“Perhaps I’ve indulged myself a little too much in the warm comfort blanket of the vernacular”

- I thought to myself as I felt a pang of anxiety in the little Yorkshire Village of Clapham.

The task on this fine day was to climb the heady heights of Ingleborough - and it wasn’t for happening.

It felt like I was clothed in village velcro - charmed by the delights of my base station.

I wanted to wrap myself in the hood moulds of the 1700’s...

decipher the wording on the walls...

and sit within the company of dolphins.

I’m happiest amidst the vestiges of home and hearth and the trappings and layerings of history.

I’m not as much enamoured with the vast moorland and large expanses of sky.

Or so I thought.

After a therapeutic half hour of photographing the buildings of Clapham, I was cajoled into movement with the promise of a church ahead.

Beyond that - it wasn’t so bad.

I found solace and anchorage in the architectural metaphors thrown up by nature along the way.

The landscape full of brattishing, fluting and vermiculation.

Great Fifth Avenue rock-scapes.

Pompeiian pyroclastic shapes.

Limestone clusters taking on nucleal forms in urban combinations.

And if that wasn’t enough of a tongue teasing tonic - I was wrong-footed by my destination.

My destination wasn't just a mountain - but a former settlement, a hillfort which (in kinder climes) was built during the Iron Age.

Incredulously, the ancient ramparts were still visible and tactile, after all this time.

What complexity of character, of topographical insight, of social cohesion, of skill and fortitude this kind of undertaking must have taken.

Groping through the intermittent mist, I scoured the heart of Ingleborough looking for more clues: an indent, a protrusion, or a bevvy of stones - until I found myself walking towards a great pitted circle.

I’d discovered the remains of an ancient dwelling.

By crossing the threshold and standing in the centre, where countless others had stood before me,

I felt energised and connected to a continuum hot-wired into the hood moulds, the date-stones, the tea-shops, the gossip, the laughter and the tear-drops below.


Home and hearth up in the hills reaching for the sky and rooted deep within us.

Andy Marshall

is an architectural and interiors photographer based in the UK


to Ingleborough is the most dramatic route to take - but be careful not to linger in the village for too long - the hood moulds might get you...


to Ingleborough is the most dramatic route to take - but be careful not to linger in the village for too long - the hood moulds might get you...

Reconstruction Drawing

Click here to see a marvellous reconstruction drawing of Ingleborough Hillfort

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