The Black Country of the West Midlands was not only the cradle of the industrial revolution. It was the manufacturing powerhouse of Great Britain and its Empire. The early canals of James Brindley served the early mass manufacturing of Hockley Port and the subsequent ‘mainline’ canal linked up the Potteries of Staffordshire, the furnaces of Wolverhampton and Bilston, the small workshops of Dudley and the industrial commerce of Birmingham.

It was not a pretty place but a place of practicality, hard work and hard lives. Echoes of this not too distance past can be found in the traits of local West Midlanders to this day. Black was the colour of the sky as the furnaces belched out their emissions into the sky. Locals will quickly tell you the story of Queen Victoria insisting that the blinds of carriages be drawn while the Royal Train passed through. The area featured in Charles Dickens’ 1841 novel The Old Curiosity Shop in which he described how factories “… poured out their plague of smoke, obscured the light, and made foul the melancholy air”. An American Consul described the area’s furnaces making the sky “black by day and red by night”.

For local a walkers of all types the walk along the mainline canal is a popular one, not least because of a tradition of raising money for charity by stopping at every pub along the way!  When I first walked this stretch the mainline was still an industrial powerhouse. It all changed very quickly with the collapse of manufacturing in the early 80s. The steel works were raised to the ground and many of the manufacturing plants closed. The chemical works south of Wolverhampton have now long since gone.

Today many of these sites remain empty and desolate. Some industry clings on but those sites that have been developed are likely to feature housing, distribution of light industrial units. But the main changes are environmental.

The worst of the Thatcher years saw the establishment of a number of temporary employment programmes that were well used by local authorities and local environmental groups. Sites were grassed over. Bends in canals were planted with reeds to provide a welcome habitat for water life. Canal towpaths became green walking corridors and cycle tracks. Thirty years later this new environment has become thoroughly established and a walk along the ‘mainline’ is now a very different experience.

Weekend fisherman still escape here from the responsibilities of the family home and older lads are still taken out and inducted in a world where you can sit all day and never catch a bite. But these days they are whiling away the hours in an almost rural habitat and their watery companions are more likely to be geese, ducklings, moorhens and Coots than shopping trollies and discarded tyres.

Reminders of the past are ever-present though. Great expanses of cleared land remain presumably too contaminated to be used quickly. Here only the buddleja  thrives. You will come across horsers — or ‘hoses’ grazing on patches of land cheek-by-jowel with built-up estates.

But you can also walk for miles withouth seeing any modern development at all. True, the sound of roads is never far away but then again this is also a feature of the North Downs Way!

For great stretches the canal reminds me of a waterside walk in Warwickshire or Staffordshire. And in what seems like a time traveller’s trick small settlements around bridges now reveal themselves in a form that must be very close to what they would have ben when first constructed.

A walker is never bored on this walk. There are fellow walkers and cyclists to chat to and fisherman to compare notes with. There are canal travellers — leisure and business — to greet, and that bird life to admire.

This canal route has been here throughout all modern times. But it is scarcely recognisable from the route I took as a young lad.

Ouch !!!

Most days when I go walking I have a plan. And usually the plan works out OK. But not always.

Yesterday saw me getting up at 6.00 am to have a good crack at a long walk. Things began to become unravelled when I got to Shrewsbury Bus Station. A little notice said that buses might be running late because of road works. But they could have told me that this might mean 50 minutes late!

Still, I was walking on Wenlock Edge by just after 10.00. The edge is a long ridge that runs from Ironbridge to Craven Arms in South South Shropshire. It is a historical place. Man has inhabited this ridge for thousands of years, and I like the notion that I’m walking through time. Wenlock is also an important place in geological terms and if you’re ever in Craven arms then it is well worth visiting the Secret Hills Centre.

Once the climb has been made up to the ridge this is a straightforward walk. The first section is through a delightful mixed woodland of oak, beech and some native pines. This is no forestry reserve in the Welsh manner but a wood that reminds me of Scottish Caledonian forest. I’ve walked this path many times before but I don’t think I’ve ever met another walker. I was on my own again yesterday until I came to the very last section of the walk.

Most of the walk was spent in rain, not particularly heavy but persistent. But the weather was warm enough to allow me to ignore my waterproof jacket, for the most part anyway.

