Frim issue 4

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Text of Frim issue 4

  • Purple Harvestforaging free on the moors

    Fresh - Passion - Photography

    Friends in High Placesmythical forms in the gritstone

    FrimIssue 4 - August 2014

    Here be Dragonsenchanting encounters with insects

  • Fresh - Passion - Photography

  • FrimFrim: Adjective - fresh with new grass growth, especially in the Spring. [As defined by F. Philip Holland in Words of the White Peak].

    Frim is a new concept: An online magazine bringing you fresh angles on The Peak District not found elsewhere. Places to explore, delights to discover through the unique and highly personal insight of the magazines creators, both of whom know the region inside-out.

    Each month, the aim is to shine a light on hidden wonders, or to interpret familiar landmarks in novel ways, through the power of photography combined with the written word. There may also be the occa-sional atmospheric soundtrack from nature to complete the experience.

    Inspired to explore for yourselves, you can turn to the Nuts & Bolts page which will list all the practical information you need for getting to the places featured, along with links to relevant websites.

    Or, you may just wish to sit back and enjoy the virtual feast that is Frim.

    Pleasebrowse.

    Simon Corble & Steve Wake.

  • Frie

    nds

    in H

    igh

    Plac

    es

  • The two Padley martyrs

  • My first peruse of an ordnance survey map of the Peak District. I must have been no more than twelve years old. We were staying for three weeks in Youlgrave, at the heart of the White Peak, which is what we explored. Day One: A walk to Robin Hood Stride set my imagination racing; such an amazing formation, like an enchanted castle, with arches, but no doors. The old-fashioned one-inch map we were using had coloured contours and there, across the top quarter of the sheet, it was as if a cup of very strong tea had been spilled. In large, italic capitals were the words HIGH PEAK. For a boy totally under Tolkeins spell, this patch of contours, lettering and dark-brown shades was like a magnet pulling on my soul. No stories were needed; that high plateau, topping two thousand feet above sea level, had to be inhabited by beings from another time, another dimension.

  • We never got that far during the holiday, which only fired my young fantasies even further, but a few years on I started to venture out from our new home on the Cheshire Plain. By now, in my own mind, I was firmly some kind of Frodo Baggins and those high moors were as good as Mordor, realm of the Dark Lord himself. But what would I actually discover there, besides the heather and grouse already glimpsed from the back seat of our Morris Traveller? Back to the map.

    The map, to this day, is more or less empty, but here and there I spied the strange little squiggles marking rocky featuresand more magical words: Cakes o Bread. Eagle Stone. Salt Cellar. Pym Chair. And, most disturb-ingly, lost in the very centre of the Kinder Plateau, Mad Womans Stones.

    I am still not certain if I have yet been there. Part of me wants to leave it as the ultimate, perilous place, still nourishing that desire for adventure. I say not certain, because, over decades now I have tramped all over the high moors of the Dark Peak, tracking down these natural oddities, but have kept no record apart from photographs. And you can never be totally sure, on arriving at a group of stony forms, whether the printed word is referring to this or that feature. I mean, what are Mad Womans Stones supposed to look like?

    More than the grandeur of the main attractions, it has been isolated rocks that have really intrigued me. None of these seem to have names, but I have named them: Skull Rock. The Snail. The Henry Moore. I had fallen in love with the sculptures of Henry Moore, but I did not know that he himself had been inspired by walking in these very places. Then I came across this haunting figure, among so many others... So, here was indeed a land-scape populated by mythical beings; all now petrified, not changing over the brief geological time between my visits. Some have been slightly more exposed as the peat erodes from around them; all must have lost thousands of tiny grains of grit, as the wind, rain, sun and frost work on them continually a collective of artists, never satisfied. But their essence will endure.

    Returning again, very early one morning, to improve on a few old photographs, we bring the latest, laminated version of the Dark Peak map. Steve seems to have the whole thing on his smart-phone, complete with GPS to pinpoint our position. I sigh. Where are the fabulous beings, my old friends? The beings are all there, but the light is wrong. Easter Island Head is only impressive from three in the afternoon, it turns out. Having sat with a flask of tea for half an hour, waiting for the hill fog to lift, we have to give this one a miss. But what is that strange cat-head on the horizon? Something new is revealed for arriving here so early. I am reminded of the importance of timing in ancient ritualsand in Tolkein: Stand by the grey stone when the thrush knocks, read Elrond, and the setting sun, with the last light of Durins Day will shine upon the keyhole.

