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 Image: Looking towards Winscar, from Great Grains Clough (Source of the River Don) Location: Winscar Reservoir, Peak District, South Yorkshire Pennines, England, Link To Map At Winscar, Tuesday 22nd May, 3:30pm Almost predictably the Lapwings had returned to the grass verge when I drove past this afternoon on the way to Winscar. I felt a little guilty for interfering yesterday, they seemed to be managing quite well back in their roadside home, I just hoped the council wasn’t planning to cut the grass any time over the next couple of weeks. I had come to Winscar for a walk along its western shores and surrounding moorlands, being access land it has only recently been open to the public. Although I have been here for walks with the children, as yet I have never ventured beyond the tarmac road that leads over the main dam wall. The weather was ‘nice’, and of the nondescript kind, some clouds, a bit of sun and a light breeze. 
The gate post at the entrance to land above the main reservoir was marked with numerous signs, none of which gave me any encouragement to gain access. I spotted a small white sign that read, ‘No dogs on access land’ and took this as a right to roam. The metalled road, lead out towards the moors while also serving as the driveway to the local game keeper’s cottage. I plodded on knowing at some point I would have to find an alternative route around the cottage and outbuildings: the small square of land surrounding them is strictly private and not covered by the right to roam. Before long a four wheeled-drive rattled up behind me and I moved off the track to let the driver pass. There was no wave or nod by either party as the vehicle passed, this I suspect was as much my fault as the keeper’s. It would be easy to demonise Game Keepers; they have never enjoyed the best of reputations even amongst country folk, never mind a city boy like me. The trouble is, they have a job to do which involves protecting the shooting interests of wealthy land owners or more often shooting consortiums. If we had only made the Sheriff of Nottingham into a national hero rather than Robin Hood, game keepers would probably be viewed in a completely different light. Personally there is also a tinge of jealousy attached, knowing they get to live and work with landscape while I just pass through. I stopped for drink and to take in the view, after five minutes the pickup returned along the track and disappeared out of site. I took this as an invitation to continue and coming within site of the cottage I left the road following a set of tyre tracks through a small quarry. This eventually returned me to the road beyond the cottage and its plethora of ‘keep out’ and ‘private signs’. I quietly thanked Ewan MacColl and the men and women who had played their part in the mass trespasses of the 1930’s and kicked the ball rolling for the long march towards the right to roam. After passing unscathed from my imagined confrontation with the keeper, I relaxed and began to soak up the atmosphere and surroundings. The cottage now above me nestled into the patchwork of moor and broken pasture. I still had the feeling of being somewhere I shouldn’t have been; this was wagging school for grownups. I remembered my childhood forays onto Lord Derby’s estate and afternoons in the wood with friends, fishing the stock ponds. Although these occasions were rare, I never saw the fabled game keeper and left my friends to keep the legend alive with tales of lads shot with pepper rounds. Much later I found out my Grandfather had spent some time as a chauffeur for Lord Derby before leaving to join the council owned Bus Company. The track had turned from tarmac to rough gravel and dropped back towards the long arm of the reservoir in the direction of a steep sided clough, after fording the stream I took up a seat in a tuft of heather. The air was alive with insects; iridescent Tiger Beetles landed and scurried off over the sandstone track to hunt for prey. A tiny cricket joined the small community of olive coloured beetles that had taken up residence on my jacket, for a moment I wished I had brought a hat to tie them to, in the style of the Rose Beetle Man from My Family and Other Animals. In the dusty heat I imaged Gerald Durrell’s Corfu, the dark peaty waters of the reservoir quickly dispelled this day dream. Above me the Curlews swung out over the ridge and its line of shooting buts, I followed the track until it petered out just short of the last but and took the sheep trails through the heather. 
The reservoir brought a domestic feel to the landscape, its harsh lines and fringing of pine plantations contrasted sharply with the rising dome of Tinker Hill in the distance, swathed in the white tufts of cotton grass. I trudged on a little depressed and made it along to the roadway on the main dam wall. Below the optimism of the 1960`s had laid out a collection of bungalows and workmen’s housing under the pylons. Passing by the overflow where I had found the two ducklings, I stopped to check if any other creatures had fallen victim to this concrete coffin, before continuing back to the car. The children had all ready gone to bed when I returned and the ducklings had squeaked long and loud enough at the front door to be let in for the evening. A little later they woke up and demanded to be let out, I obliged by opening the front door and setting off next doors security light. The ducklings ran and jumped onto a log before scrambling into the plasterer’s bath for a late night dip. Fully refreshed they followed me back into the house. I picked them up and felt the hard nibs of developing feathers under their soft down; bed in a box and a pool in the garden, what a life. I resolved to take some pictures of them while they are still cute. Taken from The Manchester Rambler, by Ewan MacColl The day was just ending as I was descending By Grindsbrook, just by Upper Tor When a voice cried, Eh you, in the way keepers do He'd the worst face that ever I saw The things that he said were unpleasant In the teeth of his fury I said Sooner than part from the mountains I think I would rather be dead He called me a louse and said, Think of the grouse Well I thought but I still couldn't see Why old Kinder Scout and the moors round about Couldn't take both the poor grouse and me He said, All this land is my master's At that I stood shaking my head No man has the right to all mountains Any more than the deep ocean bed 
Image: The rocky shoreline exposed by the falling waters of the reservoir. Location: Winscar Reservoir, Peak District, South Yorkshire Pennines, England Comment Permalink Posted by paulpadam Category: Places, Nature, Black and White | |
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