Rain, especially in England in May, is supposed to fall vertically, not horizontally; we were still damp after lunch at the Ladybower. For myself it was the walking shoes and socks that were the biggest problem… all very wet and soggy, therefore as we were only visiting a church and a small, anomalous mound that poked its head above the wall behind the churchyard, I stayed in the lightweight pumps into which I had changed. The inappropriateness of my footwear has become a standing joke… though remaining standing was, at one point that afternoon, the summit of my ambition.

We had taken the winding road past the Strines reservoir to High Bradfield, a tiny village of warm, golden stone perched on a very windy hilltop. We were glad to take shelter in the lovely old church that overlooks the valley. It seems a little incongruous, very grand for such a small place, showing that the place had a far greater importance once upon a time than it does today. Yet that is not difficult to see, when there are stone circles on the moors and, of course, the intriguing hill that is billed as a Norman motte and bailey…

Inside, protected by old stone from the wind, we wandered round realising how much we had missed on our first visit to the church. It is amazing to note how much our physical condition affects and influences our perception. Cold and wet, all we had thought about was shelter and all we saw were the bigger, more obvious things. Yet, because of our work on the books, our habitual mode of exploration is to document everything. I had probably caught all the details on camera… and saw few of them, blinded and blinkered by the overlay of physical sensation which had been the overarching imperative of that winter day. So we were astonished at how much more detail we found this time!

Of course, we were still cold and damp…. The wind was still blowing…. Which probably explains how we managed to miss such a lot too. Even though we thought we must have seen and noticed pretty much everything on this visit… even though we had cast a perfunctory glance at the guide… a week later and a warm, sunny, leisurely day would show us just how much we had missed yet again, including the green man our visitor would have delighted in seeing. It just shows how easily even a mind aware and seeking can be overridden by the demands and focus of the body.

Be that as it may, we found much of interest and, as the rain had stopped once more and the day looked far more pleasant, we wandered over to find the gap in the wall which, we were told, led to that odd ‘motte and bailey castle’.

Now, over our speculations on the origins of that place I draw a temporary veil… all in good time. Its inception and purpose are open to debate, and debate it we did, looking up at the steep, slippery earth and rock that leads to the top of the steep mound. My footwear seemed, at this point, more inappropriate than ever, so while the menfolk climbed by the well-worn route, I wandered around the back in search of something I thought looked feasible.
It is at about this point that dignity dictates I draw a veil over the ensuing moments, but then, dignity and I have never had more than the most cursory acquaintance. We are on nodding terms, but don’t visit.

The tussocks of grass looked a perfectly workable path to the summit, and though it was steep, they provided at least the illusion of a stairway to the top. So up I went, fighting with camera and handbag for a foothold and having to chase escaping footwear back down the bank. I had just retrieved the shoe again when something feral in a furry hat poked a head over the top. The initial expression of curious concern gave way to laughter as he took in the details of my scrambling. Any last shreds of illusory dignity were dispatched rapidly by the constant stream of comments he managed to come up with between the laughter and his search for a long stick to help hoist me up the bank.

I scorned the stick and leapt gracefully aloft… well, okay… hoisted myself up, passing him the handbag and camera at the earliest opportunity and waited, panting, for their combined hilarity to subside.

The rains came again, driving us eventually back down. But not before we had time to appreciate the power and beauty of the place. Not before we had drunk in the green canopy and offered a respectful libation to the old gods of earth and wood. We sat on the damp trees atop the mound… a tiny space to defend if defensive it ever was… and our friend reached into his rucksack, producing a bottle of single malt and a brace of gilded glasses. As driver, I was handed the bottle to simply wet my lips symbolically with the whisky, and we toasted a perfect moment shared in silence.