Malcolm Redford

Malcolm Redford Painter. Illustrator. Writer. Artist. Cyclist. Adventurer and overcomer of Obstacles I have been an artist for as long as I can remember. This was to BE AN ARTIST.

It was not something I had to learn. I remember drawing the Eiffel Tower aged 5 when we went there on a family holiday. I liked to draw boats from the front; not straight on but from a slight angle, because when seen like this the effect of perspective on the almost unseen side of the bow would make it curl while the nearest side ton the viewer would look almost horizontal. That apart, this appa

rent self confidence then worked against me, since the presumption that this led to made a block to further learning as well as a laziness that impeded development. I got a ‘B’ at ‘A’ level, which I unthinkingly snorted at with an ‘I could have done better if I really tried’. My study of Art History at University was a neat cover to obscure what I really wanted to do, which, for years I refused to acknowledge. I would sneak art into whatever I was doing, without being able to formalise my commitment. When I was at RMA Sandhurst I would take my easel out into the grounds if I had some rare free time and try to paint the view of the grounds. When, after the freak aye accident that ended my army career, and I became a teacher, sketches would always be a resort when I should have been doing something else. This habit then became an obsession. I felt that I was trying to ‘catch up’ with where I should have been after wasting so much time in ignoring my true vacation. I’ve held exhibitions of my work, some quite successful, but have not cracked the mystery of what makes something ‘commercial’. As time has passed and other responsibilities have teamed up with my macular degeneration to conspire against my modest aspirations (loosing the right to drive, for example) my artistic urge has remained strong. Landscapes, portraits and still life are subjects that inspire me to an equal level, as do making sketches of the most inconsequential nature. My diagnosis with incurable prostate cancer has, if anything, pushed me on to make the most of any talent In art. I have come to terms with with the fact that it is a very personal thing, and that ‘success’ is not the factor that makes it important for me. If my work does not please others, that is not the criteria that concerns me. It is whether it pleases me or not.

Insecure at my dream-thoughts this morning. Was this my last day on earth?Remembering the anguish at leaving home, and a...
26/05/2026

Insecure at my dream-thoughts this morning. Was this my last day on earth?
Remembering the anguish at leaving home, and at the despair of possibly never seeing the children again, wondering how likely it was that my life would come to an end, either through my own doing or some other means. Was this the day?
By catapulting out of bed these thoughts were relegated to the realms of idiocy
and disbelief. Routine was reassuring and meaning reasserted by repetitive trivia.

Breakfast over and everything packed, I sympathised with the owner of the car next to mine, whose front tyre was flat, and drove off. Shortly before arriving at Seathwaite, where I intended to park for my walk, I pulled over to let the driver behind me pass. As he did he wound down his window and informed me about my flat tyre; and so it was, REALLY flat. Should I change it now, or leave it until I got back from my Scafell expedition? The weather was good. I was in good time and
wanted to get going. I was tempted to leave it, but something inside me advised caution and I changed it.

Despite this, it was not much later and I was soon striding rhythmically up towards
Sprinkling Tarn. The waterfalls were enticing, the sky clear, except for the clouds surrounding the Scafells, where I was headed. No matter, I thought. Only the summits would be hidden. Before long I was at the junction where the path I was following meets the one from Esk Hause to Great Gable with the north face of Great End rearing above me. I was directly below central gully, which I had climbed in winter with my friend Rod over twenty years before. Memories came
back….. the straightforward climbing up to where the gully was blocked by iced-over boulders….

The delicate moves, the bridging and the front pointing needed to negotiate it while tensioned against the ice axe and pterodactyl (an ice axe-cum hammer). Then we were up, emerging from the top of the gully, hundreds of feet higher, onto the summit plateau.

I continued on into the cloud towards Scafell Pike, picking my way over boulder
fields, following the track, sometimes vaguely distinguishable by signs of wear on the corners of the slabs. Sometimes the route went down as well as up, a weird feeling when expecting to go up, especially in poor visibility, as then. It was time to look at the map, just to make sure.I didn’t, partly from laziness, partly from confidence. Presently the summit slopes began and almost suddenly it was there, a huge cairn, the highest structure in England, although there was no way
of knowing it, since any view was hidden by the dense cloud. I started off again, compass in hand this time, to guide me through the cloud across more jumbled boulders, to the dip between Scafell Pike. and her sister, Scafell, called Mickledore.

