Wild Eadric’s Way
I woke at that ungodly hour in between the unnatural time to be awake and the time when one should wake.
The world outside was still, shod in its blanket of darkness and dimly lit only by the glowing amber of the street lights. I stirred from my bed and began my once familiar routine of moving around the house as if I was a trained ninja silently dressing and collecting my items of adventure before moving out and into the darkness of the streets.
It seemed strange, this was once the normal routine during park run, getting ready and making the hour journey into Birmingham to board the train and off to a new destination.
I walked to the tram stop, bracing myself against the cool morning air before boarding the early morning transport and watched as the rain began to flow down the windows, a foretelling of what was to come for my day ahead. I noted that nothing had changed from the last time I had taken this journey, people went about their day heading to work, most sat silent engaged in their phones and seemingly blind to the outside world.
The train arrives into New Street and I thread my way through the crowd of early morning commuters, heading through the barriers and onto the concourse before purchasing a hot cup of tea and a much needed breakfast roll.
I sat waiting for my train on the platform and watched others come and go before boarding my own train and settling into the journey for an hour to Shrewsbury where I stepped onto another train for a short 30 minute ride and into Church Stretton.
Having seen the rain streak across the windows on my journey there, I had donned my waterproof clothing already and realised that I had unintentionally packed the lighter rain shell, to late to do anything about it now I mumbled to myself. I walked through the sleepy little town before stopping for some cash, a seemingly more rare commodity in todays world and made my way towards the enclosed valley of Cardingmill, an 18th C mill once stood in the Valley and the area was renowned for its wool making, Carding coming from one of the 3 processes involved in wool making.
It never ceases to amaze me when wandering along the road here, the hills large and looming on either side creating a otherworldly feel, no wonder that during the Victorian period it was named ‘little Switzerland’ owning to the way in which the house hugged the hillsides. One wanders along the modern road way, a curt contrast between the 900,00 millon’s of creation and modern mans attempts to subjugate it.
I walk alongside the fast and flowing river, its burbling sound keeping me company as my lungs begin to burn and gasp for air, I take regular and small breaks as I slowly ascend the hillside and into the thickening mist, my view now obscured to all but 20ft. I recall a story from the recesses of my mind, a black dog of demons haunts this hill preying on the weary hiker. Its jet black fur punctuated only by the red glow of its eyes and the terrifying growl that freezes humans in their tracks and on a day such as this it isn’t hard to imagine a beast stalking me from beyond my sight.
My mind plays out the previous routes that I took 5 years ago and I glide across the terrain with barely a glance at my route planning, a left turn here, a wander along the road, past a small pool of water and up and over another section of moor. As I began to descend the grassy hill, cows resting at the bottom began to call out in anticipation of my arrival which seemed to spark the interest of the adjoining field of young male calves who begin to run down the hill, in their eyes as a welcoming party of snorting and dribbling bodies, to me a stampeding mess of danger. I now run at pace heading for the closest gate and manage to hop the metal gate before realizing the cows were in fact kept behind another fence and posed no real danger to me.
They gather at the fence adjacent to the road and I bid them good day as I wander by enjoying the scenery and to a degree the weather which changed with the regularity of our current government between light showers and the that ever more wetter rain drops.
I run through my stories of Wild Eadric for the camera, recalling the tales of a man once respected and feared, now a shadow of his former Saxon stature, living under the rule of a crueler invading King, his lords content with attacking Eadric at every turn until he finally reaches his limit of patience and he sets out to attack the very people who killed his beloved King.
Its a tale not really known outside of the Shropshire and Welsh border region, a hero of old and now cemented in folklore for a future generation to tell as their own from a time where little is understood and ancient gods still ruled their lives.
I pass through the little hamlets of Rattlinghope and Bridges before taking the long slow hill walk up to the Stipertones, a brooding and foreboding collection of ancient and weathered rock stands atop its ridge beckoning the brave to come explore.
A tale from old tells of how Eadric having sworn loyalty to the Norman lord, enraged his people and they employed the services of a travelling wizard who cast a curse upon Eadric and his soldiers, forever interning their soles in the rocks, only to be released on the world at England’s greatest need, some say they have seen Eadric and his ‘wild hunt’ ride across the sky on the outbreak of the Crimean war, WW1 and WW2.
I forgo my walk up to the rocks today, the weather begins to close in and take a more darker and moody light, the skies now increasing their wet onslaught upon the few brave soles that skirt the ridge today. I cross the road and onto farm land heading into a woodland and the hope of a small semblances of respite from the continuing rain, I find a small space under low hanging branches before taking off again towards Nipstone rocks, I pass what appears to be the remnants of an old quarry, boulders dispersed loosely across the ground and small sections of dry stone walls attribute to mans follies.
The paths winds and threads its way through a mixture of gorse and heather moorland, punctuated by growths of conifer plantations, the route hitting the bottom of a field, now only what can be described as a bath made up of mud and water from the local stream, I carefully pick my way across the obstacle and up onto another road, the rain having taken its toll for the last few hours, sees me taking a well earned break inside a farmers shed, fresh dry hay making a most welcome pit stop, if only for a short time.
I move on, and off into the rain and avoid taking the higher route up Linley Hill and instead follow the quiet road and into Heys wood, ancient and noble beech trees line my way, old growths of Oak and Holly stand guard to my left, the trees standing immobile in a world that seems to ever need to change, I always wonder what trees have seen, the people that have passed and the moments in history kept within its old and scarred bark, one such piece of graffiti notes a 1945 date and I’m left wondering if a passing soldier on training wanted to leave his mark before embarking on another journey.
We wander now along the road, quiet and empty for the time of day and passed a rather grand house, Linley Hall built by the Moore family around the 1720’s, it stands as a reminder to the grander times, when the super rich explored the world and created these lavish homes, now I believe a private residence.
I skirt the little village of More and the remains of a motte and bailey castle, the once strong hold of the manor of More in the 11th C, now nothing more than a few raised areas of fields. I wander on towards the village of Lydham the field in front a reminder that farmers can be funny old folk when it comes to land, here the signs seems to disappear and little points the way, in the distance I spy the next sign post which does little to direct you, a guess here and there and I am now walking along a busy road and off towards more famers fields.
Walking, forever walking towards Upper Heblands, I hit B4385 and opt to walk its simple path towards my final destination of Bishops castle, the road is bus with cars flying past and doing very little to slow as they see me walking the verge, I am soon wandering up the driveway to FoxHoles castle camping, a wonderful little campsite situated just 10 minutes outside of Bishops Castle and commanding excellent views of the surrounding country side, local rumor tells that Haile Selassie visited here during his exile after defeat at the hands of the fascist Mussolini.
I pay my £10 fee and head towards the tent field, the rain beats down and I quickly throw together my MSR tent, the inside has become slightly damp and everything I own is now wet, I sit immobile inside the warmth of my clean dry clothes and sleeping gear, for 2 hours the rain beats down and Spotify keeps me company as I nap and by 7pm the world is now still, a warmth emanates from the evening sun and I can now readjust the tent fabric, take my wet items to the dry room and make my evening meal.
I sit, satisfied and warm.
15 miles walked.
Church streeton, Ratlinghope, Bridges, Stiperstones, Nipstone Rocks, Linley, More, Lydham and Bishops Castle.
Wet underfoot, rained for 7hrs. not to cold. Everything covered in mud.
For today you follow the Shropshire Way, easy signage.
0 other walkers met
Lots of Cows and Sheep.
