christmas walks 2

Dog feet scuttle across the frozen towpath, barges trapped by the ice and two girls squeal with delight at their limping mutt. It obviously did something sickeningly cute. Their long thin cardigans flow and flap while their heads seem to remain still, cement like with the amount of make-up pasted across their young fresh faces, eyes black and cheeks unnaturally rosy.

I cast my gaze over the Aire valley, the sun slowly setting in the cold evening air, almost as if it wants to stay just a while longer. Purple and pink clouds are hidden behind that awful landmark that is Bradford and Bingley building society and the Damart tower. The factory now turned into flats look so grim, not as prestigious as they were meant to be. Covered in black marks even though it got sandblasted when being refurbished. Strange how new things can look so ugly in such little time. Everything’s covered in snow, the hills above, the trees, the path ahead and my old school. It looks so much purer, cleaner, yet the bypass reminds me of where I am. Five miles from Bradford. Bingley. Part of the urban sprawl where, the sky constantly glows orange at night and where it’s common practise to spit on the street.

I begin to escape that sense of disappointment as I head down a narrow farm track, children screaming with joy as they slide down the farmer’s sloping field. A slow moving stream frozen over and cows in the bottom meadow. Tom’s claws continue to make their scuttling noise. I call to him to come back while Jack Johnson sings about some far away tropical beach.

He’s a little bugger! He always gets within a metre of me then runs away almost immediately. I grab at the scruff of his neck, my reactions quick and leash him. It’s only so he doesn’t scare the cows. He’s definitely more scared of them than they are of him. A reject sheep dog. That’s why I love him, he’s a lovable coward.

We continue on, walking up the 5 rise locks. The snow icing over creating a death slope for any walkers that may be unaware. Probably the majority in Bingley. Two builders walk my way, typical steel toe capped boots and paint and plaster spattered overalls. Hair unruly, their skin smoke damaged with huge crevice like wrinkles, furrowed brows, their hands covered in calluses.

We reach the top, panting. I’d stormed up the steep hill, I’d eaten a lot that day and was conscious that Christmas was on its way. I wander past my dad’s allotment, the untidy and handmade sheds looking so homely and familiar, old sprout plants crippled by the recent frost, bean poles standing bare. Soil compact, weedy, nothing of value. The dark street looms ahead, the steep hill I used to race my brother up on bikes. An old lady gives a delivery boy directions.

I take a left crossing Beck Lane onto the close I grew up on. My headphones get knocked off by some low branches protruding from an unkempt garden. I stand in an awkward position, trying to hold tom and place them properly with one hand. It doesn’t work and I look up to see Will. The weird boy who lives at the bottom of the road. Deep inset green eyes pierce the cold night air and sting me like a harsh ant, his skinny body shivering in just a long sleeved shirt and jeans. I feel embarrassed and force an awkward smile, he exchanges a turning of the corner of his lips, sucking deep on the cigarette he holds so tightly, almost bathing in its warmth. I rip the headphones from my head and place them around my neck. A blue football catches my attention with a patch of grass surrounding it. The rest hidden by the remaining snow. Dad isn’t back yet. I walk up the drive and back into the house. Warmth and smiles.

Christmas walks

Comparing this with photos of snowboarding in Japan, it's a tough competition as to which one would win. Here, the sun shines through snow encrusted trees, like millions of tiny diamonds. Branches bare, the snow melt drips making tiny holes at the bases of the trunks. As I walk further, and up steep snow drifts, it opens out onto heathland, and there, right in the middle of the central path stand two snowmen.




The golden light shines down on them while big pilows of snow cast interesting shadows across this flat summit. Creepers the only thing standing tall and strong in this harsh cold.



What's weird about this place is that it's quiet. There is a road about 300 metres to my right but the snow has a magial property of muting absolutely anything. All you hear is the fresh crunching of it under your feet or the odd drip or distant jingle. It's definately something to appreciate when being back in this home town.

Heading back down a narrow path, the light changes. Blue. Like you're in an ice cave, the branches seeming to almost wrap themselves around you, wavy thick and thin branches. Footprints in the ice lead the way with Tom at my side, sliding as he accelerates too hard with his four paws.

