Sitting in front of my PC screen, I am quietly confident of a good year to come, for today is the shortest day of winter and although the severe weather predicted by the Met Office hasn't arrived yet. I can't help feeling quietly optimistic that with the days starting to pull out from now on, it wont be too long before we see the first signs of spring. Optimism indeed seeing that we have to face the dreary grey cold months of January and February longing for Easter to arrive. Ah well!

I am conscious that my diary entries have been fairly sparse of late, partly due to an unplanned and enjoyable holiday with my son and his girlfriend in British Columbia. He has a blog site and a passion for the outdoors like his dad so if you fancy a look, www.ayupfromsquamish.blogspot.com . This and other commitments have kept me away from the dales. However I promised myself some time of quite solitude on the fells to recharge my batteries and of course give me something genuine to write about and share with my readers.

So my Christmas jaunt last weekend (17th) wasn't along the High Street being hustled and bustled by frantic last minute shoppers or being bombarded by pushy high street store staff, encouraging me to share my Christmas experience with them at their check outs and tills. Rather it started from our cottage on a clear bitterly cold 'blue bird' of a day. Armed with a large flask of coffee and clad in several layers of Polartec, I set off with great expectation of a full day's walking in ideal sunny winter conditions and I wasn't disappointed. Apart from the farmers with their muck spreaders clanking up and down the fields in the dale bottoms there were very few people about. Hill farmers love these freezing cold conditions, the frozen ground supports the heavy wheels of their tractors and it gives them the opportunity to muck out their stock, replace their straw bedding, and spread the muck on the fields.

Heading off up the Pennine Way path toward Kisdon Hill and rounding the stone wall just before  Kisdon Farm I bumped into a couple of walkers clad in winter gear with hats and gloves on, she had a camcorder pointing at her husband. With arms outstretched and prancing around like a gazelle he was practicing his dambusters routine in front of one the finest elevated views the dale has to offer toward Muker village and far beyond. Their embarrassment was immediately evident as I observed his actions on spotting me, he looked as though he had been shot out of the sky by enemy fire. What do I say?, I noticed that he had a beard same as myself and without fear of insulting him pronounced, that 'all blokes with beards are a little crazy'. His wife quickly agreed and the stunned silence was broken as was his mission to blow up his imaginary dam. The views and vast open space of this area would make anyone want to throw up their arms and sing to the hills like Julie Andrews, I was telling myself  as I continued on, but then second thoughts crept in. Perhaps this poor chap had been pushed over the edge by an early Christmas depression. Perhaps his wife wouldn't like her presents as much as he would, and she would make him take them back to change for something warmer, more comfortable and more practical. He may say the wrong thing to her relatives at the Christmas dinner table whilst polishing off a bottle of Merlot all to himself, or horrors of horrors he hadn't measured the size of the oven before ordering that gigantic turkey. This was his last weekend away to regain his sanity before the big event. What was I doing!!! all this speculation about them and I wasn't taking in my surroundings myself as I marched on. Before I knew it I was on Kisdon summit and it was cold, very cold with a wind chill of minus 6C, so time for a quick stop and a shot of coffee from that large flask.

I got down behind a wall to shelter from this freezing wind and to enjoy five minutes sipping the  coffee and taking in the sights and sounds of the dale below me. Skeb Skeugh Farm won't be there for much longer. I could see the ponies in the fields surrounding the converted old stone barn and steel portal building built recently by Django the Hungarian. A larger than life character whose grandfather was a horseman in the Hungarian Hussars, he became besotted by this beautiful area and a local girl and decided to settle here. A better horseman and more interesting and charismatic character would be hard to find anywhere let alone this dale, but he has encouraged the wrath of the National Park Planners by taking a huge gamble to press ahead with his dream of opening a trekking centre.It has left its mark in this sensitive area which is unacceptable to the Planning Inspectorate who have recently ruled that it must go. I hope Django stays in the area, he has reason to now, a young son who he adores, so when the dust settles on this issue that has been the talk of the dale for many months now, perhaps he can find a way to pick up the pieces and start over again in the new year and at a new more acceptable location nearby.

