Country Diary: Staffordshire Moorlands
If I had not known otherwise, I would never have suspected the presence of Grindon church (the so-called "cathedral of the moors") the other morning. A thick and woolly mist lay over these western moors; no breeze or birdsong or sign of the soaring spire. Going along through the soaking grass towards Warslow I was totally alone, a condition exaggerated by that clinging vapour. Soon I was plunging down in water-filled hoof marks to the crossing of the Hoo Brook and in a few minutes of climbing the far slope blue patches at last appeared overhead.
A little while later I was drinking tea in Neva Cottage and the sun was shining outside. Phyllis threw another shovel of coal on her fire and the leaping flames were a welcome sight on this chilly morning. Conversation inevitably turned to the severity of the 1947 winter and the crash of an RAF plane bringing relief supplies to local inhabitants when it came to grief on Grindon moor in the sort of thick mist I had come through earlier. Despite several sorties over recent years I have never been able to find the memorial cairn at the crash site so determined that this would be the day when I would be finally successful.
The afternoon sunshine cast brightness on the brassy deciduous leaves on the laneside near Butterton village and then I was climbing up the slope of the moor with ever wider views of that dark gritstone country that looks down towards Leek. But I had underestimated distance so that when I came to the footpath sign beside Parsons Lane the sun had fallen beyond the horizon and long fingers of inky cloud were advancing. I should never find the cairn in the increasing gloom and so continued along the draughty road, aiming for the just visible spire of Grindon church. I will locate that crash site one day soon.
A little while later I was drinking tea in Neva Cottage and the sun was shining outside. Phyllis threw another shovel of coal on her fire and the leaping flames were a welcome sight on this chilly morning. Conversation inevitably turned to the severity of the 1947 winter and the crash of an RAF plane bringing relief supplies to local inhabitants when it came to grief on Grindon moor in the sort of thick mist I had come through earlier. Despite several sorties over recent years I have never been able to find the memorial cairn at the crash site so determined that this would be the day when I would be finally successful.
The afternoon sunshine cast brightness on the brassy deciduous leaves on the laneside near Butterton village and then I was climbing up the slope of the moor with ever wider views of that dark gritstone country that looks down towards Leek. But I had underestimated distance so that when I came to the footpath sign beside Parsons Lane the sun had fallen beyond the horizon and long fingers of inky cloud were advancing. I should never find the cairn in the increasing gloom and so continued along the draughty road, aiming for the just visible spire of Grindon church. I will locate that crash site one day soon.
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