Living in this valley, it’s hard not to feel the weight — and the gift — of what’s come before.
Writers have walked these tracks, stood in these same spots, listened to the same wind and water.
This piece is about that inheritance, and the quiet responsibility of carrying it forward.

Nowt Fancy Aba’t It

I walk this valley like I belong to it,
not like I own it —
like it’s trusted me wi’ its quiet.
Same old tracks, same bends,
stone worn smooth by folk
what walked an’ thought
long afore I did.

They stood here an’ all.
Heads down, coats pulled tight,
words rattling round same as mine do.
Brontë folk, poets, scribblers,
lis’ning t wind
’cause wind tells thee things
if tha lets it.

Same air fills me lungs,
sharp an’ honest.
Same wind cuts through coat an’ skin,
settles in’t bones
like it’s alus done.
Beck keeps on talking,
telling its tale o’er an’ o’er,
an’ never once asking
if anybody’s lis’ning.

There’s nowt fancy aba’t it.
This land makes writers
by giving ’em space
an’ keeping its mouth shut.
Teaches thee to sit wi’ thoughts,
to wait ’em out,
to say just enough
an’ no more.

I’m proud o’ this place.
Proud o’ folk what found words here,
an’ folk yet to come
what’ll do same.
I walk where they walked,
think where they thought,
an’ if a listen proper —
a’ll leave summat behind an’ all.

—Frost ❄️