Keld to Baldersdale, bridge crossings
no pictures as yet due to computer problems
the neurotic troll is in the river and he wants to move it
to pass over the bridge
carry and stone and drop it on the other side
shifting the river bed from above
we cannot see his eyes, they are shaded
he's got quite a bad posture
we think of exercises for him to help his spine
neddy dick has a collection of musical stones
from the river swale that he would play with wooden sticks
we tell the tale we found on the hill to neurotic troll
who plays the stones in the bed
knots and threads, we torment the troll
dangling stones and edible treats
all the walkers carry stones for us
a procession across the bridge
we want to play more music
we want to sing the anthem
we want different voices
this is a country blue skat
reluctantly we must press on
singing around the hill
'she'll be coming round the mountain when she comes'
into a land of abandoned wagons
we hear the troll yee hah in the distance
we have left his land
but we take his kazoo with us
back into moor country
following the road parallel to the left of us
the weather has sunk well in to the ground
no fuel in the legs
whipping winds from the west
Tan Hill appears and disappears
an expensive cup of tea
bikers chat
the weather the same in York
pet sheep gets petted
fire lit and warm
two little waifs from the troll
are delivered to us by comandeered messengers
happy to oblige at the moment of asking
and join the troll in helping him hide
he disappeared into the mist we're told
cabbage and aubergine babes named
Fry Up and Kos
with homemade rain shields they are drier than us
we carry these abandoned strays and show them the world
of streams and bridges
a bridge into county durham
Tamara leaps, she's stepped into a region she calls home
waters running to places I know, the ground tastes familiar from here
at the boundary, the distance and nearness of difference
simone stands and waves goodbye to the land in their past she calls homeland
amongst there, in the greyness and lightness of many valleys of yorkshire
I can say (cant I ?) that this expanse is my home.
By that I mean a sturdyness of foot, a confidence in the body, a belonging of this body, a fitting of the feet in these parts.
my roots are a little more of the passing through these interchangable hills and the dialogue with a shifting weather system
I wonder if this weather has anything to do with me being a moody bugger all these years.
more moor and more moor, again
through fields of bulls
panic rising
breath shallow
a pause on a gate for a long time
the path swerves away
we follow the path as on the map
to the blockades
that a farm has erected
PW sign on other side of barbed wire
we jump the fence
blocked openings, intricately spun
sheep's troughs, wool lattices, teepees made of metal poles
attached with string
is this our right to roam?
we find openings anyway
access across the moors
another bridge
Patrick Troll
music is heard before God's bridge
Troll folk sounds rising from under the bridge
splashing
water ripples changing as he moves
it is the first time it seems that i have laid down on my front
we receive our advice back
trolls don't cry when they listen to music
they have no tear ducts but they do feel moved by music in the key of D
the music was moving me and I did not want to move away
rounded rhythms rounding me
we receive advice
we leave the babes
at the rescue centre for wayfarers and strays
onward with the troll map we don't follow
we stick to the trusty OS and the trail
mist is down
we think from the map it is not too far away
WRONG
how tiredness is deluding
2 more hours across the moor
keeping the pace up
stiff legs and sore tendons burning tightly (not brightly)
pesky ligaments stop supporting feet
just a bridge in the distance and a wall that runs up the other side of the valley
that's where we have to go
talk about hitching a lift on the A66
to where?
we continue
spread out crossings of roads
scarce, follow the easy routes
not for us
we get to Baldersdale at quarter past seven
the troll sitting in the rain
with a sunken picnic
we stand him up
not as planned, or wanted
a disastrous date
but the troll is very forgiving
we talk about watching him
inhabiting hidden places
and being still, slowly knowing a place
knowing all the surfaces and depths
the black sheep eases the fatigue of the day
we will see trolls in the land for the rest of the way
the neurotic troll is in the river and he wants to move it
to pass over the bridge
carry and stone and drop it on the other side
shifting the river bed from above
we cannot see his eyes, they are shaded
he's got quite a bad posture
we think of exercises for him to help his spine
neddy dick has a collection of musical stones
from the river swale that he would play with wooden sticks
we tell the tale we found on the hill to neurotic troll
who plays the stones in the bed
knots and threads, we torment the troll
dangling stones and edible treats
all the walkers carry stones for us
a procession across the bridge
we want to play more music
we want to sing the anthem
we want different voices
this is a country blue skat
reluctantly we must press on
singing around the hill
'she'll be coming round the mountain when she comes'
into a land of abandoned wagons
we hear the troll yee hah in the distance
we have left his land
but we take his kazoo with us
back into moor country
following the road parallel to the left of us
the weather has sunk well in to the ground
no fuel in the legs
whipping winds from the west
Tan Hill appears and disappears
an expensive cup of tea
bikers chat
the weather the same in York
pet sheep gets petted
fire lit and warm
two little waifs from the troll
are delivered to us by comandeered messengers
happy to oblige at the moment of asking
and join the troll in helping him hide
he disappeared into the mist we're told
cabbage and aubergine babes named
Fry Up and Kos
with homemade rain shields they are drier than us
we carry these abandoned strays and show them the world
of streams and bridges
a bridge into county durham
Tamara leaps, she's stepped into a region she calls home
waters running to places I know, the ground tastes familiar from here
at the boundary, the distance and nearness of difference
simone stands and waves goodbye to the land in their past she calls homeland
amongst there, in the greyness and lightness of many valleys of yorkshire
I can say (cant I ?) that this expanse is my home.
By that I mean a sturdyness of foot, a confidence in the body, a belonging of this body, a fitting of the feet in these parts.
my roots are a little more of the passing through these interchangable hills and the dialogue with a shifting weather system
I wonder if this weather has anything to do with me being a moody bugger all these years.
more moor and more moor, again
through fields of bulls
panic rising
breath shallow
a pause on a gate for a long time
the path swerves away
we follow the path as on the map
to the blockades
that a farm has erected
PW sign on other side of barbed wire
we jump the fence
blocked openings, intricately spun
sheep's troughs, wool lattices, teepees made of metal poles
attached with string
is this our right to roam?
we find openings anyway
access across the moors
another bridge
Patrick Troll
music is heard before God's bridge
Troll folk sounds rising from under the bridge
splashing
water ripples changing as he moves
it is the first time it seems that i have laid down on my front
we receive our advice back
trolls don't cry when they listen to music
they have no tear ducts but they do feel moved by music in the key of D
the music was moving me and I did not want to move away
rounded rhythms rounding me
we receive advice
we leave the babes
at the rescue centre for wayfarers and strays
onward with the troll map we don't follow
we stick to the trusty OS and the trail
mist is down
we think from the map it is not too far away
WRONG
how tiredness is deluding
2 more hours across the moor
keeping the pace up
stiff legs and sore tendons burning tightly (not brightly)
pesky ligaments stop supporting feet
just a bridge in the distance and a wall that runs up the other side of the valley
that's where we have to go
talk about hitching a lift on the A66
to where?
we continue
spread out crossings of roads
scarce, follow the easy routes
not for us
we get to Baldersdale at quarter past seven
the troll sitting in the rain
with a sunken picnic
we stand him up
not as planned, or wanted
a disastrous date
but the troll is very forgiving
we talk about watching him
inhabiting hidden places
and being still, slowly knowing a place
knowing all the surfaces and depths
the black sheep eases the fatigue of the day
we will see trolls in the land for the rest of the way
posted by Pennine Walkers at 12:49 pm
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