Emerging from the cloud, the cliffs of Scafell rose up before me until they, themselves, dissolved into it. A discursive look at Broadstand, where there is scrambling access to the summit, told me not to bother. A mixture of reduced visibility and the prediction of moss-covered, treacherous rock resulting in a very nasty fall advised me to be content with the scree and mud in the gully leading up from Lord’s Rake, to the right of the wall of cliffs now facing me across Mickledore.
There was still plenty of time left and I looked forward to finding my way up. So,
after a quick lunch of sandwiches and coffee, sitting in an armchair of boulders, I shouldered my bag and was off. Once in the gully of Lord’s Rake and making my way up, the entrance to Deep Ghyll, the gully that gave access to the summit, was obvious, but absurd. No one, I thought, could ascend that without a climber’s full complement of hardware. So I ignored it and bent my head to the task of reaching the top of the steep, mucky gully I was in, without noticing the easier
path, a few feet on, which would have taken me into Deep Ghyll easily.

I went too far, for there was no route up. Having realised this, but uncertain of what I was looking for, I resorted to scrambling up an avowedly vertiginous mixed
slope of grass and rocky outcrops. There was evidence, hardly, of a path, that others had passed that way, which is reassuring in the sense that I was not the only brainless nincompoop eager to throw his life away. I steadily made my way up, enjoying the technical climbing, somehow having confidence in placing my toes on squelchy grass ledges and slippery boulders. Each time a serious bit was passed the relief was palpable and I was glad that I would not have to return that
way.

Too late, I realised that the formation of the mountain was like a pack of cards.
Layers of rock were jammed together. I was scrambling up the eroded cards at the end of the pack. To my right the impregnable buttresses (undamaged ‘cards’) loomed above me. The higher I climbed, the nearer I got to the end of the ‘pack’ and the chasm that would appear beneath me.

My route ended at the end of a grassy shelf that I had hopefully shuffled along, nervous of the imposing rock wall to my side, threatening to overbalance me. There was no exit. I was staring into a vision of nothing (in fact Deep Ghyll, which I ought to have ascended, but at that moment was hidden in cloud.) I remembered the semi dream of that morning and my nerves at leaving home. My climb up so far had been spurred on by the certainty of reaching the top. There was no wish or intention to reverse the same route. It wasn’t difficult, technically, but the wet and the exposure made it unnerving. I looked again at the wall hemming me in, hoping for an, as yet unseen, route up it, perhaps a little gully or grassy steps might appear, as if by magic. But it was vertical and impregnable. There was no alternative to going down the way I had come up. The very absurdity of it all made me laugh.

The split second following my arrival at the edge was enough to make a lucid and unambiguous resolution. It was a purging experience, as if spiritually useless
pretensions had been flushed out by the simple choice; do this, in spite of your resolve not to (go back) or do nothing, ever again.
So I returned. What’s more, I enjoyed it; choosing the holds, always in
balance, always in control, always aware of the consequences. It was exhilarating, and soon, disbelief confounded, I was back on the path I had so idiotically left. After a few strides the real path appeared. The first thought was to ignore it and go down. Time was getting short. That was quickly succeeded by the disappointment of giving up. Little persuasion was needed to make me change my mind and soon I was making my way up a steep, slimy gully by making use of plentiful, soaking handholds and bridging across with my feet. It was strenuous and fun and
before long I was popping, like a cork, from the neck of the gully and onto the summit plateau.

The summit was a simple stroll and the satisfaction complete, even without
the view which would have’ ,ideally’ finished it off. The descent, without the fateful worries of my previous miscalculation, brought me unscathed back to Mickledore, from where a long, rough trek around the massif ended at the Piccadilly of Lakeland, Esk Hause. A variety of paths branch off from here, and my choice was the one I came up, going to Seathwaite, a mile and a half down the valley. By this time it was dark, and extra care was needed to follow the path. Reaching the
car was a relief, as was the prospect of a good meal and a comfy bed for the night, but not that of unpleasant dreams.

The illustrations for this tale had to be done later, since views were impossible to see, owing to the cloud. The pictures are all watercolour. They show Great Gable, Scafell Pike, Broadstand, a view to the east from the top of Great End(peaks unknown) ascending to Mickledore from Wasdale, and the unsuccessful climb from Lord’s Rake. See if you can identify each one.

