The forecast said rain at one, so it were a morning worked against the clock, and Pule Hill in a strong wind doesn't let you forget where you are. The old packhorse track over the top is proper ground — men and horses crossed there long before the road went in, and I always think a track like that has earned whatever it collects.
What it had collected were a left boot, black, army sort, no laces and the tongue missing an' all — the second army boot of the year after the Slaithwaite lock one in June, though this were a different article altogether in terms of wear. Well weathered doesn't cover it. This had been out longer than owt else I logged in 2025 — three winters, happen — the leather gone grey-black and hard as the stones round it. I gave the wear its own line in the notebook, because a boot doesn't get to that state quickly and the state is worth recording properly.
The wind were strong enough that I didn't bother with the stool, which stayed in the bag as ballast, and I took the photographs kneeling, braced on one hand. Four taken, two came out, and given the conditions I count that a win — the camera were moving even when I weren't. The sit-down were relocated to the shelter of the quarry edge, where a quick sandwich were had out of the worst of it, the flask staying stowed because there's no pouring tea in a wind like that and I've stopped trying.
Down before the rain, which came at one, as forecast, and there's a small satisfaction in a forecast keeping its word even when the word is rain. A hard-weather entry, this one, and the register wants a few of them each year to keep it honest.
Written up August 2026, from the notebook.