Emerging from this cave, the same golden light at the summit cascades down on me but this time as soon as I became used to the brightness, slick, black tarmac presents itself. Noise rings through my soul, echoing chaos. Tom feels it, I feel it, this has nothing on Japan. But at least for a moment I found it.

Dad's are always right

This is a start to a piece of writing that I'm currently working on. It's going to focus on more of a descriptive side of writing that I'm currently exploring. Enjoy

The walk started from the small hamlet of Elterwater, in the Langdales. Heading up the small valley, Langdale Beck to the right of us. Slate mines everywhere, huge chunks of the stuff. We decide to cut across the valley, narrow channels full to the brim with water attempting to reduce the amount of it standing in the flooded fields. A steep sided hill presents itself,my dad refusing the fact that I'm right. We end up walking a further 2 miles than what we're supposed to. All I think os is missing the pub. I see Elterwater below. It's beckoning, but still my dad refuses to trust my navigational skills. Had we travelled the way I wanted to go, We would've seen some awesome watter falls. But no! Dad's are always right

The same scene, just different

Frost forms on the cars in swirling, flowing patterns. The tarmac sparkles and the orange aura continues to glow through the night. Smoke rises vertically upwards into the star strewn sky. There's so little wind. Breath fogs up the glass, a click of the key in the lock and speeding mopeds whizzing along the main road. Someone walks along the pavement. The shoes cracking, clacking on the rough solid ground. Head bent to the ground with a hood concealing the identity that a face represents. Warm breath, condenses, hiding it even more. They pass. Presenting no danger. It feels different now.

on the trail to recovery (full edited version)

Below is my full edited version of on the trail to recovery. It is in the aid of an assignment.

As autumn sets in and the colours change from green to yellow to red I find myself sitting in my damp student house with a cold. The walls are staining with a yellow orangey tinge and water occasionally drips onto the carpet. It’s driving me insane. Autumn’s meant to be bold, crisp and fresh, not grey and mouldy green. My nose is running and my throat feels like it’s had a razor blade scraped down it. I know there must be something better I could do than be miserable. My bike sits underneath a load of washed and clean tea towels, the muddy handlebars not an ideal place for something that’s meant for reasons of hygiene. I remove them and place them on the airer where they’re supposed to be. I glance at my bike, it glances back at me.
“Take me out” it cries. Either my bike spoke to me or I’m really ill. I don’t know but it gave me a brilliant idea.

It was impulsive; the wheels are removed and carted downstairs. In the mean while I phone Alix. She’s free and this just makes my day. I hurriedly pull on my biking shorts and a thermal and stuff a load of dry clothes, lubricant for my chain and knee pads into a reusable Shopping Bag. I grab my keys and I’m out the door faster than you can blink an eye.
I call at Alix’s door with my hazards blinking away because it’s a narrow street. The grey, sooty feeling of the town imposing, crushing down on me. She’s not ready and runs around to grab her stuff. Luckily her bike is out of the cellar so I take it outside and begin to take off the wheels. I untie the straps that had tied my bike on in the first place, people drive past giving me funny looks. What have I done now? The bikes are on and, listening to Linkin Park and Sum 41 in true teenage style, we sit and talk excitedly about the day and about events gone by. It’s been a while since I last saw Alix so we have a lot to talk about. Within 10 minutes we’re laughing our heads off, reminiscing on practical sessions gone by, we always laugh.

The drizzle hits the windscreen and coats it so much so that it’s hardly worth having the wipers on but I need them. I never get bored of the grey clouds in the Lake District. It’s a different kind of grey to civilisation. It suits the spirit of the place so well, so much more inspiring than my damp town house. I love the feeling of how being out of the box suddenly makes you feel ten times better. The rain continues to pester us always falling, never ceasing. I like the feeling of still being able to go out in the damp and still have fun. We don’t need fair weather.
Driving up the narrow road to Whinlatter forest I become excited, the trees enclose around us and I can smell the faint scent of pine and fresh, damp, autumn air. The leafy lane provides some entertainment, Sunday drivers not knowing that we drive on the left hand side in this country and walkers being cast aside as I drive faster. They should know to walk in single file. But these people don’t know the etiquette of the outdoors. Why are they here?

