Monthly Archives: October 2025

A BUSY DAY AT RIVINGTON.

As one drives along the M61 between Chorley and Bolton, one can’t miss that breast-like prominence on the slopes of Winter Hill—Rivington Pike.

That is our objective today, yet another sunny autumn day as we approach November. I meet up with the ‘Rockman’ from Bolton, one of my long-time climbing partners. We don’t get together often enough, so we have a lot of catching up to do, combined with the walk.

Coffee at his house is welcome. Poppy, his Airedale, is getting too old for long walks, so she is left at home. I let the Rockman drive his local lanes to Rivington. The carparks are packed, with cars everywhere along the roadside. Of course, it is half-term. We squeeze in near GoApe, of which the Rockman is a veteran star within his family.

The Lower Cruck Barn is busy feeding the masses. The rockman buys a piece of flapjack, which goes into my rucksack for him later.

Our walk up to the Pike is in the grounds previously owned by Lord Leverhulme, the soap magnate. He, along with T H Mawson, the landscape architect, developed the hillside into the Terraced Gardens

I am feeling lazy, and rather than detailing the historical background to the area, I would recommend reading the two links I’ve pasted above. That leaves me free to just describe the walk.

After a short way up the main avenue, we leave most of the crowds to walk a quieter path through the trees southeastwards. Gently gaining height, we chat away as more energetic dog walkers overtake us. Have you noticed that when the sun is shining, people are generally more sociable? Fallen leaves cover the path, creating an eerie atmosphere.

We double back on ourselves several times, always taking the easiest gradient. A half-hidden water trough reminds us that horse-drawn carriages would have used these lanes.

As height is gained, the West Lancashire plains are revealed. Rivington reservoir shines out below.

The summit of the pike comes into view, but we still have a fair bit of climbing to do.

On reaching the top, we realise there is a strong, cold wind blowing from the west. Sheltered spaces in the lee of the tower are all taken, so we opt for a bench in the open.

The current tower was built in 1732. There had been an older, wooden beacon on the same spot. The tower was made of stone from Liverpool, and the workers were paid in ale. The foundations of the tower are older stones; in the photo below, these stones are now visible due to erosion. The tower was constructed for John Andrews, a solicitor in Bolton and owner of the Rivington estate. It was built as a hunting lodge, featuring a square room with a fireplace and a cellar.

A passing mountain biker stops for a chat, a youngster who lives at the base of the hill. It is refreshing to find a teenager who obviously enjoys adventures in the outdoors and has the scars to prove it. Maybe because I am engrossed, I virtually forget to take any photos of the scenes around us. The coast is certainly in view. We move on when our hands begin to freeze in the cold wind. He overtakes us later.

Down the steep steps we go, against the tide of families climbing up them. This is the way most people come; we are glad of our more circuitous, less strenuous and certainly quieter route.

Looking back up to the tower.

Continue reading →

THE LONGRIDGE POSTIE WALK.

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Is it a myth or a fact?

Friends, who have lived in Longridge all their lives, tell me that a route out of Longridge to the Thornley farms, clustered roughly along the 150m contour line on the north side of the fell, was the one postmen of old walked. No amount of historical searching, well, Google, if I am honest, has found any specific reference to this route. Maybe someone will know.

Looking at the map, there is indeed a series of farms along that side of the fell. Was it that they were established where springs issued from the fellside? Whatever they are there, and it would have been logical for the footpostmen of bygone times to link them together on the contour rather than to follow each farm’s individual access track up and down the hillside. There are paths on the ground that link up these farms, and it is these I will follow for the first part of today’s walk.

I start in the park at the top of Longridge. I am waylaid by dog walkers wanting to chat, and dogs wanting treats. The way is actually the old quarry railway, which came this far —a popular walk with locals using Mile Lane or heading to the cafe at Little Town Dairy.

The day promises well.

The rails went as far as Billington’s Farm below Lord’s Delph Quarry. An old gritstone stile leads onwards into the fields.

The track has the feel of an old way.

A cluster of properties is passed before the track, as it is, takes a gate by Old Rhodes/Martin’s Croft. A cobbled courtyard serves two or three properties.

A bit of a dog leg, and I’m walking past Sharples House, which has a hidden history.

This is from a previous post.

“There was one more encounter at Sharples House. The farmer there had previously talked of having the largest cheese press in Lancashire; I believed him. In the past, many farms in the area made their own tasty Lancashire cheese.. Today, he seemed in a good mood, so I enquired further, and he took me to see the stone, which was indeed large and must have weighed a ton. He explained that the house was from the late 17th century. A former occupant, Peter Walken (1684-1769), had been a nonconformist minister as well as a farmer. Uniquely, he kept a series of diaries, most of which have been lost, but two from 1733-34 have been found and published by a researcher from Preston museum. The present farmer was contacted and was able to see the journals, but described them as boring, though they must have given an insight into farming life in the first half of the 18th century. He also told me about a mystery from the last century: two thieves broke into the house, killing the farmer, but the daughter escaped by hiding in an adjacent barn. One wonders how much local history has been lost.”