My use of a motorbike when I worked in Kenya continued after I came back to the UK. I liked the sense of freedom and the...
11/05/2026

My use of a motorbike when I worked in Kenya continued after I came back to the UK. I liked the sense of freedom and the ability to avoid the constant hold ups of
traffic jams. Of course, unreliable weather did something to diminish the fun and getting soaking wet with freezing hands was not to be glorified.

Disappointment at having passed the motorbike test in Kenya not being valid in the UK was soon rectified and my daydreams of unlimited travel came once again to the fore. A camping trip to Scotland resulted in the scaling of a couple of Monros (Beinn Eigg and Slioch) Monros are mountains of 3000 feet and above in the highlands of Scotland. This was also our introduction to the Scottish midges, whose welcome was memorable, but not at all for the right reasons.

For Mountain View’s, the Lake District was another essential attraction, of
course, and one destination cried out above all others. It was the view of Scafell PIke (Englands highest summit) from its nearest lane. I thought that from the top of Hard Knot pass there might be just the view I wanted map. The trouble was that it is a 30% hill (or in old fashioned language, 1 in 3) with several tight bends. A climb like this did not seem at all ideal for a heavy 1000cc BMW, which was the make I had graduated to.

Excitement was the key, which made the motorbike fun. Being in the open air,
with it swishing past, with the old adage ‘not a care in the world’ confirming the satisfaction. Always with ‘ I can go anywhere I like’ ringing in my head, even if the journey was mundane; going to the shops or going to work. ‘Freedom at last’ was the unspoken exclamation when I put my stuff in the pannier and fired her up for the return journey.

The fairing on the BMW gave excellent protection from the wind, rain and
cold, and the heated handlebar grips extended the pleasure of riding it in the coldest weather. There was a downside of this, of course, which I discovered one winter morning on my way to work in Manchester. There was nothing visible to suggest that it was as cold as it was, and my gloved hands were as warm as toast on the heated grips. There was a neat little short cut, with a right angle junction, and before I knew it, the bike was lying on its side, with me standing non-
plussed above it. At the edge of the right turn was a puddle, which, naturally was frozen over. I in my cocoon of warmth, did not put two and two together, with the result that my prized king of the road was ignominiously thrown down like one of his humble subjects. Embarrassed, I rectified this blunder, checked for damage (not much) and carried carefully on.

It’s weird how these innocuous events stick in your mind. Another, not quite so
mundane, scrap of memory was the trip I made on this same machine, down to London (several hundred miles away)I had read about an exhibition of paintings by my favourite artist of the time, Lucien Freud. This was to be seen at the Royal Academy. My exciting idea was to travel there and back in the same day, on my BMW, go to this exhibition, do some sketches of one or two of his salacious n**e paintings, do a quick tour of the centre of London, with more quick sketches,
have a bite to eat in the National Theatre cafe across the Thames, before going back up North, arriving home in time to resume my parental duties (at that time we had just the one child, Lucy, who, I think, would have been looked after by her child minder).

This may, with the sense of thirty eight years since, take on the absurdity that
it no doubt had. However, now bereft of the exact figures that could be used to confirm its veracity, I have discovered the sketches done on that day. While now, my sense of shock and timidity might be enough to make me think again about copying this unique artist’s literal portrayal of the female form in all its glory, at that time I was sufficiently in awe of his expertise not to be inhibited. It was not only this, but the effects achieved by his use of brush and paint. He has been praised for how nimbly he has mixed, and then applied what was on his palette with a fluidity and resonant texture that gives the subtle impression of real flesh. When you are standing in front of one of his canvases it is not the often, I must admit, candid subject matter that is so impressive, but the sheer honesty of what he has created. It is impressive.

Prominent landmarks of central London are not very far from each other, and a motorbike allowed me to skip from one to the other so I could do a couple of quick sketches that at least could remind me of where I had been. I found one of Trafalgar Square and another of the view across the Thames. I remembered that the National Theatre cafe did some very tasty chocolate cake, so that was just the right place to stoke up before my return ride home. The ride back presented me with problems not encountered on the way down, perhaps because it was closer to ‘rush hour’ time and congestion was more evident. As a result I came upon the answer to a mystery that had at times puzzled me. It was not unusual to come
across a stationery ‘tail back’ where every single lane was blocked with motionless vehicles.

