Wednesday, September 02, 2009
Friday, August 28, 2009
Saturday, August 22, 2009
Thursday, August 20, 2009
Sixty feet doesn’t seem very high for a waterfall. Until you stand under it. Mallyan Spout is the tallest waterfall in the North Yorkshire Moors National Park. Even if it hasn’t rained it’s worth seeing, as the water pours through moss and assorted hanging greenery – which is no doubt why it’s often called the Old Man of Mallyan. After rain it’s rather different.
However, you can walk along the footpath and stand in front of the waterfall – or, if there’s enough water, through the spray.
The little valley encloses you, and all the sounds of the wider world are absorbed by the trees, rocks and water. Time slows.
(Image from: www.nationalparks.gov.uk)
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Friday, August 14, 2009
Thursday, August 13, 2009
I hear lake water lapping …
Or a river running.
It’s all about water, and fishing – or, more to the point, the possibility of fishing, the thought of fishing.
Norman Maclean’s book ‘A River Runs Through It’ sums up the atavistic delights of water and fishing. I've just seen that Film4 is screening it this evening.
And we feel that if we can only change what we have and what we do we can reach out and touch that other place.
The travel supplements in the weekend press are full of the promise of Another Place and Another Reality: at the same time the Lifestyle sections tell us to simplify our lives, to de-clutter, compile capsule wardrobes, get ourselves allotments and we can live in our small cabins in bee-loud glades.
Or, failing that, in a tent. Lots on offer at the moment: Camping is the new way to proclaim that we have stepped away from the Gadarene rush and are returning our lives to bucolic simplicity.
I WILL arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made;
Nine bean rows will I have there, a hive for the honey bee,
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.
And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,
Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;
There midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,
And evening full of the linnet's wings.
I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements gray,
I hear it in the deep heart's core.
First published in The National Observer 13th December 1890