The next property is very much a working farm. The right of way onwards is clear..

I’m approaching Higher Birks. I’ve always been fascinated by this structure in its wall. I still don’t know the answer.

These are obviously mounting stones and are, in fact, grade II listed. C19th.

Birks Brow Lane heads up to the fell, all very rural.

But my way takes a stile and heads further into the countryside, with the Bowland Fells looking on.

The way is well provided with bridges and stiles.

Even the odd clapper stone, no longer used.

C18th White Fold. The lady at Bradley’s Farm is happy to chat and is proud to point out Blackpool Tower visible way across the Fylde. Her view of Bowland from the doorstep is far more impressive.

The next house and barn conversion are immaculate, shame about the gate on the footpath. I have gone astray here before, but today I notice a tiny footpath sign on the fence. So I go over the gate with difficulty; obviously, it would not open.

But this gets me on track through the plantation, where a great deal of felling has taken place in recent months. It’s a mess from the heavy vehicles, but should recover. Dale House across the fields looks as though it has been a row of cottages at one time.

This reminds me to take a look at the old OS maps, courtesy of the National Library of Scotland. Superficially, nothing much has changed along here. The same properties existed in 1847. Now, some are still farms, but others have been gentrified, and their barns have converted. One, Sowerbutts, has disappeared.

1847

1895

Looking down into Thornley, one can see how modern farming has changed, with those massive sheds sprouting up everywhere.

I’m now on the edge of the rough land with the fellside above, Jeffrey Hill. From up here, the views across Chipping Vale to the Fairsnape fells are stunning.

The path weaves through Giles Farm, and the views into Bowland become even better.

There is even a distant view of Waddington Fell, one of my hilltopsfrom the other day. You can just make out its mast.

That’s the limit of my ‘Postie’ route, I wonder if it ever was?

Dropping down the hillside, I join an equally historic bridleway which runs through Wheatley to Thornley Hall and beyond. I remember this as a virtually impassible boggy trench, but drainage work and resurfacing a while back have given it a new lease of life—a delightful stretch.

Finding a stone wall to sit on. I stop for some lunch in the sunshine and contemplate the changing face of the countryside. There’s that farm complex I saw from above. In dairy farming, to be economical, one needs to be milking 100s of cows, which probably hardly see a blade of grass. My grandfather’s farm, on which I grew up, had no more than twenty.

There is another problem in the countryside – illegal dumping of rubbish. We have a lot more these days, and it doesn’t biodegrade. Just off the lane I’ve now reached is an old quarry, Blue Stone. I’m amazed to find it filling with waste materials. This looks like ‘organised’ dumping – I doubt its legality. One reads of unscrupulous individuals advertising rubbish clearance, only for them to subsequently illegally dispose of it. Is this happening here, or is the quarry’s owner responsible?

What an eyesore, and I suspect toxic waste. Moving on, what’s that taste in my mouth?, I continue along the little lane…

…I come into Wheatley, which consists of a few converted properties based around a farm. The date stone is inscribed 1774. They always used to keep a bull in the end barn.

Out of interest, as I traverse the lower lane, I pass the start of the access tracks to all the properties I walked by higher up.

Surprisingly, one of those new gates gives access back onto a little-used path in the fields.

Soon, I am faced with this virtually impassable barbed wire ‘stile’. Luckily, no clothes were torn, surmounting it. The next stile was rotten wood and wobbly. Why spend all that money on a new gate without repairing subsequent stiles?

Back at Matin’s Croft, I don’t come through the fields; instead, I use the lane up to Billingtons and then the park, wth plenty of daylight left. An interesting walk without the postbag.

Let’s hope we may enjoy a few more autumn days like this.

TWO FELLS. EASY EASINGTON AND WINDY WADDINGTON.

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The above shows Waddinton Fell on the left and Easington Fell on the right.

The last thing I need when I’m trying to squeeze in an afternoon fell walk is a road closed sign.

There is no quick way around Waddington, so it is even later, 1 pm, when I park up at the summit of the B6478 road over to Newton. This road doesn’t seem to have its own name, unlike nearby ‘The Trough’ or ‘Birdy Brow’. Long ago, we called it The Moorcock Road. But the Moorcock Inn has been gone for decades, replaced with private houses.

Anyhow, I am here, the sun is shining, and the air is clear. I’m looking forward to a short fell excursion. Walking down the road from the parking, I pass Walloper Well. The fresh water flows continuously most of the year, passing cyclists often top up if they know about it. In the past, this would have been essential for horse-drawn carriages.

