Thank You, Ann Bowker

      

Thank You, Ann Bowker

I’m afraid I don’t know you, Ann Bowker.

You’re only a name on a screen.

I don’t even know what you look like,

but I always find out where you’ve been.

On Bleaberry Fell or Helvellyn,

On Skiddaw or Thunacar Knot,

On Catbells or Bowfell or Froswick;

I know that you’ve conquered the lot.

You walk on these glorious mountains

whether it’s fine or it’s wet

with your favourite digital camera,

then you post the results on the net.

I remember, remember the Haystacks,

Silver How, Wetherlam too,

but now I must sit and click on a mouse

to follow the tracks I once knew.

But - thank you a million, Ann Bowker

for letting me share in your climbs.

Without you I would not be able

to relive those happier times.

It’s not quite the same just to sit here

enjoying the views on a screen,

Scafell, Great Dodd and Yewbarrow…

but to Hell with it   -  that’s where I’ve been!

Barbara Moyes

Derby 2008

My mother wrote this, aged 86, to acknowledge the internet posts of a woman she had never

met, but whose experiences of walking in the Lake District she treasured long after 

she was ableto walk the fells herself.  

I recently discovered that the mysterious Ann Bowker had, herself, died in May 2021. 

See here.

Photo credit: Lionel Bidwell

Do Not Lie Down In That Hot Sun

Do Not Lie Down In That Hot Sun

Do not lie down in that hot sun
Your skin will burn and peel, but not get tanned;
Red raw you’ll be, and have no fun.

You ladies, you go out and think you’ve won,
You know that oils and creams have not been banned;
Do not lie down in that hot sun.

Young studs, be careful in the day, for as night’s begun,
You’ll wish to dance and sing and soon get canned;
Red raw you’ll be, and have no fun.

Crazy days of beer, banana boats and beaches can be done,
But seek the shade that often lies so close at hand.
Do not lie down in that hot sun.

As burning, bursting rays of UV light, as from a gun,
Pour down from cloudless skies upon that arid land.
Red raw you’ll be, and have no fun.

And you, my child, grown up, burnt like a bun,
Your youthful ageing skin, I see it blister there upon the sand.
Do not lie down in that hot sun.
Red raw you’ll be, and have no fun.

Explanatory notes

Written during the long hot summer of 2005, whilst staying at the charming and isolated VillaNelle in the south of France. I learnt my lesson that year; no longer will I lie in the sun, unclad.

It was sheer stupidity on my part. I know that now. At times the pain in my Dylan Thomas became unbearable; poetic justice you might say. So I penned these words of warning to anyone foolish enough to bare all, like me. Perhaps it would have been better to have simply called it “Rage, rage against the burning of the light!”.

I owe a debt of thanks to the men and women of the French postal service who, throughout that summer, carried up to the Villa all my deliveries of calamine lotion and sun cream. I knew none of their names, of course, just their service numbers. To anyone considering a stay in that delightful villa, I especially commend to you Facteur 50.

Words (and blisters) by N Moyes

Climber - a mountain poem

Climber

We came down off that hill in darkness, the three of us, 

carrying our burdens upon our backs
 and in our hearts. 

We started out in joyous mood that morning, 
exalted by the day’s beginning; 

by mountains to be climbed and miles walked, 

called by sharp frosts and brilliant sun 

to the very top of this frozen world. 

Our world; a world of naked rock, 
of snow and calling ravens. 

Our world; a world of gaily painted ropes, 
of boots and clanking axes. 

Our world; a world of white and black, 
of welcome and betrayal. 

 And so it was we journeyed upwards into this kingdom, 

our lives connected by purpose and by rope, 

each step freeing us from those cities in which we worked. 

 Upwards we journeyed, at times moving together, 

at times living alone. 

Knowing we are watched, we watched only for ourselves 

and trusted in our fellows. 

And below our feet: 

space 

that infinity;
the valley floor so distant, 

yet always just a slip away. 

 A slip? What term is this? 

A careless move, a moment's inattention? 

One slip
and this welcome world turns traitor to invaders. 

 And so it happened when least expected. 

One man, content in his existence and his challenge, 

knowing he was safe, was unsafe. 

A slip? Who can say? 

Who amongst us can say what happened 

or comprehend the fact that one of us is dead? 

A slip indeed, held at last by rope 

but with life’s thread already broken. 

 We came down off that hill in darkness, the three of us, 

carrying our burdens upon our backs
 and in our hearts.


N Moyes 1987

These words were dedicated to Steve Caswell who died in 1994 in a tragic mountaineering accident in the shadow of Mont Blanc long after I wrote these words. They are also dedicated to his wife, Pam, who managed to survive that incident, but whose life and those of her family were forever changed by it. She passed away peacefully in September 2012 and was cremated today. Appreciating the importance of helicopter rescue, Pam used to raise money for her local service, the Dorset and Somerset Air Ambulance to which you can donate here. Childcare commitments mean I couldn't attend her funeral service, so have donated the equivalent of my travel costs to this Air Ambulance Service instead. 

 The poem - if you can call it that - was inspired by my own deep love of the mountains, and especially by the steep, snow-filled gullies of Glencoe in Scotland where I learnt to ice-climb. (The photo used is unrelated to the people or places referred to above.)

Derbyshire - a geological poem

Today is National Poetry Day, so it seemed appropriate to dig out a few words I penned some years ago to sum up the the geology of our wonderful county. It was intended for use in the 'On The Rock's geology gallery that I was working on at Derby Museum & Art Gallery. In the end it was never utilsed. So here it is  - 23 years on.

Derbyshire

Bleak northern moors of heathered grit,
sheer edge of climber's play;
green barren land of woven wall
and dale of Limestone Way. 

In lowland south lies farm and wood
on rolling, marl-rich ground;
where rivers flow by valley side
are town and city found. 

On eastern flank black coal is hid,
layered in shale and sand;
that dirty jewel of modern times,
hewn out by human hand. 

Much quarried once, and still today,
for stones hard won and fought,
rock-wrenching mines of industry
this county's treasure sought. 

Grey lime, dark grit and basalt black,
red marl and pebbled land;
all make these scenes of Derbyshire,
slow-carved by Nature's hand.