The plan was to nip off the Edge and walk towards the hills of Church Stretton. I realised that I seldom walk these hills in high summer. As a result there seemed to be much more foliage everywhere than I remember, so much so that I overshot my exit by some way.

Sitting down and eating my pie (Turner style) I pondered whether to turn back or not. I’m not good at turning back and so decided just to continue to walk along the rest of the ridge. This is a long walk of about 19 miles but it is reasonably flat most of the way (once you are on the ridge).

I made good time. I entered the last section. Here the path is a narrow one cutting its way through dense woodland. A waymarked track heads off downhill but the intrepid walker can continue in a very quiet section of walk before dropping down on a muddy estate track to join the waymarked route at the road. Off I headed. Not thinking about summer. Soon I was trapped in a mass of overgrown brambles and nettles with no easy way out. Nothing for it to plough on. Perhaps it was not such a good idea to wear shorts!

I cut a slightly weird (or weirder than usual) figure as I made my way to Craven Arms train station.  My Tilly hat was all over the place and my legs smeared with rather impressive amounts of blood! At the train station the local young women kept their distance!

The train was late. Eventually it came and dropped me in Shrewsbury. The connecting train to Birmingham was late. I was home late, too late to take in the planned 3D version of Toy Story3 at the local IMAX.

On the train from Craven Arms a bunch of walkers got on at Church Stretton. Through the corner of my eye I thought I recognised on. It was Challenger Sam Hackett. He moved through the carriage to quickly to be caught. Perhaps, If I’d been on the Mynd we’d have bumped into each other. It’s a small world!

I got home to shower and dace around in agony from the cuts on my legs. They were as sensitive again this morning!

So, in summer, think of the brambles!

Nothing went to plan. It was very painful in places. But it was still a great day out!

This has a certain still life quality about it. I thought Al Sloman might appreciate it. It hints of greater things inside!

 

Old England!

Sheltering from the rain!

First signs of autumn?

 

 

Purple heather in the rain.

 

This very moving grave sits at the base of Ragleth Hill, not in a grave yard but alone under woodland trees. I’ve always found this to be quite moving. Craig bullock was a carpenter, “tragically killed” on 4th October 2002 at the age of 30.

The memorial stone features this poem which may have been written specially — I can’t find any reference to it on the net. If you know it, then let me know.

 

Country Blood

I am of the countryside

Carved out of the oaktree bark

And I am of the wild free wind

That bears the soaring lark.

Part of the upturned earth am I,

One with the cornfield sea,

And I exist in the quet green hill

And it exists in me.

 

Here all the dainty weeds are mine

That blows along the way,

And all the little resting things

Whose heart beat for a day.

My peace is where the velvet dew

Sleeps under hanging mists;

Where the cavernous forest deeps and dims

My secret soul exists.

 

A moving spot. Look carefully and you can see a can of Strongbow as part of the memorial!

Friday saw me out on the hills for the first time in months, the back problem now well and truly put behind me. I’ve been out walking a lot but this was the first time that I’ve done any sharp ups (and more significantly) downs.

This summer feels a write off although there is still a chance to get some more miles in before the longer nights come. No trips to Snowdonia this summer or even the Pyrenees which was a plan lurking around and waiting to happen. Ambling around the South Shropshire hills I realised what I’d been missing, and some of it I was quite surprised about.

At the bottom of Ragleth Hill is was nice to meet a group of ageing ramblers, about thirty of them, all laughter and exuberance as they looked forward to their day on the hills. I was soon climbing alone experiencing once again that sudden sharp realisation that some of these inclines are far harper than they have any right to be in this part of the world.

I was walking without poles and although setting a reasonable pace I was slower than usual. With poles I would have just powered up the hill but at this slower pace I found myself taking a path into woodland that I’d not noticed before. I’ve climbed this hill countless times before but have never walked through the woodland that surrounds it. It wasn’t the most spectacular of woodland walks but it still had that sylvan, mystical, quality about it. Some early morning sun found its way through the dense overhead foilage. Sometimes the slopes were steep enough to make me place my feet with real care. At other times other obstacles such as fox holes and allen trees had to be negotiated with care. Also, here in the woodland, sheep were grazing. You seldom see sheep in woodland in England although they always seem to be here whenever I descend back down through this woodland.

