Silbury Hill, the largest man made mound in Europe, is a Neolithic monument to procreation: the hill is a womb, the site, according to Dames, depicts a woman giving birth.

Neolithic peoples were the first farmers, and were well aware of the cycles of the seasons.  They sowed and they reaped, and the invention of agriculture gave rise to settlements of much greater complexity than those that preceded them.

Perhaps Twm Barlwm is a similar construction, on a gargantuan scale.  You can see the mountain from across the channel, in Bristol.   The Romans built a fort and amphitheatre at Caerleon, just a few miles to the south of Twm Barlwm.  I’ve often wondered if it was a base to lay siege to the mountain,  Twm Barlwm, Tump Bellum, hill of war.

I left Wales to go to art school in London.  There I discovered a tiny subculture of writers, poets and musicians who were admirers of the late nineteenth century Welsh mystic and author Arthur Machen.   Machen grew up in Newport, but his writing life did not begin until he moved to that same suburb I found myself, Acton.

His London Adventure is my favourite book of his, but here I want to concentrate on The Hill of Dreams, which begins with this wonderful sentence:

‘There was a glow in the sky as if great furnace doors were opened.’

The Hill of Dreams is Machen’s fantasy of his childhood, and the hill is, of course, Twm Barlwm.  It fictionalises Machen’s boyhood, much like my own, and his departure to London, where he attempts to make a living as a writer.

What pervades his books is a sense of the uncanny, of a belief that something more lies behind reality.  I read his books at a time when I was struggling to move forward.  On the evening I moved into a new room in a shared flat, it was a bitter winter, the heating failed, the pipes froze, as I was attempting to finish my first novel, a strong wind burst the window in my room, and when I reached down for my unpacked bag to find a jumper, I discovered the flat’s cat had pissed in it.

The cat’s owner had named it Crowley after the occulist, Aleister Crowley.  Crowley (the man, not the cat) was an admirer of Machen, but the admiration was far from mutual.  Aleister Crowley, I imagine, was the sort of man who would urinate in your bag and find it funny.  For weeks after I smelt of cat piss.  It felt like Crowley’s curse.

That first book was never published, but I did get a few encouraging responses form publishers.

Returning to Wales one spring, I decided to look for Machen’s childhood home, a rectory in Usk.  I went with a couple of friends.  It rained all day, and we got soaked.  It was April 1986.  A few days before the Chernobyl reactor in Ukraine exploded, nuclear radiation rained down over Wales, a ban was placed on sheep and cattle movement that wasn’t lifted for four years.  Again, I had been pissed on. But this time it was serious piss.

During those difficult years, the struggle to make my way in the big city, Machen’s books brought me great solace.  His trails were my trials, and his victories, I hoped, would soon be mine.

Unlike Machen, I returned to Wales, and to the hills: the Brecon Beacons, the Black Mountains.  I find great comfort in their vastness and beauty.  Those early years of living under the spell of a mountain still permeate my every waking moment.  From Twm Barlwm to Pen y Fan, the mountains of Wales are all hills of dreams.

 

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Ramblings and Digressions

I found myself looking at antiques. In an antique shop. The owner, hidden behind a wall of stacked furniture, was observing me in a large mirror. At first I mistook his reflection for him, and nodded a greeting. When I realised I was addressing a reflection, I peered around the barricade and smirked. He responded with minimal interest. I was a prospective customer, but he could barely acknowledge me. I was interested in the Windsor chair, but it was too late, I couldn’t overcome my embarrassment now, and walked directly out. This was Abergavenny, a place I tend to look down upon.

I look down upon Abergavenny from the three mountains that surround it. The Sugar Loaf, The Skirrid and The Blorenge. The last of these has an ascent so steep it is almost vertical. You climb on all fours, but standing up. The summit of the Blorenge can also be reached by road, which dilutes the achievement a little, but up there, with lungs screaming for air, this is what you get.

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The Skirrid can be seen at the foot of the rainbow, and at the foot of the Skirrid, is The Walnut Tree Inn. I love The Walnut Tree.

I fell over on the Skirrid, a long time ago. I thought I had broken a rib. On presenting myself at A&E  at the Royal Gwent Newport, and complaining of chest pains, I was immediately rushed into a cubicle and sensors placed on my chest.

Only the night before I had been drinking in the Church House, a pub at the Handpost, just outside Newport. The Slowboat Takeaway is just up the road, and above that is a small flat where Green Gartside used to live. I used to see Green wandering the pavements. He was quite famous then, and I never understood why he had chosen to live back in Newport. I don’t think he ever wrote a song about Newport, or the Slowboat.

I was drinking alone  in the Church House, a pub near the Handpost, just outside Newport, when a bloke slumped down next to me and asked if I could buy him a drink. He was in a bit of a mess, pissed, but seemed  good company.  I bought him a pint, and he began telling me how hard his life was, how he couldn’t hang on much longer. He told me he was doctor at the Royal Gwent, and although I had no reason to doubt him, I did. He looked bedraggled, and after all, he did ask me to buy him a pint.

I’m covered in sensors, wondering why no one will just take my word for it, that this isn’t a heart attack, I’ve just done something to my rib, but the ECG is blipping away and the doctor rushes in, unshaven, squitty eyed, and it’s him, the guy I was drinking with night before. He didn’t recognise me, of course. I was going to tell him about our encounter, but decided not to.

The rib took months to heal, and I can’t think of the Skirrid without thinking of that fall. The day of my fall I’d climbed the hill with my parents, neither could manage it now, they are both approaching ninety, and live just around the corner from the Church House.  I was there just last week. My mother is very unwell, and my dad cares for her full time. He’s usually very perky, and full of rambling, digressive stories. But last time I saw him he looked weak and frail and was sorry for himself.  It was his 87th birthday.

“I’ve lived long enough,” he said. I gave him a hug when I left. It was hard.

But today I’m in Abergavenny, making my way to the car park after walking out of the antique shop. I get in the car, drive home. On the radio Iain Sinclair is talking about WG Sebald. I love both writers. Sebald’s Austerlitz is one of my favourite books.  I prefer it to The Rings of Saturn, which many people consider his masterpiece. Sebald was a walker, and his books are often ramblings in both senses. Sinclair spoke of Sebald devotees who try to retrace his steps and fail. Sebald was a storyteller, Sinclair reminds us.

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