The Booth Centre is a community based enterprise built in partnership with people whose lives are impacted by homelessness and poverty across Greater Manchester. The charity, founded in 1995, is named in honour of Humphrey Booth, a seventeenth century church warden of St Mary’s Church, as Manchester Cathedral was then known. Originally based in Manchester Cathedral, the Booth Centre moved to Edward Holt House in Cheetham Hill in 2014.
Sleep Out to Help Out
Since 2011 the Sleepout at Manchester Cathedral has been an annual opportunity for people to raise awareness of homelessness whilst helping to raise vital funds for the Booth Centre. Over the years thousands of people have taken part, giving up a night’s comfort in solidarity with people facing some of the toughest circumstances imaginable.
Manchester Cathedral
The event began at 7pm with an address from Hannah Spencer MP for Gorton and Denton and some words from Robyn Lawler, Chair of the Board of Trustees about the work of the Booth Centre. A little live music was provided by Niah And Raj, after which participants were invited to take part in one of two activities. The first was a discussion on how aspects of philosophy relate to homelessness and immigration. The second was a workshop on creating electronic music.
A hot supper of chicken and rice (vegetarian option available) was provided by the Deluxe Elegant Ladies, after which there was the opportunity to sit quietly and reflect or to further explore Manchester Cathedral. Around 10.30pm we were invited to make our way into the Cathedral Yard to find a suitable place to bed down for the night. My partner Faith took the option to remain inside the lofty chasm of the Cathedral, but I felt this was cheating.
I had come prepared to sleep under the stars with an old yoga mat and even older Vango sleeping bag which I put inside a breathable bivy sack I got from Alp Kit a few years ago. Thankfully, the September night was relatively mild. My base layer of merino wool provided ample insulation. Lying in my makeshift bed on a patch of grass at the foot of the Cathedral clock tower I was comfortably warm. I wondered how many others sleeping outdoors in the city that night could say the same.
The wail of distant sirens and the inevitable raucous Saturday night voices rolling down Deansgate kept me awake into the early hours of the morning. I eventually nodded off some time after 1am.
It was still dark when I awoke. I checked my phone to find it was just after 5.30am. There seemed little point in trying to get any more sleep so I packed away my bedding and headed into the Cathedral in search of coffee. No such luck. On this occasion we would have to fend for ourselves. As the sky above the office blocks slowly began to lighten, we walked along Market Street to Piccadilly where the best of the options on offer seemed to be a McDonalds sausage muffin meal. In the company of bleary eyed revellers consuming carbs to soak up the alcohol of the night before, we raised our coffee cups to the Last Sleepout at Manchester Cathedral.
The Booth Centre Community
The Booth Centre offers a variety of services to the local community, including a community hub, the three bees cafe, a programme of activities and opportunities for volunteering.
Community Hub
Open from 8:30am on weekdays, the Community Hub offers:
Help with issues between tenants and their accommodation provider or landlord
Support, advice and advocacy for people without a home
Quality signposting and direct links into other specialist support agencies including health and wellbeing
Direct access to a range of specialist visiting agencies
Support, advice and advocacy to manage or maximise finances
Three Bees Cafe
Three Bees Cafe offers people in the community free, healthy meals in a welcoming environment.
Activities
The centre offers a broad programme of free activities based around art, music, fitness and wellbeing. These activities create opportunities for self-expression, relaxation, learning new skills, and forming positive relationships, all of which support people on their journey towards stability and improved wellbeing.
Employment and Skills
The Employment and Skills service at the Booth Centre is designed to help people who are ready to move back into employment but need help to achieve their goals. People can get assistance with completing job applications, writing a CV, preparing for interview and preparing to start a new job. There are direct links to special employment programmes.
Volunteering
At the Booth Centre there is a strong belief that everyone in the community should feel they’re able to give back to the community, whatever their skills and abilities, and so the volunteering programme includes everyone.
The season of Pentecost in the Anglican tradition is often associated with walking. Several villages to the east of Oldham in Greater Manchester hold “Whit Walks” also known as walks of witness. The walks are traditionally held on “Whit Friday” the first Friday after Pentecost Sunday, the day on which the Church celebrates the descent of the Holy Spirit upon the Apostles as described in Chapter 2 of the New Testament book known as Acts of the Apostles. The Manchester and Salford Whit Walk, organised by a consortium of churches in Greater Manchester, takes place annually on the second bank holiday Monday in May.
Manchester Whit Walks
The Parish of Rainow with Saltersford and Forest to the east of Macclesfield in Cheshire annually hold a Four Churches walk, linking the three churches within the parish with the church of St Paul’s in Macclesfield. The walk has its origins in Rogation Sunday, traditionally the fifth Sunday after Easter, when members of the church would pray for God’s blessing upon the land. In pre-industrial rural Britain a good harvest was vital for the welfare of the community. In modern times the link between welfare and the land has been, mostly, lost; some would say to the detriment of all concerned.
The traditional Rogation Sunday service would begin with the blessing of a plough and a lamb. Clergy an parishioners would then together walk the boundaries of the parish, a tradition known as ‘beating the bounds.’ The Rev Simon Gowler, vicar of Holy Trinity Church, Rainow, explained how as a result of recent amalgamations the circumference of the combined parishes has become too great to consider walking in a single day. For this reason the walk has become the ‘four churches’ walk. Rev Gowler has been responsible for the reintroduction of the blessing of the plough and the lamb in a slightly more modern context.
So it was that on a bright May morning I joined Rev Simon and some of the parishioners for the annual Four Churches Walk.