A quiet, wet, Friday is the bets time to stroll through these tiny Shropshire villages. Postmen were delivering. Retired residents tended their gardens with care. The village church and gardens looked as immaculate as ever. In a cottage (next to another called ‘The Ancient House’) a women who looked in her nineties was being chatted to be another resident, keen to check that her senior charge was feeling better illness, that she was eating well and that she had no immediate shopping needs.

The Little Stretton campsite is usually crammed full in good weather in August. The change in the weather had obviously frightened folks away although a few hardier families were setting up their tents for the weekend. A little further along the track I was delighted to find that Ashes Hollow Cottage, which has been refurbished after years of sitting empty, is now inhabited and with signs of children in the garden.

By now the rain was beginning to fall heavily. It was a Janet Street Porter day, “if you want a quiet day on the hills go out when the weather is shit!”.

I was alone as I climbed this quiet and secluded track. Use just a little imagination and you could be somewhere in Snowdonia. It was on these quiet and lonelier paths that I really realised what I had been missing; the ability to just get lost in the landscape, and I this case to be lost in the rain and the clouds. I’m not sure whether this state of mind actually helps me sort out problems, or even if it leaves me a more relaxed and better person at the end of it. But to be lost on high landscapes like this is a wonderful experience, one that I appreciated even more for my few months away.

Strolling downhill towards All Stretton I felt not so much a sense of achievement as one of relief. As an outdoor blogger I can feel legitimate again. It feels something of a fraud to be sitting at the computer and talking about the hills when I haven’t seen or smelt them in ages.

It was good to be back.

Sometimes an urban walk is not that dissimilar from a rural walk. The map may have said Kew Bridge to Chelsea Wharf  but this 16 kilometres of so was far from urban.

I walked past riverside villages, through tree-lined paths which offered only a view of water, down single-lane tracks lined with summer heavy hedgerow and no pavements. Walkers were out, some ramblers and a groups of wonderful, older, ladies out to stretch their legs and have a good laugh. They posed happily for a photo.

Strand on the Green

Cracking day out

Along another stretch of hedgerow line path a met an American guy foraging for blackberries. He was on the water side of the bushes. His blackberries were monsters, wonderfully ripe and quite mouth watering to look at. He loaded the berries into the bag on the front of his bike. He was off to make a crumble or a blackberry tart.

Urban forager

Crossing Barnes Bridge I was stunned to here a cry from beneath me of ‘where the fuck does he think he’s going’. I looked around to se a pleasure cruiser in the middle of the river. Suddenly — and at great speed — three single skulls raced from under the bridge, taking evasive action to avoid the cruiser. The cruiser approached. The man on the PA system was describing Barnes and the celebrities that lived there. “You might remember Annika Rice” he said. His passengers all seemed to be Chinese or Japanese. I doubt they understood a word he said, let alone could remember the girl from the helicopter.

Evasive action

Crossing Barnes footbridge Barnes revealed itself as the kind of village that one might stroll into after a day on the North Downs Way. Or maybe the wrought iron work in the street’s balconies reminded me of a small seaside town, perhaps on the Thames estuary. Before the street’s rock world opulence was able to wash the dreams away I was back on a treelined path, this time a broad path that could have been in the middle on any forestry commission walk. There were no views of urban development, just the gentle flowing river and its banks revealed by the low tide. Groups of walkers were out for the day. Mountain bikers genteelly sauntered by. Joggers bounced past, some simply stretching the muscles and others working up a sweat as if their lives depended on it. A gorgeous looking young French woman was seemingly being put through her paces by a personal trainer. Several families out for a stroll checked directions to the nature reserves.

At several points I was able to climb down to the shore and quietly watch a wonderful display from herons and other water birds while cox-paced rowers glided by.

Every now and then a break in the trees and hedgerows revealed a gentle urban scene or rather was it one of a by-goine village? the most dominating buildings remained the churches and spires that must have guarded these banks for centuries. The sun was now out and shone through the shady green canopy, creating magical patterns that would have graced my precious South Shropshire hills.

Putney gradually revealed itself as yet another seaside town. I walked in past a cluster of boat houses and marine stores. The first buildings had that seaside feel about them. Pubs were opened up to the river frontage — settings that would have graced many a river or coastal setting.

