The Dance of Freedom – the story of the film

I meant to spend a few days in the Derbyshire Dales but it wasn’t to be. A chest infection put paid to that plan. Spending my days climbing hills and my nights in the back of the van, possibly wet and certainly windswept didn’t appeal, so I opted to stay local and film in the Yorkshire Dales. Dentdale to be precise.

Not an area I know well, apart from an occasional adventure into Sedbergh to buy yet more ‘pre-loved’ books or to accompany Nicola on a mountain roam, the closeness to home meant that I would be able to return to my warm bed each night, and eat proper food.

As ever I didn’t have a real concept for the film and approached the project with the usual mix of nervous apprehension and dubious trust that ‘the land would show the way’. The first day was a simple drive through, as I coughed my way along the lanes and took short wanders along easy paths by rivers, looking for my story. It seemed to be hiding from me.

The river, swathed in autumnal golds and ochres, claimed my attention first and pulled me downwards into tight canyons where fallen leaves performed an otherworldly ballet in peaty pools. Stories of interesting characters emerged, shared by a friend who knew the land well. Ibbeth, the witch who lived behind a waterfall known as Ibbeth Peril, and Tom Croft the highwayman wandered through my mind as I inhabited their worlds for a while.

After three days I managed to extricate myself from this Underworld and raise my eyes to the Howgills, that deceptive mountain range that looks kindly down on the valley, hiding its brutal slopes under a cloak of welcome. I committed to climb one. Maybe this wasn’t the best idea for my struggling lungs but the call was so strong so I stripped my camera kit to the bare minimum and headed for the hills.

Wild fell ponies loomed out of the mists as I climbed, as did the peaks and summits. Returning walkers told me not to bother, it was a white out with visibility down to a few yards. Eventually I reached the edge of the cloudbank and heard the cronk of Ravens invisible in this ethereal world. Deciding to wait a while, I relieved my back of my rucksack and sat in the damp moor grass, watching the patterns and swirls of mist, feeling the rush of drizzle and mizzle on my skin.

The clouds began to part, an ebb and flow of land showed through so I pressed on to the summit to savour the reward of an awakening landscape. Ravens danced, Kestrel soared and took me with it. Worn out but oddly invigorated I caught enough video to complete the story and began the descent. The story was still fuzzy. It was all pirouetting leaves, swirling mists, racing clouds and soaring birds. There was something there but it didn’t have a name to hang on.

Nearing the edge of the valley I met a grandad, dad and young lad who were interested in what I was doing. The boy asked what I had seen and I mentioned the courtship flight of the Ravens. That’ll be The Dance of Freedom he replied. I had my title.

Watch the film here.