We pull up in the Masmill car park; it’s right on the new blue graded trail route. And what’s more is that it’s free! Next to us is what I can describe as a happy family. Baby screaming, parents laughing, grandparents fussing. The smell of barbeque wafting our way from the picnic benches below us. They’re dressed in typical woolly jumpers and macs, the “wannabe” country folk. Their leather walking boots with exposed woolly socks and matching woolly hats and fingerless gloves. It’s like going back to a distant time. Family holiday. It sparks an amazing idea for the next full day Alix and I have off University. A girly ride with after party barbeque. Sounds perfect doesn’t it?

We wolf down our cheap sausage rolls, the taste hinting it’s more like bread than sausage. I put my wheels back on my bike, not knowing instinctively how tight they should be. I always have to check. I’ll learn. Alix is good to go too. The smell of GT85 fills my lungs and I’m happy. On with the ascent!

I hear my breath and my heart beating hard in my chest. It’s unnerving, the lactic acid beginning to build in my muscles and causing an uncomfortable pain on the inside of my legs. I ride towards the top of the first ascent of the blue loop. My eyes unfocussed, damn I’m unfit. It’s demoralising, how could I have lost this amount of fitness within 2 weeks?
“So which way do we go?” Alix looks confused as signs point in all directions, there is some trail maintenance in progress and we don’t know which one’s to believe or not. We head out on one trail, it feels more like a descent than an ascent and our questions were answered as two young men hurtle towards us. I notice something catching on my tyre and get off quickly to fix it.

“Hey, you’re going the wrong way, you need to turn round and take the fire track to the top of this.” He points upwards, a steep hill.

We had cycled a kilometre for nothing, to be turned around.

“Are you ok with that?” His accent hinted that he was Spanish, and his olive skin and dark hair confirmed this. Pointing at my bike with his gloved hand. He looked beautiful and in my stupidity I declined any help, “I’m fine, it’s just my tyre catching.”

He cycles off and I kick myself. I could have played the damsel in distress and Alix wants to punch me just as much as I want to punch myself. We decide to wait until he’s out of sight and turn back on ourselves and find the fire track that would take us back up to the very top of the blue ascent.

The trail is littered with families, tentatively riding their hire bikes, stopping frequently for moody Lillie and sulky James. This is half term in the Lake District. Steam rises from flasks of hot tea or coffee whilst sandwiches are distributed amongst the family members. They’re dressed in the fashionable sports apparel that you can get in shops such as sports soccer and JJB, their socks tucked into their trousers whilst an uncomfortably long coat clings to their behind, soaking in this damp weather.

The tall oaks that surround us look spectacular in the cool light, whilst Yew and Beech trees cover the course of the single track trail all the way to the very top.
My legs continue to burn but Alix insists that I go at the front because I set a good training pace, it’s fast for both of us. We look down the descent; it looks fair intimidating with the berms not looking very substantial. I attack these with caution, not knowing how much I can throw into it. Overall I was not that impressed with this section. It didn’t feel very well constructed and it disappointed me. Everything else at Whinlatter was almost perfection. Next, was a better part, heading down through Pine trees, the Berms becoming much steeper sided and swooping, my bike glides round, guiding me, and it feels awesome.

Need for a coffee calls and we decide to hit the Whinlatter visitor centre and from there we would cycle up to the top of the last red descent, our favourite. We stop off at Go Ape and call in to chat to Iain and onto cyclewise where we receive free tea and coffee and have a chat with Matt. It’s great to know the people here, there are many perks. We head back out into the cold dampness and start on the fire track ascent of the red North loop.

When riding this section, you feel very much at one with the world. Pine trees wrap themselves around you and the white warmth of your breath is the only thing that seems to be moving in the environment. The black, slate gravel below crunching, disrupting the peace. It’s calming and helps you to focus on the ascent, the burning sensation in your lungs and the ever present dizzying effect on your eyes.

