Monthly Archives: December 2025

A NEW YEAR – A NEW DIARY.

I have been keeping a diary of sorts from my walks and climbs since my late teens. I now have 10 volumes spanning all those years. Only brief entries are needed to bring each day back to life. Companions, route, weather, and incidents all paint a vivid picture in my mind—some years a thousand climbs, many years a thousand miles.

My first entry – 1967. September 5th. Pennine Way. Mel. Alston to Hadrian’s Wall. 22 miles. Camped in Milecastle 44. Wet and windy. Good beer in Greenhead.

A few years ago, I partially digitalised the record, allowing me to quickly assess the information stowed there. And since 2012, I have been posting some of my adventures here on WP. I was a little late to the digital age.

New Year’s Eve will pass me by with an odd firework in my dreams. Elsewhere…

On Facebook this evening from Ribble Valley police – A Section 34 Dispersal Order, under the Anti-Social Behaviour, Crime and Policing Act 2014, has been issued in Longridge due to anti-social behaviour and criminal offences in the Longridge area this evening.

The order will run from 6.40 pm until 1 am on Thursday, 1st January 2026. This dispersal power gives police officers the power to request people to leave the area, which is outlined on the attached map.

This will not impact on regular people enjoying the New Year festivities but we ask parents, in particular, to check where there (sic) children are this evening. We will deal with any criminal offences or breaches.

When I was a child, all we had was a tall, dark stranger, the bloke next door, coming across the threshold for good luck and a glass of whisky.

Well, a new year has almost dawned, 2026, and I have a new notebook for my entries—a somewhat irreverent one from one of my sons.

Tomorrow will be my first foray, and a happy New Year to you all out there.

A GRAND DAY OUT.

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The Harris Museum, Preston.

I’ve just spent the last couple of hours re-watching Nick Park’s early Wallace and Gromit films on iPlayer. (A Grand Day Out, 1989; The Wrong Trousers, 1993; A Close Shave, 1995; A Matter of Loaf and Death, 2008). I felt I had to after visiting the Wallace and Gromit: A Case at the Museum exhibition in the newly opened Harris Library, Museum and Gallery in Preston earlier in the day. These four short films were produced at Aardman Studios in Bristol, and originally shown on BBC TV. My memory of them is somewhat vague, but I find them much more enjoyable than his full-length feature films: The Curse of the Were-Rabbit, 2005 and Vengeance Most Fowl. 2024. That possibly says more about my attention span rather than the films’ qualities. I now think that if I had refreshed my memory of the films before visiting the exhibition, I would have derived more from it.

For anyone wanting to see the Wallace and Gromit exhibition in Preston, it closes on January 4th.

When I first moved to Preston in the early 1970s, I was a regular visitor to the Harris Library for books. I remember glancing at the museum exhibits and art gallery. One or two objects stayed in my mind from that time: The Lady In the Yellow Dress, the central pendulum, an ancient Elk’s skeleton and pottery remains from Bleasdale Circle. The years go by, and I haven’t visited since I moved to Longridge. The Museum and library closed in 2021 for a major multimillion-pound redevelopment. It reopened to much acclaim at the end of September 2025, with the Wallace and Gromit exhibition a major attraction. I still hadn’t visited, but today my grandson and his partner, both recent art students, came up from Manchester to see the present exhibition before it closes, and I was gladly dragged along.

We emerge from the brutalistic bus station and make our way through the ageing shopping arcade to emerge alongside the Victorian buildings at the heart of the city. The covered market, the council offices, the old law courts, and the delightful arcade which deposits us into the Flag Market. The old post office, on the far side, was destined to become a hotel, but work has apparently stalled. The Harris, which we have come to visit, dominates the square. Opened in 1893, the Grade I listed building is owned and managed by Preston City Council. Its origins are from a bequest from Edmund Harris, a wealthy Preston lawyer, in 1877, in that grand age of Victorian educational enlightenment. The building was designed in a Neo-Classical style by local architect James Hibbert. “To Literature Arts and Sciences” is enblazoned across the portico.

