Low Force

Although I enjoyed dry and sunny weather for most of my Northern England holiday, it began on a damp note, with one or two rainy spells. One downpour occurred while I was at Barnard Castle, at the bottom end of Teesdale. Once the rain had stopped, I ventured forth into the Pennines. I reckoned I would see the River Tees in spate, and I was right.

Sussex, the county I live in, is mostly a pretty place, away from the big towns anyway. The glorious South Downs; the high white chalk cliffs between Brighton and Eastbourne, that include the famous Seven Sisters and Beachy Head; the serene creeks of yachty Chichester Harbour; the mysterious Pevensey Levels; and the deer-haunted interior woodland, lovely in spring when carpeted with bluebells. But while there is some heathland, there is no wild moorland. There are no big rivers and lakes. Nor mountains and crags.

And there are no waterfalls either.

But up Teesdale there were two that I could easily reach. One was called High Force, and I've already described the troubling experience I had there when trying to park at that popular tourist spot (see The Waterfall of the Damned on 3rd June). The nearer was called Low Force. This was my main destination for the afternoon.

I parked in a layby a few hundred yards away. I donned wet-weather togs, green wellies included. It was bound to be muddy. Then I set forth. I could hear the roar of the River Tees, and there were glimpses of it through the trees that lined the banks. Getting nearer, I got a good view of the swollen and rushing waters.

Blimey. Cataracts aplenty! It wasn't Niagara Falls, but there was power in that water, and I wouldn't fancy my chances if I fell in. I was hard to believe that this was the same quiet river I'd seen, only a few miles downstream, at Wycliffe the evening before:

I was glad that I'd put wellies on. On the whole the path was OK, but in places it was rather squelchy underfoot, and there was an abiding wetness.

The main falls came nearer. Suddenly I was upon them.

Gosh. I wish my shots could convey the thunder of the water as it tipped over the hard Whin Sill rock and plunged downwards, then surged onward in its chaotic frenzy. I very carefully positioned myself for a selfie. The wet rocks were uneven and slippery, requiring care. I teetered while taking this shot. though at the same time couldn't help feeling elated. Natural delights are the best. 

That orange lifebuoy seemed a bit useless, in the face of all that rushing water!

There was something going on close by. Ah, a group of wet-suited chappies - I couldn't see any women - clustered on a ledge down by the water, with someone who was clearly an instructor. Surely they weren't going into the water...?

Oh yes they were! And backwards, to be instantly carried away downstream. 

Even though they were getting careful individual instructions, and had hard hats on, I thought this was naked madness. But some people need that adrenaline rush, don't they? I shouldn't really pass a negative opinion. I merely say that this is something I wouldn't do.

I was curious to know what happened to them around the bend. I saw a footbridge. I'd stand on it, and see them pass under. 

Hmm. It was one of those bridges suspended by wires, with not much in the way of stiffening. Those wooden boards didn't look very substantial. It would move under my feet, and probably sway from side to side. Admittedly, it wasn't a rope bridge over a chasm in the High Andes, and Indiana Jones would laugh at it. But I still quailed. I had to put a brave face on for this shot, while I hesitated and screwed up my courage for the desperate deed:

If I didn't step out on that bridge, there would be no post. So with as much fortitude as I could muster, I stepped. I clutched fast with both hands at the handrail on either side, and concentrated on not falling through the cracks in the wooden boards. Suddenly I was safely in the middle of the bridge, amazed to be alive. A man in a wet suit and hard hat whizzed underneath me before I could get my phone Tigerlily out for a tentative shot or two. But another was soon on his way.

We exchanged thumbs-up gestures as he shot under the bridge. By then, he was getting the hang of not drowning.

Downstream, I saw that several of these action men were safely together on the bank, where there must be slack water. You can just make out their orange hard hats, centre left in the next shot.

I wondered how much they paid for this two-hundred-yard scary experience. Quite a bit, I guessed. As for myself, I was glad I'd overcome my trepidation and stepped out onto the bridge. It hadn't been such a desperate experience after all. 

Within the next hour or so, some afternoon tea and cake - and well earned, I felt.