Voices of the Peaks by Hannah Brine and Jenni Watson
Please ensure your phone is on silent mode and the screen brightness turned down to avoid disturbing other audience members.
Jump to:
- Where Two Rivers Meet
- Sunday Rebellion
- Mother Mountain
- This Old Stone
- What Part Of The Earth Am I?
- These Rolling Hills
1. Where Two Rivers Meet
In these valleys of ash and grey willow,
where ice melts, I found a home.
Red salmon now swim in the river
like they did long ago.
Hands that toiled from sunrise to sunset,
spinning thread into shirts that we wear.
Their lungs filled with fragments of cotton,
but how they longed for the mountain air.
Lungs that filled with factory smoke
but longed for the mountain air.
From millstone to moorland,
from city to grassland,
woven together are we.
Our lives tell our stories
of hopes and of dreams
in this place where two rivers meet.
Wheels turn, turning the river,
wheels turn, turning the times.
I am changed as we come together
in this place where two rivers meet.
Foam and light dance on the water,
Herons poised as the kingfishers dive.
Blackbirds sing their song of the morning,
Mills are all quiet but the valley’s alive.
Chimneys sleep
with history deep
still found in the mountainside.
From millstone to moorland,
from city to grassland,
woven together are we.
Our lives tell our stories
of hopes and of dreams
in this place where two rivers meet.
Wheels turn, turning the river,
wheels turn, turning the times.
I am changed as we come together
in this place where two rivers meet.
Mills stand quiet
but the valley’s alive.
2. Sunday Rebellion
We walk, we tread these paths, this thread.
Nine ladies dancing in Sunday rebellion
turned them to stone in a circle out on the moor.
What of the fiddler, the King and the tenth stone,
one night a year you will hear his refrain at dawn.
We will go marching out on the moorland, marching on Kinder.
Never before so fired by courage in our rebellion,
out on the hillsides, changing the law.
“Right to Roam”.
We tread these paths, this thread.
We will go dancing out on the moorland, dance with abandon.
Legend has shown those women had courage for a rebellion,
out on these hillsides, turned into stone.
Turned to stone.
Follow the, follow the, follow the, follow the path,
always remember the ground laid before you were there,
Follow the “Right to Roam”.
With thanks to those who carved our right of way,
who made the path before us in their day.
Out on the moorlands they came in their hundreds,
out of the cities to challenge the state of play.
Locked up for claiming back what had been taken,
wanting for everyone what had been kept away.
Trespassing moorland; dancing on Sundays;
forbidden acts on forbidden moors.
Acts of rebellion, acts of defiance,
challenging rules and changing the laws.
“Right to Roam”.
Sunday rebellions on the moors,
fighting for people and changing laws.
Follow the Right to Roam…
3. Mother Mountain
We climbed up in the hush of night,
with Jupiter lighting the way,
climbing high.
The gold moon hung low,
by a silver thread,
rarely she’s seen by day.
Climb to the top of the world
and you’ll see the wonder
if you brave the cold,
the wonder reserved for us few.
On Mother Mountain, Mother Mountain,
we see the stars up on Mam Tor.
Glisten glow, you meteors bold,
tell us the stories,
oh tell us the stories of old,
the silence told.
Tell us we matter,
though small we are.
Hearts lit like lanterns
beneath the stars.
We follow the footsteps of old,
in search of a freedom to hold,
on Mother Mountain,
her winds sweep and swirl, sweep and swirl.
Look to the sky,
look, behold,
we are brief,
but golden,
made to be new.
Mother Mountain, Mother Mountain,
we see the stars,
up on Mam Tor.
4. This Old Stone
This old stone has been carried by the river,
tumbled by the current, dragged through silt and sand.
Time and tide have carved a softer silver,
what once stood jagged
now fits in your hand.
Any time I feel lost, forgotten,
this old stone makes it feel like home.
And this old stone has seen the years and the tears and the sacrifice,
and this old stone has seen the loves and the joys and the twists and turns of life…
this old stone has grown softer over time.
This old stone still remembers it was ocean
with salt and fishes swimming through its bones.
Time and tide have weaved a thread between us,
and we are bound together through the years, I know.
There is grit, and there is courage,
there is heart and there is hope.
I’ve walked through valleys,
I’ve followed the way,
but I know if we’re together,
we can carry the day.
5. What Part of the Earth Am I?
I’ll walk among the lichen, leaf and moss,
I’ll walk among the feather grasses soft,
I’ll walk along the winding river bank,
I’ll walk and I won’t look back.
Listen to the wind rustling through the trees,
listen to the day calling on the breeze,
spy the dragonflies in the silver light of the misty morn sunrise.
And I wonder as I look to the hills,
and I wonder as I look to the sky,
and I wonder after all this time,
“What part of the Earth am I?”
“What part of the Earth am I?”
I’ll scatter wild seeds and watch them grow,
I’ll leave a little hope there as I go,
I’ll listen to the lark sing the moorland song and my heart say “I belong”.
And I wonder as I look to the hills,
and I wonder as I look to the sky,
and I wonder after all this time,
“What part of the Earth am I?”
“What part of the Earth am I?”
How the river rushes past the mill,
stood two hundred years and it’s standing still,
and when my days are setting with the sun,
these rolling hills and me are one.
And I wonder as I look to the hills,
and I wonder as I look to the sky,
and I wonder after all this time,
“What part of the Earth am I?”
“What part of the Earth am I?”
6. These Rolling Hills
In remembrance of Mike Barnes, who loved these hills.
I’ve wandered far from, from Kinder Edge,
where the heather meets the stone,
and the wind still hums its old refrain
through the valleys I’ve called home.
I’ve seen the hilltops veiled in mist,
the rivers silver grey,
and I’ve heard the curlew cry at dusk,
and felt my heart give way.
These rolling hills, you hold me still,
from Hope to Hathersage,
and though I’ve drifted like the rain,
I’m coming home again,
So when I’m done with this old world,
my ashes scattered wide,
back to the hills I will return,
to Kinder mountainside.
These rolling hills, you hold me still,
from Hope to Hathersage,
and though I’ve drifted like the rain,
I’m coming home again.