Chevin Adventure A GoGo!

The Destination.

The other day I awoke to a rather glorious sight; the sun was in ascendant through an azure sky, its light burnishing the vegetation throughout my valley with a resplendent green. Immediately I thought of one thing: photography. There was no way I was letting such a wonderful day go to waste, especially since the previous days I had encarcerated myself within the confines of my house in order to prepare for my university finals.

However I lacked a camera. Fortunately this rather major issue was quickly resolved; a quick Facebook message later and I had managed to persuade my friend Rowan to accompany me whilst I abused his substantial, Canon EOS 400D camera. My objective was to photograph the expansive vista, known as “Surprise View”, that provides a massive 60km panorama of West and North Yorkshire. However such a view is only accessible by hiking to the top of the Chevin, the more prominent hill of my valley that dominates the southern horizon. The Chevin, a name derived from Celtic ‘Cefyn’ or ‘Cefu’ meaning ridge, has been a constant character throughout my life with some of my earliest memories being me playing on its steep slopes. Despite forming the valley within which my town is situated I hadn’t visited the old hill for some time, so the beautiful day that presented itself to me was the perfect opportunity to rediscover its secrets.

However both Rowan and I had work to do throughout the day so by the time we met a heavy haze had already set across the sky; time was of the essence so we promptly set off for the dominating landmark. After taking my first few shots I quickly realised why I didn’t own a camera; as soon as one is placed in my hands I become convinced that I’m an expert photographer and tend to take pictures of everything a multitude of times from a multitude of angles. This conviction couldn’t even be deflated by my horrifically amateur mistakes; usually messing up the focus, forgetting to take the lens cap off and, most commonly, actually forgetting to switch the camera on. Eventually we reached the bridge that traversed our local bypass and marked the beginning of our uphill slog.

 The Chevin from the town centre.

 Road shot: life and limb was risked whilst I tried to get the perfect photo.

Green portal: the bridge from the urban into the rural.

The path became considerably narrower, and the cars and houses replaced with untended foliage and dry brick wall.  As we pressed on one of my town’s quaint oddities materialised; a tiny ‘farm’ made of one plot of land that housed chicken, ducks and a few goats. As much as the vegetation around us had grown denser we still had not yet left the town proper, so such a tiny farm next to residential housing composes a rather surreal image. Perhaps it’s a petting farm?

Some of my earliest memories come from the farm however; a foggy image of petting the goats with my mother resurfaces every time I pass by it. Not all of it was positive; a memory of a particularly territorial turkey still pervades today, albeit still rather vaguely. I remember the monstrous bird that used stalk my movements, squawk viciously and, every time I approached the gate, pounce at me with claws bared and wings flapping. A truly terrifying experience for a child! So much so that it was immortalised as the primary villain of a novel during a book writing phase in my early youth. So definitely not a petting farm then.

Should also say: "otherwise your hand will be pecked off!"

Confident that my childhood nemesis had disappeared we pressed on and the path became noticeably steeper with each step; the true ascent had begun! 

It was at this point we had a rather surreal encounter; whilst traipsing past a field of ponies an old hiker came a tottering down the narrow trail, his smile a vision of brilliant white. He nodded and said hello, courteous enough; hikers always seem to acknowledge each other when they cross paths in the country, I'm guessing they share some unsaid bond forged in mutual pain during the often arduous, long country walks (speaking from personal experience...). However instead of continuing on his journey he stopped and said "Ah, Red Coats!". Although in reference to my red Letterman-esque jacket it stuck out not only as an odd conversation starter, but that it was something many an elderly person said to me when I wore any red jacket. It's probably an older generation thing to reference the archaic British Army attire; every time my father sees me wearing one he shouts "Man' United!". The hiker then went on to preach to us about the meaning of Easter and gave us pamphlets that sought to comfort us about, among other odd phrases, that the Cross at the top of the Chevin, an annual Easter tradition, was not done by a lunatic fringe. With a fear that we were about to be indoctrinated into the Anglican Church by the hiker and his surreal conversion tactics we made a quickly made an escape up the path and into the woods; official Chevin territory.

 Pony field.

The narrow path.

 Refuge.

 Deforestation.

 Autumn in the Spring...

 Hidden spring: many a nettle sting was suffered whilst trying to take this photo!

An ancient stone. Not sure why its there. Very mysterious..

 After cutting me knees and getting covered in nettle stings in the pursuit of photography we reached the halfway mark; the imaginatively named White House. It was from this vantage point, used as a base and education centre by the forest rangers, that we were given a taster for the vista that waited for us at the summit:

 The White House..

..is a bit deceiving. 

 Rustic.

Viewpoint.

Looking back to the start.

