Variations on a Theme of Thomas Tallis

The Yorkshire Wolds is a place I've promised myself to visit for at least the last 4 years. It's not hilly in the classical Lake District sort of way, nor does it profess the open moorland and plateaux of the Peak District or the North York Moors. Instead it is an intimate landscape, open arable farmland and then, out of nowhere, a plummet into folds of land, embracing you into it's bosom, turning you this way and that until you are disoriented and then throwing you up onto pasture so you can gain your bearings again.

And at this time of year this is England at it's best. Springtime in late April and onwards into May. The last of the Blackthorn before the Hawthorn truly takes over. It's not known as the May Flower for nothing! Everything is exuberant and lush, vibrant green, buds wanting to burst. I just love this time of year, full of promise.

There was a bright golden haze on the meadow as I set off from the small car park English Heritage had created. I wandered along the Centenary Way, a minor road at this point, bounded by the acrid yellow of Rapeseed crops, the smell frankly reminding me of the air after someone has sneezed!

Thankfully I was beyond the fields and off the road before very long, through a gate and onto the first chalky path. Beautiful sights of most trees starting to be more in leaf than not, though some were winter skeletons still, so a broad display of life on view.

Emerging further I caught my first view down to Wharram Percy, the much studied medieval village of which a Church now is one of the few remains. But I had decided to leave that until my final destination for fear of not going for a walk otherwise and instead being waylaid by it. So I continued along the top of Deep Dale, cows in the valley following in parallel.

This section of the path followed the Yorkshire Wolds Way as well as the Centenary Way. I followed the branch off to the left at a gap in the hedgerows, just where some large hay bales had been stacked. I sat in the sun behind them to have a quick brew. Hearing a very slow thudding noise I looked up to see a man dressed in shorts and a lightweight rucksack pass by me. Hellos quickly said he was on his way, thud, thud, thudding along at a slow, regular pace. I wasn't long behind him as I'd seen the forecast for later that afternoon; thunder and lightning with a deluge of rain to make up from the thirsty April we've been having.

A little farther I passed two muck heaps, not just steaming but actually smoking, I wondered as a combination of the natural composting process but maybe catalysed by the hot weather we were having. It was supposedly hotter than LA and as dry as Madrid; very unusual for April in England where the grass should be too damp to sit on. I had even decided to wear my Tevas and in the shadows where the dew hadn't dried out, I could feel the wet grass tickling my toes as I walked through it.

There was an incredibly beautiful section as I came upon the top of Court Dale, the vista looking deep down into the valley with the customary steep sides, this one with sheep and their lambs. And then I had "Bright Eyes", the theme to Watership Down, playing in my head as I followed the narrow path, punctuated with rabbit warrens and droppings.

Dropping down into Thixendale I was about fifteen minutes too early for the Cross Keys to open at noon, although two motorcyclists has pulled up and were disrobing in the heat and a party of four walkers were milling around waiting. I carried on into the tiny village, nestled in the middle of the dale, one of the hills covered with hawthorn and wild roses. I walked past the Church, following the scent of two elderly ladies in front of me, and then decided to pop into the village shop.

A surprising half an hour passed very quickly in the shop as Mrs Maude Smith, former proprietor of the Post Office and Warden of the one time YHA in the village (closed 1999) chatted with me about times past, the stories of village folk and requests from other people for her to write down her stories. She got so fed up with people asking that she burned her diaries, putting paid to it (she hoped). And as she said, there were things in her diaries she didn't think anyone should see! Retrieving my Cider flavoured ice lolly from the freezer for the second time I bade her farewell until my return (not long I hope) and went back out into the midday sun.

Mad dog weather it was too! I ate my ice lolly while looking at the information boards outside the Village Hall (in previous lives the School and YHA), eyeballing a steepish chalk path that leaped out at my eyes, bidding me to walk it. I succumbed after allowing a few walkers to pass, not that I saw many, using my poles to help propel me up the path. My hip started to complain again, not in pain as such, more a mechanical popping noise in rhythm with my walking, but I made it to the top (yay), all of 35m climb!