St John the Baptist “Jenkin Chapel”
Situated at the junction of three old “salters’ ways” the little church of St John the Baptist, Saltersford was built by the local community in 1733 from local sandstone. The exterior of the two storey nave bears closer resemblance to a farmhouse than a traditional church, as was commonly found in non-conformist chapels of the region of a similar age, such as Brook Street chapel in Knutsford. A three storey tower with a single bell and pitched roof was added in 1755. Before the advent of canals and railways, salters’ ways were used to transport salt, a valuable commodity since Roman times, from Cheshire to Derbyshire by packhorse. As long as anyone can remember the church has been informally known as Jenkin Chapel, possibly named after one of the salt men who brought their packhorses this way. The gallery at the west end of the nave bears the coat of arms of the Stopford family, once residents of Saltersford Hall.
St John’s Church, Jenkin Chapel, Saltersford
From Jenkin Chapel we headed eastwards by Fox Hill, across Todd Brook to Waggonshaw Brow, where a delightful eighteenth century farmhouse is nestled into the hillside. Continuing eastwards we passed through Common Barn Farm to arrive at Holy Trinity Church, Rainow in time for elevenses.
Holy Trinity Rainow
The Church Building Acts of 1818 and 1824 saw the provision of money from the British government for the construction of church buildings to cater for the rapidly expanding population of the country, particularly in industrial areas. The distribution of these funds was delegated to the newly formed Church Building Commissioners. Holy Trinity, Rainow was sanctioned by the Commissioners in 1845 with a grant of four hundred pounds, designed by Samuel Howard of Disley and built using locally sourced sandstone by local craftsmen.
Holy Trinity, Rainow
Today Holy Trinity Church is an important and active part of the local community, with services and groups taking place throughout the week as well as on Sunday (see link below). Annual events include the church fete, incorporating the popular scarecrow competition and a “Late at the Fete” music event, the harvest festival and of course, in Whitsuntide, the four churches walk.
Bacon rolls, tea and coffee consumed, the group set out from Holy Trinity to the south, following the Gritstone Trail to Horden Farm, thence to via Gulshaw Hollow to Walker Barn and along Charity Lane to the Forest Chapel.
St Stephen’s Church, Forest Chapel
Records indicate that a chapel was first built in a meadow on the northeast side of Macclesfield Forest in 1673. As with Jenkin Chapel, the original building may have been constructed by the local community of local materials, possibly being non-conformist in origin. It wasn’t until 1720 that the then Bishop of Chester, Rev Francis Gastrell, discovered that the chapel was not consecrated. It has since been under the care of the Anglican Church. The chapel was almost entirely re-built following a fire in 1834.
St Stephen’s Church, Forest Chapel
A traditional service of ‘rushbearing’ is held annually on the second Sunday of August. Rushbearing is an historic English ecclesiastical festival where fresh rushes and flowers are collected, carried to the church to be strewn on the floor. The custom originated in the Middle Ages when churches often had earthen floors. The rushes were used as a renewable floor covering and for insulation. As industrialisation brought about an increase in national wealth throughout the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, it became common for churches to be fitted out with stone floors. Nonetheless in some parts of the country, particularly in rural communities, the tradition of rushbearing persisted. A handful of churches in the north of England have maintained the tradition, among them St Mary’s, Lymm, Cheshire; St Chad’s, Saddleworth, Greater Manchester; St Peter’s, Sowerby Bridge, West Yorkshire, and Forest Chapel.
If Napoleon’s army marched on its stomach, then the Church of England surely marches on tea and cake. Ample quantities of both were provided within the sanctuary of St Stephen’s church by the good ladies of the parish for all those who had made it this far on the journey.
A gentle breeze and the branches of Sitka regimented spruce trees provided welcome relief from the glare of the afternoon sun as the remaining walkers made their way across the northern slopes of Macclesfield Forest to Hacked Way Lane. Passing by Clough House Farm, we skirted around the bottom of Tegg’s Nose to the village of Langley. Resisting all the temptation of St Dunstan’s Inn, we took the footpath from Langley Hall around Birch Knoll to The Hollins and so to the Macclesfield canal. It was a short walk along the canal to the original Hovis mill, and so through the town to St Paul’s Church.
St Paul’s Church, Macclesfield
As with Holy Trinity, St Paul’s Church on Brook Street was built with the aid of a grant from the Church Commissioners. Designed by William Heyley in the traditional nineteenth century perpendicular style, the building was completed in 1844.
St Paul’s Church, Macclesfield
The modern church is home to a Cheshire East Connected Communities Centre, a hub of activity including uniformed groups for young people, a weekly toddler group, fortnightly lunch club plus a variety of community groups, including Knit and Natter, Pilates, Armchair Yoga and Macclesfield Community Choir. The centre is also a designated Warm Space including a year-round Saturday Morning Café with a team of volunteers offering free delicious Full English Breakfasts and other refreshments, and providing further support and companionship for those experiencing financial challenges (link below).
Thirteen arduous miles behind us, our reward was a slice of Victoria sponge and a mug of hot tea served up in the church hall.
My friend Abi and I had the most challenging adventure in the Cairngorm Mountains. From the Linn of Dee we walked 5km to Derry Lodge and pitched camp among the trees by Luibeg Burn. Having lightened our packs we took the path via Craig Bad an t-Seabhaig and Carn Crom to Derry Cairngorm (1155m). In glorious sunshine we picked our way through granite boulder fields to Loch Etchachan. A steep climb of 400m led to the Barns of Beinn Mheadhoin then onwards to the granite tors atop Beinn Mheadhoin (1182m).
We returned to Loch Etchachan and descended Coire Etchachan to the Hutchinson Memorial Hut, followed by the long walk along Glen Derry back to Derry Lodge. After a well deserved meal of pasta, beans and sausage we crawled into our tents for an early night.
The following morning was damp in comparison to the previous day. With the wee midges out in force we quickly packed up camp (leave no trace) and headed back to the Linn of Dee.
Our reward was the full breakfast at the Bothy cafe in Braemar.
Whitsun (also Whitsunday or Whit Sunday) is the name used among Anglican and Methodist traditions for the Christian holy day of Pentecost. It falls on the seventh Sunday after Easter. Whit Monday, the day after Whitsun, remained a holiday in Britain until 1972, the ruling Conservative Government decided to permanently replace it with a Spring Bank Holiday on the last Monday in May.
