The highest point in the Reading Unitary Authority area is just past the Water Tower Pub and a row of shops on Park Lane, to the west of Reading and near Tilehurst.
Shame about the ale…
You really can’t miss it.
I stopped the car just down the road from the tower, having visited Liddington Hillfort, the highest point in Swindon, and was on my way to Marlow to spend the night to break a long drive back home. There you are – that’s it. Although of course the tower is not the physical land top of the county, just a manifestation erected on the highest spot. Opened in 1932, with an art-deco feel that also hints, perhaps in my head, at a Mughal architectural style, it’s an impressive thing.
Anyway – that’s it. I’ve only ever been to Reading once before, and I think it was in 1972 when I caught a train from Paddington and then spent some hours on the platform jotting down train numbers in an Ian Allan trainspotter yearbook (look… we didn’t have mobile phones to keep us entertained). Here’s the evidence.
Still impressed by the quality of these photos, over fifty years on. A Wokingham local (I think) on the left, and a Brush Type 4 diesel electric in classic BR green pulling a Paddington train on the right. Many of these locos are still in service.
A mighty Western class 52 diesel hydraulic in standard BR (Monastral) blue on its way to Paddington. Magnificent but withdrawn from service just five years later ☹
An Hymek class 37 diesel hydraulic heading West (all withdrawn within the next three years) and watched enthusiastically by a group of youths looking the wrong way, and who are about to be heading to hospital.
I knew I had landed in Norfolk when I drove past a large sign saying so, but which added that I was also entering Nelson country. It was, apparently, the hottest day of the year so far (so far there had been too many already), and had just reached the top of Suffolk at Great Wood. I was heading for Norfolk’s north coast and a campsite just outside the village of Blakeney, a place I knew nothing about.
Almost as soon as I entered Norfolk the scenery changed. Mile upon mile of heathland and conifers marked out the impressive Breckland landscape, which, prior to undertaking the high points challenge, I had assumed would be where Norfolk’s high point would be found. Apparently not.
I reached the campsite late in the afternoon and was offered the choice of two remaining pitches. One was next to the cleaning facility, the other by a hedge next to the nearby road. The appeal of being close to the toilets was enticing, but something told me to take the other option. After pitching the tent, I needed to take the opportunity of using the facilities, and as I approached in the baking heat, realised that I had made the right call. The septic tank might have been doing its best but there was no mistake – this was another type of county “high”.
In need of food, and having blown my options the previous evening, I walked into town. All I knew about Blakeney was that it was a great spot to see seals, but I had also just read that it had the highest number of exclusive homes in the UK that had been subject to charity lotteries through Omaze, a phenomenon that I simply can’t get my head around. In a town near me a huge modern oligarch type bunker was recently built on the site of an older family house. On completion it suddenly appeared on numerous feeds in one of these lotteries, going for £4m. Who would have thought we were in the middle of a housing crisis?
With the heat still pounding, I spent a while taking in the views around the creeks and then dived into the Kings Arms.
Up a creek
I had hoped to have sat outside, but understandably every seat was taken. It was like a sauna inside the bar. I ordered a meal and a pint and found a snug. The meal arrived within minutes and was as hot as the core of the sun. I had noticed a sign outside claiming that it was a Michelin star establishment. Based on the searing pile of mashed potato and molten gravy offered up, it wasn’t anymore. As I ate, more plates of food of mammoth proportions were being served up around the pub. Each delivery was met with a gasp of incredulity, or perhaps despair, by the customers, many of whom had already placed orders for desserts and were now regretting their enthusiasm. I managed to quell the burnt embers of what was left of my palate with another beer before heading on back to the campsite and promising to myself that I would make do with something from the nearby chippy the following evening.
The weather forecast for the following day was for a scorchio repeat. The night before my tent had been sited under trees and by a cool lake. There was none of that here on the exposed Norfolk field. So, when I woke up after a good night’s slumber, and hadn’t felt the immediate need to escape from an oven, it occurred to me that the weather had changed. And, on crawling out of the tent, it had. The sun was hidden behind low and intermittent clouds. A breeze was pulling in from the north-east and it felt that the sweltering heat had passed. After a couple of brews, it was time to head off to the day’s objective: Beacon Hill at West Runton.