Alix and I practise riding with our hands off our handlebars, she seems to be extremely talented at this, her core stability much better than mine. She laughs as I nearly plummet to the ground after getting off balance.

“Bex, be careful, don’t want a repeat of the last time you fell off your bike.” She giggles.

“Nah, neither do I, I don’t want to be out of action again for two weeks!” I feared the thought of being inactive for a long period of time. It scared me. I was not only hurt physically, but, mentally too. My riding as a result of this previous fall had somewhat fallen short of the mark, I had lost all my skill I had been building up over the summer. I pushed this thought behind me and carried on to the top. My lungs ever burning.

As we rest having raced our way to the top of the last red north loop descent, my mind is becoming clear. I know what is about to happen, I know this section of trail really well and know exactly where I’m going to hit just pure moments of ultimate joy. I recollect to a time when an instructor told me to smile as I pass the steering wheel sticking out of the ground. Every time I go past this odd landmark now, I can’t help but smile. He’s right. The landscape in front just opens up to the surrounding dramatic mountains. It becomes breezy and it cleanses all thought from your mind. Just have fun. It invites you in, lulls you into a false sense of security. Obviously you still need to focus on your skill but this view, this point in time your mind is clear, free.

I let Alix go first. Not only is she very fast on this section but we have come to a conclusion that I’m cursed if I ride in front of her. I always seem to fall, whether this is magic or just plain paranoia I do not know but it is a rule none the less when we’re riding together. As expected she whizzes off on her luminous pink bike. She looks so cool. She should be in a mountain bike DVD. I’m left on my own. At one with the trail, hitting berms, humps and bumps. I feel my wheels leave the ground and get that lurching feeling in my stomach that everyone feels when they’re out of control. It excites me. I land with my weight more centred towards the back of my bike. The next bump and the same thing occurs, yet with less of a lurching. I’m enjoying this. My speed continues to grow, my confidence growing along side it. Like neatly aligned seedlings on an allotment. I hit a rocky berm, it’s rutted and I take it easy, spotting my exit. Awesome. I nail it. Carrying on and I know that there is an awesome section left but before this a bit of a technical section. A triple jump, a table top and another steep berm. This section is annoying. Next is the bit I’ve been waiting for. The hundred plus metres worth of little jumps. It’s brilliant! I get so much air. I ride round the corner completing the last little section where Alix is waiting.

She’s covered, head to toe in mud spots. She looks ill but she’s grinning, I’m exactly the same. Maybe we’re just ill in the head. It’s odd how a couple of girls are happy about being covered in mud, sweat and soaked right through to the skin. I guess our minds just need entertaining differently to how normal girls’ minds do. I feel tired, my couple of weeks off the bike really does show, but I’ve rekindled the fire that burns inside me. I want to push my riding harder than ever before and next time I have a fall, I’ll be hopping straight back on. People say recovery is hard but if I continue to have days like these I don’t think that I’ll ever have a problem.

Orange

Everything seems so orange. The past few nights cast a glow on the surrounding terraced houses. The red stone soaking it up, saturated in colour. For a change the view from the window only represents warmth as the sun rises and falls. The clouds remind me of mackerel skin. It's beautiful to see something happening on such a regular occurrence. Sun rise and sun set.

Boredom

Boredom strikes at the most inappropriate of times. The weather is the best it's been in a month and yet still there is no way you can utilise the opportunity. What's going on? Restless and tired, the blue sky is inviting. Bird song fills the air while your laptop whirrs away, hopefully this boredom will subside.

missed opportunity

I missed my day yesterday, working the core hours. The same hours when it’s brightest. I missed it. The snow on the hills wasted, that brilliant sunshine I’ve been yearning for, for so long. Gutted. Gone. Another wasted day, the long windows taunting me. I can see it all. Frost on the ground, still snow on the hills. The sun trying to burn through a thick blanket of cloud. It’s not going to make it because I’m not there to enjoy it. The glass, the upholstery, the screens. Holding me, like a prison. The air is stale. It’s dark, oppressive. It’s holding me. The plugs and wires tangle around my ankles, the hum and drone of PCs, the tapping of keyboards, like some form of Korean torture. I imagine myself nails scraping, breaking along the navy carpet below my feet. It’s sod’s law. My heart resting heavy on my lungs. Today I have to be here. Inside. The way it is.

