Lockdown Limestone
Oceanic whispers
‘But the really reckless were fetched
By an older colder voice, the oceanic whisper:
I am the solitude that asks and promises nothing;
That is how I shall set you free’.
WH Auden, In Praise of Limestone.
After three months of city walls, I ‘must down to the sea again’. The sea for which I crave is fossil-made, its waves now rolling hills, covered in bright green grass. Today, the skies are filled with skylarks rather than pre-historic pterodactyls. This limestone sea was fifty million years in the making and is still restless with its watery creativity.
Once the Minister, from his wood panelled room, had granted us permission to roam a little further from our homes (providing we returned that night to bed), I had to go. I left at dawn for the stony sea of Derbyshire’s White Peak, with a bike on the roof of the car.
To be back again after months of yearning amidst the ‘rounded slopes / With their surface fragrance of thyme’,* was bliss indeed. My cyclo-cross race bike, remodelled for some summer rough stuff, was like a highly nervous thoroughbred. It kicked skittishly and playfully on these first few lumps of grey-white rock as together we journeyed up Coombs Dale and I knew that this was going to be a good day. With fresh legs turning the pedals and fresh air racing into the lungs, I set a confident pace, priding myself on the success of little instant decisions - which stones to avoid, which stones to ride over, which channels to glide through. The deep gorge of the Dale, still morning shadowed, was densely lined with ash, sycamore and hazel. Red campion, and hogweed coloured the verges and water trickled over mud and stone. At Black Harry Gate, the path whipped left, through a gate and up a long dry and steep valleyed dale. The restless grass smelt of rich summer, of asparagus and apples, elderflower and rose. After 20 minutes or so of climbing I arrived at the top of the reef that once had sharks swimming by. Today, there were two red cars.
In my excitement and new found freedom I failed to pay attention to the cycle-computer on my handlebars. I turned right and the wind raced through my ears as I sped down the smooth grey tarmac, swooping around long corners, standing out of the saddle to gain a rise and then hands on the drops, body made small, legs tucked in, as the bike picked up grin-inducing speed. It was only at the crossroads some 3 kilometres later, that I noticed the fateful words on my Garmin - ‘do a U-turn’.
Still, I ride with an OS map tucked into my jersey pockets, now a little damp and soft from sweat. I spread it over the folds of a dry-stone wall and plot a new route adding more road and a soft-mudded bridleway which will take me back to where I should have been. No matter, days like this in June are full and long and there’s always room for a little more riding.
There is lyricism in the passing of the names marked on the map and posts. Sallet Hole Mine, Rough Side, Water-cum-jolly-Dale, Little Back o’th Hill Farm, Custard Field Farm, Parsley Hay. I ride by them all, at once gliding, wide tyres purring, or hobbling and grinding with stones clunking against my bike’s steel frame. Invisible skylarks hover in the air above and it seems as if the scattered clouds are singing as they drift aimlessly across the sky.
The sun shining upon this ancient sea has brought everyone out from their homes. The old train lines now open as traffic free cycle ways are filled with little children wobbling on their bikes across the whole width of the path, dogs run freely, adults walk with hands enjoined. I weave through them slowly, enjoying the sense that we are all in this together, greeting each in turn, hoping my very southern accent will not alarm them greatly.
As with any Eden there is sadness behind the facades of beauty. Mills built in the grand Palladian style were once places of dark industrial abuse. The lead mines which pock-mark the green seas of grass were deep and dangerous. Their lead is found both on the roof of St. Peter’s, Rome as well as in the lining of the lungs of those that mined it. The stone walls dividing fields into the picturesque had once expelled a people from their land, turning them into the factory-fodder of the northern industrial towns.
High up, as high as one can go, where white rock touches white cloud, I stopped for a break. My cake was a little squished, my coffee a little warm. Before me were the scenes of a ‘demi-paradise’; of walls and dales, hump-backed bridges, stands of sycamore, ash still not yet in leaf despite this being mid-June. Beside the trilobite sea I doze awhile in hot afternoon sun, sleepy with cake and early risings. Later, as the sun shadowed the trees, I splashed through farm-yards of liquid cow shit and lurched over the lumps of stone that litter the downward paths which lead back to the car.
Now its done, I’m tired. My muscles are shaking from the massage of the stones. My head is fuzzy with the speed with which I sped through flower strewn dales. But for a day the limestone’s ‘oceanic whisper’ set me free.
*In Praise of Limestone. WH Auden
