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September 27th, 2003
10:00 am - Tart, Strangeness and Charm
With impeccable timing, the season of mists and mellow fruitfulness arrived last weekend. Fair enough, seeing as it was nearly the Autumn Equinox. Unfortunately, the bewitching Fiona and I had not been so diligent in checking the diary when planning a photographic/megalithic weekend in the heart of Derbyshire’s Peak District. I was horrified when we left Coventry on a dull and overcast Saturday morning, all the blues and golds of the previous two week’s Indian summer nothing more than a memory. We’d barely hit the M69, and my whinging about light started in earnest.
“Stop it,” said Fiona, as only the well-informed and experienced can. “The weather’s constantly changing in the Peaks – it’ll be fine.”
Sure enough, by the time we reached Leicester Forest East Services, the sun had broken through, the sky was blue, and everything looked like it was going to perk up no end. Belting up the motorway, all the stresses of the month began to dissolve as we entered Derbyshire. The sun shone merrily, Jonathan Ross on R2 made us cackle with laughter, and I was planning some fab pictures of both Fiona in the landscape and megaliths. This was going to be tricky, as besides finding suitable generic locations, there was a vast list of megalithic sites to try and fit into a very short period of time.
For years now I have read about such fabled places in the Peak District as Arbor Low, The Nine Ladies of Stanton Moor, Robin Hood’s Stride et al; but they have always seemed so inaccessible to me. The Peaks are a bit too far away for a day trip from Oxford; it’s an area of the country I always pass by on the West Coast mainline when travelling up to my mother’s, and somewhere I have even flown over en route to Scotland; but I have never really had the opportunity to spend any time in this beautiful part of England. More importantly, it holds sites I have drooled over in coffee table photography books since I can’t remember when, sites that are always spoken about with deep affection on TMA. Arbor Low in particular I have been wondering about and hankering after visiting for quite a while.
And suddenly, almost unexpectedly, certainly quietly without much planning, we were about to visit all these places in a mad 30 hour Peak District trip!
Phew! What A Corker!
Our initial stop was to be The Nine Ladies of Stanton Moor. However, the first thing we came across was the Cork Stone.
This serves as a handy landmark on the footpath entering Stanton Moor from the main Stanton-in-Peak to Birchover road. It’s quite impressive, though slightly smaller than I expected. Sadly, someone has found it necessary to whack iron rungs into one side, and the second time we visited, a family was watching as a father and young son of about ten were trying to climb it together. The little fella lost his nerve after three rungs, and leapt to the ground in a rather unhappy demeanour. Strangely enough, this stone looks a bit like a bottle-stopper.
We continued past the Cork Stone, and some rather attractive disused quarries, before wandering through a copse containing some elegantly horned sheep, towards the birch wood that was home to the Nine Ladies. This circle sounds terribly romantic, and I was intrigued to know what it was really like; as we climbed up to the heather covered expanse of Stanton Moor, Fiona told me it wasn’t nearly as grand as it sounded, but nonetheless quite sweet.
I was hoping to take some photographs, but the sky had become quite cloudy with only occasional breaks of light; not encouraging. On arrival at this small, but perfectly formed circle, we found two gentleman relaxing against the stones with cans of Blackthorn cider, and plenty of hand rolling tabs. They also had two endearing gunmetal grey lurchers accompanying them. I gave up on the idea of photos, and tried to get a sense of the place instead. With better light, this site would be very photogenic indeed. In the event, it was so flat, it didn’t feel worth shooting anything. After making friends with the lurchers, Fiona did a couple of circuits of the circle, before pointing out the King Stone to me. I was surprised at this. King Stone? More like the Duke of Wessex, or an obscure ruler of a minor principality near Zendor, I thought.
Bidding farewell to the friendly chaps and their dogs, we headed back across the moor to visit the Andle Stone and Doll Tor.
Curses! Foiled Again! And Again, and Again . . .
The Andle Stone stood in its own enclosure in an empty field, and was easily accessible from the road, so without further ado, we hopped over the locked gate and alighted gently in the lush pasture. Well, my lissome, bewitching companion alighted gently in the lush pasture, as she was only wearing shirt, trousers, sandals, and carrying a small shoulder-bag. I alighted with a crash, as I was wearing a bush hat, shirt, army strides, and walking boots, while carrying a map case and a 24lb rucksack on my back. Not in the least bit incongruous, then. Blithely marching towards the smooth, rounded stone surrounded by hawthorns, we suddenly stopped dead about a third of the way across the field.
