Tranearth Quarry, or as some delight in calling it, the “Coniston Black Hole”—which no doubt lends it an air of mystery—is one of those splendid relics of industrial vigour now left to the rock climbers and wild swimmers. Situated on the brooding slopes of Coniston Old Man, it stares up at you with the same quiet disapproval shared by all defunct enterprises.
The Coniston Fells, largely trampled by indifferent sheep, are not without their historical importance. Bronze Age cairns dot the landscape, and there are also the remains of prehistoric settlements. The most glaring reminders of human activity, however, are the numerous slate quarries scattered about, much like discarded projects, each an ode to ambition and inevitable decline.
Ah, slate! The hardy product of volcanic rock to the north, resolutely turned into roofing material, while its softer cousin to the south is relegated to floors and miscellaneous building functions. It is remarkable how even stones have their social hierarchy.
There is, of course, the small wonder of that persistent waterfall, falling down despite the water level’s remarkable stability, though I never quite worked out how or why.
As for the quarry itself, it met the inevitable fate of all such enterprises, closing its gates when the world decided when the demand could be met on a more industrial scale—and cheaper. And thus, Tranearth Quarry was handed over to time, weather, and the sheep. One imagines the latter are entirely indifferent.