Riding a motorbike I was free to pass along the gap between two of these lanes, which I did, wondering if I would at some stage come across the cause of this stoppage, be it a closed lane or two, or an accident, with the carriageway obstructed by the shock of unfortunate wreckage. Imagine my surprise when I came to a point where, as if released by a turned valve in one’s home water supply, the restrained vehicles all began moving forward again. What had caused
them to stop was not a blockage, but the spontaneous effect of over-congestion.
It all worked out very well. Obviously I had to go fast, with no stops, but a
powerful machine like that was ideal for this kind of trip. The trouble was that it was one of a kind thanks to circumstances. Family responsibilities decided that.

With a marriage break up and its consequences to handle there was little opportunity for motorbike excursions. Even using it for work, as I had done, was out. The car was off the road, since my wife had had a collision before she left me, so I was left with the pushbike as my principle means of transport. I could use the
child seat to take my son to nursery on the way to continue, cycling off to work. A child minder was able to take my daughter to school. Luckily, I was home tutoring at this point, so I was able to get back in time to pick up the kids and think about tea.

The motorbike was left in the garage, unused. As time passed I realised that my new routine was much better for me. My knee, injured many years before was not getting the exercise it needed. Now it was, so this was good for me. With this change of lifestyle and a different future from the one I had predicted, the
motorbike had no place. So I advertised it, and it was not long before it had been taken away. It had been good fun while I had it but time moves on.

The hospital appointment we had just been to required a taxi from home and back.Caroline thought her eyes would have to ...
22/04/2026

The hospital appointment we had just been to required a taxi from home and back.
Caroline thought her eyes would have to be dilated and therefore she was not fit to drive. The procedure we had gone in for went well and the desk phoned for a taxi while we were having a coffee.

The taxi driver was an easy going young chap, and we got chatting, (as much as we
could do whilst holding on to our seats) He was young and obviously very bright (no wish to disparage his cabbie brethren) It made us puzzled that he was happy to accept this as a permanent job. He enjoyed driving and, as it became clear, did not think (I conjecture) that a reliance on this, per se, would be the be all and end all.
As a member of an older generation his honest statement that doing what he ‘wanted to do’, guided by earning money, was refreshing. I feel guilty at saying that, but also quite liberated. As someone who has always felt that my choices must be linked to the needs of others, this uninhibited attitude had a releasing effect. What a ridiculous thing for a seventy two year old to feel after a two minute conversation with a young taxi driver who I had previously never met.

He had given up on his medical studies after two years, feeling that they were not for him, although his sisters had carried on with the same course. Perhaps that may have had something to do with it. His father was easy with his decision, although his mum was upset. His focus was on how much money he could make. This matter of fact approach didn’t exactly shock me, but certainly widened my awareness. The logical corollary of this was time, and not spending hours and hours in reaching his pecuniary targets. He told me that a friend of his had come up with a scheme (connected with the taxi business) which would be a good earner, while not involving the misusing of this precious commodity; time.

Well, what could I make of this? I thought as I looked out of the car window at the
passing autumn scenery. He had taken the ‘back’ lane, which, despite its narrowness and deceptive bends, was still the most convenient route, as long as you don’t meet traffic coming towards you. It splashes through the forge at Carlow Bottom, which was Toby’s (Caroline’s now deceased, but much loved collie) favourite place. He loved running water, and would merrily leap up and down on his hind legs, barking at this mysterious liquid which, inexplicably, rushed past him.

Not that this is at all relevant, but as a passenger, with no active function, I could not help but muse over this attractive spot, which we had, either alone or together, often visited. The ford is at a sharp bend, with a short waterfall at one side. It is not the sort of road for a large vehicle. I was reminded of a local newspaper report about an articulated lorry (presumably GPS directed) whose driver was misguided enough to attempt it. Apparently it took a number of heavy duty vehicles, incorporating a crane, to get him out.

Our driver had no such problem and the car easily splashed through the ford and began the narrow lane on the other side. Sitting in the front passenger seat I looked around, remembering all those previous occasions I had driven this route. Of course I should have explained why it was that, in this instance, with Caroline unable drive, I was not able to do it instead.

