Motorway Madness: a Snowy Walk to the Farm in the Middle of the M62

“Freedom”

Over the last 2 weeks, since the new year, my thoughts have been dominated by that evocative single word immortalised in the cinematic world of ‘Braveheart’.

This is the captivating film starring that famous ‘Aussie-Scot’ Mel Gibson as William Wallace and his fight for Scottish Independence in the 13th century.

I am the first to admit that my context of liberty carries much less drama than that of William Wallace.

My circumstances were totally self centred and arose early this week as we exited 10 days of self isolation (symptom free thankfully) after being ‘track and traced’ by the NHS App on New Years Day.

A simple family walk, completely within Government guidance, had rebounded on us. Unbelievably it was only 2 weeks ago that we were still allowed such luxuries as meeting outside for a walk in West Yorkshire. Frustratingly, in our situation however, that particular ‘rule of 6’ had now lumbered us with a 10 day ‘prison sentence’.

How I had got to loathe that NHS App with its daily reminder that I was barred from leaving my house or garden.

Temptation tormented me every day.

I was tempted, sorely tempted, to ignore it. After all who would know? I could just leave my phone at home and no one would be any the wiser: except me of course!

My conscience pricked me and as much as I hated that daily countdown, I knew I would just have to stick to the rules. So as the end of our personal lockdown was achieved I knew that I would need a walk ……. a lot of walking!

So it was that Friday 15 January proved to be the perfect day for THAT walk and I set out in the early dawn armed with a desire to really enjoy my ‘long walk to freedom.’

The timing was perfect. Snow had fallen and I was excited by the thoughts of a snow infused expedition. I had been considering this particular target for nearly 2 weeks and for 24 of my 26 years as an ‘incomer’ to ‘Yorkshire Life’ I had been intrigued by the myth behind Britain’s most ‘viewed’ farmhouse.

The farmhouse in question borders Saddleworth Moor, high up on the ‘tops’ and sits slap bang in the middle of the M62 at its highest point, as it traverses the Pennines.

The local story behind Stott Hall Farm is a quirky one. It is a tale that demonstrates some of the best characteristics of being British: eccentricity, defiance, grit, determination: all built on an unyielding bulldog spirit. A local version of ‘Billy Elliot’ meeting ‘Farmer’s Weekly’ if you like.

The story goes like this: a local farmer, Ken Wild, repeatedly defied the builders of the M62 motorway during its construction between 1957-1960 and flatly refused to leave his farm and home, meaning that the motorway engineers had to eventually divert the east and westbound lanes motorway around Stott Hall Farm.

Mr Wild had apparently even taken to the roof of the farm to protest against the development. The spirit of defiance epitomised through the action of one man, had seemingly won the day.

Having friends and close family in the Midlands meant that for nearly a quarter of a century, I would regularly drive past this famous farm. Each time I would receive a visual reminder of that heartwarming story of a modern day ‘David and Goliath’ confrontation.

Sadly, it was only last year that I found out that the story behind Stott Hall Farm was untrue.

It was actually a story steeped in local legend which had no real substance.

The real reason why the motorway separates around the farm lies with a geological fault. The engineers could not build a 6 lane in that location. So they split the design and simply built around it.

Despite the revelation that the story was pure myth, my intrigue in Stott Hall Farm had not gone away.  I decided that one day I would walk there from home and discover its allure for myself. 

On Friday morning the heavy snowfall of the preceding day had created a bit of Narnia in Greetland. Even in the early morning mist I could see that it was going to be a stunning day and as much as I was influenced by a need to cover a lot of terrain to reach Stott Hall Farm, I knew I was going to be seriously distracted by all the photographic opportunities along the way.

‘Dog Poo Alley’ in Greetland, glistened pure and white as the first rays of the sun started to pierce the mist. I reflected that the long standing family title that we had bestowed on that particular footpath was probably an unfair one. Thankfully it is now so much rarer to see, let alone tread in, dog mess on this particular footpath through Upper Greetland.

Everything and everywhere felt pure and white and renewed: my panoramic views glistened in the bitingly cold air. It was stunning. The early morning mist had already started to fizzle away as I reached the playing fields of ‘Greetland Rec’.

The sun speedily worked up more of its magic.

Within the next half mile I was bathed in brilliant sunshine and as usual the deceptive gradient up to Norland made me break out into a gentle sweat.

Ice and snow clung to both the man made and the natural. The skeletons of pylons and trees gleamed afresh in their winter finery.

My oft-familiar route across Norland was even more sublime than my last walk.

I marvelled that the same stream and stepping stone check point that I had visited weekly over the last month could throw up such a wonderfully different experience each time.

Previously, just before Christmas, it had featured in heavy rain and the ground was sodden. Bright sunshine had made it sparkle during my ‘Long Strides to Stoodley’ on the eve of New Year’s Eve. Now snow, ‘deep and crisp and even’ was on the menu of this particular day.

Wow!

The snow was consistently six inches deep but a deep crust of ice made for easy walking. My winter spikes stretched over my boots made it slip free and an easy terrain to traverse. My pace was good, despite the all to frequent distractions and pauses, that nature in all its ‘winter glory’ provided.

The Ryburn valley below Norland was encased in inverted cloud.

Wainhouse Tower poked its head above the cloud inversion of the Calder Valley as I looked back towards its northerly aspect.