My footpath leaves the road here, across boggy ground, and I wonder if it is the correct one as I flounder in the mire. Eventually, it becomes clearer and drier. I’ve been here many times, but not often in such brilliant conditions.

Striding onwards, I don’t go to investigate Old Ned or The Wife, piles of stones on the moor. I’ve checked them out before, and they are just what the map says—piles of stones. I have never found an explanation for their origins.

The Wife?

Leaving the Right of Way, I follow a quad bike track towards the summit of Easington Fell. It’s all open access anyhow. The views open up in all directions, but most obviously towards the Yorkshire Three Peaks across the Craven Gap. A few stones mark the summit, a modest 396m.

Turning around, I head back to the road. Initially, I had planned to extend the walk into Grindleton Forest, but looking at the time, I think better of it. The wind is increasing, and it is feeling quite cold.

Over to my left, across the Ribble Valley, Pendle looks as proud as ever.

There is a clear track back after I get through the fell gate, which seems easier than usual. A cross stile reminds me that the Lancashire Witches Way comes across here before heading into Bowland.

All I have to do is follow the obvious track back to the road seen across the way. It is boggy but not too bad. Just wait until we have had some more rain. I’m aiming straight to the quarry at the summit of the road with Waddington Fell and its prominent mast behind. I can see my car clearly —the only one.

On a whim, I decide to climb up onto Waddington Fell. But I first have to circumnavigate the extensive quarry, which is not in operation on weekends. Dropping down the road for some distance to a gate I know, which gives access onto the fell. It’s all supposed to be Open Access, but gates and walls get in my way. Nonetheless, I arrive at the trig point. Is it 395m or 396m, equalling Easington Fell, which I stood on less than an hour ago? I don’t care, as it is one of the best viewpoints in the area.

360 degrees. Down Chipping Vale, The Bowland Fells and beyond, Yorkshire’s Three Peaks, Ribblesdale, and Pendle, obviously. My attempt at a whole-panorama shoot on my phone didn’t work out, so here are a few shots from my camera that don’t do it justice.

The walk back is along the rim of the massive quarry.

Easington Fell in the background.

A bonus as I make my way around are views down to the Hodder Valley with the village of Newton nestled in below Beatrix Fell.

I’m still the only car parked up.

A short but very satisfying afternoon. I’m relieved to be back in the car. On Waddinton Fell, I was exposed to a vicious wind, and the temperature dropped significantly—time to get the woolly hat and gloves out of the cupboard. And it is the end of British Summer Time for this year.

VISITING THE RELATIVES.

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Chipping to Longridge.

I remember visiting relations as a child in the fifties. I had to be on my best behaviour and speak only when spoken to. A lot of the time, I didn’t even know how they were related to me. My grandmother was one of thirteen, so there were so many great aunts to visit. They always seemed to be great aunts rather than uncles. Often, ‘Uncles’ and ‘Aunts’ were just close family friends. I survived the ordeals, and now sadly, all those relatives have passed away. I hope I didn’t subject my children to the same; at least family sizes have diminished somewhat.

What am I waffling on about? You may remember I adopted two wild little kittens earlier in the year. Time moves on, and they are growing into fine young cats, still completely mad but a joy to be with. Their relatives live on the fell, and it is time I paid them a visit. So today I plan a walk which passes their house. I don’t take my kittens with me, I hasten to add.

Dusty and Oscar hanging out.

I am able to catch a bus virtually from outside my house, which takes me to Chipping, from where I can walk back through the fields. Last time I did something similar, I came back over Longridge Fell, and I found it arduous. This time I will keep to the foothills and visit the relations.

The buses run hourly. I board the 12.15, and I’m in Chipping in less than a quarter of an hour, quicker than I drive these country roads. Only three people use this service today, and yet the road is busy with cars travelling between the two villages. A few years ago, when the bus service was threatened with closure, there was a massive outcry from the local population. They haven’t learnt their lesson.

I don’t need to explore Chipping, which has been done many times. But I do call in at the church and pay my respects to Lizzie Dean. Listen to this local raconteur’s story.

Ignoring the delights of the Sun Inn, Cobblestone Cafe and the Farm Shop, I march on through the top of the village, past the village community centre and the period Club Row cottages to Three Way Ends.

I pause to look back at the three sisters, Longridge Fell, Pendle and distant Weets Hill, lined up on the horizon. The changing light, particularly on this northern side of Longridge Fell, becomes an ever-present diversion throughout the walk.

Then I take to the fields. Most of the time, the way is clear, even though it is not walked often. Rambling at its best.

Is there some racial segregation going on here?

I have time to stop at different points to view the fells around me.

I emerge onto a country lane, one of those around here that really go nowhere.

