Penyghent, the hill of winds

click photo to enlarge
On a day such as the one on which I took this photograph Penyghent looks like a benign, undemanding mountain, somewhere that offers a moderately energetic stroll with the reward of a quite good view at the end of it. And, truth be told, that isn't too far from the truth. On a warm, still, early autumn day such as is shown above (or even one a little later), a few rocky scrambles excepted, it is all those things.

However, the Celtic translation of Penyghent's name - "hill of winds" - is a more accurate summation of this Yorkshire peak. I've climbed Penyghent many times and on few occasions was the weather entirely kind. More typically it is windy, often the mountain is in cloud (sometimes of its own making), frequently it is lashed by rain showers and all to commonly it is drenched by steady rain. The latter appeared in bucket-fulls after a sunny, August walk from Settle to the peak with my wife many years ago. Such was the downpour and the strength of the wind that we were forced to pitch our tent near the summit. A small stream was running under our groundsheet by midnight. The next day compensated for our discomfort by being bright, sunny and warm. I've climbed Penyghent in snow and ice and it is far from benign. Low cloud can make it a disorienting place to be.

The photograph above was taken after a walk that took in Attermire and Victoria Cave. The area looks rugged and remote, but if you look carefully below the trees you'll glimpse the tarmac surface of the road that leads to Malham.

photograph and text © Tony Boughen

Camera: Olympus E-M10
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 49mm (98mm - 35mm equiv.)
F No: f7.1
Shutter Speed: 1/1250 sec
ISO:200
Exposure Compensation: 0EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Stainforth packhorse bridge

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As I travel about the country I periodically come upon a packhorse bridge. A while ago I posted about the example at West Rasen in Lincolnshire. I've seen a couple more since then. In our recent trip to the Yorkshire Dales we had a walk that took me back to the first packhorse bridge I ever saw, one I became very familiar as I grew up in the area.

Stainforth packhorse bridge spans the River Ribble at a point between Knight Stainforth and Stainforth. The river is rocky here and often quite turbulent after heavy rain. The arch that the builders erected is long as such bridges go - 57 feet (17.4 metres) - and much more elegant than most. But, it still has the characteristic low walls on each side of the roadway to allow heavily laden horses with their pannier packs to cross easily. This stone example was built by a prominent Quaker, Samuel Watson (c.1618-1708), owner and builder of Knight Stainforth Hall (1672). It apparently replaced a wooden bridge which itself supplanted a ford. The name "Stainforth" means "stony ford". The bridge is on a route between Lancaster and Ripon, that crosses the Pennine uplands. Packhorses would have negotiated this route more readily than horse-drawn carts and waggons.

photograph and text © Tony Boughen

Camera: Olympus E-M10
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 22mm (44mm - 35mm equiv.)
F No: f7.1
Shutter Speed: 1/320 sec
ISO:200
Exposure Compensation: -0.3
Image Stabilisation: On

Attermire

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Many keen walkers know that some of the best under-foot conditions for their pastime is limestone upland. The relatively free draining surface, that is often farmed with sheep, frequently has a short, mud-free turf, and offers conditions that contrast greatly with the wetter conditions found on less permeable rocks such as millstone grit and granite.

That is not to say that water isn't found on limestone: it is, particularly in areas where it has been glaciated and till was spread and dumped in the distant past. And even where these conditions don't prevail heavy and persistent rainfall can produce temporary streams and pools. But, all that not withstanding, water and wet conditions are much less frequent on limestone and it makes good walking country.

Today's photograph shows three prominent corallian outcrops of limestone. On the right is Attermire Scar, in the centre Warrendale Knotts, and on the left (in the shadow of cloud), an unnamed (or unknown to me) outcrop. They exhibit the typical cliffs, caves and scree of  this type of landscape. What is less common is the large, fairly flat area of grass and marsh in the centre of the landscape. This is called Attermire and is the mire (marsh) after which the area is named. It is an area of little use for livestock but a great place for birds, plants and insects. I have spent more than a few happy hours sitting on Warrendale Knotts with binoculars, scanning the area for wildlife, listening to the curlew's warbling whistle, the lapwing's plaintive cry and the raven's harsh croak.

On our most recent visit the weather was what I consider to be perfect for photographing this kind of landscape - cloud with sun periodically breaking through - conditions that give saturated colours, contrast and interesting skies.

photograph and text © Tony Boughen

Camera: Olympus E-M10
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 18mm (36mm - 35mm equiv.)
F No: f7.1
Shutter Speed: 1/1000 sec
ISO:200
Exposure Compensation: -0.3
Image Stabilisation: On

Mist on Giggleswick Scar

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The all-enfolding mists of autumn are viewed by many as an unwelcome intrusion after the brightness and warmth of summer. But, to poets such as Keats, and to many photographers they are a pleasing change that transforms familiar landscapes and offers a melancholy note that is rarely to be found in the warmer months.

