Spring has come. In the village drifts of snowdrops pillow themselves in the shelter of drystone walls. Across the meadows curlews are calling and their looping cries resonate within the fell walls of the upper dale. Mornings are earlier and evenings later, so I thought I’d do some exploring and venture further afield.

The nearest big town is Richmond, founded by the Norman conquerors on a defendable crag above a bend in the River Swale only a few years after the battle of Hastings. The town grew rich from the wool trade and lead mining in the dales, so there are many grand Georgian houses with big sash windows. The last time I came here was when my children were small, I can’t even remember the reason for the visit then, but that’s the effect that small children have. It was probably just for a day out to keep them busy.

It was a lovely sunny day so this time I decided to be a tourist, strolling around the town window shopping and picking up a few household essentials such as a peculiar type of light bulb needed for some arty table lamps I’d bought on a whim. I also wanted to call by the Theatre Royal to see what was on and find my way there for future visits. Parking is one of my anxiety things, so locating nearby car parks where I’m certain to get a place helps to reduce the chance of being a nervous wreck by the time I get to the theatre. If I want to enjoy a play, I’ve got to have a smug ‘I knew best where to park’ aura from the outset.

As a prelude to future theatre outings I’d booked tickets at the cinema to see the latest Bridget Jones film. It’s been a while since it was released so I wasn’t expecting much of a crowd and took advantage of the sunny afternoon to take a scenic walk through fields on the other side of the river below the castle to get to the cinema in the old railway station.

Aficionados of Bridget Jones films will of course remember the famous mud and wellingtons scenes. My walk through the fields was not dissimilar, but without the handsome millionaire; and fortunately, living on the moors and upper dales instead of the wilds of Hampstead Heath meant that I have more experience of mud than Bridget Jones and was able to extract myself gracefully with the assistance of a nearby barbed wire fence. The cinema had obviously had previous visitors like me and there was a big boot brush by the entrance for cleaning up. However also discretely took off my shoes as I settled down inside to avoid creating a wallow where I was sitting.

Its just as well cinemas are dark because at the slightest bit of emotion in the plot I burst into tears. I won’t spoil the film if you haven’t seen it, but I think it’s fair to say that Bridget Jones doesn’t have the deepest of plots and the term ‘romcom’ sums it up pretty well. But there I was with my cheeks streaked. A good cry about something that isn’t really affecting you at all is probably beneficial for wellbeing, so I’ll take it as a positive. Do you cry in movies, or are you able to sit stoically and stone faced whatever unfolds on the screen?

Rowan on the Moor

A Moodscope member