Once again I felt a sense of ‘Hope’ as the tower reassured me with its familiar presence far across that moor. The winter mists attempted to swallow it, but the top of the tower refused to be taken.

The analogy with this hated virus was clear. It may and will steal, thieve and rob but it will never overcome.

Krumlin was a real winter wonderland.

The old telephone box gleamed red against its white background: a visual reminder of those days of yesteryear when human contact over distance really was a truly isolating experience.

I still vividly remember that race against time where a mad fumble for extra coins would unfairly compete with the rapid operator-controlled bleeps as disconnection loomed.

Scammonden Reservoir loomed ahead of me and I made a mental note that the famous ‘Scammonden Steps’ would make an interesting future trekking destination.

I was glad to divert onto a new footpath and avoid the foreboding bridge that spans the motorway.

That bridge always makes me shiver. It has a tragic history.

So many local lives have ended here as an inability to cope has sadly pushed so many over its rails: literally and tragically.

I remembered once again that suicide prevention should be everyone’s business.

Footpaths became more random as Stott Hall became visible on the mid horizon.

The snow had clearly prevented the masses from venturing here in the last few days, but the condition of some of those paths was really poor.

I never cease to wonder at the unwillingness of some landowners to maintain good, well sign-posted footpaths.

If I was a landowner I would always maintain those paths well and so hopefully better prevent the unwanted or unintentional trampings of trespassers.

As ever, the view of my ultimate destination was tempered with the actual time it took to reach it. Why does the time between the first view and the final reach of our destinations take quite so long?

A particularly fearsome looking bull blocked one of my footpaths. I chickened out and changed tack: wisely it seemed to me, even if it was a mile long diversion.

So it was, that just 4 hours after leaving home, I reached the farm.

It was largely a visual disappointment.

A bit like the myth of its reputation Stott Hall Farm had far less in real life substance than its rumours had suggested.

The plateau on which it was built, and the visual blocks provided by the construction of both sides of the motorway made finding a clear vantage point difficult.

I climbed up and beyond the farm to a well built stone barn, full of sheltering sheep, and I looked back.

The motorway was busy: incredibly busy especially given its Covid contex.

Bright painted wagons flashed by, carrying their loads north, south, east and west.

The vocal critics who have already dismissed Lockdown 3 as having no comparison with Lockdown 1 seemed correct.

Swathes of lorries and cars passed the farm at high speed.

In a sense they provided me with optimism that life goes on. In another thought they gave weight to the ongoing transmission powers of Covid 19.

The farm itself was mostly hidden by a screen of small pine trees.

I was still glad to have made the trip even though the myth had far outweighed the reality.

A fleeting lunch overlooking Ryburn Reservoir re-invigorated me for the long walk home.

As I started my return I was impressed with how the current farmer at Stott Hall Farm had improvised a wood store within the long tunnels under the motorway. Perfectly ventilated at either end, there would be a drying wind aplenty in these parts.

Thoughts of ‘making hay whilst the sun shines’ were replaced with ‘drying timbers whilst the wind blows’!

I thought of old Ken and his well-merited reasons for why he stayed here for so long, despite the world through the windscreens of all those drivers, quite literally entering his living room day after day.

The lure and attraction of home cuts deep for us all I guess. So it must have been for him.

For me though this was just too open a location, despite its isolated backdrop. It seemed to me that the farm remained far too open to the briefly-prying eyes of so many drivers as they flashed by.

At a time when isolated living is the current and ‘new normal’, I felt the unease of this full exposure as hundreds of vehicles hurtled past me in those 15 minutes at the farm.

I had a brief chat with the only other walker I had seen in the last 2 hours as I walked back down from the farm.

He told me that ‘geocaching; was particularly popular in this locality.

I had never heard of it and resolved to investigate it further when I got home. It turns out that ‘Geocaching’ is something of a modern day treasure hunt where its participants use satellite coordinates to find hidden ‘treasure’.

Geocaching is not for me I think.

I will always prefer the thrill of finding my way through the use of a paper map instead of blindly following a ‘satnav’ instruction.

3 horses drew my attention as I left the farm behind.

The comfort they drew from a collective huddle around their hay bale was obvious.

I envied them their opportunity to mingle and enjoy skin to skin contact. How much would I give to huddle my missing loved ones. Within the midst of my envy I reassured and reminded myself that these days of reconnection will return soon: later in the spring hopefully.

I passed more horses as I headed towards Ringstones Reservoir. Their friendly instincts were another reassurance.

The sun was starting to drop as I walked in the lea below Barkisland.

So it was that 8 hours after setting out I reached home.

28km of walking in a ‘winter wonderland’ had rebooted my yet spirits again. I was grateful for what I had and especially for the freedoms that I could still enjoy and which are currently denied to so many. I realised and appreciated that my own self isolation experience was so short in comparison to that of so many.

The pleasure of the outdoors had refreshed me both emotionally and physically once again.

The story of Ken and the reality of really visiting his farm and not just driving through it, was surprisingly uplifting. I was heartened.

Despite the current challenges, I remembered that we are already over half way through January 2021. The promise of greater freedom persists and this was uplifting.

The thought of our future freedoms feels good!

“There is some good in this world Mr. Frodo, and it is worth fighting for.” (Sam Gamgee)

(JRR Tolkien’s ‘The Lord of the Rings’)

To anyone who reads this blog: Thank You!

I hope you and your family members stay well and stay optimistic for those better times that loom.

Martin x