Today in the freezing cold, snow and ice still on the ground we went on an icicle safari. I vaguely remembered a place in Saltburn woods next to the beck where years ago there were the most spectacular icicles. Well wrapped up, camera in pouch we set off. This winter in our local woods have been transformed trees have been unturned, branches have been broken and landslides have taken paths. Today was no exception a beech tree that had held on to the side steep beck gorge for decades, roots clinging on like white fists, had finally slid into the river. It’s soil and roots were soft and dusty and vulnerable. Blocking off our path, another route had to be found
We found the place, following the old leat flow of an old Mill. And scrambled through a holly and fern rocky gorge and were not disappointed. The icicles festooned across the the slow curve of the steep hillside, like festive bunting. White, clear and glistening. Beautiful icy creations formed by water slowly leaking down the hillside. A complex architecture of towers and pillars, of stalactites, temples of ice. There was a slow thaw, occasionally one of icicles crashed to the ground and shattered. Else where icy water trickled down through the intricate shapes of the icicles before ponderously dripping onto the river bed. This trickle brought them to life like living glass or crystal. We spent about an hour with the icicles before we could no longer feel our fingers and toes and reluctantly made our way home. Knowing that by tomorrow they would no longer be there.