Eating my sandwich overlooking Thixen Dale I started when a loud female voice behind me shouted how quiet it was up here! I was frankly a little annoyed at having my peace shattered, but this party of four was destined to leapfrog the rest of the way with me, no matter what delaying tactics I used to slow my pace. I let them make some progress by staying put, eating a melting Kitkat, scooping up the chocolate with my fingers and having another brew. But only 50 yards on I passed them as I headed towards the beautiful Vessey Hill. It was so pretty I decided to stop to sketch a little, again the heat of the sun almost drying the paint on my brush.

After ten minutes or so they did their leap frog act but I was in mid flow and only noticed the continued voices from them as they debated which way to go (I was off the track a bit, trying to preserve my solitude!). The sun was warm, the birds were singing and it felt like a blissful way to spend a few minutes just having a little snooze...

But! Remembering the weather forecast I decided to continue on after a short while, rejoining the path and along another earthwork, testimony to the very long human influence of these parts, going back a good 5000 years. A family were having a picnic right on the footpath on the other side of a stile; I couldn't imagine why they'd not sat just to the side, but they were cheerful enough as they said hello to me! Then, emerging out of a tiny coppice, the sun reflecting back off the pale chalk land baking both me and the land I tried to keep into the shadows along the broad track that would bring me back to where I had branched off earlier. Looking at the map it seemed as if this track was part of a long roadway at some point in time, indeed there is plenty of evidence of Roman inhabitation in the area.

Just as Wharram Percy came into view my phone (with camera) died but again I met with the loud party of four, easily seen from 500 yards away as they were all clad in white. They were doing what I had done, taking a siesta on the grass. The sun was pretty hot so I could hardly blame them the cool shade in the long, green grass. The herd of cows in the valley below had decided on the same and had flaked out on the ground, chewing the cud in a sun induced lethargy.

Now taking the path towards Wharram Percy at last, I finally rejoined the four, exchanging jolly remarks about our leap frogging. They continued into the Church yard as I took refuge in the mill stream. Ah, to have that blissful water cascade over my sunned feet and legs! I stood for some time just splashing around, enjoying the sounds of the water and the Skylarks in the sky. A feeling of peace descended which was reinforced again as I wandered around the ruined Church. English Heritage have done their usual best at providing a reasonable amount of useful information without over doing it for the layman with plaques dotted around the area and paved and gravelled outlines of how the Church is likely to have developed through it's lifetime. The outlines on the hillside, formed not by English Heritage but by the lives and building of the people who lived there, were quite subtle but interesting to those bothered to have a decent look.

No sign of the threatened thunder of lighting, but time was moving on so I returned up the last incline to my car, parked on it's own when I arrived but now surrounded by others. A pleasant day in an area I'd not visited before, I definitely will return to explore more of this intimate country again.

Focal points

Sometimes, rather than nature being the focal point of my walk, very occasionally it is the people I meet along the way.

This time it was while walking to work. I say walking to work; my new job is 3 miles away by car so I thought I'd see what the walk was like, using local footpaths and trails at the weekend and so without having to rush. It's almost a mile extra walking on the paths than by the road, but integrating nature and having the outdoors sandwich my working day is very appealing!

So I set off from home and walked through the village, passing wonderfully perfumed lilac and cherry blossom to join up with a section of the Trans Pennine Trail (TPT), the central 65 mile section running from Chesterfield up to Leeds. The first section was very familiar to me, having walked it many times en route to a local park, and I struck off on the next section heading south towards Chesterfield, guided by a not very subtle post.

There is no question now of Springtime; it's most definitely here! Emerging out of the woodland corridor I had tantalising glimpses of fields between industrial estates, edged with white foamy blossom, and then the industry fizzling out as the TPT headed south. The first Hawthorn in bloom was a fantastic sight to see, with accompanying Cherry and Apple blossom, simple flowers with delicate scents attracting insects and bees.

It was interesting to see pockets of countryside, giving lie to the fact that this area just used to be self contained villages in Derbyshire, before gradually increasing in size and, when the county borders changed, becoming part of the 'Peoples' Republic' of South Yorkshire.

