Memories of wild winters still give me a warm glow
THE good thing about getting cold and wet when out on the hill is that wonderful feeling one gets when walking back into the house, especially if the fire is on, the kettle nearly boiling and a drop of the Irish beckoning from the top shelf.
It was one of the real pleasures of working as a reservoir keeper in the early 80s. I’d be out in the foulest weather, on the tops, down in the valley and walking by the windswept Woodhead Reservoir. When the wind came howling in from the north east, it was once removed from Siberia, but at least it was at my back on the return to Bleak House and the aforementioned simple pleasures.
I remember the winters very fondly, in spite of the -15oCs and lower, and in particular my daily contact with all manner of feathered and furry wildlife.
On the tops, the grouse and blue hares, and sometimes foxes, would burst from the snow where they were sitting if I ventured too close. They could have stayed where they were, as most times I hadn’t even seen them.
In the woods, often quiet as the grave, it was easy to spot the roosting long-eared and tawny owls, quite unlike the woodcocks, completely cock-sure that their camouflage was flawless.
If only they realised that they stuck out like, well, woodcocks in the snow.
And then, of course, there were the waterside birds, including whooper and Bewick’s swans from the high Arctic and the remarkable year-round dipper, often seen utilising holes in the ice made by passing kids, dropping into one and emerging from another after an underwater meal.
One of my favourite wildlife painters, Archibald Thorburn, was very skilled at capturing wildlife in the snow, like the woodcocks seen here from 1916.
In those days we had ‘real’ snow at Crowden. I’m talking up to the bedroom windows and the Woodhead Pass shut for three days.
Truth is, it is difficult to comprehend now just how we survived back then but we were young and you just got on with it.
Before we moved in on February 10, 1980, North West Water had, thoughtfully, modernised Bleak House; bricked up all the fireplaces, fitted large electric fires in the rooms, covered all the original doors with hardboard and basically ruined the interior.
Without telling the bosses, I soon set about returning the house to its former glory by opening up the fireplaces and installing two stoves which had been left in a couple of disused railway buildings. I remember well how pleased I was when checking the ‘pull’ of the chimney by setting fire to the hardboard I’d taken from the back of the doors.
Unfortunately the workmen had removed all the original door latches and we were left with brown Bakelite handles from the stores in Tintwistle, which to be fair must have been vintage 1930s, so we left them on in all their dirty brown glory.
When I think of the 80s it doesn’t seem so far away in my head but, at nearly forty years, time is trotting on at a fair pace. Which is weird because, like most people my age and older, I still feel the same until I look in the mirror.
There is the pragmatic understanding that I am now on the descent, and I can’t help wondering where I’ll get planted as I drive along Cemetery Road. Maybe I should have a sweepstake to see who gets the closest, although I obviously won’t be around to present the prize.
Meanwhile, I’m just in from a walk to Laddow Rocks, Crowden, and yes, the fire is lit and the Irish whiskey is in hand, both producing a warm glow.