Vivienne Crow greets the spring on the Pennines tops
IT’S HARD to beat the North Pennines in early spring. After the silence of the winter, these normally sombre hills are bouncing back to vibrant life. As I follow a walled track up from the East Fellside village of Renwick, small flocks of lapwings whirl and dive in the air above while curlews call from the distance. Occasionally, I see writhings in the muddy puddles on the path but, by the time I reach them, all signs of life have vanished. I try creeping up on them but it’s no use; frogs are very sensitive to vibrations and my ‘silent’ footsteps probably feel like those of an elephant to them. As I stop to peer into the murky depths of one pool,
a snipe suddenly, and noisily, flies out of a ditch nearby, sending my heart racing.
I quickly reach the trig pillar on Thack Moor, the climb so gradual that it’s barely noticeable. This summit was promoted to the status of ‘mountain’ in 2013 when surveyors John Barnard, Graham Jackson and Myrddyn Phillips found it to be 0.65m higher than previously thought, pushing it just above the metric equivalent of the magic 2000ft mark.
As I look into the lonely heart of the North Pennines, my spirits soar. The Pennines don’t inspire me in the same way that the Lake District fells do – let’s face it, they’re nowhere near as aesthetically pleasing – but their sense of space and expansiveness is uplifting, especially after a long, grey winter. I head southeast towards Watch Hill.
Wouldn’t it be great to keep walking across these lonely tops, over Cross Fell and beyond? I’m close to the northern end of a chain of hills that continues all the way to the Peak District – more than 150km to the south as the crow flies; considerably more if the Crow’s walking. The long days of summer stretch on ahead, just like the Pennines... It’s an appealing idea!
The stone construction on Watch Hill is marked on maps as a currick (a local word for a cairn or shelter), this one bearing an inscribed stone marked ‘Lowthian 1865’. Further on, I pass above the ruins of a shepherd’s hut.
These hills may be bereft of humans today, but the mark of mankind is never far away.
My day on the hills reaches its high point on the 664m Black Fell, where a lone golden plover eyes me suspiciously and then wanders off. It’s all downhill now, past the burnedout remains of the old Hartside café and down to the farmland at the foot of the escarpment. I consider following a minor road back to Renwick, but opt instead for a series of old tracks and field paths. A wise choice: I end my day in the company of hares and melodious meadow pipits. Spring has definitely arrived.