t f R r


As  nights pullout through April  Pennine evenings are thick with Curlew call and white dot lambs. The “golden hour” is just after tea when the sun dips West and redraws a pale landscape anew before dusk.

There is a path above Holme  like an uncertain  childhood tracing. It’s pencil line begins enthusiastically bold leading out onto the moor before fading to almost nothing amongst peat hags as if the drawers attention wandered elsewhere.

Tracing paper path above Holme.

Littering the path owl pellets  hold tiny white bones. From a bilberry plant I pick grey mountain hare fur which is warm between my fingers as if I’m touching the hare itself. I don’t want to put it down. The wind blows Curlew sound. I notice boot prints in the peat are mine from another day.

Molting Mountain Hare

Wrigleys’ Cabin sits between deep peat hags. A stone hag hard to find in mist, fading light or  if not paying enough attention. About it mountain hares play hide and seek. Golden Plover sing unseen.

We arrived at sunset and put the tent up as out of the wind as possible which wasn’t much!

Camped at Wrigley's Cabin