Beards!
I have nothing against beards. I have, after all just shaved mine off, after living with it for nine months. Not that anyone has noticed that I have shaved it off. Well of course my nearest and dearest noticed, eventually. It was Alex my youngest that spotted that it gone first.
“You’ve shaved off your beard dad!”
I put my hand to my face and pretended to be shocked.
“ Oh my god, its gone”
"Yeah, right dad, I knew you had shaved it off because the bathroom sink was full of hair."
I protested. I am most careful to make sure that I don’t leave beard debris in the sink, okay small amounts of barely detectable shavings may occasionally over a period of time accumulate in cracks, but full on in the sink no way!
My protests fell on deaf ears. He had gone, and as he went he called out to anyone who was listening, and to anyone who wasn’t, “Dad’s shaved his beard off!”
And I only grew it for a bet with my mate Malcolm, and he chickened out after a few weeks. (His wife gave him an ultimatum though, so I guess discretion was the better part of valour on his part.) Come to think about it though, he still owes me a beer!
As beards go it was quite a good one. It was a talking point. People said it gave me gravitas. I have never had gravitas, unless you count the smoked salmon thing. It did give me a certain confidence. But if I am honest, I never felt totally clean, and as my lovely children pointed out, it used to act as a collecting point, a sort of hairy bib for stray bits of food. And my parents on the only occasion that they were forced to come into contact with it live, as it were, could only think in terms of terrorist metaphors.
I don’t miss it. But who knows, if I suffer another crisis of confidence, I can always grow another one. And at least the sink is free from any accumulations, however small, of facial hair.
Wednesday, September 27, 2006
Some thoughts on Bakewell.
I have not been to the Goyt for a few weeks. A combination of work, nights drawing in and other distractions have conspired against me. I was lucky enough to be working in Bakewell on Tuesday though. It was a perfect late summer, early autumn day. The sun was warm and the light soft. An Indian summer, but with a hint of the autumn and winter cold to come, the leaves on the trees just on the point of turning. The drive from Buxton to Bakewell on a day like this, along the A6, is one of my favourite short journeys. As long as you don’t catch a convoy of quarry lorries, people still on their way back from a Sunday afternoon drive, or the other side of the coin, white van man determined that if he cannot pass you then he will see just how close to your rear bumper he can get, before blasting past you in a cloud of diesel and abuse on the Taddington dual carriage way. Today, I saw a heron sitting in a tree watching the Wye flow slowly under it, and as we laboured up the steep hill by Topley Pike, a kestrel swooped and wheeled dodging the traffic to catch a beetle or small mouse on the roadside. If I have time though, and I need to unwind then the route over the “tops”, that takes you on a trip back through our industrial heritage, and gives you a panorama of dry stone walls, and in spring and summer verges filled with wild flowers, is the way to go.
At lunchtime I went for a walk. The ducks on the river, played to the crowd leaning over the bridge, earning their bread from the few tourists and locals that were watching them. I think I even heard the ping of a dipper. A saxophonist warbled his tunes amongst the chip papers and wandering couples. The pace was slow, relaxed, laid back. It was after all a Tuesday. On Monday, market day, the place positively overflows with people, mainly farmers, and sheep. A lot of sheep! The smell of sheep hangs over the town, and the sounds of bleating and lowing cattle almost drowns out the traffic.
Bakewell is a strange little town. It is a step back in time, and the high street and side streets have retained their individuality, unlike so many of our market towns. You find very few well-known high street names, but for some reason an awful lot of card shops. Round a corner you can find little gems, like the bookshop, or the Wee Dram, which sells whisky, surprisingly, and a small but wonderfully chaotic music shop, that seems to cater for every type of instrument. This late in the season the tourists are dwindling. But like a late season wasp, the warmer weather had tempted a few out in shorts, and they walked amongst the locals and the commuters, determined to find something to enjoy, or gazing with disbelief at the property prices.
I returned over the tops and stopped off at the Bookshop on the A515. What better way to end the day? A walk in the Goyt perhaps?
