Footprints

It’s a magic place, especially early in the year. The spring sun, green splashed on the cool-streamed grass, lifted the earth smells and warmed the rocks. It was a good young day to be healthy and alive: a day to jump mountains and leap rivers, and run around yelling like a yeti, daft and happy in the fresh morning. The path goes back towards the daylight-swallowing cliffs, looming up to the sky. We had our picnic in the field, not far from the road, down by the clean stream. All around, spring lambs, white and fresh on their knotted wool legs were getting used to the world. They came to look at us, their infant curiosity mirrored by Bik. “Hello lambs.” One of the smallest, muddled by its newness, came bleating questioningly up to her, while its mother stamped and called behind it. “I’m not your Mummy. Silly thing! I’m Bik!” When their childish bravery stretched too thin, the lambs scuttled back to their dams, head butting their udders and drinking comfort fast, tails wriggling with the effort. That fascinated Bik. “What is the lamb doing with his mummy?” “It’s having a drink of milk from his mummy’s nipples. That’s where the mummy sheep has nipples and the lamb drinks milk from them. He likes it, doesn’t he?” “Yes he likes drinking milk. He likes milk from his mummy’s nipples. And he likes grass.” “Probably.” “Can he drink milk from my nipples?” “No. Only if you were a mummy sheep.” “Why?” “Because he only drinks milk from his mummy.” Bik’s Mum smiled as she explained to her serious daughter. It made sense to Bik. She knew about mummies and babies. They looked like each other, the little smooth fresh toddler face, solemn as a judge, and the older one creased with gentle laughter lines, fond and patient. A dam and her lamb. After lunch we looked in the stream, shallow and clear and watercressed. Bik had her wellies on, but when she crouched down to look closer, she didn’t realise that her bum hung down into the water until the cold sogginess told her. Her mum said not to mind and she had some dry trousers in the car for later, but Bik got a bit grumpy. I didn’t blame her, I knew what it was like having cold wet trousers, but I suppose there wasn’t any point changing them until she’d finished playing in the stream. Streams are wet, and so are small children who play in them. It stands to reason. It was too early in the year to find many insects, so Henry’s mum said we two could go up into Gordale Scar proper for a while if we wanted. It’s a serious place, up in the gorge, with the brooding cliffs towering up and leaning their tops towards each other. You can feel the strength of the earth, powerful and unforgiving. Bik didn’t mind us going. She didn’t like the look of the sombre rocks above the deep slash of the scar and didn’t want to come, which was lucky because no way could she have climbed up by the lower waterfall, and it would have spoilt it a bit if she had a tantrum or something. Looking back, I’m glad she didn’t have any tantrums that day. The scramble up by the lower waterfall is easy but you have to actually climb a little bit, using your hands. Then it just goes steep up to the top fall. Every year the stream runs a different course. This time it was exactly where it should be, with the top waterfall cascading through the rocky arch above us, clear and thundering white mixed together, bouncing the sun back to the cliffs. It’s a place that doesn’t care about people. If God was a sentient being, he’d live somewhere like Gordale Scar: it’s a holy place. You can climb up to the top waterfall, but it’s tricky and there’s a big drop. We didn’t have the nerve, so we went up the big gully up to the left. In the rocky wall there are little tunnels, all that remains of the cave that collapsed aeons ago to make the gorge. You can go in one and if you squirm and shove you can get along and out of the next one. When you’re in you can feel how implacable the rock is. It’s not like being stuck under a bed or behind a wardrobe, where even if you get wedged fast you can feel the bed or the wardrobe move a bit. The rock doesn’t shift at all. If you wriggle and push it just stays, doesn’t even know you’re there. If you do get stuck it’s just tough. Some people like that feeling. They find lost and lonely caves, and burrow down like worms through the hard wet stone tunnels, maggoting away in the absolute darkness. They enjoy it. I would hate it more than anything. It’s a puzzle, isn’t it, how different people can be in what they really like doing? You can’t understand that sort of stuff; it’s just something you have to accept. It’s like that. When you climb down again, the field below the crags looks even greener and fresher than when you left. The picnic was packed away, and Bik was tired and heavy eyed in her dry trousers, she’d been up early because she had been so excited.