Junction 36

Though this week’s weather forecast might send me scuttling back to the handy local paths and bridleways we Burtonians are lucky enough to stagger around in winter.

Farleton Knott, looking north

The young man’s careless spirit of adventure that once scoffed at the perils of scraping up ice-bound Sharp Edge in a mouldy pair of merrells has rather fizzled out in recent years, replaced by a dull ache in the pistons at the scaly prospect of fetching another jumper from upstairs.

But the first false dawn of spring struck a couple of weeks ago, the nascent sun’s burgeoning beams coaxing the old bones to cast off the slovenly season and contemplate the hills. Or rather, the foothills, as it turned out. Foolhardy dreams of Sergeant Man, Thunacar Knott and Harrison Stickle quickly perished in a god-awful display of heaving, wheezing and farting on the trifling slopes above Sour Milk Gill. And that was just the dog. I had to sprawl like some half-deceased reptile on a sunny slab beneath the falls for ten minutes to get some steam back up.

Jessie, with tail furnishings

After a bite at bustling Easdedale Tarn, we managed to hobble back to a fairly well-botoxed Grasmere, where hyper-inflation has found a willing host of a different sort in Wordsworth’s resting place. When I last ventured, pre-pandemic, to this Lakeland ‘honey pot’, 2 scoops of ice cream were £1.50. Now it’s three quid a dollop. Engaging Year 4 maths brain…isn’t that a 400% increase?!? Parking was similarly uplifted, but without the slightly understandable extra energy costs. From £5 all day four years ago to £5 for three hours today.

Had a bit of a queasy feeling debooting into the 10 year-old Kia amidst a sea of gleaming SUVs. Like maybe I didn’t belong anymore. Like maybe ordinary folk are being economically elbowed out of places that used to be bankers for affordable, healthy family pursuits.

Above Sour Milk Gill

Came across a displaced visitor of an altogether different order on a bracing blast round Jenny Brown’s Point the other day. Amongst the usual household plastics, balled fishing nets and sea-scoured timbers that Morecambe Bay dumps twice daily on Silverdale’s ‘sands’, was the forlorn carcass of one of our most charismatic mammals.

Harbour porpoise, Jack Scout Nature Reserve

Seemingly smiling even in its demise, this beautiful creature must have been carried a fair way from its habitual waters after a week of strong south-westerlies. Although something – gulls, crabs? – seems to have had a nibble, hopefully someone with the wherewithal will take this old wayfarer back home to sleep with the fishes.

Clougha from Jenny Brown’s Point

I suppose I’d better take myself in hand sharpish to ward off a similar fate; plenty of hard yards lay ahead of the next false spring, the forecast foot of snow notwithstanding!