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From a Templars’ Retreat to a Cobbler’s Last Stand: The Many Lives of Brathwatte
I see a rock outcrop on the crest of a hill and feel a maddening urge to investigate. So, naturally, I ended up on Tor Hill Crags, gazing down over Westerdale. Or, perhaps, that should be Camisedale—a name found in the Domesday Book, while Westerdale, notably, is not. The general presumption is that they are,…
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Of Cloud and Candle-Rushes: Taxation, Tradition, and a Dreich Brian’s Pond
What a profoundly uninspiring morning it has been—so much dull, grey cloud blanketing the Cleveland Hills that one might have suspected a conspiracy to make photography impossible. Still, in search of a morsel of interest, I plodded resolutely up to Brian’s Pond, which is quite possibly named in honour of that storied Irish figure, “Bryan…
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The Power of 1001: A Curse of Commercial Memory
Roseberry — there is something rather comforting about returning to one’s own patch after a trip away, as if the local familiarity becomes a source of great solace. During my recent travels, I was struck by a different type of familiarity, altogether less welcome. A chap of my own vintage was sharing with us the…
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Sun, Sea, and Scallops: Dawn in Amble
Out & About early to watch the sunrise at Amble’s breakwater. By some miracle of timekeeping, we reached our destination with scarcely a moment to spare, only to find that the most “pleasing” photographs were taken on the way, long before the appointed sunrise. Alas, we missed the so-called ‘blue hour’, that fleeting interval when…
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A Geologist’s Nightmare: Wild Guesses at Dunbar
A fleeting stopover at Dunbar and a wander along the coastline offered up a geological wonder. The rock formation on the shore was arranged, rather whimsically, in red and grey layers, calling to mind a Scooby snack tipped on its side. Of course, not being a geologist, I can only speculate wildly about the rock…
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The Bridge at Aberfeldy: A Symbol of Wade’s Grand Scheme
A stroll along the banks of the “Beautiful silvery Tay,” immortalised by William McGonagall, Scotland’s least celebrated poet—a man whose crimes against verse are beyond reproach. To dwell any longer on his literary failings would be an unnecessary indulgence, so let us leave him by the river and proceed to Aberfeldy, where we stumbled upon…
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Loch Druich: the Lull Before the Storm
Last night, we found ourselves upon the shores of Loch Druich, that serene lull before the delightful chaos of Storm Ashley. One could not help but note the poetic irony of fleeing eastward from nature’s wrath, only to reflect on a past replete with violence. Loch Druich, naturally, is more than just a postcard. It…
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Dun Telve: An Ancient Scottish Broch
The Glenelg Brochs, so-called, are of course not actually in Glenelg at all. They are, if one insists on accuracy, in the smaller Gleann Beag, but such a trifling detail is likely of no interest to the modern tourist, who seeks spectacle over precision. Here, there are two of these ancient towers to be found,…
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Pikeawassa
The sun, in one of its rare moments, shines through a gap in the clouds, casting a spotlight upon the charmingly named Pikeawassa, a ridge of modest distinction dividing Martindale and Fusedale—perhaps two of the quietest dales in the Lake District. What history led to this delightful collision of syllables? The etymology of “Pikeawassa” is…
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The Bungalow
Another day, another fell. Today’s offering: Beda Fell overlooking Martindale, a place so tranquil one might almost forget the raucous spectacle of last night, when the local Red Deer stags continued to engage in their all-night rutting contests. Nature, it seems, never takes a night off. Now, let us move on to the red roofed…
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