Tuesday 23rd January 2018. An ascent of two hills east of Church Stretton, Shropshire. 10.0km with 260m of ascent. 3hrs 50mins.

The hills were Hazler Hill 347m/40m and Ragleth Hill 398m/142m.

I joined up with MP for this walk, which was also going to entail some height surveys of summits and cols. We parked in the little market town of Church Stretton, a pleasant place, and headed over the railway line and busy A49 to the start of our walk. We followed a bridleway between the houses up to a farm, continuing through boggy fields in an attractive coombe up into the woods. A stiff pull brought us up to a lane. Turning north, we were soon on the top of Hazler Hill, a cluttered place due to the large radio aerial station on its summit. The view was good, however, with Caer Caradoc Hill to the north looking particularly fine.

Rejoining the lane we headed south, turning off onto a marked trail which wound up steeply onto the fine north-east ridge of Ragleth Hill. The south-west wind was building in strength, and we had to push hard against it and gravity to make progress. Once on the ridge, we made better time and were soon on the summit. Dark grey rain-clouds were ripping in from the south-west, so I pushed on to the next col to seek some shelter while MP carried on with his summit survey. He soon joined me to survey this col, while I pushed on to the hill's south top. The wind here was at its fiercest, making it hard to stay upright. Summit survey done, we headed south down a very steep path to a wood, turning west to follow a track down to some houses near the road. By the path was a well-tended grave, that of Craig Bullock, a carpenter ‘tragically killed’, aged 30, on 4th October 2002. The poem inscribed on the headstone was quite good, and should be known more widely. A web-search proved negative, so one must assume the poem had been written specifically for the grave. Here it is:

COUNTRY BLOOD

I am of the countryside
Carved out of the oaktree bark
And I am of the wild free wind
That bears the soaring lark.
Part of the upturned earth am I,
One with the cornfield sea,
And I exist in the quiet green hill
And it exists in me.

Here all the dainty weeds are mine
That blow along the way,
And all the little resting things
Whose heart beat for a day.
My peace is where the velvet dew
Sleeps under hanging mists;
Where the cavernous forest deeps and dims
My secret soul exists.

By Anon

Crossing the A49 again, we walked north along the old road through the sleepy village of Little Stretton to the town for tea and cakes.

Laid low by a viral infection, I had not walked the hills for over two weeks. Although croaky and full of catarrh, it was good to be out in the fresh air again.