Wild

"Oh baby, baby it's a wild world..." Well  I tell you up at Marsden on the northern tip of the Peak District it really is - wild I mean. It's an area I have never explored or walked in before but I felt like getting well out of my normal walking comfort zones to seek unfamiliar territory.

On Thursday morning, I set off just after nine o'clock and one hour later I reached my far distant Pennine destination - parking close to Marsden's little public park and its proud war memorial. Spawned by the woollen industry, this overgrown village sits deep in the Colne Valley, overlooked by lofty farms and treeless moors. The main road through it leads over northern England's rugged spine to Oldham and thence to Manchester. There be dragons!

A huge nineteenth century woollen mill still sits in the valley bottom surrounded by humble wool workers' cottages even though its machines ceased for the last time in 2003. In its heyday, it must have provided hundreds of jobs, bringing people and prosperity to this wild forgotten corner of Yorkshire.. 

For a number of years, I have been aware that one of England's best living poets was born and raised in Marsden. His name is Simon Armitage and on the walking route I planned, I especially wanted to take in the little reservoir at Black Moss. Armitage referred to it in this poem:-

It ain't what you do, it's what it does to you.

I have not bummed across America
with only a dollar to spare, one pair
of busted Levi’s and a bowie knife.
I have lived with thieves in Manchester.

I have not padded through the Taj Mahal,
barefoot, listening to the space between
each footfall, picking up and putting down
its print against the marble floor. But I

skimmed flat stones across Black Moss on a day
so still I could hear each set of ripples
as they crossed. I felt each stone’s inertia
spend itself against the water; then sink.

I have not toyed with a parachute cord
while perched on the lip of a light aircraft;
but I held the wobbly head of a boy
at the day centre, and stroked his fat hands.

And I guess that the lightness in the throat
and the tiny cascading sensation
somewhere inside us are both part of that
sense of something else. That feeling, I mean.

Before setting off I needed a lavatory and located one in the little town's library. Don't worry - I shall not elaborate at this juncture but the visit was most satisfying! Then I set off - passing two reservoirs that sit in the Wessenden Valley. Soon I joined the Pennine Way, climbing up to the saturated, spongy and windswept moors known as Black Moss. The reservoir itself is very bleak - with a sister reservoir called Swellands nearby. Thank heavens the National Trust or the Peak District Authority have paved most of the path with great blocks of gritstone. Without them walkers would often be up to their knees in peaty gunge.

I have often skimmed stones across water and know the kind of flat stones to look out for but disappointingly I couldn't see any such stones around the reservoir - besides the geology wouldn't be right for them. So I wondered where Simon Armitage had found his skimming stones. Perhaps he brought some up there with him.

Afterwards, I descended to Redbrook Reservoir and then along the Stanedge Trail back to Marsden where I enjoyed a bowl of delicious homemade tomato and pesto soup in a cafe called "Crumbles on the Corner". There was a charity shop in the village called "The Cuckoo's Nest" where I happily deposited a bundle of back copies of "Gardeners' World" - they had been sitting in my car's boot (US - trunk) for several days. Then it was back to Sheffield feeling re-energised and delighted to have yet more proof that Yorkshire really is God's own county.

Some pictures:-

Blakeley and Butterley Reservoirs

Old barn above Netherley

At Black Moss Reservoir - no "flat stones" to skim...

The beach at Black Moss Reservoir - still no "flat stones".

"The Great Western Inn" by Redbrook Reservoir

Rainbow over Marsden - see the now disused woollen mill in the valley.

Sheep posing above Marsden - she said her name was Katherine.