I have not been to the Goyt for a few weeks. A combination of work, nights drawing in and other distractions have conspired against me. I was lucky enough to be working in Bakewell on Tuesday though. It was a perfect late summer, early autumn day. The sun was warm and the light soft. An Indian summer, but with a hint of the autumn and winter cold to come, the leaves on the trees just on the point of turning. The drive from Buxton to Bakewell on a day like this, along the A6, is one of my favourite short journeys. As long as you don’t catch a convoy of quarry lorries, people still on their way back from a Sunday afternoon drive, or the other side of the coin, white van man determined that if he cannot pass you then he will see just how close to your rear bumper he can get, before blasting past you in a cloud of diesel and abuse on the Taddington dual carriage way. Today, I saw a heron sitting in a tree watching the Wye flow slowly under it, and as we laboured up the steep hill by Topley Pike, a kestrel swooped and wheeled dodging the traffic to catch a beetle or small mouse on the roadside. If I have time though, and I need to unwind then the route over the “tops”, that takes you on a trip back through our industrial heritage, and gives you a panorama of dry stone walls, and in spring and summer verges filled with wild flowers, is the way to go.
At lunchtime I went for a walk. The ducks on the river, played to the crowd leaning over the bridge, earning their bread from the few tourists and locals that were watching them. I think I even heard the ping of a dipper. A saxophonist warbled his tunes amongst the chip papers and wandering couples. The pace was slow, relaxed, laid back. It was after all a Tuesday. On Monday, market day, the place positively overflows with people, mainly farmers, and sheep. A lot of sheep! The smell of sheep hangs over the town, and the sounds of bleating and lowing cattle almost drowns out the traffic.
Bakewell is a strange little town. It is a step back in time, and the high street and side streets have retained their individuality, unlike so many of our market towns. You find very few well-known high street names, but for some reason an awful lot of card shops. Round a corner you can find little gems, like the bookshop, or the Wee Dram, which sells whisky, surprisingly, and a small but wonderfully chaotic music shop, that seems to cater for every type of instrument. This late in the season the tourists are dwindling. But like a late season wasp, the warmer weather had tempted a few out in shorts, and they walked amongst the locals and the commuters, determined to find something to enjoy, or gazing with disbelief at the property prices.
I returned over the tops and stopped off at the Bookshop on the A515. What better way to end the day? A walk in the Goyt perhaps?
Friday, September 15, 2006
What a difference a day makes.
After the rain, mist and low cloud yesterday evening, today clear blue skies, and a glorious sunset. I got to the car park a little bit later than normal this evening. I decided to walk the other way round, which means I started off along the disused railway track. As I walked down past the pond the ducks, seven of them came quacking and waddling past me. I turned round to see where they were going. They were heading for a middle aged couple, who were carrying plastic bags. Judging by the strength of the greeting, the bags were full of food, and this was not the first time that the ducks had seen them. It explains their rapid growth during the later part of the summer though! Whereas yesterday I was alone, apart from one other walker, tonight there were about a dozen people walking their dogs on the track. So I had been walking for twenty minutes or so before I felt that I was alone. One of the reasons why I like the Goyt is the way it preserves the broken remains of mans attempts to tame it. Of these the railway track was quite a feat of engineering. After half a mile or so it had to cross a small tributary valley. To span this a large bank was built up to carry the track. I don't know when it was built, probably in the 1930's when the resevoir was constructed. To the side I noticed that there was quite good soil profile. It was clearly not natural though, being spoil from the building of the track. I learn't to distinguish natural features like this from man made features the hard way on a field trip to the Sierra Nevada mountains in Spain. We were split into groups and given a sand and gravel feature in the river Guadalfeo to survey and explain its formation. Ours was a gravel bar quite flat, apart from one end that had a raised platform on it. We spent a day surveying it had coming up with a plausible hypothesis as to its formation. The next day we had to present our findings to the rest of the party. After we had finished Dr Thornes (as he was then) smiled and said in his broad Yorkshire accent, "Very good lads, but a pity you left out the bit about the JCB. Any fool could have see that it was man made!" Well obviously not these foolish undergraduates.
By the time I reached the end of the track and headed off down into the valley the sun had set and it was getting dark. It was quiet apart from the sound of running water, and the startled cry of grouse. By the time I reached the car the light had almost faded. The pond was still and duck free. I headed back to civilization.
