This morning, I wake to the quiet, insistent call of the hills—as though the wind itself whispers my name across the valley. There will be no slow Sunday slumber for us today. Instead, we trade the warmth of the duvet for the cold breath of the high trails, answering an invitation from the wild that always seems to wait for us.
Classical music provides a gentle soundtrack for a calm and peaceful early morning drive to the Peak District. Leaving the town behind, we slip into the long ribbon of road that winds between the hills. Here, everything feels different—calmer, touched by a stillness that only the wild places seem to know.
When we arrive at Binn Green, the day is still young, the air cool and sharp with the promise of winter. We step into the pine forest, the path curving gently beneath the trees as it leads us down a series of damp wooden steps toward a moss-covered gated wall. A simple signpost stands beside it, urging us onward toward Yeoman Hey Reservoir and the stillness waiting there.
The pines stand tall and solemn, their dark trunks rising like cathedral pillars. The forest is damp, cloaked in the hushed stillness that follows rain, and the hills beyond the reservoir are dressed now in their autumn finery—gold, rust, and shadow woven together like a tapestry laid across the land.
I feel the cold tug at my fingers, a reminder that winter is already reaching for us. My hat and gloves remain tucked away for now—a small act of defiance—though I know they will claim their purpose as we climb. Carys is wiser. She wears her winter jacket proudly, an extra layer of comfort that does nothing to hinder the joyful spring in her step as she darts through heather and grass, tail high with delight.
The footpath sings this morning—the music of water tumbling from the high hills, gathering in lively streams that rush toward the reservoir. Only weeks ago, we stood on the stone floor of that same reservoir, the waterline so low that we walked where fish now glide. Today, the reservoir is full again, restored by the storms of autumn.
Above us, the sky is a mosaic of white clouds, drifting lazily, barely stirred by the breeze. In the quiet breaks between them, a soft blue sky shimmers through, a gentle promise that the day might yet brighten.
We walk in the deep shadow of the mighty hills. The sun is awake but not yet high enough to clear the jagged ridgelines, and the land feels split between darkness and the anticipation of light. Just ahead, we glimpse the Trinnacle—three sheer pillars of ancient rock standing guard over the hillside. They rise defiantly, attracting hikers from every corner of the island, and the brave among them climb its spine of stone for a photograph born from both courage and respect.
From the heather, a grouse calls sharply—a survivor of those who wander here with guns instead of gratitude. Empty shotgun shells lie like scars along the water’s edge, remnants of a sport that feels only cruel in a place like this. The sight pulls a quiet sadness from me, a reminder that not all who walk these hills do so with reverence.
Then, at last, the sun crests the ridge. Light spills over the landscape in a slow, golden wave. Browns deepen into honeyed tones, greens glow with warmth, and the world transforms into something almost otherworldly. We step forward and cross the threshold between shadow and sun, letting its warmth kiss our faces. These are the moments that fill me, the ones that stir something ancient and unspoken within me.
We pause on a sunlit rock, a perch overlooking the valley, and share a simple feast: coffee steaming in the chill air, flapjack soft and sweet, and for Cary—beef treats and pigs in blankets. She devours them happily and then rolls in the long grass with unrestrained delight, as though the earth itself were a blanket of joy.
Our descent is more treacherous. The hillside path has been carved into a chain of miniature streams, rainwater rushing down in silver threads. Puddles have deepened, mud thickens in greedy pools, and sharp stones jut out like the bones of the hill. Each step requires care and attention—a dance between balance and instinct.
I stop often just to look—really look—at the hills around us. Smooth shoulders rising into jagged crowns of stone. Edges so high and sharp that they sculpt the very sky. These are the rocks that gave this place its name: Dovestone. I feel a quiet pride knowing I have walked their highest points, traced every curve and cliff, stood above looking down at the very place where my boots now rest. Through summer heat, winter snow, raging wind and gentle dusk—I have come to know this land the way one comes to know a lifelong friend. It feels familiar. It feels loyal. It feels like home.
Today, light and shadow play endlessly across the slopes, painting the hills in shifting bands of gold and darkness. The low autumn sun, ever at odds with the heights above, creates a dance of contrast that changes with every turn of the path.
We pick up the forest trail as we loop back toward the car. The ground is soft beneath us, cushioned by a thick layer of pine needles and heather. The final climb to Binn Green is one Carys knows by heart. She leads the way with a gentle confidence now, her boundless morning energy settling into a quiet, contented rhythm.
As we reach the car, I pause for a final glance at the hills—timeless, patient, enduring. They have carried our footsteps, our breath, our quiet thoughts, and in return, they’ve offered something wordless yet profound. A kind of stillness that settles the heart. A reminder that even in the darkest valleys, light always waits at the edge.
Days like this are not merely walked—they are felt, absorbed, woven into the soul. And long after the mud is washed away and the boots are set aside, the memory of sunlight cresting over stone lingers like a warm hand on the shoulder. The hills call to us, again and again, because they know what we too often forget: that every journey into the wild is a journey deeper into ourselves.
Visitor Comments
I used to live in Huddersfield and hiked those hills many times. Your post takes me right back there. Perhaps I'll visit again next summer to see how much the land has changed over the past decade.
Martin - Devon