News and Updates

I’m here with the proponents of Ted Hughes’s Yorkshire, who have commissioned me to produce three walking leaflets exploring the Calder Valley of his youth. I don’t admit to not being a massive Hughes fan but, as the day wears on and we walk the landscape through this particular lens and read his Elmet poems in the places that inspired them, his words start to grow on me. It may be just a line or two here or there, but it is enough to appreciate his unique view of a place that no longer exists. Gentrified Hebden Royd is a world away from the smoky den of the 1930s, which Hughes thought was dying on its feet. It is strange then that he returned in 1969, buying the house at Lumb Bank in Colden Clough that he had for many years dreamed of owning. He lived there for just a few months, the Calder Valley unable to live up to his vision of it, but its landscape fascinated him throughout his life.

I don’t know why I am heading to the North Yorkshire coast on the Bank Holiday weekend, but I am. Maybe it is reaching a dead-end at Howsham that I question the logic of this. Maybe it is sitting in traffic for over an hour queuing through Malton (not the first time I have experienced this). I am nowhere the route I want to be on, but this Bank Holiday traffic has defeated even my cunning back-road detours. I give in and queue, all the while listening to England’s ignominious dispatching for 67 runs by Australia at Headingley as I get steadily grumpier – two of my least favourite things combined.

On the remote marshes of Somerset, thrust far out into the Bristol Channel from the main roads west, stands a remarkable heap of earth and stones. The Pixie’s Mound is a Bronze Age round barrow marking the burial site of several people, whose remains were excavated in 1907 along with numerous beakers and Roman objects. It stands proud on a low ridge of ground with a great view across the wastes of Wick Moor that were traditionally thought to be the domain of the pixies. There are many local stories about the little red-capped pixies whose music emanated from the mound. Indeed, the folklore about the pixies had such a hold locally that the excavation had to be stopped for a time because of a lack of local workers who were prepared to carry it out. It was thought bad luck to dig here and even to cross the mound.

I have spent the last couple of weeks since the publication of The South Yorkshire Moors trying to promote the book and encourage local outlets to stock it. The promotional side is a black art and something I dread. It mainly involves sending emails into the media void and never hearing anything in response. It is universally unrewarding and a stark contrast to the instant affirmation provided by social media. However, lugging boxes of newly-pressed books around unsuspecting shops has become a surprisingly rewarding part of the self-publishing process. I am not a natural salesman, but I like to think my products speak for themselves and watching people open the books and light up is a pleasure to behold.

I recently asked my Dad for his memories about the moors around Sheffield for my new book The South Yorkshire Moors. I was interested how his experience of the moors growing up in Greenhill in the 50s/60s compared to mine growing up in Oughtibridge in the 80s/90s. Though on opposite sides of the city, the moors were accessible from both if not right on the doorstep. Here are his recollections, followed by thoughts from my own childhood.