I drove along the north Norfolk coast road, a satisfying journey through interesting looking towns, Cley next the Sea being the pearl. I stopped in Sheringham, ostensibly to grab a pie and a coffee. The best thing about parking up in Sheringham was that the car park serviced the North Norfolk Railway. As I was locking the car I heard the familiar rumble of a class 37 gunning up its distinctive diesel engine. I had my SLR camera on me and was desperate to get onto the platform to get some shots, but with all the flaffing around with bags and mobile phones there was no time to get there so I had to content myself with a quick snap on the phone from the other side of the tracks.
The Class 37 leaving Sheringham – missing audio enhancement
The town was heaving and at the seafront the sun came and went behind scudding clouds whilst seahorses danced on excitable waves. It was a lovely day, but I was here to secure an interesting breakfast pastry. Walking back up the hectic high street, it became apparent that despite the huge number of food outlets, there was a homogeny common to most of our towns these days. It might just be me, but when the only options are fish and chips, and sausage rolls, we seem to have lost our culinary diversity. The problem was I couldn’t put my finger on it. Was I imagining some previous time that didn’t exist when it was possible to get pastries and tarts that consisted of more than just cheddar cheese and pork? * Either way in the end I had to settle for an average sausage roll from a local bakery. I retreated back to the station, grabbed a coffee nearby and watched the occasional engine moving up and down the line.
Classic diesel multiple unit action
Twenty minutes on and I was parking up on Sandy Lane, West Runton, and just above sea level. Beacon Hill is one of the few county tops that can be reasonably reached after starting any walk from sea-level. One of the few others is Ben Nevis, and here the comparison ends.
Confirmation I was in Norfolk
Some paths led away to the west and into woodland, but I knew that my objective lay almost directly up Sandy Lane and decided to go route one, rather than taking the risk of getting lost in the woods. It was a narrow road, and I had to keep my wits about me whenever a vehicle approached. Large Edwardian homes were set back off the road in dells and with extensive luxuriant grounds. Beyond the houses the beech and birch woodlands spread away on either side. After a kilometre or so I reached the brow of the hill and turned right on a track leading to a caravan site, opposite which was a sign for Roman Camp, the top of Beacon Hill. I read the information board which suggested that there is no evidence for any Roman activity at the site, and that whilst the location had seen some beacon like activity at various points in history, it all seemed a bit vague. A warning sign also warned of the risk of ticks. I was wearing shorts and now was now regretting I hadn’t brought my tweezers.
The top of Beacon Hill – and associated risk warnings
I walked across the flattened ground with its raised grass banking, and looked out to the north, past the trees and towards the North Sea. But there was nothing to see on the small segment of sea that I could see, so I carried on along the track that serviced the caravan site and gradually lost elevation.
No boats or ships to see through the trees and towards the distant sea.
A couple of weeks ago (as I write), mass hysteria broke out on the beaches of Norfolk when a boat, whose crew were merrily rowing around the UK coast to raise money for charity, was wrongly identified as a vessel full of asylum seekers. Urgent Twitters were sent out by all and sundry, urging a Border Force intervention, and people gathered and marched along the beaches near Great Yarmouth to deter any landing. The local MP Rupert Lowe (ex-Reform, now Independent Witch-finder General) led the on-line charge (sorry – frenzy) and later had to apologise. Of course, this incident is no reflection on the people of Norfolk, the vast majority of whom would find this behaviour a tad indecent and recognise that the chance of a small rowing boat making it from mainland Europe to this coastline would be nothing short of miraculous. Horatio would have been impressed. I only mention this here because since I started this exercise, the xenophobic atmosphere has been escalating, and incidents like the one described here are becoming commonplace. Perhaps I should turn a blind eye, in the Nelson style, but…. Nah!
After a quarter of a mile, I picked a footpath down through the woods and heartland. A nice spot that you could spend some hours just chilling.
A better view
At the foot of the hill a lane headed back towards Sandy Lane with a field to the right. In that field I noticed several large horses. One, a bandy-legged large grey, was gazing at me from a distance. As I walked along the lane this particular individual followed my progress, either with menace, or simple curiosity. Getting closer it struck me that these horses, in particular the bandy-legged big white, were massive. I had realised that they were probably shire horses, but having only ever seen one or two in all my life, I was struck by their size.
Who you lookin’ at?
Outstared I moved on and was back at the car five minutes later.