“Is that a bull?”, I said quietly, indicating a large black and white bovine ahead of us.
“I’m not sure,” replied Fiona. We both stared at the ungulate for a while. It stared back at us, and swished its tail around purposefully. It became noticeable that there was no other livestock in the field. I peered at its undercarriage very hard.
“Dammit – can’t tell if it’s got a pizzle or not,” I said uncertainly. “It is a bull, isn’t it?”
“I think it might be,” said Fiona.
“Sod this, then. I’m not getting charged by a bull just as I’m recovering from an RTA – let’s do Doll Tor instead.”
We backed off slowly, and the next time I looked up, the bull had moved away from us and towards the Andle Stone. So we didn’t see the Andle Stone up close and personal.
Nonetheless, we figured we could loop round through two fields and hop into the wood that contained Doll Tor. All I shall say here is that some very tentative minutes were spent trespassing through three fields which joined up round a central raised copse, and which were home to a large bull; a bull that we didn’t have a lock on. However, once we got within metres of the Doll Tor wood, it was plain to see that a) crossing the field would cut off our route out if the bull put in an appearance, b) it would be impossible to scale the high dry stone wall at speed if necessary, and c) we had no idea whether we would meet the bull ambling round the other side of the copse. Discretion being the better part of valour, we turned tail and headed back for the car, praying we wouldn’t run into a big ol’ Friesian fellow anytime soon. So we didn’t see Doll Tor, either. Bah!
Never mind, the next stop was Robin Hood’s Stride and Nine Stones Close. Surely we would have better luck there – and better light?
I had been studying pictures of Robin Hood’s Stride in books and on TMA, and had some splendid ideas for shooting it with Fiona incorporated into the image. It is clearly a stunning place, and I was very keen to investigate it further. Well, I suppose I should have guessed, but a Saturday afternoon in mid-September probably isn’t the optimum time for a visit of my
nature.
The place was crawling with people. About eight cars lined the verge by the access field, and we could see three lads disporting themselves at the top of the Stride, beer cans in hand. Bare-chested climbers were dangling from every vertical rock face (sadly no women), walkers of all abilities were streaming through, random couples could be spotted in various corners, and families with yelling children popped up at intervals. Then just for a laugh, the light disappeared behind pale grey clouds. My heart sank.
“Oh, arse. Let’s go and have a look at Nine Stones Close instead,” I said. We could see the four standing stones a couple of fields away, and they didn’t look as busy. Fiona sashayed off through the fields, and I stumped along behind, sweating under the weight of my camera gear.
Wow! What an incredibly cool place! This blew me away, and no mistaking. My initial reaction was one of utter enchantment, and then the real potency of the place got hold of me. These are four deeply sexy stones indeed; sinuous, vibrant, beautiful, and very, very female. I was captivated. They truly are magical. I wandered round and admired them in turn, very much appreciating the curved and grooved form of the NW one. She’s a stunna!
The sun came out, it all looked marvellous, and we discussed the possibility of doing a shoot together there and then. Fiona was up for it, the light was just enough, everything was all set, and then a bunch of ramblers trooped into the circle. They dithered about, and left just in time for the light to diminish. A couple of minutes later, the cloud parted, Fiona was all psyched up to do a few quick poses despite the hordes up at Robin Hood’s Stride (did they have field glasses?), and lo and behold, a pleasant-looking blonde appeared from nowhere. She enjoyed looking at the stones, and eventually moved on, taking the light with her.
We gave it up as bad job, and went for lunch at the George Hotel in Youlgrave.
Ambition Accomplished
By now, I was getting a tad anxious. The light was weak and failing, it was well into the afternoon, and I hadn’t done any serious photography except a couple of shots of Nine Stones Close (sans delightful model). My prime goal was to take some fine art shots of Fiona, who had offered me a great deal of her precious time, despite the demands of her own life. Shooting time was seeping away rapidly, even though we were staying in Bakewell overnight. I was beginning to worry that I would let her down horribly. Convincing myself that these concerns were exaggerated by low blood sugar levels, I hoped the application of a cheese and ham toastie with a pint of mild would improve things.