We recently spent several days in the Yorkshire Dales, the area of my upbringing. Rain was quite frequent, as it often is in such parts, but not in quanitities or at times that prevented us having a long walk each day. One of our rambles took us on to the limestone upland known as Giggleswick Scar, an area of cliffs, scree, caves, short sheep-cropped grass, rowan trees, bracken - all the attributes of what geographers call a karst landscape. A thick mist accompanied our walk to the summit of the Scar but shortly afterwards it started to clear from the high ground leaving the grey blanket in the valleys below. Today's photograph shows rowans and hawthorns silhouetted against the mist in the Ribble valley with the summits and clouds beyond. When the mist started to dissipate it was quite difficult to distinguish between the hills and the clouds, but by the time of my photograph this was more easily done.

photograph and text © Tony Boughen

Camera: Nikon D5300
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 95mm (142mm - 35mm equiv.)
F No: f8
Shutter Speed: 1/400 sec
ISO:100
Exposure Compensation: -0.33 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

The hawthorn

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I've always liked hawthorns. They are a hardy tree, able to grow in the widest range of locations from cliff face to lowland meadow, from derelict industrial waste land to city street. And wherever they grow they offer the same four attributes - stark and leafless in winter, green and leafy in summer, covered in white blossom ("May") in spring, and yellow/brown leaves contrasting with red berries ("haws") in autumn. Yes, they have thorns, and if  you want to trim or handle them then thick gloves are required. But that downside becomes an advantage when you plant it as a security hedge to deter interlopers. I have a hawthorn hedge that is impenetrable to all but birds, though cats have found a way through at the base. A further virtue, from my perspective, is that it only requires a single cut each year.

Hawthorn is a long-lived tree and happy to grow in solitary isolation. Many of England's Anglo-Saxon charters mention hawthorn trees as markers of property boundaries. Some significant specimens served as meeting places where villagers would gather to discuss matters of importance.In those long-gone days the new, spring leaves were nibbled by poor children to ward off hunger pangs. This spawned the ironic name for the young leaves of "bread and cheese". Today's photograph shows a lone, gnarled, hawthorn tree on an area of upland pasture and limestone known as Feizor Thwaite a couple of miles from Settle in North Yorkshire. The prevailing south-westerly wind is partly responsible for its shape, but it must also be the result of the attentions of sheep - rubbing and nibbling - as well as the restrictions on its roots imposed by the limestone.

photograph and text © Tony Boughen

Camera: Nikon D5300
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 66mm (99mm - 35mm equiv.)
F No: f8
Shutter Speed: 1/800 sec
ISO:100
Exposure Compensation: 0 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Penyghent, Stackhouse and limestone

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One of the interesting things about ageing is the perspective that it brings. As a young child I lived in Stackhouse, a small group of houses and a farm that can be barely glimpsed in the trees towards the bottom right of this photograph. Though I was small I got to know the limestone valley side behind where we lived, the cliffs, the beeches, the rowans, the bracken and the sheep that wandered over the rugged landscape. When we moved to live in Settle I continued to walk the area, and I've carried on doing so regularly ever since. As a child, even as a teenager, I wasn't aware that the valley side was slowly changing. But, as the years have passed those small changes have become more obvious.

The bracken has spread, the drystone walls are not as well maintained as they were, the sheep are not almost exclusively Swaledales and are fewer, ash saplings are multiplying in and around the outcropping limestone, and the dew pond is becoming ever more cracked and overgrown with weed. The remains of children's play - dens and the like - are no longer to be seen. Most of these changes must be a consequence of fewer sheep and an increase in the amount of time that farmers are devoting to the core business of producing meat and wool. I haven't seen children on the hills without their parents for decades; a reflection of the concerns of adults and changes in the play of youngsters. Older people can frequently be heard expressing regret at change. However, I think this frequently arises from a selfish yearning for a known past and fear of a different and constantly evolving present and future. I've found myself fascinated by the rise of "scrub" on this part of the "scar" landscape. If it doesn't take over completely the changes that it brings must enrich the wildlife that the land can support.

We recently spent a few days in the place of my upbringing. We experienced quite a bit of rain, not unusual for the area, and something that people settling there on the back of a couple of pleasant summer holidays soon have to come to terms with. However, we did have one unseasonally balmy day when the Ribble valley showed off its colourful trees, the hills could be walked in shirt sleeves and distant Penyghent could be photographed without its obscuring cap of cloud.

photograph and text © Tony Boughen

Camera: Sony RX100
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 37.1mm (100mm - 35mm equiv.)
F No: f5.6
Shutter Speed: 1/200 sec
ISO: 125
Exposure Compensation: 0 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

The upper Ribble valley

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The River Ribble is one of the major rivers of the United Kingdom, joint 19th in length at 75 miles (120km) long. It flows from its source at the confluence of the Gayle Beck and Cam Beck near Ribblehead, through North Yorkshire and Lancashire, to where it joins the Irish Sea between Lytham and Southport. The Ribble has interest and beauty all along its length. Growing up in the area shown in today's photographs I spent much of my time along its banks, and on my return visits I often photograph it, delighting in its varied moods and sights. When I lived on the Fylde Coast I frequently photographed the Ribble estuary at Lytham in a wider way and through its details.

