#high force

"There's not enough water in the world

To wash the blood from our hands"

The wind blows cold o’er Cronkley Fell, a blade of rusted rain, Where Teesdale bleeds her peat-stained gold across a bruised domain. The centuries dissolve like ash, the Roman legions fade, But still the river carves her path—a churning, liquid blade.

Come listen close, you travelers, who walk the Pennine way, And hear the throat of Whin Sill rock choke on the silver spray!

An amber serpent spun from peat slinks through the limestone crest, Until the gorge yokes her to run, a fury in her breast. She screams and leaps the basalt lip—a crashing shroud of white— To punch the dark pool’s underbelly, a fist of blinding light.

Come listen close, you travelers, who walk the Pennine way, And hear the throat of Whin Sill rock choke on the silver spray!

The freezing mist bites at your skin, the moss smells damp and old, While Peg Powler, with moss-green hair, spins snares of liquid gold. Yet high above the thundering abyss, the sapphire gentians bloom, And black grouse drum like distant hearts against the canyon's gloom.

Come listen close, you travelers, who walk the Pennine way, And hear the throat of Whin Sill rock choke on the silver spray!

The iron tongue of winter speaks in sheets of frozen glass, The lead-veined earth tastes sharp and raw beneath the sodden grass. She roars her ancient battle song, a wild, eternal cry, And shakes the floor of England’s spine beneath a fractured sky.

Once upon a very damp time, this bit of Yorkshire was chilling near the equator, soaking in a tropical sea like it had all the time in the world. Fast-forward a few hundred million years, and now it’s a waterfall with attitude: High Force, crowned in autumn leaves and ready to trip you up just for fun.

The rocks here are old . They’re prehistoric seas incarnate. Formed in the Carboniferous period, back when amphibians were trendy and trees looked like alien broccoli, these slabs now lure sightseers who don’t know their arse from their elbow. And I say that with love, because I too arrived with enthusiasm and left with mud in places mud should never be.

The rain? it’s auditioning for a role in a gothic drama. The rocks? Slippery as a politician’s promise. I fell over so many times I started to suspect the land itself was testing me. Like some ancient spirit whispered, “Let’s see how many times this one trumbles before they learn humility.”

And yet, it’s glorious. Wet socks, bruised pride, and all.

High Force