Down the lane, there is an awkward stile to climb in the banking before the white house. Notice the iron railings placed on corners around here to improve visibility.

Back in the fields, I’m heading initially to Crow Trees Farm, on the southern slopes of Elmridge Fell. Through a grove of trees, which I remember being planted.

An old track skirts the fell, and a C18th milestone gives it some antiquity. Clitheroe is eight miles, Blackburn and Garstang are etched on the other faces.

I know I’m approaching my friends’ property when I see some decent Jumar cord replacing the farmers’ usual tatty baler twine.

And there is the family.

Tea is served before I move on, and familiar paths take me back to Longridge.

An afternoon’s rural jaunt in Lancashire’s best and with a purpose. Let’s hope more like it can be squeezed in before winter.

BOWLAND NAVIGATION – NUL POINTS.

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A Croasdale Diversion.

I’ve written before about ‘the path not taken’, from Robert Frost’s poem. Perhaps a biblical quotation would be more apt, ‘Seek, and you shall find’. Well, today we didn’t find. The path I chose to explore up into Croasdale from Slaiburn remained elusive.

The day starts well with a surprise visit to a relatively new curiosity shop in the old school in Slaidburn, where we are parked. Bits of old furniture, paintings and knick-knacks divert us for a while. A coffee grinding machine from the 1920s takes my fancy. Clare is attracted to a globe-like metal sculpture. “We are going for a walk”, but “What time do you close?” we innocently enquire for our return. “About three”, is his reply.

Time to get moving, the morning is drifting on. Late starts are becoming my norm; all will have to change when the clocks go back at the end of the month. From the stunning war memorial…

…we take the lane past Townhead House. Slaidburn village and its surroundings are all part of one estate; perhaps the owner lives up there. Whatever, the village has maintained its ‘olde worlde’ atmosphere with 50 of its buildings listed. I hardly think there is a single new house in or around the area, which is unique these days.

We hop across a limestone wall and follow what looks like some sort of earthworks up the hillside. Was this a deer park? We are innocents abroad, which becomes more obvious as we progress, or not. From up here, one can survey the village environs. The murky high pressure weather continues.

No obvious imprints in the grass; does anybody walk these fields? Constant reference to the OS app on my phone keeps us on track, most of the time. Upon reaching Croasdale House, I take a photo for the first occasion in ages, which shows how focused on not getting lost I have become.

Now heading into the wilder valley of Croadsale, we cross a convenient footbridge, despite the right-of-way going up the east side of the river. Is this the right decision? There is a waymark, and I presume the path this side is to avoid crossing at a ford further upstream. But where is the path? We are faced with boggy, reedy, trackless ground.

An hour or so later, we are still probing the marshy ground. Tracks come and go, but not what we need.

Going.

Gone.

Salvation comes in a quadbike track heading straight up the hillside, possibly from the ford we could have taken. Not our line, but we gladly use it to gain height and avoid the morass. Halfway up a nearby wall offers an island of dry stone, which we utilise for a long overdue lunch. One has to admit the surroundings are special.

All thoughts of getting to the ruins of the House of Croasdale and the higher Croasdale valley evaporate. Let’s get out of here. We agree and just continue up the tracks to reach the Salter Fell road wherever. That last half mile took us hours. We both have very wet feet by now.

Soon, we are marching down the Roman road, wondering if some of the exposed bed stones were laid by the Roman Soldiers.

Profuse fungi take our attention. It’s an unbelievable year for them.

Rather than risk some dubious field paths, I stick to the road for some time. We pass the agricultural graveyard, I described it elsewhere as ‘a herd of dinosaurs’. I’m including my poor photos by special request, will try harder next time.

But now on safer ground, we take the lane to Myttons, a lovely cluster of stone properties. The craft centre is no longer operating. We are on firm ground into Slaidburn, finishing alongside Croasdale Brook once more.

With The Hark to Bouny closed and looking unkempt, the village has lost some of its heart. Let’s hope they find a new tenant. The Youth Hostel has also gone.

The curiosity shop would be shut by now.

I don’t know why we didn’t find the correct path; it should be there somewhere, despite all the reed-covered ground. I will return at some stage and use the Salter Fell Road, then drop down to The House of Croasdale ruins and see if I’m able to pick up the path in reverse from there.

The rest of the way was lovely.

BACK TO BOWLAND.

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Croasdale nostalgia.

A chance conversation with a stranger in the woods the other day reminded me that I have been neglecting my home ground, Bowland, in my posts of late—too much Southern stuff. We had a mini walk from Dunsop Bridge in the summer, but it is high time to get back up there. This morning at 7 am, my new watch tells me I have only had three hours of sleep despite being in bed for eight hours. So I turn over for a lie-in, only for the watch to suddenly tell me it’s “time to get moving”. I had been mulling over in my mind last night on where to walk today, maybe that’s why I didn’t sleep.