Blind spots in my one good eye were the answer, caused by an operation to remove an infection. Because my field of vision was severely restricted, I had to surrender my licence and my days of driving were over. My wife, Caroline, as a rule was happy to be my ‘chauffeur’, but in instances such as this, a taxi was the only alternative.
Along with the memories stirred up by the views I was looking at came those of ‘family’ and ‘responsibility’. These two words changed everything.

Even now, at seventy two and retired, I could not ignore the onus of the meaning theyconveyed. Looking out of the car window at the autumnal tones, penetrated by rays of the bright sinking sun, the long shadows cast across the road, were enough to bring it all back.

This was where, late ion a wintry evening, I had suffered a puncture (in the days
when I could drive) when coming back from an outing to Ski Rossendale. My children were kids then, and watching them on the artificial ski-slope was miraculously full of potential. Now they were dozing in the back of the car and the skis were strapped to the roof. It was dark, and I had to change the wheel. It didn’t seem a problem then. Offloading and stacking the equipment when we got home, getting the children to bed, relating what a fulfilling evening we had had, were all
tied up in a narrative I wouldn’t want to change.

Where does the motivation of ‘making money’ fit into this when the outcomes of
‘responsibility’ are so important? There is no escaping the obvious; what are you making money for? Our driver, who it would be heartless of me to ignore, did confess to the pride he felt at being there to listen to a passengers thoughts or sob stories, if they chose to divulge them. This crafty description of himself as a mobile therapist went some way to placating my misgivings about being in the company of an out and out materialist.

18/04/2026

Donate to Nathan's fundraising page for Little Princess Trust

While working as a teacher in Nairobi, I took a few mini breaks on my motorbike. This particular trip included popping i...
03/04/2026

While working as a teacher in Nairobi, I took a few mini breaks on my motorbike. This particular trip included popping into the Samburu country club, where I met a squad of Scots Guards at the bar, enjoying some time off from their training exercise. I had never heard the ‘f’ word used so frequently! (Not so unusual nowadays, when all you have to do to hear it is to turn on the TV at 9.00pm or walk down the street at any time, day or night !) This social situation gave me an opportunity to sketch their Platoon Sargent Hickling, who seemed flattered by my
suggestion, as his men guffawed and larked about.

As the art teacher at school, I wanted to use all opportunities to pursue my liking for doing portraits, perhaps with an idea of how I might use them later. I had never ridden a motorbike before coming to Kenya, but somehow a sense of adventure took over, and I thought I would give it a go. Not having taken my test I wasn’t allowed to ride anything with a bigger engine size than 175cc, and I found myself buying a neat Kawasaki trail bike that looked as if it could do the business. When I passed my test, I could move on to something with a bit more poke and take pillion passengers. Roads were generally quiet, unlike in the UK. The main exception was the one that led from Nairobi and down into the Rift Valley. Queues of creeping trucks perennially groaned their way up it, heavily laden with goods for the
capital city.

I was aiming for Lake Victoria, that famous and huge lake (the largest in Africa, at
68,800 sq km) and the source of the White Nile that defies the scorching climate. I had a tent with me so that I could be self supporting. I was lacking in means for refreshment, however.

Since I was a newcomer to this exciting place there was no point in going fast. It was much better to take it easy, obey the rules of the road and make the most of my surroundings and all the novel sights to be seen. Amongst all the things that were different, what did remind me of the UK was the atmosphere and the mild weather around Nairobi. No wonder it had been such an attraction to Brits who fancied the freedom of setting up their own farmsteads and being part of a privileged elite society that ruled this beautiful part of the world back then. I am not saying this attitude was something I approved of. It was impossible to ignore the Africans that I saw trudging along the roadside, some bearing loads on their heads, and barely a garment on their backs, showing their obvious poverty. I had, on a previous excursion, on the outskirts of Nairobi, come upon a shanty town and was shocked at the outright misery that I had accidentally encountered.

That night I wondered if I could put my tent up in the grounds of an
unprepossessing farm that abutted the road. The black farmer was very hospitable, and invited me later, into his home for a cup of tea. I drew him too. Not much was said, which I have always felt guilty about. The friendly old chap was offering me the use of his garden and lounge, and all I could do was to draw a picture of him and then scuttle off into the night, with not so much as a ‘by your leave’, back to the shelter of my tent.