They most certainly did. As we sat down outside the George, the sunshine streamed down.
Becoming increasingly frustrated, we spent some time studying the map, trying to find alternative locations. This attracted the attention of some mountain cyclists.
“Hey, look Simon, this is a good idea – highlighting where you want to go,” one of them said pointedly to his friend.
“It’s a bit nerdy, actually,” I replied sheepishly.
“No it’s not,” the convivial fellow retorted.
“Yes it is,” interjected Fiona. “Don’t ask.”
“What then?”
Fiona sighed as I looked at the map somewhat proudly.
“Well, the yellow ones are tumuli or burial chambers, green ones are standing stones or stone circles, the blue ones are natural rock formations, and on my other maps, pink ones are hill forts and orange ones are earthworks,” I told him brightly.
“Told you,” smiled Fiona. Was there a hint of embarrassment on her beautiful face, I wondered?
“Ah. Mmm. Well then, we’ll be off . . . .”
I decide to ask the landlady of the pub for any ideas for suitable locations, but sadly, she wasn’t especially helpful. It was then that Fiona suggested we could try returning to Robin’s Hood Stride early in the morning, before the climbers and walkers had hauled themselves out of their pits. This sounded a very good idea. After, all it’s what they do on shoots in Barbados. . .
We decided to visit Arbor Low next, and set off westwards. By now, it was getting very grey and misty. We parked at the farm that stewards the circle, and walked up the hillside towards the henge. I was finally here. Fiona had visited once before, but had been unable to enter the circle due to a herd of randy bullocks. Happily, there were no bullocks present in the circle on this occasion, just a chap leaving an offering of what I was later to discover were dead wild flowers, a few pebbles, half a spliff, and some mushrooms.
The grey murk had descended on the land all about, but a little patch of blue remained in the sky above Arbor Low. Fiona and I split up, and she walked round the circle of 56 large recumbent limestone slabs. I felt it important to walk the henge first. This wasn’t to be rushed. There were a few other people on it, and everyone seemed to keep themselves to themselves. I was struck by the pudding-like feel of the henge, especially at the eastern end. After completing my circuit of the earthwork, I swapped with Fiona, and slowly made my way round the stones.
I like this place vastly. It felt very calming and safe, but I also picked up a distinct feeling of it being a place of initiation – there was a very strong sense of that, probably because it appeared to be one thing from the outside, yet was another secret place on the inside. It would have looked even more magnificent when all the stones were standing upright; truly a place to inspire awe. But there was also a very strange impression of size about it – on one hand, as I commented to Fiona when she joined me on the largest central stone a little while later, it seemed grander, yet smaller than I had imagined, but then by the same token, bigger and not so grand. Weird. Sounds a contradiction in terms – well, clearly, it is – however, she knew what I meant. But then Fiona is a very sensitive and caring medical professional, and understands my eccentricities . . .
A cold wind had whipped up, but neither of us wanted to leave. So, handing a fleece to my understanding friend, I swathed myself in the trusty stripy blanket, topping it off with the bush hat, much to the amusement of a small boy who crested the earthwork at that very moment. “You look like a Mexican!” Fiona laughed. I thought the facial scars probably added to the effect. We laid back on the stone and watched as the blue sky disappeared, two little girls played energetically on the henge, and the solid grey murk encased what would have been fabulous views.
“You know Derbyshire,” I finally said. “Has this set in for the night?”
Fiona looked rueful. “Pretty much,” she replied.
“Best we find that B&B;, then,” I suggested. We left Arbor Low brooding quietly in the grey dusk. I’d love to see it in more clement conditions, but I still enjoyed the moodiness of our visit.
After arranging with our friendly landlady to slip out early and return for breakfast the following morning, we went off for a bizarre night in Bakewell, and the pleasures of the Bakewell Balti House, which are considerable, if not wildly eccentric. We were also able to conclude the evening with generous amounts of Glenmorangie, Dalwhinnie, and Bowmore. Capital stuff.
