Being the way I’ve been brought up – the stories of how the wonders of the world ended up where they are can either be treated as faith fact or fiction
I studied (for interest) geology at sixth-form briefly before I came to my senses and joined up for technology classes instead. But I still have an appreciation for all things natural.
Maybe it’s the old scout in me.
Thing is – if you believe the scientists tale – The British Isles are two bits of land that broke off from its European sister when their mother, Pangea was cracking up.
I’d honestly like the tale formed by the creation story – where the various islands around the world were bits added by the creator (take your pick) to make it look pretty.
He let mother nature loose with the clay and she formed hills mountains and valleys – and it was so beautiful, the angels cried with joy, and made lakes in the crevices where the hills and valleys met.
and that’s how North-west England supposedly was given the Lake district.
The pic? One of the lakes south of Penrith (Buttermere ? could be Coniston). I’ve been camping by there with the Scout association in a place called Long-Marton, close to the town of Appleby-in-Westmoreland. I’ve returned many times since, either camping or staying in a holiday park nearby Appleby in a place called Lowther.
In a part of the corridor, just by the stairs by the front door, lies a pair of Old Black Boots. It’s been quite a while since they have been walking. And if their owner were truthful – they could do with a bit of a clean. The hooks holding the laces crusted with dirt, their leather is worn from the passing of time having seen many a moorland excursion. Lakeland water now pools at the toes.
But they still feel right. As if once put on, they could take their owner from their Salford home out to the hills of Perpignan and back again, covering miles along the way and without a mutter or moan.
Rugby Boots and Training shoes might be fine for a sportsman at Old Trafford but they don’t cut it on the fields of the West Yorkshire Moors. If these boots could talk, the tales they would tell – of covering rocky paths once stepped by Roman Legionaries, of campfire ditties sung round old ancient stones, and of moonlight illuminating mugs of steaming hot Beef Tea.
They’d sit outside tents so the groundsheet stayed clean, and leave their owner a morning surprise if they hadn’t been left under the flysheet. They would walk for miles as their owner crossed field and moor, praying that they would avoid the hidden cowpats. Of course they’d get cleaned on one day, just before parade, as the group amassed around a solitary flagpole.
Where they’ll go next, is anyone’s guess. But for now they just sit on the varnished wooden shelf, looking quite a sight with dark brown Yorkshire mud entrapped in the soles. They look at themselves in the tall hallway mirror and think of the streams they’ve crossed and the moors they’ve run, the bracken broken for kindling and stiles climbed in fun.