A solitary curlew

Separates itself from the cloud,

Skimming cream and black sheep,

Picking between clumps of soft rush.

Is silhouetted in the lights

Of a plane dropping

To sweep the wave sculpted water,

To burst over castellated wall

Into blue sky.

A lush tree filled valley.

Behind, it leaves a striped wake

Like bubbles from a thousand fish.

Too late searchlights come through clouds

Making yellow circles on black water.

Mystified walkers watch

From turrets and barred portholes.

Restricted by notices

DANGER do not tangle with nature.

 

 

 

Cycleway

                    Bridleway

                                 Walkway

                                                This way

                                                                   That  way      

                                              No  way

                             Way down

                  Way  up

Whey  hey!

 

 

 

 

"Who goes there?"

Asks a red breasted sentry melodiously.

 

Only us, making our way along the scarred road.

We bring no unauthorized vehicles!

We watch, as quavers of long tailed tits fall from the trees

And fill the staves of the telephone wires.

 

"Who goes there?"

Ask the castellated walls implying forbidden spaces

 

Walls, just too high to follow the sound from a distant outpost

of an avian fanfare asserting territorial rights.

Regiments of tree tops beyond, seem to line up, waiting,

ready to mobilize against any perceived threat.

 

"Who goes there?"

I ask as I try to gain advantage with my binoculars

 

A predatory silhouette slips low across the brow of the moor, 

remaining incognito as it dips out of view.

A shadow is cast on the oily blackness of the lake,

its impenetrable depths promise punishment for those who defy the warnings.

 

"Who goes there?"

Signs of occupation in the shelter over the bridge

 

Shane, Mickey, Elmer and Tony have left their mark

They carved their names in misguided acts of defiance.

Did they not know that they were free to roam?

Recently departed martins have made their mark more constructively.

 

"Who goes there?"

Fieldfare this time, on the move.

 

Depleted berries signal commands to the troops.

Their right to roam is dictated by necessity.

Ours is for pleasure

Time to move on    

 

 

 

A gentle breeze ruffles the water's surface.  Waves lap hypnotically against the rocky border of the reservoir.  A ribbon of rock and gravel unfurled to reveal a pattern of dusky parallel stripes as the waters rise, then fall, and rise again, leaving a ghostly trace of changing fortunes.

 

The hillside slopes gently to meet the ribbon of rock.  The closely cropped grass a velveteen fabric pulled tight to reveal the undulations of the rocky body beneath.  Folds, mounds, hollows.  The nap rubbed away in parts by the feet of generations of creatures; rabbits' paws, sheep's hooves, the soles of human feet and heavy boots.

 

Pathways cross the deep folds and gulleys of the hillside, patterns formed by relentless running water making the journey from hilltop to reservoir, choosing a route, creating a design, all its own.  Wearing away the rock to leave indentations, moist areas protected from the harsher elements where plant life flourishes, softening the desolate hardness of the surrounding hills.

 

Once upon a time this was all beneath the water, under an ancient sea.  Did the rock thrust upwards through the breaking waters?  Did the lapping waters gradually retreat?

 

Once upon a time there was no reservoir here.  Itinerant workers settled for a while, transient beings, moving on like migrant birds once their work was done.  Leaving remnants of their homes like the abandoned nests of house martins.  But leaving too the magnificent dam.

 

Two giant chess pieces secure the dam at either end; four rooks.  Castles, each with a bronze plaque, a cast of names.  The city worthies; corporation, committee, councillors, aldermen.  Their names listed and then embellished by a border, a classical motif of branches and ribbons.

 

But there is another memorial near the dam.  A distant sentinel which if it were a chess piece would be a pawn.  Sturdy stone with an engraved steel plate "in tribute to 'The Public Works People' who built it".  A simple motif on each corner; barrow, pick and shovel, crossed clay pipes.

 

I pass between the chess piece towers into an enchanted kingdom.  The span of the dam is never ending.  To the left I look across from the secure, protective walls of a gothic castle as it holds back the dark swirling waters, preventing them from swamping the charmed forest below.  To the right I look down from the ramparts of a fortress, heavy buttresses which keep the evil, spiked forest from polluting the magical silver-spun waters above.

 

This is a mysterious place.

 

 

 

 

There is an early autumn chill in the air. The wind, frolicking this way and that in a teasing dance, is nipping like an eager puppy. A cloud duvet covers the sun, which occasionally peeks out with a hazy look on its face.

 

Dark hues are cast over the landscape where there is no sunlight. A grey and steel-blue sky hovers at the head of Scar House Reservoir but at the opposite end a glimmer of light spreads across the white clouds, revealing streaks of aquamarine.

 

Small choppy waves form froth on top of the water, making the reservoir look like a large vat of inky black Guinness. The waves are swooshing as they ripple into the sides of their vast container. Just one small patch of the darkened sandy shoreline is illuminated yellow-gold by a flash of sunlight.

 

Who would think that the murky looking reservoir supplies clean drinking water to the large urban sprawl of Bradford? Underground there is an unseen network of large chambers and pipes snaking beneath the landscape away from Nidderdale.  Constructed in the early twentieth century, the reservoir is dammed by imposing Gothic edifices. The architects had vision to make this site more than purely functional. Along the bridge, small portholes afford views across the large catchment site on one side and the dam and overflow channel on the other. Castellated walls are interspersed in a few places by steep steps to offer views over the parapet.

 

The old stones of the dam walkway are spotted with patches of lichen. Most are grey and white, a few are mossy green. One spot stands out a bright sulphurous yellow. It is said that lichen grows only in the purest air. The dam builders obviously chose a good place in which to collect water.

 

Heading down the valley from the centre of the dam is a cobbled water course, bounded by an oblong turret on each side. Walls and walkways join the turrets to another central round tower. No doubt, these structures cover some less attractive aspects of engineering which are an essential part of the dam.

 

No water is coursing down the cobbles today. The channel is dry apart from a few old puddles at its lower end. A large brown pool just beyond may be where the River Nidd re-emerges and flows into the valley obscured by trees. The river has been forced to stop its natural passage, burgeoning out into the large expanses of water now forming Angram and Scar House Reservoirs. Suddenly the Nidd is free again to tumble and burble its way down the dale.

 

Across the valley, near the ridge of the hill, are the remains of one of the quarries from which huge blocks of stone were hewn. Tracks weave up and down the hillside, where labourers heaved and hauled those heavy blocks to the construction site. There were injuries and cost in human life amidst all the noise and toil.

 

Now it is quiet apart from the occasional sounds of birdsong and snatches of conversation from the few people walking around. Below the old quarry, sheep are scattered across the hillside like a broken string of pearls. They add a few more sounds with sporadic 'baas'.

 

This wide U-shaped valley, typical of glacial retreat, is worn by streams and rivers and the tops of the hills have been abraded by wind and rain over millennia. Farmers came, hardy like their sheep, surviving the bleak landscape. They were not driven away by the harsh conditions but by fellow humans who wanted this land for another purpose. The reservoirs not only provide an essential supply of water for thousands of people. They also provide a pleasant landscape, accessible for visitors to enjoy the scenery. It may be cold today but not as cold as when the ice floes forced their rights of passage through the landscape.