The Manchester Whit Walks are a tradition dating back to 1821 when there was a procession of children from Manchester to commemorate the coronation of George IV. By convention, the Whit Walks coincide with brass band contests, held in Saddleworth, Oldham, Tameside and other outlying areas of Greater Manchester.
According to a random statistic, which I stumbled upon when Googling about Facebook, and which by no means am I able to verify, the average Facebook user is connected to eighty community pages, groups and events. An exaggerated claim perhaps. I checked. I have fifty-five! One particular Facebook group I am a member of is ‘Munroaming’ a lively, active community run by the blogger and outdoor journalist Fiona Russell for those interested, as so many people are, in ‘bagging’ all 284 Scottish mountains as surveyed by Sir Hugh Munro’s as having above 3,000 feet in height. It was here that one dull Sunday afternoon, as I was watching the Mancunian raindrops stream tearfully down my patio doors, I posted that I was interested in completing the Aonach Eagach ridge in Glen Coe and was looking for a bit of company, being a bit of a Scottish novice (my Munro tally is barely into double figures) and not knowing anyone with the necessary skills to accompany me. For several days my post sat unacknowledged. There was the occasional ‘like’ but nothing concrete, and I began to consider postponing the whole enterprise until the spring, when up popped a notification and suddenly the game was on. I had been contacted by a gentleman named David who had completed the infamous ridge walk once before but who was keen to do it again. Suitable dates were discussed, two other likely suspects were enrolled in the offensive and before I had any second thoughts, I was driving north along the M6 motorway towards Glen Coe.
Glen Coe
The Aonach Eagach ridge, stretching along the northern side of Glen Coe, is something on an enigma. Often described as the most challenging ridge walk on the British mainland, it is a real feather in the cap of any aspiring Munroist. Part of the mystery of the ridge is artificially maintained by the many tall stories about it, usually in the bar of the Clachaig Inn at the western end of the ridge, but also scattered liberally about the Internet on walking forums. One veteran of the route posted about how he and his friend took a wrong turn and descended too early towards the afore mentioned Inn, his friend sustaining three broken ribs as a result of falling on the steep, lose scree.
It is fair to say that there was something of an air of trepidation around the campfire at the Red Squirrel campsite that evening as the four of us, myself, David, Mick and Stefan, began to get to know each other a little better. Later that night, lying in my tent before I drifted off into a restless sleep, assailed by dreams of being pursued through an unending labyrinth of corridors by an unseen adversary, the thought did briefly cross my mind that although it was statistically unlikely, there was the very real possibility that the very next day could be my last. Thankfully, I was able to dismiss the thought as morbid paranoia.
We elected on an early start, the myriad guide books and internet postings indicating that this was going to be a long day, packing ourselves and our day packs into one car, whilst leaving the other at the campsite. From the layby on the north side of the A82, just beyond the Three Sisters’ viewing point, we began the steep, zig-zagging climb to Am Bodach, rising some 800m above the level of the road, a lethargic morning mist still veiling the summit in cloud.
Just to the west of Am Bodach the ground dropped away steeply about 20m and we paused, nervously, for a few minutes to gather composure. We had collectively agreed to take a safety rope with us just in case one of us became cragfast – there was no contingency for all four of us becoming cragfast! But as the swirling mist began slowly to rise above the precipice of The Chancellor beneath us, the presence of two early bird walkers at the foot of the crag gave encouragement. I shouted down to them, asking how difficult they had found the descent. “You’ll be fine,” they shouted back, “just take your time.” So packing away our flasks of tea and coffee we nervously wished each other well and after a very brief discussion about who should lead, “no you first,” “no really, after you,” we set off. In actual fact this first and most nerve wracking down-climb of the ridge, a diagonal descent across the crag, was with close concentration, a firm hand and a slow and steady pace, completed with relative ease. I was reminded just how agile and adaptive the human body can be when put to the task.
The four of us re-grouped at the foot of the crag, glancing back to the glistening wall of black volcanic rock with a collective sigh of “well, that wasn’t too bad,” aware that more challenging ground lay ahead. A clear path snaked its way seductively upward without complications to the summit of Meall Dearg at 953m above sea level. Famously, this was the final Munro to be completed by the Rev. A. E. Robertson in September 1901, making him the first person to complete a full round of the Scottish mountains defined by the enigmatic Sir Hugh Munro. Legend states that Robertson first kissed the summit cairn, then his wife. There is no mention of how they tackled that pesky down climb off Am Bodach.
Meall Dearg 953m
From the summit of Meall Dearg the centre, and most challenging section of the Aonach Eagach revealed itself, like a bride lifting her veil, a veritable rollercoaster of Rhyolitic rock, undulating westwards for two kilometres, its vertiginous flanks falling abruptly more than 800m on either side, meaning a simple stumble could deposit you variously by the shores of Loch Leven to the north or at the foot of the multitudes of sightseers congregated at the Three Sisters’ viewing points on the A82 road.
Taking the appearance of a sinusoid, the main difficulties of the Aonach Eagach occur not in scrambling up the numerous gullies and chimneys facing eastwards, but in having achieved the crest of a razor sharp pinnacle, being confronted with a steep, precarious descent as the sinusoid undulates towards the summit of Stob Coire Leith. My personal preference on such rocky descents is to face inwards to the rock, although I appreciate that this may be an unnerving concept at first, but having gained confidence through practise, this method of making those notorious down climbs gives far greater stability than the facing outward alpine bottom-shuffle we have all resorted to at one time or another.
Second Thoughts?
