Day 6.   Hawkshaw to Radcliffe.

Back in Hawkshaw, the bus from Bolton drops me at the Wagon and Horses. It is one of those modern buses with announcements for each stop, a great help in unknown areas. In the past, I have missed my stop or alighted a mile or so too soon.
The village is still asleep as I find Two Brooks Lane heading south. I pass some surprisingly well-kept tennis courts for a place this size. The lane descends into a valley of rough mixed woodland; here and there are remains of buildings and watercourses. At one time, there was a bleech works here employing 200 people. Bleaching was an important part of the cotton industry. The chimney from the works still exists on the hillside, but I couldn’t spot it.

Climbing out of the valley, I pass through a small hamlet of tastefully renovated farms and cottages.
Above them are the lodges that provided water for the mill. It is a steep climb up to them but rewarded by excellent views back to the moors above Holcombe, which I passed over last time when visiting the ‘Pilgrim Cross’.

Onward and upward past Tom Nook Farm, the ancient cobbled track, Black Lane, runs straight to the ridge of Affetside. The medieval mule track from Manchester to Whalley? I notice I’m following part of the Greater Manchester Ringway LDW.

I arrive directly at the door of the Packhorse Inn; it is just opening, so I grab a morning coffee as diners start to arrive.

The Pack Horse was a flourishing inn over 600 years ago, when it was on the main pack horse road to the north, the Roman road Watling Street, where Black Lane crossed. Affetside was a market village and later developed as a mining community – the row of cottages next to the inn was built for miners working narrow drift mines nearby. At the back of my mind as I leave was some story of an old skull kept behind the bar. It is too late when I do recall that it was possibly that of a local man from the 17th century.

Across the road from the inn is The Affetside Cross, which has a puzzling history. Dating the cross is difficult. At one time, it was thought to be a Roman cross. The metal plaque next to the cross shaft suggests it was a Saxon cross. English Heritage states that it is an early Georgian market cross on the site of a medieval cross serving the Manchester to Whalley route. The cross has been incorporated into a pleasant Millenium Green area, and I chat with the gentleman responsible for its upkeep.

Leaving Affetside on the straight Roman road,  the high moors are behind me, and I’m walking through enclosed farmland. As a part of Greater Manchester, or though the locals still call themselves Lancastrians, as they should, many properties have been or are being renovated in not neccessarily the Pennine vernacular style. Equine stabling and enclosures have become a common site. There is more exotic wildlife at one farm. The skyline of Manchester can just be made out as the day turns hazy.

No long-distance route is complete without at least one golf course; I only briefly flirt with the manicured Harwood one. More money is being spent on property renovations.

As I approach Ainsworth, I begin to recognise some of the paths. Around here, I would meet up with my late friend Al, the plastic bag man, for an evening stroll and a pint in the pub.

By serendipity, I arrive in Ainsworth alongside the Methodist Church and the Britannia Inn. I am compelled to enjoy a pint in memory of Al sitting outside in the sunshine with all those recent memories.

Tearing myself away, I cross the road to Ainsworth Church. Understated, but with the best display of crocuses, between the tombstones, I have ever seen.  A church existed on this site from before the 15th century. It was part of the Lichfield Diocese at the time of St. Chad, C7th in Saxon times; I came across St. Chad when I walked from Chester Cathedral to Lichfield Cathedral, where he is buried. I seem to be heading that way again.

If they were the best crocuses I have ever seen, this must be one of the worst paths I have ever walked. Enclosed by fencng, trampled by beasts and seriously waterlogged. With no alternative, it took me ages to negotiate 300 m clutching onto the fence.

Things improved on the cobbled Pit Lane. There is history everywhere.
How is this for a perfect winter oak?

But what is happening here? I have a long chat with Dave, whose wife says he bores people, about the history of the area where he has lived for nigh on 80 years. Canals, pits, mills and railways all play a part. Cromwell and the Royalists come into play when I mention skirmishes around Preston. The fields around here, previously mined, have been allocated for housing. He hopes subsidence may destroy the sheme,  a sentiment I share considering the houses built near me on shifting sands. There is so much urban waste ground for building affordable housing, but nobody seems interested in that. Meanwhile, a buzzard soars overhead.

I’m channeled by more horse premises into the outskirts of Radcliffe.

Over canal and rail, now the metro tram line.

Again, on track of medieval ways here is the Old Cross Inn. Apparently, a fragment of Radcliffe’s Medieval  Cross can be seen in Radcliffe Library.

I have no idea what this collection of stones is. Art or archaeology?
It is World Book Day, and children leaving the nearby school are dressed in all manner of costumes. I keep my phone camera tightly in my pocket. Following signs to the church, I find myself distracted by a stunning sculpture in the park.

Eunice has been here before me.  https://mousehouselife.wordpress.com/2018/10/29/radcliffe-tower-and-close-park/

The church of St. Mary across the way is locked, as all have been today – is that a sign of increased urbanisation?

A church existed on this site since Saxon times—the present one dates from the C13th. I wander around the graveyard, as in many other churches, grave stones have been used as stone slabs on the ground. An interesting one here is the old stone dial from a clock with the Roman numerals just visible. 

A creaky gate leads into a compound where the C15th Pele Tower is displayed, seemingly seldom visited. Eunice gives a comprehensive history. 

I’m becoming tired and can’t find a way out of the field. I have to backtrack through the churchyard and down cobbled streets, passing the C17th Tithe Barn – now an MOT centre.

For a short distance, I follow a track past the cricket pitch but then find myself on the streets. I find a bus stop next to the Metro tram station and am soon on my way back to Bolton’s interchange for the train to Preston.

Almost a 12-hour day, even though I only walked 8 miles. The next stage is into Manchester.