Returning to the campsite and a quick brew, I legged it back into Blakeney. It was still relatively early, but I wanted to make sure I got to the chip shop before it closed (you never know these days). Guess what? It was closed. A sign indicated that it only opened early afternoons. WTF!!!! How bourgeois!
And so, it was back to the King’s Arms. The heat of the day before had gone so I was happier back in the bar but hesitant to order any more food. On a chalk board a parsnip, coriander and curry soup was being offered, with some bread, for just £7. After it had arrived and I had finished it off, I went to the bar. The woman behind the bar asked what I would like. “I just wanted to say that that was the best soup I have ever had.” And it was.
*A couple of days ago, while watching a TV drama, the main character was walking along a station platform. It must have been filmed a couple of years back because he passed by a closed up Delice de France. And it all came back to me. Once upon a time there had been a Delice de France in most towns, providing just a little bit more than the traditional bland. Now, from what I can see there are no more than a handful across the entire country.
It took me three days longer than I had intended to reach the highest point in the Unitary Authority of York.
I had been heading north, with the intention of reaching the small village of Rosedale East, hidden in the seemingly forgotten but extraordinary Rosedale Valley in the North Yorks Moors National Park.
I had stopped for a couple of nights with my brother in Nottingham where, the day after Tottenham Hotspur had defeated Manchester United in the UEFA Europa League final, I had popped up to the highest point of the city at Mapperley. That night I explained what I was hoping to achieve over the coming days. It included what seems to have become an annual trip with my daughter and her partner J to a heritage railway. In this case it was to be the North Yorks Moor Railway. If there was time, we would also have a trip into York and take in the National Railway Museum (2025 is the 200th anniversary of the railways in Britain).
My brother piped up. “Do you remember when you took me there?” A vague memory began to form. I did, but only just. He reminded me that we had taken a train from Kings Cross, went to the museum, and returned to London the same day. He thought he was about ten years old, which meant that I would have been just fifteen! Well, I’ve checked and given that the museum only opened in September 1975 (50 years ago as it happens), I would have been at least seventeen and he, twelve. Nevertheless, it still surprised me that I had taken on the responsibility at the time.
I left Nottingham, and at Pontefract I dropped in to see my two Yorkshire based cousins where over two hours we caught up on a year’s worth of news, books and aches and pains. Suitably fed and watered I carried on up the A1(M). All I had to do was take a right at junction 44, and then by keeping to the A46 I would be able to tick off the top of York.
In the short time it took me to get to junction 44 I had seemingly forgotten the junction number and sailing merrily past it. Incomprehensible, but it wasn’t until signs for Thirsk and Ripon started appearing that it began to dawn on me something was amiss. I appeared to have been in a state of denial. Instinct eventually told me that I had shot my bolt, York was too many miles behind me now, and executive action was required. Leaving the A1(M) at last, I took towards Thirsk and then stuck to the A170, climbing up an improbably steep slope to the high ridge at Sutton Bank, before stopping at the excellent little town of Helmsley for some provisions. A text informed me that my comrades had reached the farm we were staying in. Good timing. According to the phone thing I was only 27 minutes away, and so texted back to say I would be there in a jiffy.
Past Kirkbymoorside I found the road that would take me as straight as an arrow to East Rosedale. At a place called Hutton-le-Hole I should have turned right (if only I had known!). Maybe I had been expecting to see a sign or something, or maybe I was just overwhelmed by the rough beauty of my surroundings, or maybe just at that moment a 4X4 had been trying to mate with the boot of my car, but for whatever reason before long I was driving along a barren moorland ridge with stunning views in all directions. Down to my right I could make out the Rosedale valley and I knew that at some point a road would appear that would take me down into the top of the valley and then the village.
Just past the Lion Inn on Blakey Ridge and sure enough the turning appeared. To my consternation a red sign stuck in the middle of the road stated that it was closed. A diversion sign pointed back the way I had come. Surely not!
When in doubt, “keep on going” is not my go to motto, but for whatever incomprehensible reason, on this occasion that is exactly what I did. Fifteen minutes later and I was doing a U-turn in the small town of Castleton (not to be confused with the pearl in the Peak District) and defeated, started to retrace my route.