Continuing on the route past further remnants of industry, I came upon an interesting area, evidently an old railway station with a clear platform running for some distance along the trail. Opposite was the cordoned off remains of Killamarsh Central Station, one of three railway stations in the village as different lines diverged to serve different parts of the country. What on first glance looked to be a burned out shack was actually one of the old station properties, the wrought iron work still intact but with a dilapidated beauty. When I look at something, whether it's organic or something man made like this, I am attracted to the shapes between, contrasts in hue and tone, shadows and recesses and then more obvious ironies; the Fire Exit sign, walled in with plywood and the building having been burned down. Even the barbed wire preventing access to an area that most people wouldn't really look to even try to access.

Further along the TPT I passed a useful information sign about the station, with black and white photographs of trains such as the Mallard that had passed through here. A middle aged couple out for a Sunday ride on their bikes were already at the display, and we briefly chatted, marvelling at where we could go. Hornsea for fish and chips anyone?

Reminding myself I was supposed to be doing this to see how feasible it would be to walk to work, I pulled myself away, gaining ground on a small figure dressed in a dark blue suit with a wooden walking stick and a baseball cap. As I was about to pass I was struck by the light in this old man's eyes, that thin translucency of the skin on his cheeks and the energy of his step. We exchanged greetings and I remarked on the beauty of the station. This led to our walking together for the next 3/4 of a mile or so, talking about history, society, his cycling, life in the war, life in the local pit, the railways, his family. He had been an enthusiastic cyclist well into his retirement but felt that now his balance was a little too off for him to chance a fall, in case he broke something which would put the end to the mobility he had. I asked if he minded me asking his age. He said ninety five. It seemed incomprehensible that he was only five years off one hundred and yet he was walking along very ably. It was actually a bit of an eye opener that someone could be that fit and healthy at that age, with so much vitality. Something for me to consider. In his life he had walked three miles to work each way, spent much of his working life underground in the coal mines, his limited leisure time on a bike.

The spirit of history ignited by the train station was brought to life by walking with him. He told me stories about how in the old days people did their shopping on a Friday night, after they left work at 2 or 3, waited until they got paid an hour or so later and then the Mother and all the children would go to the bakers where the children would each receive their loaf of bread. It wasn't allowed for the Mother to collect all the loaves; the children had to be presented with their own bread. Then, taking 7 loaves home, Mum would put them all in a half barrel to keep through the week, each of the children having 4 slices of bread for sandwiches at lunchtime. It got a bit muddled when childhood ended but by age 14 they were working in the pit. I think about my niece who recently turned 11 and wonder that in the old days a boy would be going down the pit in three years time, to work for hours in the dark, rats scurrying around on the floor. Compare that to nowadays in the age of Xboxes and Playstations, adolescence extending into peoples 40s and beyond...

We passed the point I had planned to turn off so I continued with him for a while, leaving the trail and up a bit of an incline. At the top we parted ways. I followed his directions to where I'd be able to cross the trail and head south west to Eckington; unsurprisingly he knew all the paths in the area. But before that happened I found a tree where I could sit, eat my lunch and just contemplate my day and that wonderful old man I'd met; Les was definitely the highlight of my walk.

Cowboy Camping

With the weather in the UK turning decidedly spring like and warm, I fancied trying a bit of Cowboy Camping. I'd not done this before, to sleep out under the stars without any means of shelter. So, no tent, Trailstar or tarp for me, instead my sleeping bag on my mat and a groundsheet. I didn't even bother with a bivvy bag since the weather looked to be set fair and any dew that may form would be contemptuously dismissed by my sleeping bag.

There was another reason for wandering out. Finally, after being unemployed for an age, I had attended a second interview and been offered the job on the spot. The paperwork done on both sides and agreement to start work next Friday meant that I wanted to grab a bit of 'thinking time' away from the structure of home, and to commune with nature for a while. It would be a true wander, to meander at will wherever I wanted (within reason) and to still, to quieten down and get my head together.

