Poem: ‘Fiends Fell Journals’
Tom Pickard, 9 February 2012
2 January 2004. By mid-afternoon I was chasing cage fever so wrapped up in several layers of clothing – leaving barely any flesh exposed to a riving wind – threw on a backpack and headed down Ricker Gill through patches of wet rushes and stubborn heather to the snowline. As I descended the steep slippery banks of Grain Beck the stream ran fast below the old stone limekilns. Enough...
