Hope Bowdler

Water flows downhill so I decide to head up, onto Hope Bowdler, to try and escape the quagmire which has gripped Shropshire since Christmas. As I ascend the land falls away into a steep gully, which shelters ash trees, which in turn shelter crows - only their calls audible amongst the trees’ dense gnarled boughs. Brown skeletons of last year’s bracken crackle underfoot, yet green gorse and broom suggest a season on the turn. Behind me spectral shadows of Hazler and Ragleth hills rise. The land opens up into a wide plateau, with tantalising glimpses of the Edge to the right and Caradoc to the left, between the three craggy peaks which surround me. The wind is deafening, and yet Caradoc stands strong, raising its three fingers rock to the gale. Turning back, the Edge now comes into view, like a breakwater against the flooded fields below. As I descend down a track to the bottom of a gully, cliffs appear on both sides and I scare a roosting flock of fieldfares from a cluster of holly trees. My feet pump the ground with every squelch and more water trickles into the torrent below. My ears are still ringing with the wind. But even on the most inhospitable of days, with few creatures braving the elements, the Shropshire Hills are worth the effort.