The weather plays a part in where I decide to go, and this morning, late, it has to be said, the mist has lifted with the promise of sunshine. I’ve not been up the Salter Fell track in Croasdale for a while, so why not have a leisurely afternoon exploring The Bull Stones up there? This was a regular haunt of mine when AB and I were developing the bouldering potential on these remote rocks. What a great time we had back at the start of the century.

The journey there is almost as good as the walking. A lot of the time, following the Roman Road from Ribchester. Coming down Marl Hill, Ingleboough is in the haze if you know where to look. Bowland is laid out to the north west. The famous Trough can be made out, but I’m heading for that other pass through to Lancaster, Salter Fell, on through Newton and Slaidburn, classic Bowland villages. Sadly, it appears that The Hark to Bounty pub has closed. There’s a lot of history attached to that inn.

I drive up the little lane leading out of Slaidburn, past many barn and farm conversions. As you turn into Wood House Lane, the surface begins to deteriorate. Past the agricultural machinery graveyard, it becomes worse. The road to nowhere.

I press on, knowing I can park up in a space at the top of the lane. But when I get there, the space has gone, a new gate has been installed, and any verge parking has been obliterated. Turning around is not easy, but I come back down the lane a little to where there is some hard standing. One wouldn’t want to get a wheel stuck in this remote spot.

It is 12 noon when I set off walking back up the lane. Through the fell gate is a memorial to the aircrashes and loss of life in this area of Bowland.

At last, I am on the Salter Fell Road, which goes over to Hornby. The Romans came this way from Ribchester to Carlisle, suggesting there would have been an even older way through the hills. The Medieval Monks came this way with pack ponies, wool from their estates in Yorkshire and returned with salt from the coast, hence the name. The Lancashire Witches were brought over here to Lancaster to be tried and hanged. Alfred Wainwright thought it “the finest moorland walk in Britain”, and I won’t disagree. And I must have walked or cycled it many dozens of times.

I always get a thrill when you come around the corner and see the full length of Croasdale ahead, with the track winding its way to the watershed. A herd of tough Belted Galloway cattle roam the hillside. Belties. They have a double coat that allows them to thrive in harsh climates. They are raised primarily for their high-quality, lean beef. Today, they mill around the track but are very docile, the type of cows I like.

There is an old quarry up there, and when it was in operation, attempts were made to upgrade the road. You can still see traces of tarmac here and there. But the way is rough now, which I can attest to from my past cycle rides along it. Only United Utilities and the shooting fraternity have the right to use motor vehicles on it. A few years ago, a section of the track just past the bridge was eroding, threatening to close the route. Drastic action was taken, no doubt costing tens of thousands, to stabilise the hillside. It seems to be working so far. Whilst they were at it, they improved the road surface going up the hill. There is a shooting hut up there after all.

A Witches Way tercet is reached on the shoulder of the hill. Sir Hugh and I followed that route from Barrowford to Lancaster Castle back in 2016. It commemorates the 400th Anniversary of the 1612 trial and hanging of the Lancashire Witches. Ten, white, cast-iron installations on or near the path were embossed with tercets of the walk’s poem, written by Carol Ann Duffy. Appointed Poet Laureate in 2009, she was the first female and the first Scottish Poet Laureate in the role’s 400-year history.

Standing alone up here, a harsh reminder of brutal times, but giving Elizabeth Device a fine view back down Croasdale.

There is still some way to go; this is a wide, expansive Bowland. But where’s the sun?

I reach the gate across the track at the watershed and gaze at the horizon on the other side. Can you see the sea? I certainly can see Wolfhole Crag, one of the more remote Bowland hills. I had an epic walk there in May 2023.

But today I am going no further on the Salter Fell Road. I know a little track going at right angles up towards the Bullstones Circuit. It’s always boggy up this stretch until the first easy boulder is reached, where you can traverse across the fell on firmer ground until beneath the Taurus Boulders.

From up here, one looks at the ‘back’ of the Chipping Fells across acres of peat and heather.

I am always ready for a rest and a bite to eat on reaching here. Today was no different.

This is where AB and I first started our exploration. He couldn’t wait for the gamekeepers to pass by before he launched up the tower of Bully Off. I did warn you there is some serious nostalgia ahead.

Just forget my hankering for the rock and immerse yourself in the wild moorland scenery, even if the light is rather flat. One can always see further than the camera can reach on days like this.

I stroll along below the boulders, taking in the scent of decaying bracken as I look down the valley. I am the only person for miles.

As I come around the corner, the sun finally appears, lighting up the higher boulders.

I don’t bother climbing up there; I’m happy enough to scan the horizon with my binoculars. And I want to see if I can find that massive ancient stone trough. Can you imagine sitting up here, in all weathers, with your hammer and chisel, crafting this out of a gritstone boulder?