After a quick pit-stop we carried on to what was to be a true test of amateur photography skills;

 Time to test my floral photography!

(Foreshadowing)

or so I thought; despite being in the height of spring NO wildflowers were blooming in the little clearing! Crushed by this revelation we continued on only to face, as anyone has taken this particular trail will most definitely agree, the toughest section. Before us ascended a horrifically long set of stone steps, known locally as "Jacob's Ladder" or the "Cat Steps", that ascended steeply into the woods. At the top the forest opened up onto the summit, we were so close but the memories of the tough slogs up those steps pervade my memories of climbing the Chevin all the way back into early childhood. I have distinct memories of my mother telling me to count all the steps as we climbed when I was a child, something I suspect was to stop me from constantly complaining about the ordeal. Dutifully I would always do it, God only knows why. Now I braced myself to suffer once again; this was my true nemesis.

 The final obstacle.

 Halfway up!

Almost there...

As it turned out we scaled it rather quickly without even stopping for a breather! I'd like to put this down to my hard work at the gym but, considering how long it had been since I faced the steps, it was probably just youthful energy. Very anti-climatic.

And with that we had reached the summit; only one last, rocky, tussocky, uphill struggle remained before we reached the summit! This was overcame quickly and soon we were standing on top of the pile of boulders that formed Surprise View. 

 Rocky Road.

 The Cross: Not erected by a lunatic fringe.

 Boulders and crepuscular rays.

 Low flying plain and more crepuscular.

 One of my old school's many woodcuts.

 Surprise View.

 Shoe trouble.

 Natural seat.

 Foot-sized hole. Also mysterious..

 Experimenting.

Collateral damage :(

Unfortunately by the time we reached the summit the sky had become populated by cloud and haze so the full panorama escaped us. Nevertheless, with one glance you can easily take in my entire town, a view that only fuels my desire to escape.

The boulders, dumped when the Chevin was carved out during the last Ice age, were often a playground for me when I was younger. The most memorable scene being when me and my brother were playing 'Lion King'; after my brother beat me in a race to the top of a boulder he turned around and whispered in my ears the immortal words "long live the king" after which, in a fitting tribute to Mufasa, I fell off and promptly broke my arm.

Rowan called over to me, saying he had found a small hole in the boulders that he used to squeeze through when he was younger. Upon finding the hole myself I realised that I too used to do the same thing.


Memories seem to congregate on the Chevin; nearby was an area pock-marked with ash from numerous BBQs, and it was this area where me and my friends had a picnic for a massive catch-up after the first year of uni'.

 Make-shift 'Pride Rock' from the Lion King.

 The 'squeeze hole'.

 'Pride Rock'/BBQ area/Picnic place.

 Looking back at "Surprise View" and Cross.

More crepuscular.

We set out across the ridge and came across the 'hidden lake'; a large pond hidden in a wooded gulch. Although considering it's location is common knowledge between us townsfolk it's hardly 'hidden'. It was here, ten years ago, that I encouraged my father to steal frog-spawn, which is apparently illegal. We were unaware of this fact however until a couple came across our crime and informed us of our heinous act. However, due to my innocent, chubby ten-year-old looks we managed to get away with it and our pond is still flourishing with frog-life a decade later! I'm unsure how propagating life is illegal, its seems  like a fairly honourable goal.

 Path into the gulch.

 Cliff-face and more wood cuts. 

 'Hidden Lake'

 Geography in action: Eutrophication.

Colour amongst the mud.  

And so we began our descent. As we did the conversation suddenly took a more philosophical  path; we touched upon subjects I debated in my previous blog posts about Biblical interpretation (which can be seen here, here, here and here!) however the majority of it was focused on death. Morbid? Perhaps this is odd, but I don't think so. Whilst many people I talk to, theistic and atheistic, express their fear of death, I don't hold such a fear. Basically I think the fear of something that is inevitable is pointless, unnecessary and thus should be overcome. However on reflection maybe I'm being too unemotional? I do have a habit of approaching such subjects from an overly rational perspective. Of course that's not too say the loss of someone isn't sad or that death isn't significant. I find that such a fear will only hold you back, and by being accepting of its inevitability you can focus more on making your life be more significant, and focus on leaving a greater, positive legacy. However I'm still young and still have a lot to learn on the matter so I guess time will tell if this perspective is right.

 The view west towards Ilkley Moore.

 Descent.

 Hometown Glory.

The End.

And so we reached the base of the Chevin and followed the road back into our hometown. Now we faced an important question; what to do now after our trip up memory 'hill', as it were? Well considering we lived in a town that once boasted having the most pubs per head in Britain there was only one logical choice:

Well earned drinks.