We’ve had a series of early Warts’ start times from 2pm to 6 pm and tonight’s start at 5pm was becoming almost standard as it gets us to the pub earlier and home in time for food and shower, in whichever order. However, the inevitability and the consequence of the changing seasons is that a 5pm start means we are close to darkness by the time we’ve finished the run. This seemed only too apt as, unusually, we started our run on the edge of the White Peak, at Yorkshire Bridge.
Whilst various route suggestions were made, all noticeably avoiding Parkin Clough, Andy decided that it did have to be tackled, so six brave men and one youth (Louis, 13!), took to the dozen or so steps at the foot of the clough. The resulting and necessary rush of blood to the head, lungs and legs activated memories recalling times taken to reach the Win Hill summit. However, things have changed and some bodies, now wizened with age, are not able to match those times now lost to a rosy memory. Even with the aids fitted in the clough, i.e. hand rails up the steps and the many exposed knarly root hand grabs on the way up (Stannah lift next?), we couldn’t match the youthful glory days. Without doubt, the climb is relentless but it could have been worse descending, though fortunately, we were to be spared this. There was little conversation on the climb, though, in an attempt to ease the pain by thinking things could be worse, Priddock Wood was briefly mentioned. There were no further helpful comments.
Having completed the race, won by Michael, to the tops (Win Hill and the bonus of Winhill Pike), conversation did eventually return, this time about heroic training episodes, notably Simon, who ran up and down the hill seven times in succession, before the BG. The following path and track running stimulated some esoteric discussions, all overheard and therefore unreliable, about nuclear fusion and both the surface and internal temperatures of the sun, millions of degrees! It wasn’t quite so hot as we stood in the cooling wind contemplating the Harmerian descent of Hope Brink. This we did, lead by Tim, who scampered down, like the youngster he is. It is a truism, of course, that fell runners have this curious tendency to go both down and up hills, so we went back up Hope Brink to the track we had recently left, hey ho!
To increase our tally of summit types with Hill and Pike already in the bag, our next one was a knoll, in fact Wooler Knoll and, on the way there, as we discussed the distance covered so far, our chief IT man, Chris, promised to provide us with the information back at the pub. There is something slightly mysterious about WK because it is invisible behind a surrounding curtain of trees. We entered the forest and climbed the several unforested mounds of the Knoll. A magic place?
Our traverse back through the wood brought another mystery as we passed a pair of sleeping bags, Marie Celeste like, hanging over a wall but with no surrounding signs of other camping equipment. I suppose we accepted the situation (what could we do?) and simply carried on and left the wood on to the open moorland. Whilst there is something possibly uncomfortable about the deliberate burning of moorland heather to eventually reinvigorate it, the mowing of it instead seems less hazardous. Fortunately and conveniently, a strip had been mown along the edge of Wiseman Hey Clough Plantation (what is the origin of these names?) to bring us to a track leading back through the forest, now on the edge of lightness, to Yorkshire Bridge.
Our efforts, we thought, had justified the short drive up to the pub for yet another alcohol fuelled and wide-ranging discussion including the escalating value of out-of-print books (e.g. Stud Marks on the Summit) and the mileage for the evening, this time 5 miles.
But what an excellent 5 miles!
Graham sent me a photo, and when I work out how to insert it using an iPad it will appears here..
