Those who walk from Kirkstone Pass
up along the ridge they call
Saint Raven’s Edge
to Caudale Moor and then
across to Harter Fell
sometimes look towards the East
And see dark clouds hanging over Shap.
And underneath, strung out,
in ragged curtains, rain.
They then decide to hurry down
to Troutbeck and the shelter
of its tearooms and its pubs.
The path follows the beck
running parallel to
the old Roman road
they call High Street.
An hour’s walk until you hit the proper road.
But there is a shorter route
if you turn off the track.
A small valley cut by glaciers
hanging on the mountainside.
A steep descent
and then at the mouth
a scramble down a rocky slope.
Easy in Summer,
though a little harder in the Winter months.
This route might save you
up to half an hour over all,
but it’s rarely taken.
The walkers pause,
look down into the valley,
shiver, even on the brightest day,
and then hurry on
taking the longer route
and the discomfort of the rain.
Why? They couldn’t tell you
if you asked.
Though they might talk
of shadows cast by the high peaks
and the gloomy picture
the last discoloured streaks
of snow made, lying on
the scattered rocks and scree.
Some places do that, don’t they?
Have an atmosphere that produces
some instinctive feeling
over which we have
no control. Like the blinking of an eye.
Or the burnt hand’s leap away from heat.
A reflex action of the mind.
Unconsidered, soon forgotten.
This place had that effect.
It was December when I was there
and early snow lay heavy on the ground.
I'd gone out late and in equipped
and when I looked ahead
and saw dark clouds, full of snow
boiling westwards,
piled one upon the other,
I must admit I was afraid.
There was no shelter there.
I hurried on across tile broken ground
until I reached the valley's head.
I hesitated, looked away.
But time was short
I left the path and set off,
down a steeply sloping bank
of frozen snow.
I had no axe or crampons.
It was a stupid thing to do.
My foot slipped upon the ice
and I went spinning down.
How far I fell
I do not know
I know I tried to break my fall.
Threw out my arms
and made things worse.
I twisted round and hurtled on
headfirst
until I hit the softer snow
and ended in a drift.
I must have hit a rock.
There was a sudden flash of pain
both black and bright.
And the next thing 1 knew
everything was white.
Whiteness in my eyes.
My nose, my ears, my mouth.
I was drowning.
In panic I blindly flailed upwards
and broke the surface of the snow,
to stand unsteady on my feet again.
I was unhurt apart from
the aching of my head
and the fact I'd lost a glove
and all the feeling in that hand
I stood shaking with the cold.
Then I was relieved to see
further down the valley
a huddled group of walkers.
I went down to meet them and as I did
they hurried forwards too.
Then I noticed
how oddly they were dressed
The man who led was wearing
A dark suit, white shirt and tie.
A woman in a printed dress.
Another wearing jeans.
Tourists who had left their coach
Wandered from the path
and lost themselves
up here in the hills.
Suddenly as he drew closer
I was struck
by an awful familiarity
about the man....
up along the ridge they call
Saint Raven’s Edge
to Caudale Moor and then
across to Harter Fell
sometimes look towards the East
And see dark clouds hanging over Shap.
And underneath, strung out,
in ragged curtains, rain.
They then decide to hurry down
to Troutbeck and the shelter
of its tearooms and its pubs.
The path follows the beck
running parallel to
the old Roman road
they call High Street.
An hour’s walk until you hit the proper road.
But there is a shorter route
if you turn off the track.
A small valley cut by glaciers
hanging on the mountainside.
A steep descent
and then at the mouth
a scramble down a rocky slope.
Easy in Summer,
though a little harder in the Winter months.
This route might save you
up to half an hour over all,
but it’s rarely taken.
The walkers pause,
look down into the valley,
shiver, even on the brightest day,
and then hurry on
taking the longer route
and the discomfort of the rain.
Why? They couldn’t tell you
if you asked.
Though they might talk
of shadows cast by the high peaks
and the gloomy picture
the last discoloured streaks
of snow made, lying on
the scattered rocks and scree.
Some places do that, don’t they?
Have an atmosphere that produces
some instinctive feeling
over which we have
no control. Like the blinking of an eye.
Or the burnt hand’s leap away from heat.
A reflex action of the mind.
Unconsidered, soon forgotten.
This place had that effect.
It was December when I was there
and early snow lay heavy on the ground.
I'd gone out late and in equipped
and when I looked ahead
and saw dark clouds, full of snow
boiling westwards,
piled one upon the other,
I must admit I was afraid.
There was no shelter there.
I hurried on across tile broken ground
until I reached the valley's head.
I hesitated, looked away.
But time was short
I left the path and set off,
down a steeply sloping bank
of frozen snow.
I had no axe or crampons.
It was a stupid thing to do.
My foot slipped upon the ice
and I went spinning down.
How far I fell
I do not know
I know I tried to break my fall.
Threw out my arms
and made things worse.
I twisted round and hurtled on
headfirst
until I hit the softer snow
and ended in a drift.
I must have hit a rock.
There was a sudden flash of pain
both black and bright.
And the next thing 1 knew
everything was white.
Whiteness in my eyes.
My nose, my ears, my mouth.
I was drowning.
In panic I blindly flailed upwards
and broke the surface of the snow,
to stand unsteady on my feet again.
I was unhurt apart from
the aching of my head
and the fact I'd lost a glove
and all the feeling in that hand
I stood shaking with the cold.
Then I was relieved to see
further down the valley
a huddled group of walkers.
I went down to meet them and as I did
they hurried forwards too.
Then I noticed
how oddly they were dressed
The man who led was wearing
A dark suit, white shirt and tie.
A woman in a printed dress.
Another wearing jeans.
Tourists who had left their coach
Wandered from the path
and lost themselves
up here in the hills.
Suddenly as he drew closer
I was struck
by an awful familiarity
about the man....