Eventually, back at the closed road, I pulled over. My phone had been ringing. Despite every effort to understand how to execute a hands-off call in my car it remains a mystery to me. I suspect it must be broken. I called my daughter back. “Hmmm… no I wasn’t okay really. This road is closed, and I feel like a total dolt.” (Dolt is a medieval word now rarely used, so in truth that’s not the word I used, the actual being more Anglo-Saxon than polite Tudor). Don’t worry, she said, the road wasn’t really closed. They had used it.
Against my better judgement but now realising that to find another route was going to take at least another thirty minutes, I slipped past the sign as if I was under surveillance and headed along and then down the east side of the valley. And there it was. The road works! Fortunately, the boys from the black stuff had gone for the weekend, and there was just enough room to squeeze around the barriers. Against all the odds I had made it to the accommodation at just the moment the BBQ had started, and the bulk of the preparation had been completed. My lucky day!
The following day we took the slow train from Pickering to Whitby on the North Yorks Moors Railway. A spectacular route, but there were no steam trains were on duty. A month earlier one of them had sparked off a wildfire high on the moors, and the mile or so of destructive fire power was plain to see. Judging by the long-range weather forecast the chances of steam trains hauling passengers on the line will probably have to wait until the seasons end. A big shame for the heritage industry, but hey, for a while at least the kids would just have to get used to some diesel action instead.
Heritage Brush Type 2 at Whitby (built c1957 – we share the same birth year, which presumably puts me in the heritage category too).
Whitby was heaving, bright and breezy and perfect.
A nod to Martin Parr – Glorious Whitby
On the train back we agreed to head into York the following day.
We drove in and towards the National Railway Museum. Despite the early hour, we’d missed the chance to park nearby, having to settle instead for a more central location that charged Air Prk n Prk prices. In for a penny, in for £20 as they say, it looked like we were gonna spend the day. After an hour or two at the train museum, which naturally met expectations and which didn’t seem to have changed at all since 1975, we wandered into town. Busy, busy, busy, but looking good on an unexpectedly bright and squally day.
After passing the cathedral we slipped into the famous Shambles, and what must be something of a bull run for parents with pre-teen children. Every second shop was either an identikit sweet and fudge emporium or a Harry Potter merch crap shop (as I write the BBC are doing a York day on the radio, and by all accounts there are five!!). In horror we slipped out as quickly as we had slipped in. The last time I had been through the Shambles, sometime around 1981, it was certainly commercial but retained something of its mediaeval essence. I recall a quaint shop under which ran a Roman road, and the story was that from time to time the ghost of a Roman soldier could be seen walking through, at waist height! At waist height because the old road was a couple of feet below the current floor level. I was thinking about some fancy words to explain my position on ghostly spirits, but I’ll get on with it. I don’t believe in ghosts, but if I was to ever place credence on any ghost story at all, I’d have to give it to the torso of the Roman soldier, simply because of that quirky detail. Seriously folks, I’d rather see five Roman ghost shops than the H Potter exploitation outlets that have killed the vibe.
We carried on down to the Norman castle and back along the riverbank. Just before the Ouse Bridge crowds of drinkers and diners lined the embankment at Kings Staith. We stood outside the Kings Arms. The last time I had been here, in 1981, it would have been impossible to stand where we were now. Up from London with a friend who had no interest whatsoever in trains, but a keen interest in historic pubs (let’s be honest, all pubs), the only way to access the Kings Arms was from the adjacent street via the upper side door and clambering over sandbags. We ordered a couple of pints and went and sat at a table by one of the river fronted windows (see picture) where we gazed out as the Ouse gushed past us, just a foot or so under the window ledge. How exciting! Looking round one of us spotted a series of marks on the brick wall. They showed the levels the river had reached within the pub on previous flood occasions. We looked out at the raging torrent. Hmmm… it was still raining! It was down the hatch and away.
The Old Uninsurable – York
Given the Sahara-like conditions in Yorkshire since February, the chances of the Ouse flooding any time before this winter appeared remote but, on this occasion, we passed the Kings Arms and started to head back towards the car. At Museum Gardens we popped in for an ice-cream to find a Romano-British re-enactment taking place. We watched as nails were forged, leather studded, and wood worked. At the “how many different ways did the ancients invent to kill and main each other” three men dressed in full armourer’s garb demonstrated that the number of ways invented to kill an opponent appeared to be limitless. Slingers were in particular hideously murderous. A cohort of legionaries began to assemble. Twenty odd older men, dressed in combat wear and possibly slightly worse the wear from the mead, started to line up. It all seemed a bit amateurish, which of course it was, but the finely honed drill was observably messy and after some pushing and shoving tempers began to flare amongst the ranks. Voices were raised and one of Rome’s finest re-enactors came in for some rough tongue lashing from a couple of his colleagues. The air began to turn a different hue as some clearly audible Anglo-Saxon words were exchanged. Ironic I thought, given the circumstances. “Mummy, what did that man say?”
