The Goyt Valley
A missed opportunity took us high up into the Goyt Valley last weekend where the snow was still knee deep and piled high. I'd been hankering for a play in these hills for a whole fortnight, tempting me with their snowiness from the windows of our four walls. But with roads impassable it made for treacherous fun. Adventures we love, but danger we're not so keen on.
The lower roads had been ploughed clean, snow banked up against drystone walls, buried car height deep. Just enough for us to get up to the top with a squeeze and slow climb.
We'd left the freezing fog back at home, but the higher we drove the clearer it became until we had reached the place where the clouds met the sky. Parting them we sailed on through out into the sunshine, the blueness of a glorious Winter's day.
Stuffing out pockets with hot bacon butties, fingers curled round them, keeping both warm and a thermos of hot chocolate in tow to wash down our feast we scrambled over the snow, running, jumping, sinking up to our knees whooping with joy.
Home seemed a long way off, looking down at all that swirling freezing fog. Only the odd crest of a hill peeked out, all other visible landmarks had been swallowed.
This is England...this is home.
And this strange place we've found ourselves landed in never fails to amaze me.