13-18 April 2006
On the Wrong Foot
My travel notes are usually written while on the trip or within a day or two after returning home. I rarely postpone it any further because of loss of memory and feeling that are products of passage of time. Everyday is a new beginning and it’s not worth treasuring moments of the past in the depths of memory. Some may remain but most will be forgotten.
But these notes are being written after more than a week. The trip has been different in many ways. I did not walk the dales and moors I had planned on walking. I did not see the daffodils of Farndale, the abbey at Rievaulx or the Dalby forest. I did not camp at Robin Hood’s Bay facing the sea breeze from the east. I did not see much of the celebrated moors. I did not enjoy any part of the visit. Every form of happiness in nature failed to put a smile on my face. Most of the visit was filled with pain and suffering. Every day was a torture and even after returning to Luton the saga of pain continued. Only now, after an operation, the pain is under control. I am able to sit up in bed and finally put down in words what have been cries of agony.
Even before I left Luton, I suffered an unfortunate accident at home. I literally jumped out of bed one morning. My mobile phone and its charger lay on the floor. To avoid these I lifted my right heel. I landed on my right toes. The impact caused an immediate inflammation and a sharp pain. This worsened overnight. The next day I considered cancelling the trip to Yorkshire. I would lose the bus fare of about forty pounds. I wasn’t going to lose forty pounds for a minor injury. Little did I know that it would soon become major. Little did I know that I was starting on an unforgettable trip. Little did I know that the black cat of the neighbourhood that had crossed my path a few times over the week actually meant something!
So, the most dangerous places are perhaps not the hills, the mountains, the scree slopes and the isolated peaks. They are the homes where we live, the rooms where we sleep, the stairs we climb, the gardens we weed and seed, the roads we regularly use, the familiar paths we tread, all taken for granted, almost without respect.
Roseberry Topping
On the north-western edge of the National Park lies Roseberry Topping, a curious name and little do I know how it came to be. From the road it presents a characteristic shape, rising gently on one side forming the sloping bowl of a valley with another hill nearby; and on the other side it is steep. It is not perfectly formed but with its rawness it is the stark beauty of the landscape that surrounds it. One may even think that the hill has crumbled from a greater past. Here lies its allure that comes from a balance of what pleases the eye and what excites the mind, like the standing Hellenistic sculpture of “The Winged Victory of Samothrace” to be found at the Musee du Louvre in Paris.
This is a moderate hill with easy paths leading to its summit. It is by no means an exhilarating walk. After all, it is not a mountain. The views are wide open on all sides from the peak but such views rarely attract me. I learnt this early on when visiting the Malverns. Open views are little interesting in that they audaciously bare all that they can offer. There remain no hidden secrets or fancied objects to fill unseen spaces. For the eye, it becomes difficult to isolate a single object when there are so many more crowding the vision. The high perspective also denies the feeling of belonging. The scene is stretched and flattened. You view it from a higher angle. You no longer belong to it. You miss the intricate details and their relative perspectives. You go away, if you choose, with an unhealthy illusion that you are on top of the world.
What attracts and what endures is walking for the sake of walking, the joy that is in every step. But today, for such a joy every step has been a pain as well. The human mind is incomprehensible. It challenges in spite of difficulties. It tests and stretches physical limits. Stamina in its various forms spring from the human mind. I never knew how long or how far I could walk today. I doubted not if I could get to the top of Roseberry Topping; and once I had started the walk with such a resolve the limits were pushed and pain dissolved in its own space. Then there comes a point when pain comes to the foreground and demands attention. Then the beauty of the world becomes meaningless. Intense pain blocks out beauty. Health becomes the primary issue and itself the focus of everything else. Only then the mind wakes up to its own foolishness. Where there is a will there is a way, but it must also be mentioned that a stitch in time saves nine.
Thus it turned out that by the end of the day the daffodils of spring were no longer a pretty sight. The songs of birds were a nuisance, a jarring note like the noise of the world. The laughters of children at the campsite were a ridicule. The night brought rest but also torturous joys of the following day.
Guisborough Forest
Ethereal and magical. There is nothing better than a forest walk and I only wish I was in a better shape to tread all the paths. It is not clear if this is a natural forest or planted by human hand for a regular supply of timber. Either way it is beautiful.
The paths are long and winding. Almost always they are close on both flanks by neat rows of tall pines whose branches arch with poetic grace. Pine cones lie scattered on the forest floor. Once in a while the view opens a little to the lower slopes and valley, the pines framing the picture. Birds sing in remote heights. Rabbits nibble quietly at the green juicy stalks of spring’s first sprout of vegetation. Spectacular orange coloured fungi grow on rotten tree trunks and drip their colourful growths to the soft shaded ground beneath. Trees sway gently in the wind. Some even creak in their languid movements. This is the voice of the forest spirit, ever-present, alive and invisible.
If walking through the forest is an experience, equally so is the view of it from across the moors. The rolling moorland with its low-lying vegetation fully exposed to light, rain and wind is in itself a magnificent sight. As a backdrop to the moors stand the pines of the forest. The pines are not all green. They present themselves in greens and browns that in combination form a harmonious blend of tones.
Far across the moors and beyond the cover of these forests, a rain cloud moved. It moved quickly with the wind and at the same time let the shower fall. The sun came down from the side creating a spectacular band of dispersed light, not exactly a rainbow but a fast-moving filter in rainbow colours that lent its magic to the whole scene and whosoever chanced to witness it.
A Glimpse of the Moors
There is very little I can write about the moors. I haven’t seen much of it. The little that I have seen has left a haunting impression. Weather has been dry past few days. The usually boggy ground was dry, hard and easy to walk on. Sometimes one sees something moving in the distance or close by. A few minutes of concentrated gaze yields nothing. No movement, no stir, no sound except for the rhythmic swaying of tussock grass and shake of heather that is yet to flower for the year. These are the common hallucinations of the moors. What more will be experienced if I were to continue walking the moors for a few more days?