My beach, My Place (part 2)

I think I’ve just stumbled upon a place I visited as a child. The memory is so vivid. My uncle sits on the very rock from which I write. The island out in the firth, the seaweed caked rocks that jut out at weird angles, like broken teeth. I remember playing down on the sand, digging for cockles, thinking, naively that my mum and aunty might eat them. The birdsong still clear as my memory and the houses behind stuck into the cliffs with ancient ewe trees at the head of them. This place is called Rockcliffe. I’m reminiscing on how I spent that October half term, full of flu like symptoms, but nonetheless still eager to be outside in the fresh air all day. I think my need for escapism was picked up as a child, you might call it a bad habit. Maybe if I hadn’t experienced this, the adventures, the outdoors, learning about nature I wouldn’t be so down right sad every time I spend more than a couple of weeks cooped up inside, using my laptop for entertainment, to check when I’ll be able to go outside again. The thought of living a sheltered and indoor, office type of life haunts me. I’m glad I can appreciate something that’s outside and natural. I’m glad that when I’m here everything bad about human life can almost be forgotten. The artificial lifestyle forgotten with the finding of a comfortable rock to sit on. Its delight.



I see some children and their fathers walking out on the sand. As I did with my mum and brother. These adults are doing a great thing. Even if their children don’t learn to appreciate this, at least they’re giving them a chance.

The water’s changed to golden now. Molten gold. It reminds me of chocolate wrapped in golden foil. The sun is about to set. I need to move, quick, get a better view out to sea. Still the flow moves steadily on by. It’s doing a good job at cleansing my soul. My hair flicks and wisps harmoniously with the sea breeze. Washing negativity out into the Irish sea.



I hear my voice, I’ve muttered something under my breath and it slightly startles me. I hadn’t spoken all day. I think its odd how in one day you almost forget to speak. Would you forget if you left it long enough? Would then thought and emotion begin to disappear too? Would places like this lose significance because you were happy? To forget all that lies outside the here and now is a scary yet blissful thought. Would I grow tired of this place? Probably not.

As the sun slowly begins to set in this golden hour, I don’t want to go home. I want to wrap myself up in a protective bubble and watch all night. Be woken up to the same sounds I’m hearing now. Squeaks, twitters, howls, squeals. The birds here are amazing. There must be at least 200 or more bathing, hunting, gathering tasty morsels on the incoming tide. The sun is presenting the true reds and oranges of the rock and the acid green of the lichen. It picks up every spectrum of brown on the deciduous trees on the hillside. House windows glinting at me, almost like little cheerful winks. My favourite sound of all begins to grace my ears. The water has arrived at the bottom of the pile of rocks I’m resting on. The waves. Lapping up onto the seaweed, a movement so relaxing it could send me to sleep. There’s no formality to this symphony, it’s every man for himself yet it puts to shame every single song I know. It’s a score that could never be interpreted.




The sun begins to disappear and a few shady characters begin to emerge, sunken, slitty eyes, dry hands, stubble. It’s time I moved on, I’m no longer comfortable, fear and apprehension begin to take over. My footsteps become quicker for fear of someone following me along the mid lit coastal path. I hear people up in front, chatting jovially. These people are more friendly. A smile and a polite hello. I think we all get so wrapped up in our day to day busy lives we forget that maybe that smile would brighten someone’s day, make them smile in return. It certainly seems this politeness has stuck with the older generations, the younger one’s being selfish, not considering the others around them. On my return from my rock pile throne, I must’ve passed and exchanged greetings with at least 3 different parties. One that particularly stuck in my mind were 3 neighbours discussing a break in. What first occurs in my mind is “Oh my goodness, here?!?!” I have to quickly greet them, console my shock, as each of them smile and nod with a “hello”. I respond, “Hi”. The old lady’s glasses reflect the now orange sun and the low light of the evening deepens her crevice like wrinkles. The other woman wears a pink fleece hat, a look of concern written right across her face. Her straw like hair sticking out at odd angles. The man, obviously her partner, wore a green mac and had a front tooth missing, he was slightly rotund and wore the same expression of concern as his wife. To them I’m just a nobody. It’s a pleasant thought. I never have to see them again and the opinion if they were to see me, would be positive because I took the time to smile.