  • We never got that far during the holiday, which only fired my young fantasies even further, but a few years on I started to venture out from our new home on the Cheshire Plain. By now, in my own mind, I was firmly some kind of Frodo Baggins and those high moors were as good as Mordor, realm of the Dark Lord himself. But what would I actually discover there, besides the heather and grouse already glimpsed from the back seat of our Morris Traveller? Back to the map.

    The map, to this day, is more or less empty, but here and there I spied the strange little squiggles marking rocky featuresand more magical words: Cakes o Bread. Eagle Stone. Salt Cellar. Pym Chair. And, most disturb-ingly, lost in the very centre of the Kinder Plateau, Mad Womans Stones.

    I am still not certain if I have yet been there. Part of me wants to leave it as the ultimate, perilous place, still nourishing that desire for adventure. I say not certain, because, over decades now I have tramped all over the high moors of the Dark Peak, tracking down these natural oddities, but have kept no record apart from photographs. And you can never be totally sure, on arriving at a group of stony forms, whether the printed word is referring to this or that feature. I mean, what are Mad Womans Stones supposed to look like?

    More than the grandeur of the main attractions, it has been isolated rocks that have really intrigued me. None of these seem to have names, but I have named them: Skull Rock. The Snail. The Henry Moore. I had fallen in love with the sculptures of Henry Moore, but I did not know that he himself had been inspired by walking in these very places. Then I came across this haunting figure, among so many others... So, here was indeed a land-scape populated by mythical beings; all now petrified, not changing over the brief geological time between my visits. Some have been slightly more exposed as the peat erodes from around them; all must have lost thousands of tiny grains of grit, as the wind, rain, sun and frost work on them continually a collective of artists, never satisfied. But their essence will endure.

    Returning again, very early one morning, to improve on a few old photographs, we bring the latest, laminated version of the Dark Peak map. Steve seems to have the whole thing on his smart-phone, complete with GPS to pinpoint our position. I sigh. Where are the fabulous beings, my old friends? The beings are all there, but the light is wrong. Easter Island Head is only impressive from three in the afternoon, it turns out. Having sat with a flask of tea for half an hour, waiting for the hill fog to lift, we have to give this one a miss. But what is that strange cat-head on the horizon? Something new is revealed for arriving here so early. I am reminded of the importance of timing in ancient ritualsand in Tolkein: Stand by the grey stone when the thrush knocks, read Elrond, and the setting sun, with the last light of Durins Day will shine upon the keyhole.

  • Words by:Simon Corblewww.corble.co.uk

    Photos by: Steve Wake & Simon CorbleFacebook/wakesworldFlikr/SimonCorble

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  • Here be DragonsBroad-bodied Chaser, Osmaston

    Lestes sponsa (female)

    Com

    mon

    Blu

    e

  • Within days of moving to Monyash, in September 2009, we had a visitor to our new home. He came rattling in through the open French windows and proceeded to blunder about the room in a state of panic. It was a huge dragonfly. I now know that he was not quite the largest of the British species, but in the domestic context he seemed enormousand incredibly delicate. The normal procedure with a moth or butterfly is to form a trap with the hands, only this thing was never going to be contained by my little mitts. But there was nothing else for it, so I formed a cage with my fingers and somehow managed to subdue and carry him gently out into the sunshine. Thankfully, he stayed still during transit and no harm was done. It was an amazing, tactile sensation, one I can recall to this day, and it at once struck me how little I knew about these incredible insects. What kind was this, for a start? And where was the water?

    Some species, I found out, are happy to venture some way from the watery sites around which they breed; our intruder had no doubt been hatched in one of the many dewponds, or meres that dot this part of an otherwise dry limestone plateau. As mentioned in Issue One of Frim, historically these hav