The Moor (Part 4)


A big blue TV camera crane sits raised off its wheels at the top of the hill with the engine running to keep the driver, presumably stuck on top of the moor in his lorry cab until Saturday, in heating and phone charges and kettle re-boils, men in pick up trucks are putting up fencing and tape and signs, blue portaloos cluster like penguins against the wind on roadside gravel hardstandings, a caravan of estate cars with bike laden roofracks winds its way laboriously up the dale toward fields hastily rebranded as campsites and graffiti, some already fading from the weather after only a few days, marks out the road surface as somewhere where something big is going happen but the moor is still somewhere I can head to when the day is nearly done and feel a kind of peace I don’t find in many other places and the Tour de France Yorkshire Grand Départ local organisers’ estimate of 25,000 people, a number you’d have to go quite a long way to gather from the permanent population, who’ll be on the moor on Saturday only makes the quietness of this evening all the more pronounced, almost touchable, so even amongst all the many moments I’ve passed up here this was a particularly special one.

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