It’s A Kind Of Magic
06:15, and the polyphonic tones of Beethoven’s Fifth stirred us from our slumbers. “Wassilikeouside?” mumbled Fiona from across the room, as I stuffed my phone under the pillow. Flicking the curtain up, hoping for a morning of bell-like clarity, I squinted at the dawn.
“Grey. Foggy. Arse,” I muttered, wondering if the BBC’s Helen Willetts ever felt like delivering the weather report in such succinct terms.
Thick, clinging foggy mist had descended on Bakewell, sitting on the roofs, and limiting visibility to a few hundred yards. Absolutely corking. Nonetheless, being a true professional, Fiona suggested we get up and go and have a look at Robin Hood’s Stride if nothing else. We slipped quietly out of Bakewell, and a few minutes later, were travelling up the hill to the outcrop. Up the hill was the crucial thing – once we were half a mile from our destination, we had crested the fog, and everything became much clearer and brighter.
Most thrilling was the fact that we had the entire place to ourselves. The lane was devoid of traffic. The only other sentient beings were a herd of Friesian cows quietly cropping the grass, and an occasional bird flying overhead. As we walked through the field to Robin Hood’s Stride, I looked across the valleys, which were shrouded in thick white fog. The mist hanging over the field provided a calm, pregnant quiescence in the recent dawn, which had lit the land with a pale silvery grey light. The sun struggled valiantly to burn through a dense, but slowly breaking mass of cloud. Shadows still clung darkly to the huge rocks and woodland surrounding us. Besides being very silent and very still, it was also very cold. Tramping through the dewy field, our breath condensed in the platinum landscape.
“I have to say, you’re a bloody good sport, Fiona,” I commented, in admiration at her willingness to model for moody and atmospheric pictures in such challenging conditions. This was definitely not like an early morning shoot on a Caribbean beach . . .
We passed through a few trees, before coming across Robin Hood’s Stride rising majestically from the land, its twin pinnacles towering above us, the rocks massive and brooding. Suddenly, it was undeniably evident how this would have been revered as a major spiritual and powerful location by our ancestors – it’s an amazing place. I could easily imagine rituals taking place in its shadow, or certain individuals, presumably of a mystical persuasion, coming here to engage with the spirits under the cover of a dark night, or as us, in a dewy morning. Seeing it at this early hour was undisputedly the right action; it’s sanctity was never so obvious in the daytime when people were teeming around. In fact, it seemed entirely appropriate that Fiona’s inaugural landscape work occurred at that time in such a resonant place – after all, aside from being a bloody good sport, she’s also a megalithic goddess, as mentioned in previous field notes . . .
We set to, and got a few shots in the can before nipping back for breakfast. Walking into a small dining room, occupied by two retired couples listening to the strains of ‘Strangers In The Night’ being played in truly camp style by the James Last Orchestra, we couldn’t help but smirk knowingly at each other. This was all getting more surreal by the moment. I wondered what Basil Fawlty would have made of our early morning excursion. . .
Awesome And Irksome
After the full English, we zoomed back to Robin Hood’s Stride, just in time for the sun to break through, and bathe everything in fine modelling light. At last! Hooray! I dashed about shooting film in an orgy of ecstasy. The rocks looked even more impressive, Fiona looked gorgeous, then I just happened to look northwards, and saw a breathtaking sight.
Below us, a quarter of a mile away, the seductive figures of Nine Stones Close stood quietly in their verdant field, the delicate pearl-like sun lighting both them, and the nearby oak, to utter, utter perfection. Every flowing, curvaceous line of these stones was unequivocable, their importance and power indisputable. They were mouthwateringly spellbinding. I became their slave, and remain as such. It was a moment of pure transcendence that continues to ripple in my heart. I didn’t take any photographs; it wasn’t something that I could catch on film. But it was phenomenal.
We continued shooting in the vicinity of Robin Hood’s Stride for a while longer, and after spicing up three lady walkers’ morning hike along the Limestone Way, returned to the disused quarries on Stanton Moor. Naughtily squeezing in one more megalithic site, there was almost enough time to check out the prehistoric rock art at Rowtor Rocks. I had been careful to observe their location on streetmap.co.uk, and thought it would be the work of a moment to trot down and look at these fascinating carvings. I never learn.
