Categories
Outdoors Photography Places Pleasures Poetry

Vista

#writephoto #vista

View from the top of this very big hill

is breathtaking (literally)

some say its a bit barmy climbing up all that way

to take a picture or admire the view – but

at the end of the day – its worth it (even better with a picnic)

Categories
Acrostic Food Life Travel

Choices

#Socs #Choices

Choices you make, can form you later on down the line

How you make them is down to you

Of course, there are many paths to travel, to where you want to go

It’s a decision you have to make…..

Cold or Hot, Coast – Countryside – or City

Even eating, can give you pause for thought

Should you have golden syrup or chocolate sauce on your pancakes ?

Categories
Acrostic Poetry

Look Out!

Warning

Salford, 1st April 2018

When you’re walking through the meadow – its

A good idea to watch out for any signs you might see

Roads and paths tend to merge – and even in

Normal hours – the unexpected can appear – so

If you see a sign – saying men at work

Never ignore it – or you’re

Going to fall down into a great big hole

Categories
Camping Character Memories Outdoor Pursuits Outdoors Scouting

A Tale of Old Boots

These Boots Were Made for Walking

March 2011

In a part of the corridor, just by the stairs by the front door, lies a pair of Old Black Boots. It’s been quite a while since they have been walking. And if their owner were truthful – they could do with a bit of a clean.  The hooks holding the laces crusted with dirt, their leather is worn from the passing of time having seen many a moorland excursion. Lakeland water now pools at the toes.

But they still feel right. As if once put on, they could take their owner from their Salford home out to the hills of Perpignan and back again, covering miles along the way and without a mutter or moan.

Rugby Boots and Training shoes might be fine for a sportsman at Old Trafford but they don’t cut it on the fields of the West Yorkshire Moors. If these boots could talk, the tales they would tell – of covering rocky paths once stepped by Roman Legionaries, of campfire ditties sung round old ancient stones, and of moonlight illuminating mugs of steaming hot Beef Tea.

They’d sit outside tents so the groundsheet stayed clean, and leave their owner a morning surprise if they hadn’t been left under the flysheet. They would walk for miles as their owner crossed field and moor, praying that they would avoid the hidden cowpats. Of course they’d get cleaned on one day, just before parade, as the group amassed around a solitary flagpole.

Where they’ll go next, is anyone’s guess. But for now they just sit on the varnished wooden shelf, looking quite a sight with dark brown Yorkshire mud entrapped in the soles. They look at themselves in the tall hallway mirror and think of the streams they’ve crossed and the moors they’ve run, the bracken broken for kindling and stiles climbed in fun.