But now it was time to indulge myself in urban life. I turned inland to the Lower Richmond Road and made my way to the best music pub in the UK, the Half Moon. With a pint of fine ale and a distinctively retro cheese ploughmans I settled down to read the newspapers. There is no doubt that the Half Moon is a music pub. every inch of wall space is taken up with signed photos of some musician hero of other. I sat in what used to be my favourite corner when I lived here many years ago. I munched my lunch in the company of Richard Thompson, T Bone Burnett, Mary Black, John Prine, Dennis Locorriere (from Dr. Hook), Georgie Fame, John Mayall and Maddy Prior Prior. I felt quite at home.

Inside the hallowed walls of the Half Moon

Crossing back over Putney Bridge the pace of life picked up a little and the air was slightly more edgy. Now I was walking alongside social housing rather than pads of millionaires. The new Imperial wharf developed moved things up market again. This is an extraordinary development which will probably suck up much local demand for a while yet. I’m not sure what to make of the design but the landscape. gardens and wild habitat along the path were welcome. There is still a lot of empty space here, fenced off spaces animated only by dramatic growth of buddleia. A mini Battersea power station. stood as ignored as its big brother across the water. the developers still have much to play with along this stretch of river.

There was no rural indulgence to be had now. On the other side of the river the old churches were still prominent but now they were cosseted with all manner of glass and steel constructions, the kind that would not find favour with a certain Prince.

Community picnic

Chelsea Harbour and Wharf are not what they once were and there was little to capture my photographic imagination. I turned North towards Gloucester Road tube. On Fulham Road I was almost kmocked over by a racing supercar with the number L 2. On the Old Brompton Road I was almost bagged by a Maseratti with no number plate at all, just a K — diplomatic corps I guess. It was time to get out quickly.

A great day of may unexpected experiences and encounters. The city retains its ability not only to surprise but to thrill in ways that are almost unimaginable.

A great day today, walking along the Thames from Kew Bridge to Chelsea Warf. For much of the journey it was like a country walk. It was part of my back rehabilitation – lots of road walking but of course no hills. I think a full trail report will follow.

Back to the hills soon!

There’s something going on with the weather that is a bit suspicious. No, I don’t mean scientists in East Anglia touching up their research (I don’t want to inspire another Sloman rant here …). I’m referring to the strange case of the Paramo trousers and the missing rain.

I bought my Paramo Velez trousers a few months ago now. And everytime they have been out there has been a distinct absence of rain. Despite the weather forecast. Still, I’m sure they are waterproof but I don’t feel able to deliver a decisive review as yet. Mind you, I do know that they are comfortable in mild conditions, that wouldn’t have suited the old style Cascadas.

Yesterday we were promised heavy showers. But we missed them as we tackled a circular walk from Church Stretton taking in Caradoc and the Mynd. Nothing special but a TGOC training walk with a fair amount of ascent.

The hills were quite quiet; must have been that weather forecast. The walking was glorious. We met some walkers who had caught a heavy shower, and indeed there was evidence of it on the Mynd. But it had passed us — and my Paramo trousers — by.

The Caradoc Ridge and Cheshire Plain
(24mm. 1/350. f8. ISO 100)

Checking the map
(105mm. 1/125. f8. ISO 100)

Sheep feeding on Caradoc — not quite summer grazing
(32mm. 1/125. f11. ISO 100)

What a lovely morning’s walk I had yesterday.

Over the last three weekends winter has tried hard to reclaim momentum but somehow the spring is too strong, even when fresh snow has fallen.

I headed out to the Long Mynd. I was at Church Stretton early. Few people were about. It was a glorious morning, one of those which sees everyone smiling and saying hello to each other. The Post Man in All Stretton stopped his van to say hello. My plan was to climb Caradoc and do a full circuit ending on Ragleth Hill. Ragleth and Caradoc may be minor hills but they have very steep bits. One look at Caradoc told me this might be a little beyond the worn tread of my Terrocs. Instead, I headed out for All Stretton and a climb up to the ridge that I knew would be bot wonderful and quiet. So it proved and I didn’t meet another soul until I got to the top of the ridge.

Climbing up from All Stretton

The climb was a little slower than planned. There was more slow lying on some of the precariously angled sheep tracks, but progress was gentle rather than risky.

On the ridge I met many walkers up from the Cardingmill Valley, all having a great time trudging along in their boots. All looking are me a little weirdly as they noticed the Terrocs. The sun shone even more strongly and the patchwork of fields and hills looked at its winter best.

