Scar House was striking when we set out yesterday. We were a long thin line of children and adults of varying walking speeds, accompanying dogs and at at least one toddler bike. It was an amazing day to be in Upper Nidderdale.
Without the family factor this would be a straightforward walk along flat ground and a clearly marked path, but we were here on a sponsored walk for school and things were a little more chaotic on our day out.
Going was slow as children scattered in the grasses. Scurrying between the largely oblivious sheep , under the bobbing movement of birds catching the wind, the under tens were on a feather hunt to make a wing they could fly with. We did not rate their chances.
The wind was up and the sun was bright: perfect conditions for sunburn. But though we looked down on our rapidly reddening middle-aged flesh, it was difficult to mind too much. The sparkle of sunlight on the water as the wind whipped the surface took care of that.
In among it all were the iron plaques, stone structures and bridges that were so celebrated they bore turrets. They reminded us the reservoir was made to serve the grey streets of the industrial northern cities.
But here, with its light, breeze and wild beauty, seemed a world away from all that