I take a sheep trod I know under Reeves Edge. Thankfully, the bracken has died back, so as long as I concentrate, I can’t go wrong, especially with sheep leading the way.

It’s a long way back across the hillside, but eventually a stalking track is reached, which takes me down to the little reservoir and the ford through Croasdale Brook.

I have struggled to cross this water in winter in the past, but today I just walk through rather than risk slippery stones. Yes, my feet are wet, but I’ll soon be back at the start.

Pendle is coming out of the mist as I follow the track back to the car. But this post is not about Pendle. It is about the wild and beautiful Bowland. I haven’t seen a soul all day. Oh, and did I mention I watched a Hen Harrier gliding low over the fells? Magic.

Thanks to that random conversation in the woods, I have again tagged Bowland to a post. At least I should have one reader. Maybe they will comment.

For any climbers interested in a detailed bouldering guide, feel free to download it here.

LIMESTONE PAVEMENTS, FUN, AND FUNGI.

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The fun comes at Fairy Steps, which we encounter halfway through the day. This strange slot in the cliff is the scene of many struggles. Today we are descending, which I think is trickier than climbing up. One enters from the top by a horizontal weakness and then wriggle down the polished slot. Being slim helps. Do you face out or in? I prefer facing in to be able to use the few handholds. Sir Hugh chose the other way. We both take our rucksacs off before the action commences.

Safely down, we read a nearby sign explaining that the cleft was on an ancient coffin route from Arnside to Milnthorpe. The idea that pallbearers could manoeuvre a coffin up this cleft is hard to believe. Supposedly, if you climb or descend the steps without touching the limestone sides of the narrow gully, the fairies will grant you a wish.

No wish today, unfortunately.

I’m late in posting because of other commitments, etc. You can see the day unfold in Sir Hugh’s blog.

A quick look at the weather forecast and a quick phone call to Sir Hugh set us up for a walk today. We park up at the Heron Corn Mill in Beetham, a working water mill on the River Bela that produces flour traditionally. (Open Wednesdays to Sundays, in the summer) We’ve visited several times before, so give it a miss today.

This is another walk in Sir Hugh’s domain. Within 10 yards of leaving the car, he says he has not walked this path. The same comment keeps recurring throughout the short day, but I suspect it is his long-term memory of trudging these paths in years gone by that is creating the ‘confusion’. On the other hand, I’m certain I have not walked these paths. All bodes well.

Beetham is soon behind us.

We are eager to get into the fields crossing above Beetham Hall with its C14th Pele Tower, a sign of unsettled and war-like conditions that prevailed in the Borders throughout much of the medieval period. It all looks a bit derelict, but it seems to keep standing.

Limestone squeeze stiles are common on this route, a pretest to Fairy Steps. If you can’t get through this, it’s time to turn around.

A few further stiles and we enter magical woodlands and limestone bluffs. Progress is slow, especially when Fungi spotting takes precedence.

The path wanders through the woods

And then we are onto an extensive limestone pavement. Care is needed to avoid breaking an ankle in one of the grikes as the clints are slippery. Glacial ice sheets scraped away the soil and weathered the rock surface. Over time, the cracks have deepened due to weathering from rainwater. Wonderful.

There is no path as such, but occasionally a waymark post incongruously appears. Should we be even walking on this geological phenomena.

More fungi.

Open tracks and lanes lead us towards Fairy Steps, but it seems to take us ages. Lunch is taken on the shelf above the steps. Once down, we wander through the trees below the limestone mini cliffs. Continue reading →

ICKNIELD WAY 13. To the end.

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The Mill to Knettishall Heath.

Hardly a church in sight today.

I’m at the end.

I buy a coffee from the friendly mobile man in the car park of Knettinshall Common and talk about the walk and things in general. More regulars come and go. Casually, I wander off to sit down to try and find an Uber taxi. The connection is not good to start with, and then they link me in. But after 10 minutes or so, they ( or it) admit they can’t help.

I phone the pub in Thetford where I’m staying tonight, but all I get is a recorded message from Greene King, which is useless for my enquiry.

Back to Phil, I’m on first-name terms by now, for a second coffee. More regulars, mainly dog walkers, come and go. Some chat longer than others. One, long-haired Steve with his dog, lingers longest and seems interested in my predicament.

“You don’t live in Thetford, do you?” is my direct question. “No, I don’t” is the reply. He stays in the opposite direction, but it was worth a try. The chat continues as the car park starts to empty. “How far is it to Thetford?’ he asks. “About 6 miles or so, I think.” Phil confers. After a bit of thought, he offers to give me a lift using an expression I didn’t recognise, but literally meaning just for the friendship of it. He refuses payment, also, just for the friendship of it.

