Outdoors Diary - Friday 30 June, 2006

Muckthwaite, Friday 30 June, 2006

It's at this time of year I feel the burbling call of Muckthwaite Brook summonsing me into the hills. The brook is an old friend, a glistening, glittery streak of dancing watery joy that comes from afar and, in time, leaves the valley behind a greener and richer place.

The brook changes with the seasons. In winter it's like a curmudgeonly old farmer, raging, roaring and burbling with fury and spite. At times it explodes out of its constraining banks and rages across the moors bringing devastation and wetness in its wake. I well remember once having to roll up my trousers to keep my baccy stash safe and dry.

Then in summer, lulled by the sun, it lies back and meanders through the tussocks like a fat policeman after a long session in t'Muckthwaite Arms. It's then that t'local kids tickle its watery toes with jolly games of 'drown the goat' and 'wash granny clean'. Aye, the old ways live on in Muckthwaite.

My favourite time to be by the brook though is in't late spring when the waters are alive with leaping, baa-ing sheep as herds of Muckthwaite Muckles swim back oop river to spawn in the high pastures. Many's the time I've watched the Muckles leaping gracefully against the current and oop rapids regardless of watching bears, their wool slick with water and neat flippers on their feet giving them enough thrust to keep moving.

It's a reet miracle of nature. After a winter spent in the pubs and clubs of t'big smoke, they come back, regular as me gout, and I defy anyone not to marvel at their grace and power, which is what the smart young fella from town were doing last Thursday dinner time.

One little nudge were all it took and in seconds the water were a boiling, frothing, pink maelstrom as the Muckles sated their blood lust on the unfortunate young man. I do like a bit of pink water, I thought, so much like Campari and soda. And with that I went back to watching the spawning sheep. Nature, red in hoof and fleece...

Alfred Todger