The jumbled boulders of Rowtor Rocks loomed above us up a steep slope, through a tangle of bracken, brambles, bluebells, and trees. There were only a couple of entry points through the high dry stone wall, and it was clear that a serious scramble would be required if we were to see anything. Well aware of the pressing time constraints, and the fact that in skirt and sandals, Fiona was not suitably attired for an undignified scrabble through the undergrowth (had she been in her strides, it would have been a different matter, as she’s a bit lithe when it comes to scaling rock faces), I scanned the rocks anxiously for any hint of spirals and cup-marks. Nothing was forthcoming. I cursed under my breath.
A family strolled through the foliage from the other side of the boulders, appearing to be fairly outdoorsy types, and they were also clearly searching for something. I asked if they knew where the rock carvings were.
“No – we’re looking for those, too,” the lady said. “My husband thinks they’re up there.” She pointed up the road past the Druid’s Arms. I looked at these intrepid ramblers, and decided to try something; after all, I may have conversed with them previously.
“I don’t suppose you’re Modern Antiquarians, are you?” I asked cautiously.
The woman looked at me with a slightly puzzled expression. “Nooo . . . “
“Oh well, never mind, “ I replied breezily with a raffish grin. They moved on, and we went and asked about the rock art at the pub, but no one seemed to know what we were referring to; so fed up, and out of time, we set off for our final destination; Bakewell, and its legendary tarts.
Not only were the tarts to be had in their dozens, I also discovered a fairly tart side to the bewitching Fiona – behind the wheel of a car surrounded by Sunday drivers in a busy market town, this mellow and gentle goddess turns into a veritable virago of road rage. Her ire was probably comparable to the Morrighan with a driving licence. Which was impressive. Not surprisingly, the photos have revealed a great shot of her looking like Boudica whilst up at Robin Hood’s Stride. Definitely something of the Iron Age about Fiona. . .
Altogether, this was a fantastically bizarre, stunning, spiritual and crazy trip to Bakewell and its treasures. I wouldn’t have missed it for the world; perhaps we can return to celebrate the Vernal Equinox!
Current Mood: accomplished
Current Music: Kinobi - Skyscraper
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August 31st, 2003
12:29 pm - Peace Within Pesto
I made my own pesto for the first time yesterday, quite by chance. After spending an afternoon with my best mate and other friends, one of whom is a very powerful and wonderful woman, I was given a large bunch of sweet-smelling basil from the pot in the yard on leaving.
"How do you make pesto?" I asked my friends Mikki and Alan as they drove me home.
"Basil, pine nuts, parmesan - the good stuff, not pre-grated-, olive oil and garlic. Lots of garlic," Mikki told me. I could tell this woman knew her pestos.
I rushed off to Tescos, and came back with the required ingredients, excited at the culinary alchemy I was about to undertake. The basil smelt heavenly as I stripped the leaves into the blender. I threw in a handful of the pale, exquisite pine nuts. What a godsend to cooking they are. 'How much parmesan?' I wondered. I love the stuff, so a good fistful went in, leaving only the garlic and oil. I smashed three garlic cloves from their papery, pink skins, before roughly chopping and adding them to the rich conglomeration waiting to be pulverised.
A quick pulse with the blender started the mix nicely. Picking up the huge, sexy olive oil bottle friends gave me some years ago, I carefully poured Bertolli's Gentile Extra Vergine Olio di Oliva into the green and yellow nutty mass. "Add the oil slowly," Mikki had said, so I took especial care over this part, pouring and pulsing steadily, checking every so often.
A taste revealed the garlic was a touch too much, so I enthusiastically grated more of the hard, precious cheese and added it with a wild scattering of pine nuts. More oil, and the mixture darkened wonderfully. Another taste; something was lacking. Salt. A cautious sprinkling suddenly brought all the flavours together, lifting them to another plain, structuring them on the surface of my tongue. It was amazing! A smidge more of the oil, another pulse, and the process was complete. I had made pesto.
All the time I thought of the conversation I had shared with Mikki over the afternoon, which was deep, and seminal. The pesto sealed the promise of a positive future, the alchemy of food echoing the alchemy of fate.
And it tasted splendid over fresh-cooked pasta; delicate, yet rich and satisfying! Mmmmmm . . . .
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