More chatting with Phil and others whilst I make friends with Steve’s dog, my soon-to-be travelling companion. Then bidding farewell to Phil, we wander across the car park and onto the road where a battered old open-back Land-rover is parked, probably illegally on the verge, to avoid the parking charges. It is unlocked, but Steve pulls a steering wheel from his rucksack, which he then attaches to the stem, his effective anti-theft device. What next? Well, the passenger door doesn’t open easily, so I climb in over the back.

Then we are off, and despite the rattles and the draughts through the missing windows, we sail along happily with the engine purring away. I navigate the few miles to the outskirts of Thetford, where I get him to drop me off without getting caught in complicated traffic. I leave some money in his dashboard for a bottle of wine for his genuine kindness. I have to be helped out of the cab before he can turn round and roar off. A special encounter.

And what of the walking today? Outside the towns, Suffolk is a patchwork of large fields and woods. Well, it isn’t the best.

A long trudge up the dusty lane from my B&B, A short but very noisy walk on a narrow verge of a hectic road. It takes some time for my senses to settle down once I reach the relative calm of the next byway. One doesn’t always realise how polluting noise is.

The sandy track passes more pig farms and vast harvested fields.

Not a farmhouse in sight. Modern farming just needs storage, heavy machinery and workers, probably living in nearby towns.

I found out where all the mashed-up maize goes before it is permanently stored. A tumulus of mulch. For a time, I drift off and imagine I’m on the beach.

Somewhere along the way, I go off to investigate this hummock – is it an anthill? Sadly not. It gets me thinking, when did I last see a wood ant’s nest?

I see, only just, my first horse rider trotting off down the Duke’s Way, where I’m not allowed.

Another busy road lies ahead at Euston, where maybe I could catch a train home, well, not from this Euston. I cross a bridge over the River Blackbourne. The flint wall around the Euston Estate has some unusual additions.

I sit by the village green, all is part of the estate.

In the hall’s grounds, but a little too far off track, is an interesting church. I think you have had enough interesting churches this week.

Capability Brown was responsible for the design of the estate’s grounds.

Despite signs directing the IW walker off down a public right-of-way outside the walls, the route leads inside the grounds on a permissive footpath between mature oak, beech, and sweet chestnut trees. I’m bombarded from above by acorns and beech nuts; it must be a mast year.

Giant puffballs are the size of footballs.

On I go, a trig point appears in the middle of nowhere. 49m, I’m feeling dizzy.

After crossing another road, smaller paths are used through the woods. Finding a tree trunk to sit on for a chocolate break. The trunk is a work of art.

The path narrowed, and I find myself pushing through the shrubbery. The aroma from the Ivy flowers is quite strong, something I’ve not noticed before. The insects are buzzing around it – a late supply of nectar.

Hidden in the brambles is an Icknield Way Milestone. I’m nearing the end.

Entering Knettishall Common, the scenery changes to a more pleasing vista; gone are those vast agricultural fields. I end up walking on the agar of Peddars Way Roman Road.

The last time I stood at this sign was in 2015 with my old mate Mel, we had just completed the Angles Way from Great Yarmouth. We walked the Peddars Way back in 2003.

It is good to be back.

All I have to do is walk down to the car park, have a coffee, and hail a taxi.

The Bell Inn, Thetford.

It seems a long time ago I stood on Ivinghoe Beacon. Now, what about the Wessex part of the Great Chalk Way?

ICKNIELD WAY 12. The King’s Forest.

4 Replies

Icklingham – to New Zealand Cottages, The Mill.

King’s Forest was named to commemorate the Silver Jubilee of King George V and Queen Mary in 1935. The forest was planted in the 1930s and is primarily composed of pines, Scots and Corsican. There are belts of deciduous trees, and the Icknield Way follows one of these. Glacial sandy soil covers the chalk. I have a walk of about 4 miles through the heart of it.

But before we arrive there, I have the pleasure of viewing All Saints’ Church on the edge of Icklingham, A medieval thatched church in the care of The Churches Conservation Trust. All Saints’ was built largely in the fourteenth century, although it is of Norman origin. Since it has not been used as a parish church for over 100 years, it remains one of the best examples of an unspoilt Suffolk church. Of course, it is built of flint and stone. With all roofs, apart from the tower, thatched, the last time was in 1999. There are some fine gargoyles on the tower roof. Click on any image to enlarge.

The door handle is cleverly crafted. A cross, a heart and an anchor.

It is light and airy upon entry, with lots of plain glass in the windows. Not being in use, it is sparsely furnished. Most of the woodwork dates back to the 17th century. All the windows feature elegant tracery, and there is some medieval stained glass. The thatch can be seen in the roof space, giving the space an agricultural feel.

Traces of paint indicate that the stonework would have originally been decorated.