Meanwhile, on the Aonach Eagach, the mojo had kicked in, and the heady combination of exposed altitude, adrenaline and sheer delight, had resulted in a Peter Pan euphoria. Of course such exhilaration brings with it a certain danger, and by the time we reached the crux move of the Crazy Pinnacles, rather than nervously concealing an uncertain anxiety, I was having to restrain the desire to leap onto every piece of exposed rock shouting “hey, look at me Ma!” The crux move on the Crazy Pinnacles of the Aonach Eagach is a very exposed step out to the left with questionable handholds. I had watched a young man half my age struggle to complete it moments earlier, and so despite my state of mountain ecstasy, somewhere in my subconscious the Wendy-like voice of reason shouted loud enough to be heard, “maybe next time,” and I stepped to the right to where a good friend had told me there was a work around of much less risk. That most human instinct of self-preservation had kicked in and the words of alpinist and fellow Mancunian Don Whillans echoed around my head, “The Mountains will always be there, the trick is for you to be there as well.”
From the col beneath Stob Coire Leith all serious difficulties ceased, and we were able to fully take in the sheer magnificence of our situation in the landscape. On the summit of Sgorr nam Fiannaidh, at 967m the highest point on the ridge we paused for a late lunch before carefully picking our way through the clast strewn boulder fields of Cnap Glas.
Arriving at the Red Squirrel campsite some eight hours after we set off, we were greeted by preparations for the various Glen Coe Marathon events to be held on the following day. On the road from Glencoe village signs had been erected proclaiming “Caution Walkers!” Caution indeed!
The appointed protocol demanded a rendezvous at the infamous Clachaig Inn, with ale aplenty and mountaineers’ tales as tall as any fisherman’s, but there was the small matter of getting my car back from the top of Glen Coe. Mick very kindly dropped me at the Three Sisters’ viewing point, and as I drove below the Titan ridge we had just traversed, instead of taking the turn for the Clachaig Inn, I swung out towards Glencoe village where the sun was beginning to set beyond the Meccano outline of the Balaculish Bridge. Somewhere to the west, beyond Loch Linnhe, beyond the crepuscular hills of Ardgour lay the Black Cuillin Ridge. A quick glance on the Internet confirmed that more than a Facebook group posting would be required in preparation to tackle that behemoth.
Route:
From the north layby on the A82 just to the west of Allt-na-reigh climb the steep path to the summit of Am Bodach.
With care descend the crag to the west of Am Bodach to reach the beginning of the ridge. Continue westwards without difficulties to the summit of Meall Dearg.
With extreme care negotiate the ridge as it undulates westwards, crossing the “crazy pinnacles” to reach Stob Coire Leith.
Easier ground rises to the summit of Sgorr nam Fiannaidh, the highest point along the ridge.
Descent westwards following the steep path towards the village of Glencoe.
Distance: 10 km (6.2 miles)
Ascent: 1,070m
Time: 8 hours
Start/Finish: The path to the summit of Am Bodach starts from the north layby on the A82 just to the west of Allt-na-reigh. It is sensible if possible to leave a second vehicle somewhere at the western end of the ridge. If this is not possible then shanks’s pony or hitching a lift work just as well.
Maps: Ordnance Survey 1:25,000 Explorer Map, Glen Coe & Glen Etive 384 Harvey’s Mountain Maps 1:40,000 Ben Nevis & Glen Coe
This article first appeared in the October 2016 edition of TGO Magazine.
Twice a year the Derbyshire Caving Club (DCC) open up one of the old mines at Alderley to visitors. It’s a great opportunity to experience some of the history of mining at Alderley and to get a glimpse of the extent of historic excavations. I went along to reacquaint myself with subterranean Alderley and to take some photographs.
The sandstone escarpments of Alderley Edge, as distinct from the residential town, have been described by the relatively recent Alderley Edge Landscape Project (AELP) as “an anthropogenic landscape, of remarkable richness, rarity and antiquity”. The AELP was a co-operative undertaking of The National Trust and The Manchester Museum at the University of Manchester, conceived in 1995 and formally wound up on 2005. Further information about the project can be found on the DCC website at https://www.derbyscc.org.uk/alderley/current_aelp.php
Geologically, the Alderley escarpment is composed of Triassic conglomerate sandstones some 240 million years old that were laid down in an arid environment prone to flash floods, which brought down debris from the surrounding mountainous areas, rich in mineral deposits. The earliest evidence of mining at Alderley dates to the Bronze Age. The main ore extracted was copper, but cobalt, iron, lead, silver and even gold were also found. In their book Prehistoric Cheshire, Victoria and Paul Morgan recount how an oak shovel found by 19th Century miners in a section of mine at Brynlow to the south west of Engine Vein, has been radiocarbon dated to approximately 3,700 years old. A large number of stone hammer heads and similar tools were also discovered in material that had been used to backfill the open cast mine.
In the depths of winter lockdown, with gyms & health centres closed, two friends decided to take matters into their own hands.
Summer was a blast! With an early finish from work I could be up on the hills to the east of Manchester before half the city below had finished eating their tea, as the evening meal is often referred to in these parts, with a good three to four hours of daylight remaining.
But as the season drifted inexorably towards autumn the once warm evenings became shorter and cooler. I felt the darkness closing in around me like a pack of hounds circling a fox. With gyms and swimming pools closed there seemed little alternative, and I imagined myself gaining weight, and losing what fragile grip on sanity I had, as the sedentary months of winter stretched before me.
It was Alison who came to the rescue, suggesting a short twilight walk by the River Bollin. When we met at the National Trust car park the last embers of the day and familiarity of the location meant that use of head-torches was a choice rather than a necessity. As we wandered through the crepuscular woodland, the smell of bonfires and cordite upon the air, Alison mentioned she had been doing some research on local trails. She suggested we attempt to complete some of the trails in sections. And so every Tuesday evening after work we set out with head torches and ample supplies of batteries, into the darkness on the edge of town.
Alison, checking battery levels.
When it comes to nocturnal perambulations, Alison and I have form. Some years ago I learned there was to be a lunar eclipse on the winter solstice. For some reason lost to me now I decided it would be a great idea to observe the celestial phenomenon from the summit of Snowdon. In my imagination I had pictured a pleasant afternoon stroll to the summit in perfect conditions, returning to Pen y Pass beneath the Milky Way.