As an aside, I recently wrote about a bull-baiting ring at Worston and, on further reading, came across an often-overlooked bull ring on the Flag Market in Preston. Bull baiting was banned in 1726. Time to find it. Yes, and there, hiding just behind the falafel stall, in the SW corner, is evidence of it.

Into the Harris we go – it is free to visit. “The Harris is here to serve as a cultural hub, bringing together communities and promoting creativity and learning” I realise immediately how vast the interior is. A central rotunda with rooms disappearing on all sides and on four floors. A Foucault Pendulum, displaying the Earth’s rotation, hangs 35m, the longest in the UK.

We did a whirlwind tour of the library areas and some of the upper galleries before joining the queue for the Wallace and Gromit display. The queue lasted an hour before we were let into the exhibition. A good chance to chat to the friendly people of Preston. Behind us was a gent wearing a TVR-emblazoned hat. TVR sports cars were manufactured in Blackpool and once achieved cult status before being bought out by foreign investors. One of my friends still drives one, and the man in the queue once had three in various states of repair. The family in front had an excited young fan of the W and G films, and somehow the conversation turned to visiting Sri Lanka and its tea plantations. I now realise we were passing a display on the history and importance of tea, on the upper gallery. The view down from here was acrophobic.

At last, we were in…

… which meant nothing to me until rewatching the early films.

The genius creator behind Wallace and Gromit was Nick Park, a Preston lad born in 1958. He had a keen interest in drawing cartoons from a young age, encouraged by his father. Some of his early attempts are on display.

His college graduation project, A Grand Day Out, was brought to fruition with the help of Aardman Studios. It was six years in the making. He has worked with them ever since, on far more projects than W and G.

The secret behind his Wallace and Gromit stop-motion animations is his use of plasticine for his models. This blends in with the characters, giving them a somewhat homely northern character. His choice of Pater Sallis for Wallace’s voice-over was a master stroke, even if the accent is more white rose than red. A fire at Aardman Studios in 2005 destroyed many original models, but enough survived and are on display here today.

The exhibition highlights the level of detail that Park put into creating his characters, with many of his original sketches on display.

The detail was further carried through to his sets, several of the originals being displayed. If you are a fan, you will recognise them.

Using the plasticine, Park created a range of expressions for Wallace’s vocabulary. These he preserved and used as and when on his character.

Throughout the exhibition were models used in the original films, a fascinating collection.

I can’t convey the amount of material and information in this exhibition. What a shame it’s coming to an end this week.

Throughout the display were videos from some of Nick Park’s films, which were much appreciated by all ages.

I will be back soon to immerse myself in the libraries and galleries. Here is a taster, the enigmatic ‘Pauline in the Yellow Dress’.

LONGRIDGE DOES CHRISTMAS.

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I remember in my childhood days at Christmas time, my father would go down to the market on Christmas Eve and purchase a tree, never more than five feet tall, and carry it back for us to decorate that evening. I still have some of the tree decorations from that era, hand-painted lanterns. God forbid, but we had little candles in holders on the tree, which we lit for a short time. Think of the fire risk. The tree would barely last till the 12th night, depositing needles all over the hall carpet.

Now Xmas starts in the shops in October or earlier. The radio plays festive songs throughout the month. Trees are going up at the end of November. Some of the houses around are garlanded from floor to roof, all flashing lights and blown-up Santas. No doubt they will be setting off fireworks soon. Not far away, ‘German Markets’ are selling cheap plastic Chinese trinkets.

But I’m not a complete Scrooge. Even if the festivities have lost their meaning, it is good to see some sparkling cheer in these winter months.

We are only a small town, once a village even, and don’t have a civic Christmas Tree. But for years, shops on the high street in Berry Lane sprouted Xmas trees from their walls. Health and safety have intervened, and some of the brackets supporting the trees have been judged unsafe. So no trees this year. Someone has stepped in to give the street a festive cheer. A local artist, apricotsulphurdesign, has painted some shop windows with Christmas scenes. Other shops have done their own decorating.

On a shopping trip, I wander into town. Why not take a photo of the windows as I go? Along the way, giving a nod to our varied independent businesses.

Excuse the glass reflections.

Ignore my imaginary header image; this is what it really looks like.

Best wishes for the season to anybody out there.