After the rain, mist and low cloud yesterday evening, today clear blue skies, and a glorious sunset. I got to the car park a little bit later than normal this evening. I decided to walk the other way round, which means I started off along the disused railway track. As I walked down past the pond the ducks, seven of them came quacking and waddling past me. I turned round to see where they were going. They were heading for a middle aged couple, who were carrying plastic bags. Judging by the strength of the greeting, the bags were full of food, and this was not the first time that the ducks had seen them. It explains their rapid growth during the later part of the summer though! Whereas yesterday I was alone, apart from one other walker, tonight there were about a dozen people walking their dogs on the track. So I had been walking for twenty minutes or so before I felt that I was alone. One of the reasons why I like the Goyt is the way it preserves the broken remains of mans attempts to tame it. Of these the railway track was quite a feat of engineering. After half a mile or so it had to cross a small tributary valley. To span this a large bank was built up to carry the track. I don't know when it was built, probably in the 1930's when the resevoir was constructed. To the side I noticed that there was quite good soil profile. It was clearly not natural though, being spoil from the building of the track. I learn't to distinguish natural features like this from man made features the hard way on a field trip to the Sierra Nevada mountains in Spain. We were split into groups and given a sand and gravel feature in the river Guadalfeo to survey and explain its formation. Ours was a gravel bar quite flat, apart from one end that had a raised platform on it. We spent a day surveying it had coming up with a plausible hypothesis as to its formation. The next day we had to present our findings to the rest of the party. After we had finished Dr Thornes (as he was then) smiled and said in his broad Yorkshire accent, "Very good lads, but a pity you left out the bit about the JCB. Any fool could have see that it was man made!" Well obviously not these foolish undergraduates.
By the time I reached the end of the track and headed off down into the valley the sun had set and it was getting dark. It was quiet apart from the sound of running water, and the startled cry of grouse. By the time I reached the car the light had almost faded. The pond was still and duck free. I headed back to civilization.
Thursday, September 14, 2006
After the Rain.
The heavy rain over the past twenty-four hours has filled the streams turning them brown with peat and silt. Now instead of flowing in an orderly fashion through the culverts that burrow beneath the path, the water gushes and gurgles over the flattened mud, spreading speckled creamy foam onto the grass.
I appear to be the only person here tonight. I embrace the solitude, breathe in the rich scent of the wet moors.
No sign of the herons, but the kestrels were out, slicing the grey sky, flying together. Not hunting tonight, the light was fading, they were just flying together up out of the valley and over the hillside, towards the old quarry where I think they have a roost.
The owl appeared, silently. Brown and pale against the slate grey sky. Hovering low over the long grasses, flickering in and out of sight, it seemed to track me as I walked along the disused railway track.
As I walk along the rough path, I am surprised by the wildness of the landscape by the helter skelter jumble of the hills and valleys and man made walls and tracks. It appears never ending in the gathering gloom. I feel as if I could get lost here, and disappear, but of course I can’t. Overhead a plane lumbers towards Manchester airport, only the sound of its engines signifying its presence. In the distance I see another walker moving steadily along the track towards me. I feel rain on my face. Time to head for home.
The heavy rain over the past twenty-four hours has filled the streams turning them brown with peat and silt. Now instead of flowing in an orderly fashion through the culverts that burrow beneath the path, the water gushes and gurgles over the flattened mud, spreading speckled creamy foam onto the grass.
I appear to be the only person here tonight. I embrace the solitude, breathe in the rich scent of the wet moors.
No sign of the herons, but the kestrels were out, slicing the grey sky, flying together. Not hunting tonight, the light was fading, they were just flying together up out of the valley and over the hillside, towards the old quarry where I think they have a roost.
The owl appeared, silently. Brown and pale against the slate grey sky. Hovering low over the long grasses, flickering in and out of sight, it seemed to track me as I walked along the disused railway track.
As I walk along the rough path, I am surprised by the wildness of the landscape by the helter skelter jumble of the hills and valleys and man made walls and tracks. It appears never ending in the gathering gloom. I feel as if I could get lost here, and disappear, but of course I can’t. Overhead a plane lumbers towards Manchester airport, only the sound of its engines signifying its presence. In the distance I see another walker moving steadily along the track towards me. I feel rain on my face. Time to head for home.
Tuesday, September 05, 2006
Monday, September 04, 2006
Somewhere in the Goyt Valley 4th September 2006.
It’s as if someone has pulled a switch. September has arrived and now there is an autumnal feel to the air. The light has that softer washed out feel to it, and the air has a hint of a chill to it. It was overcast this evening but the valley soon worked its magic. Parking the car I was still feeling fraught and frustrated after a difficult day at work. Apart from a brief moment of panic when I read the notice about car theft just before the path drops down into the valley, and wondered whether I had locked it, I began to relax, to feel the stress and tension lift.