Almost inevitably the Welsh weather had other ideas. By four o’clock in the afternoon, with light rapidly fading, we had made it as far as the obelisk at Bwlch Glas but were at that point forced back by the icy blast of air streaming over the col. Temperatures were so far below zero that my thermos flask completely gave up the ghost, the contents turning into an icy Frappuccino. We quickly descended to Glaslyn and returned to Pen Y Pass via the Miners’ Track.
Alison and myself on Snowdon
Overcoming Night-time Anxiety The idea of walking in the dark may seem undesirable, illogical or just plain dangerous, but with a little knowledge and preparation there is no reason why the hours of darkness cannot be put to good use.
Location For those new to night-walking I recommend starting local. The first local trail Alison and I decided to tackle was the Ladybrook Valley Interest Trail. This sixteen kilometre trail makes use of suburban green corridors that follow the Ladybrook, a tributary of the River Mersey, from Lyme Park in Disley, Cheshire to Cheadle in Greater Manchester. Walking on one evening a week and breaking the route up into circular sections it took us five weeks to compete the trail.
Next we turned our attention to the Goyt Way. Also sixteen kilometres in length the Goyt Way follows the River Goyt – another tributary of the River Mersey – from Whaley Bridge in Derbyshire to Etherow Country Park in Greater Manchester. Again we planned circular routes and completed the trail in four weeks, working our way up-stream passing through the village of Marple Bridge and the industrial town of New Mills, despite freezing temperatures and heavy snowfall.
Goyt Way, New Mills
Snow cover brings pluses and minuses for night-walking. As with daylight walking snow can hinder navigation by covering up footpaths. None-the-less, we found a blanket of white on the ground had the affect of reflecting ambient light, a considerable aid to navigation, at times rendering our head-torches redundant. Another unexpected bonus of night-walking in winter was seeing farms and villages bedecked with Christmas lights.
Having reached the official end of the Goyt Way at Whaley Bridge we planned additional routes to continue south into the Goyt Valley, following the former route of the Cromford and High Peak Railway to Bunsal Cob. The sodium lights of suburbia now far behind us we headed onto open moorland, traversing the ridge from Pym Chair to Shining Tor that forms the boundary between Cheshire and Derbyshire. From this vantage point, we looked down onto a million lights, spread out across Greater Manchester and the Cheshire Plain. Through the crystal clear air we could see the illuminated cooling towers at Fiddler’s Ferry Power Station, near Widnes and the distinctive chain of red lights on the television transmitter at Winter Hill, some forty miles away as the crow flies.
Alison at the trig point on Shining Tor
Navigation The first step on the path to confident night-walking is to be confident with daylight navigation techniques. The skills used to navigate in poor weather conditions on British hills need only slight adaptation to be as effective at night.
A number of organisations offer opportunities to learn navigation skills. The National Navigation Award Scheme (NNAS) provides accreditation of over three hundred companies offering navigation training throughout the UK. There are three levels of award: Bronze, Silver and Gold. For those wishing to gain a broader understanding of hill walking, Mountain Training UK & Ireland offer a range of accredited courses and awards. In addition to navigation techniques, Mountain Training courses cover aspects such as walk planning, clothing and equipment, weather, hazard & emergency procedures and environmental awareness. Some of these training courses have specific night navigation content. I would recommend this programme for anyone who is looking to be a walking group leader. For up-to-date information check the NNAS and Mountain Training websites.
Myself on Shining Tor
Map or GPS? For a long time I was something of a Luddite with regard to GPS technology, but here we are in the third decade of the twenty-first century, equally cursed and blessed with hand-held devices. I have to confess that much of the navigation on our evening walks was aided by one or two apps on our phones, specifically Viewranger (now known as Outdooractive) and the OS Maps app. However, I would be failing in my duty if I did not offer a strong warning about over dependency on GPS devices. Batteries, specifically lithium batteries, do not perform well in cold weather conditions. As most smart phones are powered by integrated power sources, carrying a spare is not an option. Portable power banks provide some security but it is worth considering that any device might become inoperable in freezing temperatures. You cannot beat having the back up of a paper map and compass.
Light Source I’ve stressed the importance of carrying a map and compass as back-up for GPS devices, but without a light source a map is unreadable. In order to leave your hands free I recommend using a good quality head torch. However, even modern LED light sources can suddenly die, as happened to me on one of the sections of the Goyt Way. Therefore, not only should you carry spare batteries for your primary light source, but also carry at least one other light source as back up. Most importantly, do not rely on the torch on your phone. If you are using a GPS app on your phone to navigate and the torch to provide a primary light source the battery will deplete in minutes rather than hours.
As exciting as night walking can be, it is important to keep in mind that you are not on manoeuvres with the SAS and as such it is vital that you are visible to others, particularly when making use of country roads. Small, portable lights can easily be attached to clothing and rucksacks. I have found the Silva Simi range, available in white (for front) and red (for rear) particularly useful for this purpose.
St Mary’s Shrine, above the A5004, Got Valley
Clothing It will come as no surprise that at any time of year the absence our primary heat source means that nights are invariably several degrees cooler than the daytime. This is especially so in winter when night temperatures regularly fall below zero. The importance of keeping warm cannot be overstated. Traditional advice about base, middle and outer-shell layers certainly applies here. I also recommend carrying additional layers of clothing in your rucksack. Duvet gilets are particularly good for maintaining core temperature and can easily be worn over a waterproof jacket. Similarly, do not rely on only one pair of gloves. Even in thermal gloves, fingers can rapidly become numb when exposed to minus temperatures and wind chill. A pair of oversized woollen mittens slipped over the gloves will quickly return heat to the extremities.
Well equipped for night walking
Spring Again Winter was a blast! With increasing confidence of walking in darkness we had taken on the trails and bridleways of the western Peak District and had stood on snow covered hill tops looking down onto the shimmering lights of the conurbation below.