I struck out on Friday after lunch, with my kit packed in the faithful GoLite Jam, food to last me a couple of days if I wanted and no real plan otherwise. The aim was most definitely not to walk miles and miles and bag any hills, instead I took my painting kit and a voice recorder to capture moments, fully intending to meander, maybe dwell in the same spot for a while, and to just 'be'.

And it was fantastic.  It was a gloriously sunny day, the hint of a gentle breeze, but barely a cloud in the cerulean blue sky. Within half a mile of setting off walking I stopped to sort out the voice recorder and as I was doing so was diverted by the sound of some rustling near my feet. Looking down at the ground to where the sound was coming from my eyes adjusted to see a short tailed vole, it's coat almost the colour of a hazel nut, but so tiny it was about the third of the size of my palm. I stopped to watch it as it went about it's business, making short, sharp, skitterish movements from one leaf to the next. After a couple of minutes I shifted balance and it suddenly noticed me and took cover in a run in the undergrowth. All from a matter of 4 ft from my feet!

Continuing on I could see Sycamore leaves bursting out, Hawthorn buds starting to swell, surrounded by bright green leaves. Seedlings coming up through bracken, perennial Rosebay Willow Herb starting it's annual stranglehold on hedgerows, life really starting to speed up now. Throughout all this the sound of birdsong was just incredible. Skylarks punctuated the sky; occasionally I was able to glimpse one as it plummeted to earth before pulling up at the last minute to land to meet it's partner, somewhere in the heather. The drumming of a Great Spotted Woodpecker gave it's position away. I just decided to amble over towards the noise and to wait until my eyes would catch sight of something flitting between trees and I'd spot the black and white bird before it started to drum again. I carried on in this way, not really following human paths, instead being guided by my feet along animal tracks and seeking out any wildlife if the sight or sound gave it away.

After spending a happy afternoon doing this, stopping occasionally to make a brew or to just listen or watch, I scouted around for a likely spot to set up for the evening. I pitched quite early, about 30m from a crossroads of footpaths. It was only about 6 PM which meant that I spent the next hour wondering if I'd be found by passers by. I needn't have worried, I didn't see a soul, but I skirted my 'camp' to view it from different angles to check. Deciding I'd be alright I went back and settled in. It felt like luxury, to be able to recline with your back against a tree, ensconced, all cosy in my bag with my stove next to me, open views all around! It made so much difference than to be in a tent, tarp or shelter where you would have to sit upright unsupported, or laying down and trying to read.

I spent the next hour or two just reading, having a brew and listening to the birdsong around me. There were all sort of birds, Blue Tits, GreatTits, Blackbirds, Woodpigeons, Chaffinches, Robins, Jays with their raucous squawking and many more besides. They quietened down as twilight passed into dusk and I put my book down to stare up through the trees at the stars above me and enjoying the warm pine scent. I started to feel quite sleepy and peaceful and it wasn't long before I was soundly asleep, and it wasn't quite 9PM by then...

I awoke a couple of hours later. Not for any particular reason other than the sliver of a moon shining brightly in the night sky. The land wasn't dead by any means. Tawny owls were calling and even in the middle of the night there was still the odd Pheasant cry. At one point I laughed as, being camped just off a small animal track, I heard some Yoda-like grunts from something that followed the path past me. I could only tell it was there from the noise it was making and how it appeared first on one side of me and then the other. I had no idea what it was, and still don't, but there was no sign of a major light sabre battle in the morning!

Waking up, the morning was on the chilly side, which was warmed slightly by two cups of coffee. Mist was gently rising in the valley but I was elevated so happily avoided that cold caress. Looking behind me to where the sun had already been up for an hour, the trees were backlit, their leaves a luminous, golden infused green.

The birds welcomed me back and I finished my coffee before packing up to head into the open and to enjoy my breakfast in the warmth of the sun.


The sky was incredible! A lone contrail pierced the early morning haze, the clouds reminding me of ripples on the sea when you're becalmed. The haze was warmed through a few hours later, the day building up to one of the warmest of the year so far. I wandered around again for an hour, just being nosy, watching the odd Hare, spotting a Green Woodpecker, being mindful of snakes sunning themselves. Ground nesting birds lifted into the sky seeming to enjoy the morning as much as I did.