There was no one else around apart from me. After about ten minutes, I was down in the bottom of the valley. The sounds were different. The curlews had gone, but the recent rain and refreshed the streams so that the sound of water was everywhere. A Heron flopped languidly into the air before flopping down again after a few yards. I stopped to watch it. There were in fact three of them. One in the steam and the other two hunched up on the side of the bank. I watched them for a few minutes before setting off again. Up on the hillside there was a kestrel hanging there suspended as if on a thread, before dropping silently onto some unfortunate small animal. As I moved up the valley I noticed that there was a second kestrel hunting a hundred yards or so from the other one.
Despite the weekend rain the path was remarkably dry, but everywhere I could hear the gentle sound of running water.
As I climbed up the side of the valley to join the old railway track, the two kestrels were chasing each other, a dispute over territory I guess. They flew close to each other sometimes diving down at others twisting and turning, and keeping up a high pitched cry. This part of the Goyt is littered with old boundaries. Dry stone walls tumbling down unkempt, marking long forgotten fields, their owners long gone and no one else to claim and care for them.
Walking back along the disused railway track, one of the kestrels flew low and languidly just above the wall that ran parallel to the track, before flying up and away to hover in search of prey.
I don’t always use the railway track. It is used by dog walkers and though many of them make sure that they clean up after them, a lot don’t. You need to be careful not to stray into the long grass at either side.
Back to the car park. The car was there, and on the pond there were nine ducks, two adults and seven youngsters, almost fully grown but still hanging onto mum.
It’s as if someone has pulled a switch. September has arrived and now there is an autumnal feel to the air. The light has that softer washed out feel to it, and the air has a hint of a chill to it. It was overcast this evening but the valley soon worked its magic. Parking the car I was still feeling fraught and frustrated after a difficult day at work. Apart from a brief moment of panic when I read the notice about car theft just before the path drops down into the valley, and wondered whether I had locked it, I began to relax, to feel the stress and tension lift.
There was no one else around apart from me. After about ten minutes, I was down in the bottom of the valley. The sounds were different. The curlews had gone, but the recent rain and refreshed the streams so that the sound of water was everywhere. A Heron flopped languidly into the air before flopping down again after a few yards. I stopped to watch it. There were in fact three of them. One in the steam and the other two hunched up on the side of the bank. I watched them for a few minutes before setting off again. Up on the hillside there was a kestrel hanging there suspended as if on a thread, before dropping silently onto some unfortunate small animal. As I moved up the valley I noticed that there was a second kestrel hunting a hundred yards or so from the other one.
Despite the weekend rain the path was remarkably dry, but everywhere I could hear the gentle sound of running water.
As I climbed up the side of the valley to join the old railway track, the two kestrels were chasing each other, a dispute over territory I guess. They flew close to each other sometimes diving down at others twisting and turning, and keeping up a high pitched cry. This part of the Goyt is littered with old boundaries. Dry stone walls tumbling down unkempt, marking long forgotten fields, their owners long gone and no one else to claim and care for them.
Walking back along the disused railway track, one of the kestrels flew low and languidly just above the wall that ran parallel to the track, before flying up and away to hover in search of prey.
I don’t always use the railway track. It is used by dog walkers and though many of them make sure that they clean up after them, a lot don’t. You need to be careful not to stray into the long grass at either side.
Back to the car park. The car was there, and on the pond there were nine ducks, two adults and seven youngsters, almost fully grown but still hanging onto mum.
Friday, September 01, 2006
I did not manage to get upto the Goyt this evening. Late back from work, and its dark by 8.30pm so had to give it a miss. This is the time of the year that I find I notice a subtle shift in the seasons. There is already something in the air in Derbyshire, even though its been quite a warm day, that says that's about it for summer. Move over because autumn is on its way. I suppose part of this is noticing that the curlews and the swallows, swifts and house martins, are going. The moors will seem strangely silent for a while. I shall miss the curlews in particular. There seemed to be more of them this year. It was a great way to end the day by finding a decent vantage point and watch them glide down the valley to their nesting site. Of course they will be back, and no doubt I shall see the owl silently hunting at dawn and dusk, and winter brings its own pleasures, such as sitting on the hillside and watching the snow showers sweep across you, briefly transforming your world into an artic wilderness, before moving on and bringing you back to the real more mundane reality. Things to look forward to!
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