Our weekly nocturnal wanderings had become something of a harbour in the tempest, a focal point in an otherwise dismal and at times seemingly interminable winter. As the days began to lengthen and the last patches of snow melted from the groughs of Kinder Scout, we considered bringing things to an appropriate end. But on reflection there was no logical reason to do so, and our weekly night-time walks became sunset walks. That’s the really amazing thing about the seasons: the cycle just keeps going round and round.
The first time I came to Nant Gwrtheyrn I came at night like a broken king. It was late October. I had been walking in Cwm Croesor to the east of Aberglaslyn, exploring the abandoned quarries of Rhosydd and, being underground, had lost track of time. By the time I reached Croesor the light was quickly receding. I recovered my car and drove westwards as the evening spread it raven wings over the sky.
Hindsight is a wonderful thing and with my car poised above the steep, switchback, single-track road that descended into the dark heart of Nant Gwrtheyrn, the thermometer on my dashboard threatening to dip below zero, I cursed my tardiness, wishing for just a few moments of the incandescence that not an hour ago had graced the heavens. Gingerly I threaded the car down the steep track, winding through the dense evergreens until the outline of the quarrymen’s cottages appeared in the glare of my headlights. I killed the engine and was immediately plunged into darkness. I fumbled around in my rucksack for my head torch.
Nant Gwrtheryn
Upon trying the door of the language centre office I found it to be locked, as was the café, the chapel and the bookshop. At just after five thirty on a Thursday evening in late October the ‘ghost’ village of Porth-y-Nant was, not for the first time in its history, utterly deserted. Again I cursed my poor timekeeping. I had told the office staff that I would arrive by four o’clock. I now had the prospect of nowhere to sleep that night. As I considered a drive back to the Victoria Dock in Caernarfon, I noticed, from the corner of my eye, a single light in the window of one of the cottages at the far end of the terrace. I tried the door of the tiny cottage named Arfon and found it unlocked. Inside, on a table by the window, beneath the bedside reading light, a small handwritten note proclaimed “Hello Mr Galloway, Croeso i Nant.” I was touched by the thoughtfulness. The door key had been left on the table beside the note. For one cold dark autumn night too close to Hallowe’en for comfort, I was alone in possibly the most isolated village in Britain.
On my most recent visit to Nant Gwrtheyrn I came at midsummer, arriving before four o’clock in the afternoon, the brilliant sun still high in the sky above a silver Caernarfon Bay as I took Bara Brith and Earl Grey at Caffi Meinir. Now better know as a dramatic location for weddings, the original vision behind the restoration of Nant Gwrtheyrn, as imagined by Dr Carl Clowes in 1978, was to create a centre to promote the heritage and learning of the Welsh Language. With the assistance of the local authority of Cyngor Dwyfor, the charitable trust Ymddiriedolaeth Nant Gwrtheyrn was able to purchase the village from ARC Aggregates and basic restoration under the management of the Manpower Services Commission began. The first Welsh course was held ‘yn y Nant’ at Easter 1982, albeit with very limited resources, the village as then not being connected to the mains electricity grid. Restoration work continued and by 1990 all of the original quarrymen’s cottages had been restored to provide comfortable accommodation for guests. The former quarry manager’s house, known as Y Plas, became the focal point for learning. By 2008 over twenty-five thousand people from twenty-seven different countries had visited ‘y Nant’ specifically to learn Welsh.
Dr Carl ClowesNant Gwrtheryn before restoration
However, despite the success of Ymddiriedolaeth Nant Gwrtheyrn in achieving its core objectives of promoting the Welsh language and creating employment for the local area, the future of the Welsh language is still far from secure. Census figures indicate that although there has in the past thirty years been a small increase in the number of people identifying Welsh as their first language, as a percentage of the total population of the country the figure has marginally fallen, mainly as a function of migration into Wales from England and from the wider European community. Figures from 2011 show that of a population of just over three million people approximately five hundred and sixty-thousand speak Welsh on a regular basis, approximately 20% of the total population. The age group with the highest density of fluent Welsh speakers is the over 65’s.
For many the promotion of the Welsh language is seen as a matter of survival. However, to the vast majority of people living to the east of Offa’s Dyke, the matter is not one of urgency. We live in an age of saturation media where the dominant language is English and, let’s face it, the dominance of the English speaking North American market is only likely to consolidate the worldwide dominance of this language globally. By comparison, the survival of the Welsh language is, as it always has been, very much an up hill struggle. As a former girlfriend, a language graduate from Oxford, used to tell me, the difference between a language and a dialect is that a language has an army and a navy. Perhaps today that army and navy has been superseded by corporate dominance of the Internet.
Distribution of Welsh speakers, UK Census 2011
And what of it? What would we lose if Welsh were to decline into oblivion, as have many other minority European languages? In order to answer that question we need to understand something of the origin of Welsh. Welsh evolved some time in the early sixth century AD from Common Brittonic, the Celtic language spoken by the ancient Celtic Britons. The Brittonic language probably arrived in Britain during the Bronze Age and was most likely spoken throughout the islands south of the Firth of Forth, to the north of which Pictish remained the dominant tongue. English on the other hand is a Germanic language closely related to Frisian, which was most likely brought to the British Isles by one of the Germanic tribes that migrated to Britain during the sixth century AD and ultimately derives its name from the Anglia (Angeln) peninsula in the Baltic Sea. Welsh then has the greater claim to be in direct lineage to what might be described as an indigenous language of the British Isles, although in reality the precursors of what we know today as modern Welsh and English were both brought to the archipelago by immigrants. So much for the pompous bigotry of certain nationalistic political organisations currently extant in British culture. An adequate public education system would do much to banish their xenophobic nonsense forever but such educational investment is unlikely to be forthcoming from establishment ideologies that favour private education and place restrictions upon state education funding and who themselves obtain political benefit from social division and a mind-set of blind nationalism within the population.
