A New Place
19/04/07 20:16
I've left Brownfield and arrived at Highthwaite Farm.
Felt sick leaving Brownfield, having had a really great time and a lot of companionship. I'd sat up talking to two of his children the night before, and it was sad to be leaving still in the process of getting to know them, making friends. I guess it's better that way than having overstayed my welcome, but it doesn't make moving on any easier.
Fig Roll
Shortly before leaving, I found myself sitting on the quad bike waiting for Harry. Earlier that morning I'd helped as usual, feeding the cattle. As I spliced open the black-wrapped silage bales with a pen knife, I knew just how the black plastic would spring away, revealing glistening yellow silage. Sitting there, on the bike, the heels of my boots resting on the platform, the elbows of my arms on my jeans, my feet apart, and my chin cupped in my hands, I realised how comfortable I was. Like I knew how to be there, in that place. I was happy, relaxed.
Highthwaite is in the thick of the Lake District, only a valley away from Coniston. It's odd; I've been to Coniston before on holiday (same story as Northumberland, the castles and beaches); but the landscape has a different feel to it now that I'm walking cattle up the fell. It's like I'm somewhere else entirely.
This part of the Lake District, extreme and mountainous, is beautiful and extraordinary, but I also find it frightening and violent. As we go up into the the hills I look down and notice the green fields in the valley. Flattened like billiard tables. The stone walls run across the rough terrain like seams of a jumper turned inside out, or a child's drawing. I find these things reassuring: signs of human activity and survival.
Seams
I drove away from Brownfield down the A1 towards Newcastle, the coast not far across somewhere on my left. I visualise all of England and the summer stretched out before me. I turn off right towards Penrith, crossing the top of the country, its back coarse and bumpy like a lamb's. From Penrith I took the 'scenic route' reassuring my ten-year old Renault Clio (newly acquired companion) up and down the massive hills in 2nd gear. Bless it. When I reached Grassmore, thinking I'd already been driving along a minor, hairy road, warning signs alerted me that I was in for a ride along the Wrynose Pass. It felt like it went on for ever. I couldn't believe that it actually led somewhere and was surprised, at each stage, by the signposts appearing where they were supposed to. Eventually, I arrived at Highthwaite, at the end of its very own road.
Felt sick leaving Brownfield, having had a really great time and a lot of companionship. I'd sat up talking to two of his children the night before, and it was sad to be leaving still in the process of getting to know them, making friends. I guess it's better that way than having overstayed my welcome, but it doesn't make moving on any easier.
Fig Roll
Shortly before leaving, I found myself sitting on the quad bike waiting for Harry. Earlier that morning I'd helped as usual, feeding the cattle. As I spliced open the black-wrapped silage bales with a pen knife, I knew just how the black plastic would spring away, revealing glistening yellow silage. Sitting there, on the bike, the heels of my boots resting on the platform, the elbows of my arms on my jeans, my feet apart, and my chin cupped in my hands, I realised how comfortable I was. Like I knew how to be there, in that place. I was happy, relaxed.
Highthwaite is in the thick of the Lake District, only a valley away from Coniston. It's odd; I've been to Coniston before on holiday (same story as Northumberland, the castles and beaches); but the landscape has a different feel to it now that I'm walking cattle up the fell. It's like I'm somewhere else entirely.
This part of the Lake District, extreme and mountainous, is beautiful and extraordinary, but I also find it frightening and violent. As we go up into the the hills I look down and notice the green fields in the valley. Flattened like billiard tables. The stone walls run across the rough terrain like seams of a jumper turned inside out, or a child's drawing. I find these things reassuring: signs of human activity and survival.
Seams
I drove away from Brownfield down the A1 towards Newcastle, the coast not far across somewhere on my left. I visualise all of England and the summer stretched out before me. I turn off right towards Penrith, crossing the top of the country, its back coarse and bumpy like a lamb's. From Penrith I took the 'scenic route' reassuring my ten-year old Renault Clio (newly acquired companion) up and down the massive hills in 2nd gear. Bless it. When I reached Grassmore, thinking I'd already been driving along a minor, hairy road, warning signs alerted me that I was in for a ride along the Wrynose Pass. It felt like it went on for ever. I couldn't believe that it actually led somewhere and was surprised, at each stage, by the signposts appearing where they were supposed to. Eventually, I arrived at Highthwaite, at the end of its very own road.