Looking at today's photographs you may well say, "I see the valley, but where's the river?" In the upper reaches the Ribble is usually tucked away, bounded by trees on its often steep banks. That is the case in both shots: in the smaller it is below the line of trees in the middle-ground, and in the main image its course can be followed from near the bottom right of the frame, past the field with lines of drying hay in the centre, and off to the left below the wooded cliffs.

I took the first photograph fairly early on a sunny late September day. The light was modelling the undulating land well, showing off the drystone walls, and giving the trees a solidity that will disappear with their leaves. The highest point of land is the distant Fountain's Fell, land once owned by the monks of Fountain's Abbey. Below and to the right is a large cliff face, all that remains of Craven Quarry, the place where I photographed the Hoffmann Kiln earlier this year. The smaller photograph was taken on an equally sunny day, but in the afternoon and from the other side of the valley. I took this one for the contrast between the unimproved fields in the foreground and the distant background that contrast in character and colour with the greener improved fields closer to the road, river and farm. This shot also shows off well the drystone walls made of the local limestone that are characteristic of the Craven area of Yorkshire.

photographs and text (c) T. Boughen

Main Photo
Camera: Canon
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 50mm
F No: f7.1
Shutter Speed: 1/200
ISO: 100
Exposure Compensation:  -0.67 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

The Hoffmann Kiln, Langcliffe

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Although I was raised in Settle, North Yorkshire, and spent my childhood and youth exploring the mountains, hills and valleys of that area, until the other day I'd never seen the Hoffmann Kiln at Langcliffe. When I lived in the Dales the quarry at Giggleswick was in full production, turning out, as I recall, lime and crushed stone. The quarries of Helwith Bridge and Horton in Ribblesdale were also, as they still are, a major source of stone. Langcliffe Quarry, however, was a spent force, hidden behind its perimeter fences. In fact, to the casual observer it looked something like a massive, crumbling cliff, such was the effect that time, weather and colonising vegetation had wrought on its sheer faces. As a child and youth I was aware that it had a productive past, and I knew that some of the buildings associated with the production of lime still existed below its cliffs, but access to them wasn't possible or encouraged. In recent years this location has been used for refuse disposal and recycling. But, with changing times come changing attitudes to an area's heritage, and today access is allowed to the remains of this once thriving location of production by the Craven Lime Company.

The star attraction at the centre of crumbling buildings, inclined planes, water tunnels, wheel mountings etc. is the massive Hoffmann Kiln. This structure, built in 1873, is where limestone was, over a period of several weeks, reduced to the lime that found uses in "sweetening" acidic soil, paper making, steel manufacture, sugar refining, the making of chocolate and much more. The huge continuous oval, stone on the outside, fire bricks inside, with 22 individual burning chambers, now resembles a Piranesian vision, something that the Romans might have left behind. Inside the kiln is vaulted and its sloping exterior is pierced by arched openings that throw pools of light into the darkness. The tall chimney that allowed the hot gases and smoke to exit the kiln has long gone, but what remains is fascinating, and well worth a visit.

I took several photographs of the kiln. The two I show here best illustrate the structure, with the main image showing the interior of part of one of the long sides of the kiln.

photograph and text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Canon
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 40mm
F No: f7.1
Shutter Speed: 1/8
ISO: 3200
Exposure Compensation:  -1.0 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Welsh poppies

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A few years ago I asked some primary school children to tell me the names of the flowers that they knew. Collectively they came up with quite a few, both cultivated and wild, but individually they knew fewer than I imagined. One of the flowers that virtually all of the children wrote in their list was the poppy. I think three things make the poppy well-known - the distinctive shape and colour (red), the frequency with which it is used in decorative designs, and the fact that the British Legion sell small, man-made poppies around the time of Remembrance Sunday each November to raise funds. A fourth reason might be the frequency with which they can be seen invading cereal crops and the fact that some farmers now grow whole fields of them.

My garden has large, showy poppies coming into bloom as I write this blog post. They are mostly red/orange in colour, but I know that a dusky pink variety will open soon too. However, it isn't these poppies that I like best in my garden: my favourites are the small, yellow Welsh poppies that have been in bloom for a couple of weeks, their delicate heads bending in the wind, opening in the sun, and closing towards evening. This variety of poppy grows wild in Britain, often favouring damp or rocky places, though it is also grown for use in the garden too. There is an orange variant of the species, and my photographs today show both kinds. When I was growing up in the Yorkshire Dales these poppies were a very common sight, and they remain so in that area today. This is probably because, on the whole, they favour locations that are not intensively farmed.

The yellow poppies above were photographed this year in my garden with the dark backdrop of a conifer helping to emphasise the sun on their petals. I photographed the orange poppies last year when I found them growing in the shelter of Carboniferous limestone cliffs and clints and grykes on Giggleswick Scars, North Yorkshire.

photograph and text (c) T. Boughen

Main Photo
Camera: Canon
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 218mm
F No: f5.6
Shutter Speed: 1/500
ISO: 100
Exposure Compensation:  -0.33 EV
Image Stabilisation: On