Happy Ramblers

Both of my routes down would have been difficult with very sharp inclines. I took a quiet and more gentle slope, fine in its upper reaches but a little trickier lower down. I had forgotten that much of this walk was in the shade. Rocks slick with frozen ice had to be navigated with care. Walking back into Church Stretton it was almost impossible to envisage the scene up there.

A wonderful morning’s walk and another contribution towards Spring fitness. The calf muscles don’t ache this morning — progress is being made. Mind you, the work with the walking poles has left its mark on my shoulders and upper arms!

From now until May I plan to be out cycling or walking each weekend. Next weekend is a weekend off though. I shall be in Wembley watching the Villa boys destroy United.

“We’re the famous Aston Villa and we’re going to Wem-ber-ley …”

(I might get a chance to do some urban walking and photography though).

From the Ridge

Not quite what I thought I’d be writing about this. I was in Hebden Bridge this weekend to stay with an old mate and his new-ish partner. My mate John is more of a rambler than a hill walker so I knew there would be walk even if it was a gentle one. It all helps contribute to the pre season fitness regime.

Our walk was scheduled for Saturday and off we drove to Howarth, home of the Bronte family and their famous parsonage. I always find Howarth a little odd. It is a bit like one of those historic recreations you find at Beamish or the Black Country museum, yet it is all real. There’s a steep cobbled street and lots of arty craft places, pubs and cafés. The buskers are of a high quality. Every pub has a plack on it commemorating the fact that one of the Bronte’s used to frequent it. The Brontes mentioned were all me. I suppose the ladies didn’t frequent such rough places. Or were the men simply escaping from all that story telling?

The walk was straightforward enough, a seven mile round trip to Top Withins (a collection of broken down farm buildings) and the Bronte Falls. The day was not too bad but it was a real shade of grey, one that matched the stone of this part of Yorkshire really well. It was a walk of conversations rather than a walk of breathtaking views. You are never alone on these paths — there are walkers everywhere.

Half way along the route we encountered a family out on the hill. Dad was lying on the heathery grass. He’d been yomping across the ground, turned his ankle and couldn’t move — he was wearing wellies! It must have been bad because he wouldn’t even let me offer a shoulder for hopping support. I guess he’d either broken it or torn ankle ligaments — the most painful thing I have ever done. This made the walk a little more interesting in all honesty. I raced off back towards the main road and managed to raise help from a farmer who chugged off up the path in his four by four to rescue the man in difficulties. We’d called an ambulance who appeared in pretty good time. After all of the drama it was time to abort the walk and go and do something else.

This was a salutary reminder of some basic hilly things. Don’t go running over ground you don’t know without real care. Wellies are not the thing to be wearing. And always carry some backup provisions and clothes. The guy was clearly shocked and his family upset. They turned down our offer of some food. I was more worried about the cold. It was not the worst of days but he’d soon find himself uncomfortable. Luckily the ambulance appeared quite quickly — but he’s have been better off if he’d had some back up warmth with him. It was quite clear that neither him or his family understood how often the body temperature can fall.

In the evening we sampled something of Hebden’s counter culture. Hebden Bridge is a kind of toy town and centre for any things greeny, leftie and alternative. A health shop called the Banyan Tree was offering organic erotic potions for Valentine’s Day. This is the spiritual home of the slow movement in the UK. There is not enough space for chain stores to open and so independents thrive. Low property values in the 70s and 80s made this an escape for lefties and crusties from Manchester, Leeds and the rest of Yorkshire. Today, it is a unique place. There is a small supermarket but it is, of course, the Co-operative.

The Hebden Trades Club is one of the town’s great institutions. And music venues. My friends — knowing I like my music — were pleased to see a concert of electric folk scheduled for Saturday night. What a time we had. Getting into the Trades Club was a nightmare as the guy on the door couldn’t really grasp the fact that they sold tickets in advance. He let the two women in and then stopped us males. They demanded a one off payment as this was a member only club. I pointed out that they’d let the folks in before us without this. “Well you have to start at some point” came the reply. We politely (at first) pointed out that we’d paid for this with our tickets. I don’t think it was helped by the fact that the tickets were in fact emails — waving around an Outlook print out just added to the confusion.