My day ends, the sun turning the sky dark, rose pink with the last of it kicking up off the back of the hills, a lining. Darkness is about to take hold, although, I’m certain that it would be just as good as the daylight. I need to get back. But why did I even think that? No one is at home to worry where I am. I have signal so if they did need to call they could. I wanted to stay. But it would be irresponsible to do so. No one knew where I was or what I was doing. I had no shelter, my car would’ve made do but sleeping would’ve been uncomfortable. I wanted to justify staying but I just couldn’t. Back to Penrith. Back to the dirty town.

My beach, my place (part 1)

It’s a resort, yet it’s deserted, the winter months meaning that people are staying away. All that remain are the locals and the golfers, taking advantage of this sunny day in November. The first sunny day, for what seems an age. There’s a silence that’s intimidating, I expected there to be more noise, more commotion. More people. But, it’s calm here, the odd character wondering on the rocks. I have no effect on them. The wind doesn’t howl, nor is the rain pattering on my coat. The firth is flat, like the light. Undisturbed. Bird song fills in. They rise and fall in the calm thermals, diving at one another, protecting their territory or young. A gull slows and lands awkwardly. It’s spotted something it likes the look of.



Cirrus clouds high in the sky dictate that it’s cold today whilst across the Solway Cumulonimbus form over the fells of Cumbria, restless. It’s probably snowing. The light is of a weird quality today, it’s hazy, cushioning the emotions running through my mind. Making them a lot more logical, than had it been bright and stark. Dark rocks are silhouetted against the bright estuary backdrop, whilst run off from the dunes behind form mini rivers with banks which will soon be destroyed by the rising tide. Then the cycle will start all over again. It’s refreshing.



This is the first time I’ve experienced proper sunlight in a month, Although it’s only about 2 degrees Celsius, I’m basking in it’s warmth, feeling the weight slowly evaporate away. I’m happy, the drive was worth it, here, I haven’t much a care for anything or anyone. It’s just me and nature in this space for now. No one could change that. No one knows me here. It’s almost as if I don’t exist. You can see the curvature of the earth. I haven’t seen such a non interrupted piece of landscape for a long time. There’s something about it which just allows for a clearer view point on life. It’s simple and doesn’t distract you. All that moves is the tide, slowly rippling away. I’m drifting away with it. The sun highlights and twinkles off my eye lashes, my hair feels warm to the touch. If only I could sit here for longer. My return looms closer. It’s almost as if the landscape is changing with my thought. Growing dark, damp. I want to hold this image in my head for longer. Smell the air and taste the salt on my lips.



I decide to head back, I know there must be better places. I notice things here which just aren’t right, despite the immediate landscape being absolutely stunning. I notice the amount of waste, scattered amongst the rock pools, traffic cones, oil drums, gloves, tubs, plastic bottles, fence poles. It’s amazing and sickening at what the human race can cause by one careless thought or placement. Tree branches bleached by the salt mark the high tide point. A seemingly beautiful and natural place transformed to a dirty, impure site of destruction. Made by us. These rocks were here first, it’s unfair that now human products mingle with it, disrupting the natural balance.

I’m almost back to my car, back to the resort. The path is almost as bad as the beach. Cans, packets, glass bottles exposed by the dying bushes. I don’t understand how people can come here, leave their trash scattered everywhere then just leave. They come here for the beauty, to relax. So why can’t they keep it that way? It’s un-comprehendible.

I miss him still