Laying the politics of language aside, the question I am most often asked when I inform people that I am learning to speak Welsh is ‘Why are you learning to speak Welsh?’ Although I often feel aggrieved that I might not be asked a similar question were I to inform said people that I was learning to speak French, Spanish or Mandarin, although given the traditional aversion amongst the English to learning any foreign language there is a fair chance that I would, it is in fact an appropriate question to ask. Appropriate enough for it to be included on the course registration form for prospective students at Nant Gwrtheyrn. However, as a visiting ‘Saes’, of the available options on the form I had to look pretty far down the list to find an appropriate choice. The available options included:
Because I moved to Wales
For work purposes
Regain the language
National pride
Child in Welsh medium school
Partner
Wish to learn more about Wales and her culture
This left me feeling like a bit of an oddball: a Welsh learner who is not Welsh, who does not live in Wales, who is not in a relationship with a Welsh person, who does not have children attending a Welsh medium school, and does not require Welsh for work. Let me tell you though, I am not on my own. Attending the same course were two ladies from the United States, both as it happens coming from New Mexico although ironically never having met before their trip to Wales. I identified greatly with their desire to learn more about their Celtic heritage and to find something of interest counter to the stream of banal mainstream consumerist culture to which we are subjected daily.
Reasons for wanting to learn Welsh
For me however, there are other reasons not provided on the administrator’s list, which during my most recent stay at Nant Gwrtheyrn I pondered for some time. What exactly is it that I am searching for in this strange, alluring, beautiful if sometimes hostile – both in climate and culture – country located less than forty miles to the west of the place where I was born?
Welsh Learners
In his book History on our Side, a memoir of the 1984-1985 miner’s strike in Wales, Hywel Francis speaks of a collectivism and sense of community throughout the South Wales Valleys, the spirit of which saw those communities through months of what could only be described as state persecution. It was of course this collectivism and sense of community that Thatcher set out to crush in the 1980’s. The miners’ strike had little if anything to do with uneconomic pits.
Set against the harsh reality of post-Imperialist, post-Thatcherite, post-Brexit Britain it is perhaps easy for me to view Wales through rose tinted glasses, to make of it a type of Shangri-la for a dispossessed idealist. None-the-less I still see something of that sense of collectivism and community in parts of Wales, the enterprising ventures of Carl Clowes at Nant Gwrtheyrn being a case in point. It is a culture that for me stands out against the vacuity of the post-imperialist individualism propagated by corporate Britain and its establishment benefactors. In truth this individualism is nothing more than the denigration of individuals into units of consumption, who more often than not render themselves addled by cheap alcohol and bloated by junk food. I see that we have now reached a point where neo-capitalist ideology, neo-liberalism, Thatcherism, call it what you will, is so engrained in the consciousness of the British people that nothing is seen to have value unless it creates wealth. In this respect learning Welsh will always be seen as a fancy, an addition to a wish list subject to available funds (always, of course, in limited supply).
Nant Gwrtheryn
It would be easy for me to wax lyrical about my relationship with this curious nation, especially as I have for much of my life chosen to remain in England to take advantage of the economic security of life there. None-the-less, the history, culture, people, places and yes, the language of Wales have figured large in my past, continue to do so in my present, and, God willing, will do so for many years to come.
Broad Stand, as the notorious flight of granite steps on the eastern flank of Scafell is known, is a death trap. A quick look at the Wasdale Mountain Rescue Team website will confirm the number of incidents that have taken place at this accident black spot. These range in seriousness from a family of four and their dog who had become stuck on the ledge half way up the crag, to a fell walker found dead beneath East Buttress on 2 July 2017.
Not recorded on the Wasdale Mountain Rescue Team website is the descent of Broad Stand made by the poet Samuel Taylor Coleridge on 5 August 1802. Coleridge set out from Greta Hall, his home in Keswick, carrying little more than a change of under garments and some simple writing materials, bound up in a “natty green oil-skin” held together in a net knapsack. Through the Newlands Valley he climbed by the waterfall of Moss Force, then descended into Buttermere and took tea at the Inn by the lake. From Floutern Tarn he descended into Ennerdale and spent the night at the home of John Ponsonby at Long Moor.
Samuel Taylor Coleridge in 1802
Coleridge departed Long Moor after tea and arrived late at St. Bees. He was unable to find suitable accommodation and was forced to spend the night in his clothes at a “miserable pot-house”. He lingered at St. Bees a day then walked on to Egremont, from where via Gosforth he followed the River Irk upstream to reach Nether Wasdale.
Having spent the night at Wasdale Head, Coleridge climbed in the fresh morning light to Burnmoor Tarn, then followed the torrent of Hardrigg Gill to the rocky summit of Scafell itself, where on a natural table of granite he took from his knapsack the paper and pens he had placed there upon leaving Greta Hall and began to compose the letter to his friend Sara Hutchinson from which the details of this account come.
Symonds Knott, Scafell
By three o’clock in the afternoon the wind had begun to gather around the summit such that Coleridge sought his descent from the mountain. He found himself at the narrow gap between what contemporary climbers know as Eastern Buttress and Scafell Crag. It was here that he began to experience difficulties. He lowered himself down a flight of three granite steps to a narrow ledge. Finding himself unable to continue further down the crag he attempted to retreat the way he had come. To his dismay he found the ledges out of reach and became crag-fast.
Lying on the narrow ledge Coleridge describes entering into a “prophetic trance” (possibly induced by a gram of laudanum) during which he became emboldened by the “powers of Reason and Will”. It was then that he noticed a narrow gap in the rock below him, through which with some difficulty, he was able to pass and thus avoid injury. This gap is known to climbers and hikers alike as “fat man’s agony” and confirms the identity of Coleridge’s descent as Broad Stand.
Inspired by Coleridge’s heroic if slightly foolish adventure, I determined to experience for myself the perils of Broad Stand. Considering discretion to be the better part of valour, and not wishing to become a statistic on the Wasdale MRT website, I decided to employ some professional assistance in the form of a qualified mountain guide.