Eventually we entered a scene of complete confusion. After a long wait that was. The bands were ’sound checking’ For a long time. I know all about this having run folk and blues clubs. Bands get nervous. They are far happier sound checking than actually performing. The sound check can last longer than the gig. And this is what happened with band number one of a four band line-up.

To be fair band one were reasonably good. Well, I think they might have been. The sound was so bad that it was difficult to hear anything. As a person well acquainted with PA systems an amateur sound engineers I suspect it had probably been quite good before they started messing with it. This was the only gig I’ve been to where the quality of performances gets worse as you go through the bill.

The headline band were called the Steals. I should have known better when I saw them described as a mix of electronica and folk. Any idea what that would sound like? Ambient music that’s what. Loud ambient music with crap sound.

Again, being fair, I should acknowledge that the audience were much younger than me. However, the young woman and her boyfriend next to us were equally disappointed. They’d come expecting folk rock or at least something like Eliza Carthy.

The Steals describe themselves as effortlessly blending together electronica and folk. They were right. It seems to me that had put very little effort into combining the two. No doubt I’ll be flamed by Steal fans but they really were terrible.

However, it is good to have a ‘youth’ experience every now and then.

Things looked up on Sunday, after we’d moved a chest of drawers for our host’s 90 year old mum. The problem was the traffic in Hebden — which we had to go through there and back. I must say for a community that is so environmentally aware the locals do seem to like their cars! It was — I suppose — a kind of GreenGrid lock.

We then ambled up to the village of Heptonstall via the lane we were staying on, tracks and footpaths. I’ve always liked the idea of living some place where I could just walk out of the front door and out onto the hills.

We were just walking to the pub — a Super Sloman I think this is now called. But the lane was quite long, it became a path and then I spied footpath sign for Heptonstall. Suddenly we were on a real walk — an one that was more fun than Howarth. A guess we only walked for a mile or so but we went through woodland and onto the edge of the Heptonstall Cragg. It was a long way down. This was unexpected excitement. I suppose it was a Super Sloman with Additional Fun (and Pike — well the Olympics are back).

Heptonstall was once a high, lonely kind of a place. Today it is quite posh in parts and very trendy. But the stone still gives you a clear sense of how it might have looked in bygone winters.

The centre piece of Heptonstall is its fine church and graveyard, where I was able to pay my respect to two old heroes. David Hartley was the ‘King of the Coiners’ and band of outlaws in the 18th century who filed down the edges of coins and made new ones from the shavings. It was big business — a counterfeit operation on a big scale. Their location in these wild valleys gave them a great deal of protection. Eventually London had enough and soldiers were despatched to arrest Hartley who was publicly hung at York. As his coffin was carried up the hills to Heptonstall the route was lined by hundred of local men and women.

Also here is the grave of the American poet Sylvia Plath. This is the home of the family of Ted Hughes, Plath’s husband. Plath’s gravestone is apparently one of the most regularly defaced in Britain, by feminist followers who believe Hughes drove her to her death. I’ve always found this theory sad and suspected that those who promote it haven’t read much of her work. Plath’s Johnny Panic and the Bible of Dreams is an autobiographical piece written before she met Hughes. It makes for painful reading as Plath clearly had all kinds of mental health problems before she came to the UK. She must have been a difficult person to live with. Then again, for somebody of that background to marry such a gruff, difficult and dangerous Yorkshire man was probably not that wise. It was a sad and tragic relationship and who knows what really happened. I just wish they’d leave the grave alone.

The highlight of the Super Sloman with Additional Fun was the pub — the White Lion I think. We’d missed lunch by 15 minutes. I’ll go off back and do you something said the land lady, pointing us to the full menu. How many places would do that? The land lord is a great Irish bloke. And the food was fabulous. Steak and Kidney pudding was just that — a proper suet pudding with not a puff pastry topping in sight. Cozy, warm and welcoming, staff that go our of their way to help, great food and beer. What more can you want. If there is anyone reading this who is thinking of popping up to Heptonstall to deface the grave, why not pop in here first. You’ll instantly feel much happier and probably not make it to the grave. A better arrangement all around I feel.

And that was it really. The walk down was more direct and allowed us a fabulous view of these valleys. It is amazing site. Deep sided valleys dominate the view for 360 degrees. Each one is home to a small community who’s houses cling precariously to these steep slopes. NO wilderness this, but a great natural sight non the less.