A highlight of the church is the chancel floor, laid with fourteenth-century tiles. With a variety of colours, shapes, and designs, they form a unique mosaic. They have been here for 700 years!

That was a fascinating hour, but time to get on the way. Fields are traversed behind the church, and then I’m into the King’s Forest for four miles. Sandy and flinty, the trail gives easy walking. The trees, beech, oak and birch, line either side, but beyond them are the conifer plantations managed by Forest England. There are the prints of deer, but I never saw any, despite sitting quietly for long periods. Fallow, Roe or Muntjac’s?

What’s out there?

Another diversion was the bird song from the trees. Robins are common, and where there are bushes of broom gone to seed, flocks of Blue, Great and Long-tailed Tits flit about. The occasional Buzzard soars overhead at the margins of the forest.

A fork in the track is my only navigational decision. I choose left, which turns out to be right if you see what I mean. There are still some flowers hanging on into autumn.

At some stage, bored with the track I take to the beechwoods in search of fungi.

Eventually, there ahead is a monument, and I hit the road at Shelterhouse Corner. I can just about make out the inscription celebrating the Jubilee of 1935.

A path through the pine shelter bed is provided to avoid the busy road.

Then it is back into the woods on a byway. All of a sudden, it becomes busy with outsized agricultural vehicles.

A monster of a machine, squirting muck, is raking the field I have to cross.

The watering equipment for these fields is also on the large scale.

I eventually escape the arena…

…back into Breckland forestry.

Now on well used tracks passing massive pig farms, with a choice of housing.

And then in the middle of nowhere, I’m at the very comfortable Mill for the night. An oasis of calm.

I don’t know why the cottages are labelled ‘New Zealand’ on the map, and I forget to ask.

ICKNIELD WAY 11. Sunny and Sandy Suffolk.

11 Replies

Kentford to Ickingham.

The transition to sand is quite abrupt. I literally step onto it as I cross the road in Kentford. The flints are still present, but the chalk has been overlaid.

On the map, a road runs from Kentford to Lackford, marked as Icknield Way in that olde English writing. A tempting straight line, but that would involve miles of road walking. Instead, the guidebook takes a different route through the villages of Herringwell and Tuddenham, where a version of the Icknield Way may have gone.

But first, a visit to the shop for some freshly made sandwiches for lunch. I walk back along the busy road. A quick look at St.Mary’s Church.

.Despite the fact that they closed the door in my face yesterday, I call in at the cafe for coffee and a croissant. I end up chatting to a cyclist who is a francophile, and we have had many common experiences over there.

The morning drifts on, but it is sunny and warm. Why rush?

There is a large BMX, MTB and pump track right by the roadside. It looks impressive, but there are no riders out this early. There is a lot of sand in evidence.

I sneak under the railway and pass by a large sand and gravel pit operated by Tarmac.

And then I escape the traffic and dust and wander along a quiet byway. They are harvesting maize for cattle feed in the next fields. A military organisation. The field of maize disappears before my eyes.

The Pine trees for which the Breckland is known appear on cue.

Easy walking into Herringswell, a small place with one street.

The village sign reflects that the village was once renowned for its fish caught in the Fens, before the area was drained.

The Church of St. Ethelbert is a plain and compact structure, having been rebuilt in 1870 following a fire. It is, however, well known for its 20th-century Arts and Crafts style stained glass windows, depicting both rural and religious scenes.

Here are some of the windows.

On a more personal level. And I do always like Staffordshire tiles.

Back outside, the sun is still shining bright. I feel I am on a summer holiday.

Old granary next to the farm.

I leave the village on a long lane, blue bin day, which eventually turns into a sandy track.

Tuddenham provided me with a seat on the village green to eat those sandwiches and a nice village pond, there didn’t seem to be much else.

A road to nowhere becomes a sandy track leading into the Cavenham Heath Nature Reserve.

They are trying to preserve the heathland, which is man-made in the first place. Agricultural practices over the centuries have been preventing tree growth.

The track becomes sandier as one traverses the heath; there are lots of tempting side paths. The place must be a delight in July and August when the heather is blooming.

Big open skies to the north, from where I could hear but never see planes. Turns out there is an American air base up there, Mildenhall. The track slowly descends to the River Lark. There used to be a stone bridge here, thus linking the track to Icklingham. This Temple Bridge became unsafe and was demolished in 2002. The replacement footbridge is a little disappointing. I could easily have used the ford over the Lark today; in fact, I wish I had.

It is a simple stroll into the village. I pass by the modern flour mill, with its interesting history. One of my sons is a baker. The Guinness Arms is welcoming, I grab a pint and go and sit in the garden overlooking the River Lark. This could be the last warm day of summer. The Guinness Arms is part of the Guinness family-owned Elveden Estate. Throughout the hotel are pictures of the Guinness family in their heyday.