Moorland

Gordon Gout has crept back in his hole. He is definitely "one of them". I hope I don't see him again for many weeks. He is not welcome in this neck of the woods.

On Monday morning I was no longer limping so I thought I would treat myself to a little walk on the moors just south of Sheffield. 

I parked in a lay-by by the side of the B6054 road that links Fox House with Owler Bar. With boots on I set off. No need for a map as I know the paths up there very well. There was a chilly wind blustering down from the north so I was glad that I had donned my warm Hull City manager's coat.

After twenty minutes, I cut away from the moorland track and headed instead through heather and rough grasses to the ruined site of an old sheepfold. Two gateposts endure like a memorial to the decades of sheep farming that once played out upon that windswept moor.

Fifty yards away there's an old triangulation pillar - now no longer required for mapping or survey work. All over the island of Britain you will find such concrete pillars. With each year that passes their credentials as historical artefacts increase. Whenever I encounter one I like to capture it with my camera, like a grouse shooter bagging birds.

And then it was on to the big cairn on top of Brown Edge with excellent views of Sheffield and the city's southern suburbs. Two other men were up there. They were the best of friends and one of them was an Olympic standard talker. We chattered for a while in the wind before they skedaddled. Then I sat upon the little bench that has been wedged into the north side of the cairn and ate my apple watching meadow pipits and skylarks dancing on the north wind.

Take that Gordon Gout! - I muttered to myself as I strolled back to Clint who was dozing in the lay-by. (American: "turnout"/ "pullout")