This being Africa, the reader may notice my omission of wildlife. Well, the truth is that a game park was the only place where it could be seen in abundance. I did see some giraffe and once I was surprised by a gazelle when it bounded over me while I was on the bike, nearly grazing my head as it leapt across the road! Then there were the flamingoes at Naivasha; a glorious sight. Lions and big game, though, were animals I was unlikely to see from a motorbike.

All the towns seemed similar. Abiding memories are of unremarkable dwellings with corrugated iron roofs, red dirt streets with little traffic and men sitting
outside, perhaps playing cards or chatting. The road took me through Eldoret to Kitale, where I stayed in a modest, dark, hotel. Lounging about in the bar, a local African was happy to sit for me. Again, as with my host the night before I often wonder about the lack of conversation between us. Obviously there was the language barrier, with my sitter probably uncertain about his English, and me certainly unable to get beyond ‘jambo’ (hello) and ‘Mzuri sana’, (very good)
in Swahili. I ended up with a sketch that I have always prized above any photo that I could have taken, and I still have it, forty-odd years later. Looking back I feel that it was a missed opportunity to learn more about him.

Now to the last word (consequences) which I am not so pleased about.
A few months later, having been to see some friends who lived on the Karen estate, who weren’t, after all, at home, I was returning and negotiating the right angle corners that distinguished the geometric road design there. At one of these I misjudged the angle and, of course, there was a car coming in the opposite direction. We collided head on. I was thrown over my handlebars and the roof of the car, somersaulting onto the road beyond. My right leg was broken as it was caught against the handlebars. I was in agony. I had never experienced such pain. People gathered, and someone asked if there was anything I wanted. I replied ‘yes! a cigarette’ . It was only when it was lit, and in my mouth, when someone else pointed out that petrol was leaking from the damaged motorbike lying beside me, so the cigarette was instantly extinguished!

Finally an ambulance arrived. It was a beaten up van rather than an equipped
ambulance. The ‘paramedic’ was a young chap who could do nothing but sit in the corner, while I berated anything and everything, with a constant flood of voluble foul language to somehow block the pain, as I tried to stride about, pushing against the sides of the van’s empty interior as it made its way to Nairobi hospital. The blow I received in the crash had carved out a sizeable lump of flesh, but this soft tissue wound was ignored and the focus was on my broken bone as it was
encased in plaster. This was deemed enough and that same evening I was allowed to return to work. It was not enough, of course, and blood or pus from the untreated wound steadily seeped through the plaster. I am red/green colour blind, so they look similar to me and I would mark the limit of the stain day by day with a felt tip. However as it got bigger, so did the smell increase. It was soon so foul that I thought it could only be incipient gangrene. I needed to get back to hospital fast! Immediate bed rest and antibiotics settled it down. Then, since the flesh around the wound had died, a transplant with skin from my thigh followed. All this didn’t stop me sketching, and a fellow patient, Bill, poor chap, who had been assaulted with machetes by thieves who had raided his home, agreed to sit for me. I wish we had swapped contact details, but for some reason we didn’t, and my sketch is all that I have to remember him by. I hope that he has fully recovered though and has, thereafter, enjoyed a fulfilling life.

I was soon back at work and although I had ridden my Kawasaki for the last time, motorbiking remained my preferred transport for many years to come, making sure I left adequate space for an oncoming vehicle when negotiating a tight right hand bend!

This mixture of a cycle ride and walk was my own attempt to pay homage to the genius of Emily Bronte, including as it do...
21/03/2026

This mixture of a cycle ride and walk was my own attempt to pay homage to the genius of Emily Bronte, including as it does, a pilgrimage to Top Withens. This house, now ruined, was reputedly used by Emily Bronte as the focus of her novel ‘Wuthering Heights’.

It lies high on the barren and and treeless moors on the Lancashire and Yorkshire border, where it is given to wild weather and high winds, hence the name ‘Wutherring’ being a significant provincial adjective of atmospheric tumult, as the narrator, Lockwood, put it in the book.

Good weather would be a bonus, and so this classic sunny winter day gave me an
invitation I could not decline. With bags packed and sandwiches made I set off along the lonely road to Hebden Bridge. I was soon on the tops above Colne, where I live, past the reservoir at Widdop, overlooked by a jutting rock face. Half a mile further along the Pennine Way crooses over and forks up the hillside towards Haworth and all places north.