Descending the hill and into Keld there wasn't as soul around so for the first time in months I was able to have East Gill falls all to myself apart for a small robin who after stalking me for a while found enough courage to share a crumb or two of my lunchtime sandwich. Everyone knows that these harsh winter conditions are the birds worst enemy. They seem to go to ground to conserve energy, this was evident because apart from a couple of grouse on the moor later on this little red breasted raider was all I would see the whole day.

Conscious that this was be a big walk on a short day, I set off again leaving the path to Muker and striking off on the miners track to meet with the path above Crackpot Hall close to the old Beldi Mine Smithy and on into Swinner Gill. The gill was magical but treacherous, its steep sides see little sun in winter so when the temperature plummets everything ices up very quickly. The waterfalls were nearly solid ice and spring feeders into the gill had dozens of icicles on them, many over a metre long. Picking my way very carefully because large areas of the narrow path were iced over I made my way up the gill, A slip was the last thing I needed because apart from the dambuster Couple I had seen no one else. I didn't want to slip and break a leg in this cold isolation that would make me a statistic in the local news.

Its surprising how you maintain your body temperature whilst climbing but quickly cool off as soon as you get onto the level. The sun was dropping quickly now so I needed to go up a gear if I was to cross Gunnerside Moor before dusk and hold on to that body heat generated by my climb up Swinner. Rounding the track off the moor making my way back toward  Rampsholme, I acknowledged a Keeper who had been out feeding his pheasants before crossing the Swale river bridge and heading into Muker village. I would have made home by nightfall had I not made the fatal mistake of calling in the Farmers Arms for a swift beer. A couple of hours later dragging myself away from a big open fire and good company I was pleased to have succumbed to a pushy high street sales assistant the week previous. ' Would sir like a LED torch for half price with your purchase?. As it turned out, sir used it to find his way through the squeeze stiles and across the fields in the darkness back to Thwaite and home.

 

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I've been watching the BBC weather forecast and local news the last few nights and feeling pretty smug for the first time in ages. The last few weeks we've been deluged with continuous rain and storms. The river's been as high as I've ever seen it and I got to thinking how those small brown trout managed to hang on in their pools and dubs when the fastest flowing river in the country is full to bursting and racing down the dale like a foaming Ferrari, to spill its flood water all over York. So why so smug then? well the last few days have been magical, hard frosts, the first real frosts we've had this winter, and this with clear blue sky and the misty wisps of inverted white cloud drifting around Shunner Fell summit and the back of Kisdon hill, its been pure picture post card. Even the birds have come out of hiding and you can hear their songs of approval.

Getting in to the Christmas spirit and making the most of these cold dry days Ken a  local farmer and myself were on our knees this lunch time, not praying for the weather to hold, but scooping earth out of a deep pit we'd dug on the village green to  place the village Christmas tree donated by the local manor. The conversation went back to last weeks gales prompting us to dig even deeper. What if it (the tree) falls on someone? I heard Ken say as his head disappeared down the hole. I almost had to pull him out by the wellies. The tree's firmly in its place now and Kens wife and daughters were set to deck it out with garlands later in the afternoon.

Christmas in the dales is so different you go out and pick your holly from the hedge rows prepare wholesome pheasant casseroles for lunch or supper and break out those preserves you did earlier in the Autumn. You bank up the fire with logs you've had stored and seasoning so you can look out of your warm little cottage window to see if  Tesco's van is coming over the Buttertubs with your internet groceries, magic. Definitely the best of both worlds but truly a Christmas with friends where you wouldn't swop a Boxing day walk over Kisdon hill and a short stop over for mince pies and a snifter of Southern Comfort for a day at Meadow Hall or the Metro Centre. I'll do the sales later in the week!