Peak Ponderings (1)

I recently visited my parents, who live on the edge of the Peak District. On the edge of the Peak sounds like quite a good metaphor for what life often feels like for me – on the verge of getting there (wherever “there” is), or even achieving or experiencing something awesome; or alternatively, about to come tumbling down!! Regular readers will remember that I crave straight and level flight, rather that the aerobatics that my emotions tend to take me on. And sometimes I find a way that is a little calmer, less erratic, less emotion-fuelled. But when I don’t, On the edge of the Peak fits it quite well.

But in this case, we’re talking geography. My parents live in East Cheshire, where the Cheshire Plain starts to pick itself up in folds and foothills and climb towards the wonder of the Peak District. One day, we went on an afternoon‘s excursion into the hills.

It was sunny, cloudy, a bit breezy, and beautiful. I was driving and did concentrate on the ever-bending road, but also managed to glimpse some of the views, and took them in particularly when we stopped for food.

So here is the first instalment of my Peak Ponderings.

Shadows and Spells

Sharp shadows cut across the lumpy countryside,

Bright sun at autumn-angle shining

On miniature cliffs, arrow-straight stone walls,

Chevronned warnings beside the road,

The occasional dome of oak.

Here are no blurred edges, but abrupt transitions:

Light to dark, down to up, left to right;

Long, rising mound of Shining Tor here,

Sharp tip of Shutlingsloe there.

This is a place of strange magic,

Full of names to conjure with:

Wildboarclough, Windgather Rocks,

Axe Edge Moor and Rushup Edge,

Gib Hill Barrow, Grindslow Knoll,

Blue John Cavern and Kinder Scout,

Tegg’s Nose, Mam Tor, and Greenfield Falls,

The Nine Ladies Standing Stones.

Each speaks of height or hidden depth,

Of boulders, climbs, the earth’s landmarks,

Of ancient rites and long-lost lives.

They tell the tales of those who worked

Hoped and struggled, overcame,

And died, in these wild hills.

Their beauty has its own transitions,

Now lit by sun through gathering clouds,

Now ‘gulfed in fog or swept with snow,

Now calm, now fierce with wind.

They are themselves, these hills,

Protected now from changes wrought

By human imposition,

And left to speak their story, spin their spell

On all who enter in.

Sharp shadows cut across, and catch the eye,

Take the breath,

Invite the mind to stop and stay

And let the wonder do its work,

The wonder of this lumpy, lofty land.