I was about to sit on the edge of a bank when I noticed it was dotted with small holes. I paused a while to stop to watch as solitary bees entered and disappeared into their homes. Glad I hadn't disturbed them, I instead found a fallen tree to perch on, obligatory rabbit warren under the roots, and had some porridge and a cup of tea.


Another Hare shot forward out of the heather about 20m away, unmistakable with a dark brown fleck on it's ear and the way it bounded rather than a rabbit hop. I took my sketchbook out and tried to get a feel for the scene before me, daubing some paint on some cartridge paper which buckled with the water and dried all too quickly in the warmth. This set the scene for much of the rest of the day, wandering, stopping, watching, contemplating, drawing, drinking, moving on. Finally I just laid down on some scrubby grass, surrounded by the bees and birdsong, feeling the warmth of the sun on my face. I didn't reach any big conclusions; I hadn't gathered my thoughts about the big changes coming up in my life. But I knew this was a place I could return to when I needed it, to head to the outdoors, to pack up and take off for a night, a day, a weekend, more?

A Night in the Forest

After a stressful week I decided, pretty much on a whim, to take the tarp and head east for an impromptu overnight camp in an area full of folklore, history and mystery. "What land is this?" I hear you ask (unless you follow me on Twitter)? "Why, the land of Robin Hood! To Nottingham!" Or, more precisely, Sherwood Forest. A short, 20 mile drive to the heart of the Forest and I was walking.

The part of Sherwood I was visiting hosts the main Tourist centre but it being Friday evening, pretty late already and the sun setting in the not too distant future meant that most of the visitors had gone. I set off from a side road and headed off on a broad track. This part of Sherwood is largely broadleaved, deciduous woodland and which is actively managed through a combination of selective grazing, tree felling and copicing, effectively mimicing how the woodlands have been managed historically until really the last century when our love of oil based compounds and consumption, drove out natural man made goods and the value of this type of land changed.

Pretty early on I met an old friend, Major Oak, the reputed principal hideout for Robin of Loxley, or Robin Hood as he is more widely known. This old fella is reckoned to be at least 1000 years old, and is one of a thousand-odd ancient trees in the forest, some dead, some alive and some clinging on to life, surprising everyone in the spring. Major Oak has been supported for one hundred years or more through a system of upright scaffolding (painted a sympathetic green) and wires and braces in suspension on high. The 'Major' reference refers to the chap that named the oak rather than it being a name given by Robin...

There is debate about the tree itself. It is simply massive in real life but the debate surrounds whether the tree is one or a few trees which have grown together, resulting in the hollow centre. As the tree has grown the slit has closed substantially but a few years ago the hollow centre was reckoned big enough to fit an entire rugby team.

After pondering this massive tree I started off on another path, this time part of the Robin Hood Way, a 107 mile walk skirting Nottingham and weaving around northwards before ending at a small town called Edwinstowe. I didn't have a big walking objective for this walk though; I just wanted to get some air, explore an area I don't know that well (though there is a family photograph with me aged about 6, stood in front of this very tree) and to have a camp out. With time moving on I thought I'd better suss out somewhere to camp. I wanted to get farther in to the forest, away from easily, road accessible areas and where I might be encountered by dog walkers and early risers.

Heading north west I only disturbed grey squirrels as their presence was revealed by their noisy rustling of leaves as they bounded between acorn larders. There is a lot of life abound on the woodland floor at this time of year and they were the noisiest reminder given the longhorn cattle were nowhere to be seen...

Passing out of the broadleaved reserve into a plantation I was reminded of Army presence by repeated large green signs warming of MOD activities, that blanks and explosives may be fired. I was already aware the Army leased some of the land so this wasn't a surprise and it wouldn't have been the first time I had bumped into soldiers on exercise while out backpacking. On this occasion I was in solitude though and emerged out of that darkness into a pretty area of heathland. Mixed birches and oak, larch and gorse with heather and dead bracken, broad swathes of open land with thickets. Beautiful. I struck off down a narrow path and spied some thick gorse bushes I thought would provide some decent cover, though if anyone did want to annoy me I'd be easily spotted with my verdant tarp!