SIMPLY BLEASDALE.

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A winter afternoon, and I’m surrounded by familiar fells, Parlick, Faisnape, Hazelhurst and Beacon, far away from the pre-Christmas hustle and bustle. It’s been a while since I was out and about, but one has to take the opportunities of fair weather as they come along at this time of year. A cooler east wind is creeping in, so hopefully that persistent wet weather is behind us for some time.

St. Eadmer’s, where I park, sits in this beautiful setting on the Bleasdale Estate. It is the only church in the UK to be dedicated to St Eadmer, an Anglo-Saxon Benedictine monk and scholar. I have written about the church and Bleasdale many times, so let’s just get on with the walk, a circuit on good tracks.

I wonder if people turned up at Bleasdale Circle for the winter solstice a couple of days ago. It’s rather a bleak spot now that its trees have toppled.

Throughout the short afternoon, the fell tops are constantly changing as clouds come and go. The sun makes a weak appearance at times, adding interest.

There are several variations to my Bleasdale walks; today, I choose widdershins on a short circuit for no obvious reason. I contemplate the lonely lives of upland farmers as I pass by their isolated properties. I meet one other person, a lady recently retired from Sussex with her two dogs, and now lucky enough to live in Bleasdale.

On the return loop, I once more peer at that packhorse bridge over the infant Brock, near Brooks. It is on private property. I’ve read that it was on the original track from Bleadale House and Reformatory School to St. Eadmers. I cross what is obviously a more modern bridge, but then the curiosity gets the better of me, and I enter the woods to backtrack above the river and look down on the older crossing. One day…

Again, on a whim, I investigate a footpath I have never used before. Leaving the estate road, it cuts across rough fields to Admarsh Barn and the church where I am parked.

St. Eadmer’s.

The track into the estate.

SIMPLY A swollen beck.

Lonely Holme House Farm.

Looking up to Fiensdale Head.

Fairsnape and Parlick.

Beacon Fell

Old packhorse bridge.

From above.

Adnarsh Barn.

While looking online for the origins of Admarsh, I came across an interesting article on Bleasdale that I hadn’t previously seen. https://e-voice.org.uk/longridge/longridge-history-society/bleasdale/ Well worth a read if you know the area.

Time to get back to the shops.

A BIT OF DENTDALE FROM SEDBERGH.

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I have to thank John Bainbridge from Country Ways for inspiring this walk; he often writes about Sedbergh. However, it seemed to take me so long to get inspired this morning. Lots of faffing involved. Anyhow, I was parked up in Sedbergh close by the cemetery at 11 am. The day was forecast to go downhill in the afternoon. That decided me on a clockwise circuit so that I would get the views from the high ground before a plod along the lane back to town.

Some walks suit a particular direction, either because of the ease of ascent or for the views unfolding. Clockwise or widdershins. I tend to opt for a gentle, gradual ascent and deal with the views by stopping often and looking back – the best of both worlds, and so it is today.

Stepping through the arch into the cemetery, I feel I’m entering a different world, like Alice through the looking glass.

The walk has begun. A stroll down to Birks House and the footpath branching off alongside the River Rawthey. I probably make a mistake here as I keep to the riverside path rather than the PRofW, which would have passed Bruce Loch and the Pepper Pot. I have to scramble up from where my riverside path fades to join the path above—no big problem. The Loch and the Pepper Pot were part of the Akay estate, which was sold off in 1936, to Sedbergh School and the mansion was demolished. I catch a glimpse of the Pepperpot, restored by the school, as I enter the woods above the river. Some of the trees reflect the lost estate’s glory.

Birks House and Winder.

Crossing the Rawthey at Millthrop Bridge, I walk down the line of cottages built for the workers of the nearby mill, originally for corn, then cotton, and, lastly, until 1931, wool.

An old cobbled track climbs into the hills.

The steepness gives me an excuse to pause, more than once, and look back over Sedbergh with the Howgills lurking in the background.

The track splits, and I take the higher one, The Dales Way.

As I reach the high point, I’m intrigued by piles of stones in the grass; were they just from clearing the fields for agriculture?

