Meandering miles

Ah, well after the impromptu post yesterday I was itching to get out, and fortunately there was a tad more snow on the hills south of Sheffield than I'd had at home.

I drove out about 10 minutes away by car to a hamlet to the south of Sheffield, skated over the black ice and did my utmost to resist 'The Gate' pub. Wouldn't be an auspicious start to a walk with the number of times I usually fall over; I don't especially need help with this. Passing over the first of many stiles I entered out onto a snow covered field surrounded by holly hedges. The views across the valleys north were extensive, almost monochromatic with the sky a curious blend of pale cerulean and gamboge hues.


Quickly I headed off across the first field and over another style into a mature woodland. The leaf litter was covered with a light snowy crust, crunching as I walked through. So much to see, to listen to in this world! Black Russian Pheasants flew away in alarm, their wings thumping together with effort, leaves and twigs rattling as they resumed their positions after they passed.




The clean, cold air filled me with glee! Holly leaves stroked through my hair, leaning over the path, reaching out towards me, not letting me pass otherwise. I happily obliged. I was just so full of delight! Bronzed beech leaves still hung in mid air, evergreens provided a darker contrast to the white, white, woodland floor. Such a sensory experience!

Down to a footbridge led up to exit the woods into a field with small ponies, hardy and probably native to the UK. They looked to me hungrily from their hay, whiskers twitching. Crossing into a narrow track and down to Sicklebrook Farm, the dilapidated barns fascinated me, an old long wheelbase Landrover permanently parked, probably never to move again. At a crossroads I headed west down Owler Car Lane, stepping out from the wide open fields and into the next.

I don't know what it is about woods, but I feel an almost primal urge to be there. There are so many stories and folklore about woods. Some in reverence, some in fear. Imagine being in deep, dark woods that extend for acres, boar and wolves sounding in the distance. Bears, even. That still exists in Eastern Europe where some of the tales would likely still have resonance. Here in England the woods are parcelled, few stretching more than a few miles. So when I have the chance to lose myself for a while I enjoy it!


And as usual my eyes were everywhere, noticing the oak leaves, still tinged with the faint traces of green, crystallised in pools of ice, like stained glass under my feet. Paths leading down to streams to be forded, footbridges abruptly broken. Emerging out of the muffled trees I came across a tree laying directly across the path, as if to say "You shall not pass!". I ended up following some faint footprints and crawling between the lower two rungs of the fence to get through (I didn't want to provoke the barbed wire on the top rung). Moments of decision making like this just add to appreciation of the environment you find yourself in. Yes, man has obviously intervened and his presence is everywhere. But you cannot deny the overarching power of nature, the living world, the seasons.

Having crossed The Moss a couple of times already, I headed out into a snowfield, enjoying the space, the marks of pheasants on the snow, dog paw prints weaving around, hare prints characteristic with the longer hind legs. It felt like a perfect mix for me today, enclosed areas, expansive spaces. I again crossed the brook, up the hill and over a field of winter barley to a bench, marked in honour of someone who loved the land. Following the field edge along the hedgerow, birds were quiet, the odd corn husk marking feeding of game.

Eventually I joined a sunken lane, sliding down the bankside (I knew I'd have a bit of a fall somewhere!) and being hidden from view. The already hushed world became more silent still. I recovered myself and headed onwards. These tiny narrow lanes are the remnants of times of more traffic, when farming was more labour intensive, horse drawn. They link one farm to another in a usually direct route. This route was so direct it headed straight down to a ford and then straight up again. Luckily there was a footbridge next to it; I didn't fancy wading across 8ft of water in this weather with a few more miles yet to tread!

Heading up to another farm I noticed the mullioned windows. Probably belonging to the Sitwell estate it looked to be a classic Derbyshire farm with barns that had grown haphazardly around a courtyard of sorts. I could hear pigs and cattle being fed in the byres, the sound of men muttering lowly, grain being delivered out of the silos. Passing through the farm I carried on towards a wood in the distance where I could hear the sound of a shoot. Even walking down the field it was slippery, ice had formed in the divots and hoof prints, eventually overflowing and joining into a death trap tapestry. Beautiful patterns of concentric ice formed in the larger puddles.

Stranger still was in the next wood I noticed long ice crystals in particular mossy areas, as if the ice had grown upwards from the ground. The crystals were almost 2 inches long and easily shattered along their length. they reminded me of Superman's Ice Fortress, the way the crystals were formed. Now that I'd noticed them here, I started to notice them everywhere!

A late lunch was had in the next wood where I noticed the air temperature was noticeably warmer, even the tinkling sound of water underneath the ice could be heard. I got off the path and took some shelter next to a rangy holly tree. Taking my gloves off I carefully placed them on a mossy branch on the ground, sat down and skidded off backwards! I laughed at myself and repeated the process without the skidding off part, and unpacked my beautiful Caldera Cone to get a brew going. The meths easily lit on first strike which surprised me. While the water was boiling I ate a very acceptable Duck and Hoisin sauce wrap from the Co-op, followed by a Mars bar that was as hard as if it had been in a freezer.

After a coffee I packed up and headed out. Down into one sunken lane and yet another, this last seeming more like a frozen stream bed; I was glad of my walking poles. In the valley I could hear a man whistling for his dogs and the sound of the dogs crashing through undergrowth. As I crossed The Moss for the last time, just up from the Mill Ponds, onto some stepping stones, a gamekeeper appeared. He was friendly and warm, offering me a gentlemanly hand across to his side of the brook and warning of the ice covered last stone. I gratefully took his help and we had a chat about the game (he had a couple of brace of pheasant) and the dogs. He was fully kitted out in traditional garb, too expensive to be a poacher! We parted after a short while and I started out on the last stretch home, becoming part of the tapestry of fields.