A spot with crushed bracken looked like a great bed so I lay down my pack and started to set up camp. I found it a bit easier this time to set the tarp in a hanging lean to config and the stakes sank firmly into the ground. I used knots instead of line loks to tension the guylines, which held the tarp pretty well. Glad of the heavyweight silnylon groundsheet with the sharp, dead bracken, the NeoAir was next, followed by poofing out my sleeping bag to air. After a hunting and gathering exercise of twigs I got cooking. For dinner I'd brought homemade dehydrated chilli with half a pack of Sainsbury's 2 Minute Meals Long Grain Rice which is already partially cooked, so I only had to boil some water to add to the chilli, and then the rice later on. I put these in their freezer bags inside my sleeping bag to help air it and retain some of the warmth as I'd not brought a pot cosy with me. While that was going on I went off to collect more wood to stoke my fire with.

The sun started to set as I had my snap. It was blissful, and to be truthful I found it exciting to be there, out in the open again after a month since my last camp, and my mind started thinking about all the different walks I want to do, where I want to go, where I want to explore or just sit and observe. My mind started on overdrive down this pattern of thought but as the sun set within half an hour or so the temperatures started to fall, so with more wood collected I took comfort from my sleeping bag and retired.

Or so I thought as another hour then two, and then three rolled by, my brain still on overdrive and sleep seeming far off. It was a staggeringly clear night and the stars, the galaxy, was just above head level. I felt as if I could almost reach out and touch them. The more I looked the more constellations I saw, infinite into other worlds. The sound of a helicopter of some sort at around 00:30 was a less welcome interruption than the Tawny Owls making their presence known, screeching a little. They are pretty common and in a wooded area like this to be expected. I love to listen to the different night noises, creatures giving themselves away, or markedly demonstrating their authority over life or territory.

The clock ticked on and getting towards feeling a bit fed up that I wasn't sleeping and without it seeming as if it would be arriving any time soon, I decided to pack up and walk out. Once I made that decision it made the lack of sleep worthwhile and added an extra sense of adventure to just a local camp out. I packed everything away quite quickly, surprised at the amount of moisture on my tarp, only using my headlamp towards the end to check I'd not missed anything. The stars were so bright I didn't need my lamp much at all, and I walked with the aid of trees I'd spotted earlier, now silhouetted against the sky or amorphous shadows. Crunching over the bracken and occasionally getting tangled I finally made it to the path on the heath, adjoining a very dark plantation area.

The friendliness of the open heath seemed to regress into the dense shadows of the conifers and a chill swept over me and down my back. I flicked my headlamp on and confirmed where I was, before turning it off and being plunged into darkness. An owl called again, but it was a familiar noise, though not the twit-twoo of childhood. I felt a bit safer. Rather than retracing my footsteps of earlier I decided a more direct route, following the boundary of the conifers, along an old track, rutted and me stumbling until my vision returned.

Passing a gap in the plantation I checked the map, again sacrificing my night vision. But I could count how many more gaps on the map I had to walk past before my turn, so once again lights off and walk. I started to very much enjoy the liberating feel of walking in the middle of the night and as I finally found my turn, now into the forest proper, I felt safe and secure. Dark, gnarly shapes came towards me as the ancient trees appeared. I wondered what they had seen through their life, surviving the 1500s with the rape of the forests for the battles with the Spanish Armada, supporting woodland industries like charcoal burning and being the backdrop to so many peoples lives.

Rustles in the dead leaves gave rabbits away as they were shocked to be disturbed at this time. Who goes there? Feeling my way along the path, glad of my walking poles where the path was pitted or rock strewn, I made it back all to quickly to the car. An unwelcome set of headlights blinded me as another late journeyman sped past. But rather than viewing this as a failure, of not lasting out through the night under the tarp, instead I created a memory that will last me a lifetime, of feeling a certain bind with the forest, seeing it, feeling it alive at night with not a human living soul around. I was sure to return.