Next to the spoil heap of rocks from Ricklow Quarry, rejected by the quarrymen in the 19thc, protected by its SSSI status in the 20th, the valley narrows dramatically. The path becomes uneven, as it scrambles over rocks, made slippery by rain and mud and the polishing of an army of walking boots.
The dale then starts to resemble scenes from Lord of the Rings. Not so much the New Zealand landscapes of the films, but my childhood fantasies, based on early illustrations for Tolkien’s books as they caught the sixties mood and imaginations.
Moss covered trees add to the other worldly atmosphere. Even on a sunny day it feels cool. On a wet day it’s dark and dank and dripping. Perspective and mood change in every section of this walk, a kaleidoscope of feelings. One stretch is dark and mysterious; the next is open and clear. This dale doesn’t present a stable or cohesive personality. The sky, the weather, the landscape and the vegetation are ever changing along its short length. It is only six and a half miles long. At this point the river that gives the dale its name isn’t visible.
Limestone bluffs and buttresses tower over each side of the valley. Rocks lie around, thrown by giants. It’s a Narnia landscape, with Aslan’s sacrificial table. My favourite books from childhood come to life. It could even be Moominvalley. Parson’s Tor rises up on the left. In 1776 the vicar of Monyash, the Reverend Robert Lomas, rode his horse over the cliff on a dark and stormy night. I know a Robert Lomas, a joiner who did a lot of work in my house. It must be a local name. Some say the eighteenth century Reverend had been drinking in Bakewell, still a popular pastime. The horse survived but he didn’t, perhaps it fell on him. It is said that a glass jar holding a tuft of grass used to be on display in St Leonard’s Church in Monyash. The grass was removed from Reverend Lomas’s clenched fist when they found the body. How macabre. Why are local legends like this remembered and shared? I’m adding to the process now as I write, but who thought displaying such a strange memento mori? Was it to remind the parishioners’ that all flesh is grass? Or that we know not the day or the hour. Perhaps it was a prop for a contemporary sermon and no-one then had the heart to throw it away.
Next to the spoil heap of rocks from Ricklow Quarry, rejected by the quarrymen in the 19thc, protected by its SSSI status in the 20th, the valley narrows dramatically. The path becomes uneven, as it scrambles over rocks, made slippery by rain and mud and the polishing of an army of walking boots.
The dale then starts to resemble scenes from Lord of the Rings. Not so much the New Zealand landscapes of the films, but my childhood fantasies, based on early illustrations for Tolkien’s books as they caught the sixties mood and imaginations.
Moss covered trees add to the other worldly atmosphere. Even on a sunny day it feels cool. On a wet day it’s dark and dank and dripping. Perspective and mood change in every section of this walk, a kaleidoscope of feelings. One stretch is dark and mysterious; the next is open and clear. This dale doesn’t present a stable or cohesive personality. The sky, the weather, the landscape and the vegetation are ever changing along its short length. It is only six and a half miles long. At this point the river that gives the dale its name isn’t visible.
Limestone bluffs and buttresses tower over each side of the valley. Rocks lie around, thrown by giants. It’s a Narnia landscape, with Aslan’s sacrificial table. My favourite books from childhood come to life. It could even be Moominvalley. Parson’s Tor rises up on the left. In 1776 the vicar of Monyash, the Reverend Robert Lomas, rode his horse over the cliff on a dark and stormy night. I know a Robert Lomas, a joiner who did a lot of work in my house. It must be a local name. Some say the eighteenth century Reverend had been drinking in Bakewell, still a popular pastime. The horse survived but he didn’t, perhaps it fell on him. It is said that a glass jar holding a tuft of grass used to be on display in St Leonard’s Church in Monyash. The grass was removed from Reverend Lomas’s clenched fist when they found the body. How macabre. Why are local legends like this remembered and shared? I’m adding to the process now as I write, but who thought displaying such a strange memento mori? Was it to remind the parishioners’ that all flesh is grass? Or that we know not the day or the hour. Perhaps it was a prop for a contemporary sermon and no-one then had the heart to throw it away.
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