The laptop went into the locker and my bag grabbed from my locker. Then a quick walk, almost a jog, to catch the 5:15 train from Sheffield to Edale. It felt like a small escape.
I’d always had 20th March in my head as the start of spring; the equinox, that clean, scientific moment when the Sun crosses the equator. But earlier that day, something on the Met Office site caught my attention. In the UK, we’re already at the point where daylight is closest to 12 hours. That balance doesn’t happen everywhere at once, it sweeps across the country over a couple of days. The vernal equilux.
It raises a quieter question: when does spring really start? Meteorological spring begins on the 1st of March, neat and calendar-based. Astronomical spring arrives around the 20th, defined by the equinox. But lived experience is different, it’s the moment the light shifts. When the air softens slightly and when you step outside and feel something has changed. For me, that’s the real signal. So whichever way you define it, it’s now Spring.
From the station, it’s the familiar line through the village, past the start of the Pennine Way and then up into Grindsbrook Clough. A classic Grade 1 scramble onto Kinder Scout. A couple of lads had set off at a similar time, moving faster, I wouldn’t see them again until the morning.
By the time I reached the rocks, darkness had settled. Headtorch on, the beam cutting a narrow path through familiar ground. Scrambling at night always changes things. Movements become more deliberate. The world shrinks to what’s immediately in front of you. I was surprised how little water was running through the clough after all the recent rain and I made steady progress, finding a rhythm as I climbed.
Topping out onto the plateau, I angled towards Grindslow Knoll. A flicker of torchlight in the distance, another wild camper. I paused and sat on a rock, pulling out my vacuum flask to rehydrate dinner. It’s a habit I’ve come to rely on up here: no stove, no fire risk, no need to search for water. Just hot water carried in. I gave it fifteen minutes. If the light stayed, they were settling in. If not, I’d head that way. They stayed and headed on.
So I crossed the spur and found my own spot, out of sight and out of sound. A simple bivvy and a still night. It was not the most comfortable sleep, mainly as I was not quite warm enough, but that’s never really the point.
The alarm was set as I had a train to catch: 7:30 from Edale. For me the real gift was the hour before that. From around 5:45, the light began to shift. That soft, golden edge of morning. Low sun catching the gritstone. Mist sitting gently in the valley. The plateau slowly revealing itself again.
I packed up and moved slowly, deliberately, enjoying the golden hour. It was great not to be rushed at that time of day, just the quiet awareness that you’re witnessing something fleeting. I stopped briefly by the knoll to say hello to the other campers, then dropped down towards the valley, the light following me all the way back to the station.
Edale station has always struck me as one of those places that’s quietly cared for. Tidy, thoughtful, almost timeless and there on the platform was a small display marking 100 years of Winnie-the-Pooh. A simple quote, the kind you’ve probably heard before, but sometimes, in the right place at the right time, they land differently.
“Promise me you’ll always remember you are braver than you believe, stronger than you seem, and smarter than you think.”
Nothing new although easy to forget. There’s something about being outdoors that strips things back, less noise and fewer distractions. Just you, your thoughts and the next step in front of you. No big answers. Just a bit more space to notice what’s already there.