Shirley was doing her regular volunteer shift at the "Age Concern" charity shop so after a light lunch of boiled eggs and baked beans I decided to go out for a walk west of this northern city. Sensibly, I guzzled a pint of water before driving away from home.
I parked Butch at Redmires Reservoirs and then headed out to one of my favourite places in the entire world - tiny Oaking Clough Reservoir with its curious stone building. See the top picture. I have blogged about it before. Go here and here.
When I got there, I noticed a few things. First, a rotund hiker had just arrived from the opposite direction. He was standing looking at his smartphone and we were the only two people in that landscape at that moment in time. When I came up to him, I said "Hello" which seemed to startle him and he mumbled something unintelligible. Perhaps he was slightly annoyed that I had disturbed his Facebooking or whatever it is that people do on those blasted devices.
Secondly, I noticed a family of Canada geese. They seemed alarmed by my sudden appearance - which I can well understand. They had just been chilling out by the water's edge. Not many humans ever visit Oaking Clough. Incidentally, may I say to any Canadians reading this blogpost - why can't you keep your ruddy geese in your own country? We have got enough of our own geese over here
Needless to say, I won't be phoning. But while I was there - checking out both sides of the abandoned building - and not for the first time - I revisited the idea of sleeping out there one night. Maybe I am slightly mad because I wish I could expunge that niggling notion from my mind. After all, the tiny lodge is probably haunted by the ghosts of water workers or grouse shooters. No Mr Pudding - do NOT go there!
Bog cotton
The terrain was difficult - with bogs and heather and bracken and occasionally ruined vegetation - previously burnt by agents of the grouse shooting fraternity. It was exhausting but, after longer than I anticipated, I made it to the very edge of Yorkshire and what was once the edge of the ancient kingdom of Northumbria.
In need of rest, I sat upon an ancient millstone grit boulder and looked over to Win Hill and down the valley to Hathersage as a gentle wind fitfully cooled me. There was hardly anybody else around.
After five minutes, I was up and off, treading that familiar path, passing High Neb and on to The Long Causeway that Roman soldiers walked as they traversed The North in centuries further back than the evolution of Northumbria and Mercia.
It was later than I had planned so I kept marching past Stanage Pole and along the edge of Broadshaw Plantation before dropping down to the reservoirs at Redmires which happen to be the source of our domestic water supply.
The only stile on Stanage Edge
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