Vivienne Crow finds history hidden in the hills
IN THE TRANQUILLITY of the spring morning, it’s hard to believe I’m passing through an area that, for many decades, was mined for its coal reserves. For the observant though, evidence of this history lies all around – in the grassed-over spoil heaps, in the ruined buildings, in the flooded mine entrances. The most obvious remains on my walk from the Clesketts car park on the RSPB’s Geltsdale Reserve are the old railways that have left entrenched lines on the fellsides.
From the isolated cottages at Howgill, I briefly follow part of the original, 18thCentury wagonway built by Lord Carlisle to serve his Tarnhouse colliery. Here,
horses would’ve pulled wagons laden with coal along wooden rails to nearby Brampton. Later, the line purchased Stephenson’s Rocket, although the engine couldn’t cope with the workload and was left to rot in a shed until it was donated to a museum.
As I skirt the base of Brown Fell, I join the line that, in the early 20th Century, extended the railway to the Gairs Colliery. By the 1920s, almost 200 men worked the seams here, producing about 70,000 tonnes of coal per year. Today, all is silent, and as I round a curve on the line I spot a trio of roe deer on the trackbed ahead. They’re completely oblivious to my presence and I slow down, hoping to enjoy their company for a little longer. A snipe gives the game away though, shrieking as it leaps from a ditch. The deer look up, straight at me; within a second, they’re gone.
I’ve seen hen harriers in this area of Geltsdale on two previous occasions, but they fail to put in an appearance today. There’s no shortage of curlews though, and I spot several as I leave the old railway and begin climbing towards Cold Fell. Harriers and curlews are just two of the 38 ground-nesting species that breed on the reserve. Nearing the top, I hear a golden plover, far in the distance. There’s something alluring about its haunting call. Coupled with the tempting fence-line heading off to the south-east, out along northern England’s bleak and boggy spine, it’s almost irresistible, and I stand and consider my options when I reach the cairns at the summit. Suddenly, I wish I had more time (and a tent). Out there is some of the loneliest hill country in England; but, right now, I’m unable to commit to it.
As I head north, Cold Fell’s position in the Pennines becomes more apparent; this is the northernmost point of the long chain of hills that divides east from west. Straight ahead are the gently rolling forest and rough pasture straddling the Scottish border. This is the end of the line. And, for today at least, it’ll be my only taste of the nation’s watershed.