No writing this half-term, or even reading. (Unless you count these blogs, which I do. ) We're just home from a blissful few days in the Derbyshire Peaks, wrapped in mist, frost and snow. Out in the landscape, I've been soaking up the seasonal inspiration. Maybe I could even get a job writing tourist blurbs for the Peaks website. What do you think?Here's one of my journal entries:
Wednesday 4.30pm
We're lured out again by fat snowflakes whirling past our window. And find ourselves at length in Hathersage churchyard among the slate tombstones. In the stillness of that corner, we're treated to an extraordinary recital. Birds I've never heard before, maybe migrants brought in by these Arctic winds? Two high in a tree send out a rich chi-chi-chirruping song and across the way, another answers. Her call is a muted echo of theirs. At the end of a timeless triplet, she lifts up and away across the valley. Hidden over there is North Lees Hall whose Gothic ramparts and rookery so inspired Charlotte Bronte.
Turning back between the stones, Rik's boots shed patterned cakes of snow. St Michael's interrupts the steady crunching of our feet, its brassy tones belling the quarter-hour. Tea-time. Down in the village, light is fast leaching away. The whole hillside is a study in greys, studded with orange dots - the streetlights suddenly on. A brown smell of woodsmoke escapes.We're up on the high road now, back to the Booth. The flakes are finer than ever, sparks of wetness hitting the face. A goods train shakes the valley with its tooting and rattling. Around the corner, the Millstone Inn awaits us, fires and dinner. Some days are one variety of contentment after another.
all pictures (c) Siobhan Logan or Richard Thomas