It took a few minutes to get themselves sorted out (I figured that it might have been a good opportunity for the Iceni re-enactors to have grabbed some of the abandoned weaponry and have seized the moment, but they too just looked on perplexed, cowed no doubt by a latent inferiority complex). Eventually, having calmed down, the troop marched off, a tad unsteadily, towards their starting point. The fun now over we too marched off in the opposite direction and across Lendal Bridge and back to the car.
Back at East Rosedale I had a short walk out from the farm complex we were staying at, up a low hill and to the abandoned site of the railway yards that served the nearby quarries. In the apartment a brilliant little book (Rosedale Mines and Railways by H R Hayes and J G Rutter) gave a fantastic account of the ironstone industry that had once dominated the entire valley. The signs of industry were still evident but unless you knew it was there, or that the railway had snaked north up to the head of the valley, and then back along the contour on the western flank, you would never have known that thousands of people had once lived and worked this remote valley.
The old quarry and sidings above East Rosedale – the very accessible trail extends around the entire valley
Monday morning had arrived and so had an annoying band of low cloud and slashing rain (we’d hoped for a walk before leaving). No point complaining, even a thimbleful of the wet stuff would have been welcomed by the farmers. I finished off a quick sketch of the view towards the west slopes (a faint line hints at the old railway).
After breakfast in the pretty village of Rosedale we bade our farewells. My daughter and J were taking on the daunting journey back to Bristol and I was heading back towards York, and then onto Cambridge where I had secured an unfathomably cheap room in an hotel to break my journey back to the south coast. I was in no rush.
To get to York, all I had to do was retrace the route we had taken the previous afternoon on our return from our visit. I passed through Pickering and then Thornton Dale. As I passed out of Thornton Dale it occurred to me that it wasn’t a place I recognised. I pulled over and checked the map and discovered that for the third time at least on this short break, I had missed my turning. Up until quite recently I have had an almost unswerving confidence in my navigating abilities, to the extent that I have no satnav and am untroubled by the fact that my phone refuses to speak to me on the odd occasions I do try and set a route on Google.
Having worked out the revised route I set off along delightful country roads and mulling over whether I had at last reached the tipping point of short-term memory malfunction, before eventually meeting up with the A64 and heading south. Within five minutes the traffic ground to a depressing halt, it being a bank holiday Monday every second vehicle dragging a caravan. Every so often, when an opportunity presented itself, a car would peel off and head into a side road, clearly being assisted by their in-vehicle device. On the way back to East Rosedale the day before, J, who was driving, inexplicably pulled off the A64 and all of a sudden we were on a tiny track running between wheat fields. I suggested quietly that this departure from the main road felt wrong, but apparently the phone always found the quickest way. After a couple of minutes, and with no obvious sign of a major road in sight J pulled over. Seems that at the petrol station a mile or two back J, who had previously programmed the petrol station into the phone, had failed to reprogramme the route on filling up. Now the phone was desperately trying to take us back to the petrol station. The notion of AI leading us all a merry dance in a frantic attempt to assist had tickled me pink, and now, as the jam began thinning out, I was just content to wait it out. There was no obvious cause for the congestion other than the sheer numbers of people returning from the east coast to all other points north. It was only past York that the traffic began to move with a bit more purpose. I was getting close (oh, in case you’ve got this far, but had forgotten why you were here at all, I was still seeking out Stock Hill, the highest point in the City of York Unitary Authority).