My rendezvous with Matt le Voi was at the Lake Head National Trust car park early on one of those bright, otherworldly Indian Summer mornings that somehow materialise out of the North Atlantic, surprising the human inhabitants of Cumbria as much as the flora and fauna. Along the well-worn path beside Lingmell Gill, Matt and I strode under the September sun, turning now and again to see how it sparkled off the shimmering length of Wastwater, filling the view behind us as we climbed.
Matt le Voi above Wastwater
At the approach of Mickledore, Matt suggested we climb the steep scree at the foot of Southern Buttress. Here, carved into the fine-grained andesite of the crag, one can discern the shape of a cross beside which are carved four sets of initials and a date, 21 September 1903. The cross marks the location where four young pioneers of climbing fell to their deaths from the lofty precipice of Scafell Pinnacle above. The names of the four young men killed that day are R W Broadrick, H L Jupp, S Ridsdale and A E W Garrett, all members of the Climbers’ Club, which had been newly founded is 1898. They had been attempting to repeat the ascent of Scafell Pinnacle, which had been first made by Welsh rock pioneer, Owen Glynne Jones some years earlier.
Climbers’ Club Memorial, Mickledore
As the late summer sun crept behind the mountain above us, I felt a chill come upon me, the hairs on the back of my neck standing to attention. Here in the highest ‘Corrie’ in England, bounded on three sides by immense towers of rock, stories of tragedy and death gather like the hooded crows that sweep down from the rocky heights.
Just before the outbreak of the First World War, Siegfried Herford, a mathematics graduate of Manchester University, ably assisted by George Sanson, a zoology graduate from University College London, made the first ascent of Central Buttress on Scafell Crag. The crux of the climb was a flake crack, which Herford was able to surmount by standing on the shoulders of Sansom, acceptable practice in those days, precariously held in place by a rope threaded around a chockstone near to the top of the flake.
Siegfried Herford was killed by a rifle grenade in France on the 28 January 1916. Stories of sightings of Herford’s ghost, lingering around the base of Central Buttress, began to circulate among the climbing community thereafter. The mountaineer and author Bill Birkett describes how, in the early 1980’s he was descending from Scafell Pike on a bitter, snow shrouded November day, when, approaching the col of Mickledore he noticed walking towards him from out of the swirling mist, the figure of a young man dressed in Khaki drill. Birkett thought nothing of it until he noticed the man was wearing puttees above his boots, a fashion more readily associated with the British Army of the early 20th Century than the 1980’s. Some years later the notorious chockstone that had held Herford and Sansom in place on Central Buttress, became dislodged and fell, killing the climber Iain George Newman.
Broad Stand was for once dry. There were no excuses. Aware of the many accidents in this spot we set up a belay from the narrow crack in the seemingly impenetrable defences of Fat Man’s Agony. I watched as Matt disappeared through the narrow gap and found myself alone, the only sounds the clink of karabiners and the down draft of ravens wings. Time ticked away slowly and I began to feel a cramp in my calf, shifting my weight from one leg to the other whilst still maintaining the belay position against the cold grey rock, my knuckles whitening around the umbilical chord of rope threaded through the crevice in the rock. It was a good ten minutes more before I heard Matt’s voice calling down from somewhere above me, informing me that he was safe and I could begin to climb.
Fat Man’s Agony, Broad Stand Myself on Broad StandThe crux on Broad Stand
Being of slight stature, I was able to squeeze through the vice like fissure in the wall without too much hindrance. I popped out onto the first rock step where with ease I was able to follow the line of Matt’s rope to the left via a series of outward sloping ledges onto the second rock step. Here, my heart surged into my mouth and sweat began to collect on the nape of my neck. With Broad Stand you see, the structure is all wrong – or right – depending on your viewpoint. What first appears to be a series of relatively benign rock steps leading to higher, more manageable ground, takes on an altogether more alarming prospect because of the angle of fracture of the rock, dipping at about thirty degrees to the South. This means that the whole structure leans outwards towards the precipice of the Eastern Buttress, making Broad Stand a bit like the House of Fun at an amusement park, but without the laughs.
It was going to be a leap of faith. I shouted for tight rope and pushed out with all my strength, grappling for the finger hold and finding it securely. “Get a grip!” shouted Matt, and I hauled myself up onto the next ledge, eventually finding my feet on the coarse forgiving granite. I crouched there for some time, regaining my composure and allowing the tide of adrenaline now coursing through my circulatory system to subside, looking down into the heart-stopping drop below.
Myself and Matt on Symonds Knott, Scafell
At the summit of Symonds Knott, lazing under a resplendent blue sky, Matt and I ate a celebratory lunch of cheese sandwiches and chocolate washed down with instant coffee before walking to the cairn marking the summit of Scafell. Turning to the West the early afternoon sun shimmered on the surface of Wastwater as we descended the long, grassy slope of Green How, arriving triumphantly at the National Trust car park, where I thanked Matt for his assistance and waved him goodbye.
Having time to spare I wandered around the head of the lake to Overbeck Bridge where a small shingle beach extended a little way into the lake. There being no one around I slipped out of my walking clothes and into the cold, heart-stopping waters, seeing beneath me the rounded cobbles give way to the bottomless blue of England’s deepest lake. I floated on my back for some time, soaking my heat-sore feet in the mountain clear drink. My gaze scanned the rugged skyline to the East, finding the rocky cleft between the peaks where, not three hours ago, Matt and I had climbed on the very rocks that once had detained Samuel Taylor Coleridge, and recalled the words he had written to his friend Tom Wedgewood.
“I do not think it possible, that any bodily pains could eat out the love and joy, that is so substantially part of me, towards hills, and rocks, and steep waters! And I have had some trial.”
Great Gable from Wastwater
A version of this article first appeared in the Spring 2020 edition of The Great Outdoors Magazine.
