Stomping The Stiperstones

The Stiperstones is a 10km ridge in the Shropshire Hills. It is an unmistakable feature since all the other hills around here are rounded. It's an area of heather heathland and, although at this time of year the heather and gorse have gone over, the area remains beautiful.

Five ravens moved along the ridge ahead of us and still found time to make playful dives. I also saw a couple of late red admirals fluttering by and also a couple of pipits and a skylark. On the lower slopes I got a glimpse of four red grouse.


Above is Devil's Chair which is one of the craggy outcrops along the ridge. Click on the images to enlarge them.

Why is it harder going downhill?

I'm spending a few days in the gold and green Shropshire Hills. Small flocks of redwings and fieldfares are working across the trees. I have to say there doesn't seem to be an abundance of haws - little wonder the mistle thrush are being vocal. Although the holly trees seem to have done better. I regularly see buzzards flying over the caravan but have yet to spot a red kite. I'm told there was a pair around here although it's possible they've moved on. I'll keep looking.

This afternoon we enjoyed a short, energetic walk up the double summits of Earl's Hill. The colourful oak, ash, hazel and beech soon gave way to pines as we began the steep climb. And just as the path levels, I climbed over a stile to be greeted with the final gasp - another short but steep grassy climb - but well worth the effort for the views from the top. And then the difficult bit: skidding back downhill. It must be something to do with how our feet grip the ground, or maybe the way we place our feet, but whatever it is, it's always easier to climb than come back down (or is it just my mentality?)

Too late

I enjoyed my visit to Rotherham this weekend and presenting awards to the winners of the Mike Haywood poetry competition which I've recently judged. It's always satisfying to select a winner when you can't fault the poem in any way, as was the case with the winning entry "Dates" by Julie Mellor. I was also pleased to meet the short story judge, John Turner, and of course Graham Rippon who organised the event.

I was thinking of entering the poem below into a local competition (the theme was 'heat') but I didn't manage to edit it sufficiently before the deadline. Not to worry; every poem takes its own time. Anyway, here it is so far:

Great White Horse
As polar bears swim
exhausted after the ice,
and glaciers mourn themselves,
a great white horse begins to swell,
gathering walrus, whale and fox
as it starts to rear, to shake its mane,
ready to fling carcasses
sprawling towards the equator,
and then trample everything below
its white, frothing hooves.

A few more fungi

Thanks to Joyce and Tony for helping me ID a few more photos:Above and below are two views of a deceiver

Next are common yellow russula

And finally birch bolete

Magic Moors and Mushrooms

We set off towards misty Brinscall Moors and what a treat: the moors were once again bouncing with pipits and larks ascending everywhere (probably migratory). A dozen crows were in a playful mood tumbling and twisting in the air just like their cousins, the chough. The raptors were having a hard time though: a buzzard was being mobbed by crows as was a sparrow hawk, and the kestrel was being set upon by three brave pipits.

The moors were in that in between phase when the heather is fading, berries reddening, rushes turning orange and the leaves are mostly still on the trees. A time when almost anything can be seen, including two snipe which I don't often see there.

Then I set off along The Goit to explore the fungi. Fly agaric (above) was plentiful and all stages of growth. The Goit is a watercourse flanked by birch, oak and some alder.

I'm a complete beginner to identifying mushrooms but here goes... I think the one above is yellow-cracked bolete. (Click on each image to enlarge.)

The next one is a woolly milkcap or bearded milkcap.

The one above is a cep, I think.

A blushing bracket on a silver birch?

Common earthball.

Under and over view of a false death cap (Amanita citrina) in one of its phases.

I've got several more photos to share so come back later in the week to see them too.

White Coppice > Great Hill > Brinscall Circular

Start at the cosy cricket pitch fielded by a row of white cottages. Cross the stone bridge and note the willow warblers' overs have retreated to warning hu-eets. Scan the bracken tops for stonechat and marauding brown hawkers.
As your calves work the climb and boots skidder on scree, enjoy the persistence of bright heather spikes poking through the deluge of weeks. And long for linnet, pipit or lark to lift the life of the sodden moor. Strip down to your T-shirt, absorb the breeze, feel its strength as you stride up the slope.
At the T-junction, take the track to the right and look for the kestrels that perch on headwinds approaching the knoll of Great Hill. Pause at the summit, stand and salute: to the east - Darwen Tower and to your back - Winter Hill. Observe how Lancashire smooths down her skirt to the west, right to its hen which is frilled by the sea.
Follow the flagstones and witness - here by the path - a pair of wings which are all that remain from a peregrine's kill. Watch skaters spread over dark, peaty pools and rub the last remnants (between finger and thumb) of soft, cotton grass as its pile recedes from the moor.
At the stile, choose the grassy path to the right, looping back to the well of Sam's Cup. Thrust your hands in the hollows of dry stone walls and touch the loneliness there - the emptiness now that the wheatears have flown. Then take the broad track that cuts Heapey Moor watching swallows that lack lustre now as they skim for flies and channel their strength to migratory flights. And search amongst them for this season's young with their non-streaming tails and wonder how many will grace here next year.
At the bend, take the hidden path to the left, cross the stream and keep to the old stone wall. Pass the overgrown quarry and climb the stile to the woods where wrens suddenly stutter as your boots approach their low, tangled world. Cast up to the coal tits flitting high in the pines. Be alert to roe deer sifting through shadows and tree creepers hugging oak trunks.
Emerge from the plantation to follow The Goit, being watchful for froglets before placing each step. Pass sheep shaking bracken and listen ahead for the crack of leather on wood and a rippling crowd whose thoughts peter out and wonder whether we'll hear the cuckoo next spring.

Smart Scarecrows

Our neighbouring village, Charnock Richard, held a scarecrow festival this weekend. There's nothing better than a bit of community spirit. Thanks to all involved.

Below are a few of the many that caught my eye.

Click on each image to enlarge