I pulled off at the Askham Bryan junction and before long was driving along random lanes in what I considered to be a westerly direction. When I had planned to do this three days earlier, on my way up (you’ll have probably forgotten by now that I had missed junction 44), the approach to the high point would have been straight forward. A left turn off the A64 at The Buckles Inn and Bob would have been my uncle. Unfortunately, as the A64 is a dual carriage way, and there is no right turn from the east at The Buckles Inn, I’d had to come off a mile or so beforehand. Of course, I didn’t possess the necessary in-car tech to get me out of this labyrinthine pickle, but I knew that if I just kept driving with a left, left, left attitude I’d get to where I belonged. *
Sometime after leaving Askham Bryan I found myself driving through (from the west – eek!) Askham Richard. I was lost, and I swear that if anyone at all had been out on the streets, whether they were called Bryan, Richard or Louise, I’d have stopped and ask’d ‘em for directions. * *
In hindsight I believe the problem I had was that my destination was on an unnamed road, which meant that I was in a perpetual state of confusion. Somehow or other (luck I guess) eventually I was driving south on a small road that from what I could recall of earlier on-line research felt familiar. A small row of whitewashed cottages appeared on the left with fields in all directions. Fifty metres on and again on the left a side track and a large metal gate. I pulled over, knowing I had arrived. The gate was locked. I knew it would be. The track headed east and rose slightly to a higher point about a hundred metres beyond. A CCTV sign on the gate made it clear that whatever lay beyond was private property.
The Stock Hill access prevention scheme
I had been driving for what felt like hours so took a few minutes to stretch and take in the views. Despite the relatively flat vista to the west, the road heading south and back towards the A64, dipped away. Beyond low ridges, on the far horizon and on an almost ley line alignment with the white dotted lines running down the centre of the road, cooling towers and an enormous chimney, maybe ten miles away. I looked at the map on my phone (the one that seems incapable of talking to me when I try to set a route – or is it me?). Oh! There was no doubt about it. I had read loads about this place in Private Eye and seen documentaries about it too. Possibly one of the most controversial industrial sites in the country, Drax Power Station near Selby once burnt coal but now burns something called biomass. This “biomass”, from what I understand, consists largely (or possibly entirely) of imported wood pellets. In a BBC documentary two or three years ago, evidence was found that some of this wood was being sourced from irreplaceable primary (i.e. ancient) forests in Canada. The company receives huge state subsidies (billions of pounds) and generates a significant amount of our “renewable” energy. Mind you, that depends on whether burning wood is a form of renewable energy. Many claim that it is not, and that it would even be cleaner to burn coal instead. I don’t know, I’m not a scientist, but if I had to decide on whether to continue funding it, or letting it go for good (I don’t have to; it’s currently Ed Miliband at the time of writing), I’d probably let it go, and instead use the billions set aside for future funding to invest in genuine “green” industries for the Selby area. There… it’s out now, I’m a hippy.
The white lines point to Drax
In unrelated Drax news, in 2022 I stopped at the village of Corfe Castle in Dorset. A sign by the village hall had a picture of a vigorous looking young man, who purported to be the area’s local Member of Parliament.
Richard Drax was 64 when this photo was on show. I too was 64, and like most men of that age certainly didn’t command the same youthful visage
Until 2024, Richard Grosvenor Plunkett-Ernle-Erle-Drax was not only the Conservative MP for South Dorset (when remarkably he lost his seat to Labour), he is also the biggest landowner in Dorset and owns a large pad surrounded by the biggest wall in the county. He is the so and so in line of a very old aristocratic family that cemented their fortune through slavery, and are the last of the old slavers to still own large plantations in Barbados (having almost certainly also received huge sums in compensation after the abolition of slavery, of which we – that is the nation – have only just finished paying off the debt). Anyway, I digress. Richard Drax (as he likes to be known, and some say after David Cameron asked colleagues with posh names that might identify their privileged class, to shorten them), to the best of my knowledge, has nothing whatsoever to do with Drax Power Station, but if you were to imagine a science fiction, post-apocalypse, super polluting industrial conglomerate it would almost certainly be called Drax and owned by a dark lord of the same name. I have mused too far (to the left you might complain).
Back to reality. If you are keen to visit this location and wish to share the view of Drax power station, my advice is simple. Approach from the west on the A64. On reaching The Buckles Inn (a mid-20th century brick building that at the time of writing was temporarily closed) turn left, carry on with fields on either side and then stop at the first track on the right.
In order to keep up my newly found interest in the Civil War I was half tempted to seek out the nearby site of the Battle of Marston Moor but instead I drove off back towards the A64. Free… at last.
El Colmado 57 