This footpath is one whose scenic attractions have attracted thousands of walkers (including me forty years ago) since its creation in 1965. Many must have a penchant for masochism owing to the repetitive slogging through the peat bogs that characterise much of its length.

There are occasional stretches along a tarmac road which provide a brief respite. I was now on one of those, which leads to a trio of reservoirs built by a Irish navvies in the 19 th century. I had planned to ride that far before folding my bike up and sliding it into the backpack I had brought with me to carry it across the moor.

That was the plan, but the driver of the 4x4 that suddenly appeared next to me had other ideas. ‘Yah can’t soickle dahn this rowde’ he roared at me. ‘ Yer’ll ‘ave ter go dahn ther’ , he said, referring to the track that leads to Hebden Bridge. Going ‘dahn ther’ would not go to Top Withens, so it was time to put my bike in its bag and carry it. This was agreeable to him, but I was not expert in doing this and something hard and pointed, the end of a fork or an axle, kept prodding me in the
back; periodic wriggles eased discomfort to some extent.

The reservoirs were now well below me and the view stretched for miles in each direction. It was a landscape of moor and heather, devoid of people, their pettiness and preoccupations, and an area given over, instead, to burbling curlews and buzzing lapwings, the embodiments of the
liberating wilderness. If I looked the other way I could now see the silhouette of the ruin of Top Withens across the plateau. So this was where Catherine and Heathcliff wandered endlessly over the moors. This is where their identities found such a unity that they could never be separated. This is where Mr Lockwood found the books where Catherine had described the tyranny of her brother his roof. This
is where Heathcliff took his revenge and where love between them took its spiritual course.

Before long I had reached it, and thankfully eased myself free of the weight on my back, shrugging the soreness from my shoulders. This was my chance of a few minutes rest and I sat on a wall that could have been the remains of the stable where Hindley hit Heathcliff when they were children and threw at him the iron weights used to weigh potatoes and hay.

I bit into my sandwiches, imagining the scene, years later, when Heathcliff, now
Hindley’s merciless creditor, viciously disarmed him when the latter threatened to kill him. Surely this place could not have been such a residence as described in the pages that Emma wrote. Now it had nothing of the massive character that the book suggests with deeply set windows and jutting stones. It had more the look of a modest ruined cottage. Putting oneself in Emily Bronte’s place, however, it is an ideal spur for the imagination. Miles away from anywhere else, isolated in a
wilderness and separate from society, it fitted her inspiration to write a romantic tale like no other. Still preoccupied by my musings but with lunch eaten, it was time to get going again. As I was shouldering my unwieldy baggage a fell runner appeared around the corner of the building, bringing me back to the present day with his light-hearted banter about jogging around the ‘tops’ as well as
his bemused reaction to the load on my back. Off he loped, who knows, possibly repeating Catherine’s own steps, as she went in search of Heathcliff on that terrible night when he disappeared.

The path set off down a hillocky grassy slope towards a rocky span that has come to be known as Bronte Bridge, where a peaty stream burbles down from the fells before descending to the valley below. Playful shadows danced among the rocks. It was a pleasant spot to sit and survey the scene. The other significant dwelling in ‘Wuthering Heights’ is Thrushcross Grange’, which is thought to be the present day Ponden Hall. I had at least another mile of scrambling and plodding from Bronte Bridge, along a rough stony track before reaching the road from Haworth to Colne.

I could now put the bike to its proper use and, relieved, cycled through the village of Stanbury before reaching the left turn that took me past another reservoir towards a steep rise that led to Ponden Hall. It is a fine house and that evening was dappled with shadows from the lofty ash tree that has grown at one corner.

Was that the very window that Catherine and Heathcliff looked through when they first saw Edgar and Isabel fighting over their miserable pet dog? Was it here, years later, where Catherine, grief stricken by her separation from Heathcliff, her true love, finally died?

Fascinated at the enchantment lent to these stones and mortar by Emily Bronte’s
invention, I did my sketch, enjoying my imaginative recreation. Then I turned for home, soon reaching the moor-top with evening sunlight flooding the landscape and picking out the whaleback silhouette of Pendle Hill in the background.

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Colne

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