The day after Boxing Day (which should be renamed Bloodlust Day due to the number of redcoats roughing up the countryside and slaughtering foxes despite the 2004 ban) was foggy. Ordinarily, this weather would have drawn me out with my camera, clothes pulled on over the top of my pyjamas, teeth unbrushed, fast unbroken so I could revel in the fog before it was ‘burnt up’ by the sun.
But depression had me shackled to the house, wearing a hooded blanket robe which makes me resemble a black bear. I wouldn’t give it the satisfaction of taking another day, though, and checked the weather. Fog was forecast for the following morning, too, so I booked a train ticket to the North York Moors before depression could get its claws in.
I dreamt I slept in and missed my train and the fog. (My brain doesn’t only torment me when I’m awake; it also enjoys tormenting me in the dream world. I often wake up distraught. It’s not rare that I wake up crying.)
I didn’t sleep in, but when I woke up, my initial thought was, ‘Can I do this? Do I have what it takes to make it to the train?’ I knew that once I was out on the moors, I’d be fine, better than fine, I’d be happy (as long as I didn’t spend long dwelling on the fact the moors were once woodland) but it was those steps in-between that would have me stumble and possibly retreat back to bed. I managed to put two feet on the floor before the thought of ‘Can I do this?’ had a chance to muscle up. I packed a mince pie, my water bottle (astonishingly I remembered to fill it) and my camera (astonishingly complete with battery and memory card) and set out.
As I walked to the station, the sun was pale enough that I could look directly at it, and the fog had yet to evaporate. On the train, as I hoped for the land around me to remain half hidden and grey as a seal’s pelt, the sun burnt through and revealed a slab of blue sky. I didn’t cry, but I could have.
I changed my plans (and in doing so, felt extremely mature) and headed further inland, hoping to find some traces of fog and winter. And to avoid people. I had an inkling Roseberry Topping, my intended destination, and the forests and moors around it would be swarming.
I made for Commondale – a tiny village named after a 7th Century Lindisfarne Bishop – and would wander from there. I intended to stay outside all day, hoping the fog would creep back once the temperatures dropped. I changed trains at Middlesbrough. A woman carrying the familiar blue Duty-Free bag from Keflavik airport was on the platform. I wanted to ask her how she liked Iceland, but was too shy.
On the train, as I waited for views of the hills, I read an article on New Year’s Resolutions for Highly Sensitive People. One of the resolutions was about cultivating a state of wonder when overwhelmed. I feel this is something I may have been doing subconsciously my entire life. The biggest takeaway from the article was the resolution to TAKE MESSY ACTION. I’ve let perfectionism get the better of me this year, and it’s crippled more projects than I dare admit.
As we edged out of the town and into the country, shadowed field ruts held some frost, but not much. The train squeaked like bed springs under the weight of a furiously fucking couple unable to maintain a rhythm. Other than that awkward disturbance (I don’t think I’m the only person who thought about bed springs), it was quiet; most folk intensely focused on their phones.
I’m a fan of this in-between time when there aren’t as many people going here and there. When it’s less likely that someone will sit next to me and induce feelings of insecurity about eating a snack or scratching in my notebook. I did smell piss on the train though, and, for a brief, horrified moment thought I’d sat on a urine-soaked seat (like my mother once did on a bus) and would have to turn around and go home. But when I moved further down the carriage, the smell, thank fuck, didn’t follow.
When the train stopped, I waited for a door that wouldn’t open. The train conductor frowned as deeply as he could without turning his face inside out, eyes dark with malice as I lurched towards the door that did open out onto the platform. Blessedly, I was the only one to get off the train, which left me with a satisfied feeling that my walk would be the solitary one I was hoping for.
I walked from Commondale to Castleton (you may have heard about it as the place where the Hand of Glory was found) in unsettlingly springlike weather, which had the gorse bushes flowering. It was beautiful yes, of course, but it was warm, too warm for the end of December. It was too warm for my hat. Too warm for my coat. Too warm for my long sleeve. Too warm for my jumper. I regretted not bringing suncream and sunglasses as the sun was on a goddamn mission to shine.
I was blissfully alone, mar the few individuals I passed every once in a while, who mostly looked as displeased as I felt to be seeing them. I typically try to hide my displeasure and attempt to chirp ‘hello’ because though I may be displeased about other signs of human life, I’m not rude. Some replied, others not.
I had several hours before I needed to be back at the train station, so took my time walking and photographing stone walls and trees which had definitely felt the hands of a few witches. From Castleton – after a brief stop at The Eskdale for a tea and probably the best mince pie I’ve eaten this year – I meandered through a silver birch woodland, photographing bark and witch’s broom, then over a mile or so of moorland and up into the village of Danby to fuel up at the excellent bakery there…which was closed.
Dusk came quickly as I made my way back to Commondale. I could hear gun shots from over the way in the valley, one after the other after the other, and I thought to myself, ‘I hope you don’t hit anything of what you’re shooting at…’
The sky blazed as I ambled back to the station, helpfully distracting me from the fact I wasn’t feeling great about soon being town-bound again. Rabbits skittered away, little white bums bobbing. On the single (thankfully deserted) platform at what’s probably the smallest train station in the UK, I fished out my miraculously intact mince pie and ate it (eating two mince pies in a day during these ‘between times’ is perfectly acceptable) while awing over the fact that the many-layered, enthralling, loud song I could hear was coming from the throat of a bird about the size and weight of my festive snack.
A Wyrd Of Her Own 