Walking the Dales Way westwards, what a view would greet you, cresting the ridge. It’s been 45 years since I came that way, so my memory is vague, but I’m happy to relive it today.

The good-walled track continues through gorse and woodlands before dropping into the fields of Gap and Hewthwaite farms—traditional vernacular C18th buildings rooted to the landscape.

The steep, rough lane from the farms has a wall on its right with finishing flat coping stones, unusual for a farm track. Two doors offer a further clue that something grander borders the lane.

The answer is Gate Manor, which I’ve often noticed when driving along the road to Dent. Today, I don’t see it till I’m on the other side of the valley, my photo out of sequence.

I get in a muddle in the fields by the Dairy Cottage converted dwellings. A finger post points vaguely south with the unhelpful ‘Brackensgill via deep ford’, no mention of a bridge, which is rather worrying. Estracating myself from a field, I locate the lane leading down to the ford. The lane itself is like a river, but a footbridge does appear to save the day. In fact, its steps provide a seat for a lunch stop. I wouldn’t have fancied the ford across the River Dee. A little upstream from here live my friends, and we have bathed in the Dee in the summer months.

I reach the lane, which takes me back towards Birks. Upper Dentdale can wait for another occasion.

For over a mile, not a car is seen, and I have time to admire the old farmsteads along the way. Stepping back into another century.

After the side road over the graceful Rash Bridge, I come across an old abandoned Methodist chapel, Dent Foot, and then the Rash Mill, an undershot mill dating from the C16th when it was used for grinding corn.

Outflow from the undershot wheel.

Then off the road on footpaths winding through the low hills, giving excellent views back up Dentdale and over to the Howgills, with Wild Boar Fell’s flat top visible through Gardsale. This walk has everything.

Judging by the variety of lichens, the air quality up here is excellent – fill your lungs.

Dropping steeply down through a thicket of hawthorns, which apparently gives a stunning display in May. Today I enjoy all the red haws.

Back alongside the fast-flowing River Dee, a beautiful arched bridge, Abbott Holme, takes me straight into a golf course, which I don’t navigate too well; fortunately, there are no players.

Woodland paths lead me along to a footbridge over the River Rawthey. Around Sedbegh, one is never quite sure which river one is following. The Lune is close by.

The old mill on the opposite bank used to be a water-powered cotton and worsted spinning mill. The lane leads back through the few houses of Birks to the cemetery and back through the arch with Sedbergh’s Winder above, celebrated in song by the school.

Far off from beck and fell,
As boyhood’s days grow dimmer,
The memory will not die
Of Winder’s clear-cut outline
Against an evening sky.

That’s a lot crammed into 5 miles. Thanks for reading.

On a final note, a fitting memorial in that churchyard to a brave Polish airman defending another nation. Let us hope we continue to stand firm with Ukraine.

BAILEY’S LISTED BUILDINGS.

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Aighton, Bailey and Chaigley is a combined parish in the Ribble Valley, centred on Hurst Green. Many of you will have walked hereabouts, Longridge Fell, Stonyhurst College and the Tolkien trail, without realising its parish name. Today I’m exploring the Bailey area, west and south of Hurst Green. Looking at the map this morning for inspiration, I notice Bailey Hall with a moat surrounding it. Checking Historic England, it shows up as a Grade II-listed C17th house on an earlier C14th site, of a Chantry Chapel. A public footpath goes through its grounds.

A short drive and I’m parked in Hurst Green. I take the familiar track alongside Dene Book, which I’ve described many times. Renovation of the two houses along here is underway. Looking down through the bare trees, one can see the spot where a mill race came off the Brook to serve a bobbin mill further down the valley.

I walk on past the quarry to reach Sandy Bridge, a substantial structure for the little valley. Of course, this highway previously served Greengore, a C16th Hunting Lodge for the medieval Stonyhurst Deer Park.

The waterfalls above the bridge are particularly lively today and stand out well through the bare trees.

I don’t go as far as Greemgore, as I want to use some field paths I may not have trodden before. There is a hazy view of Pendle across the valley, header photo. I know I’m going to get muddy. I navigate through the yard of Hill Farm and, on in the fields below the shapely Doe Hill, with its crown of trees.

Bailey House is next, and the way is clear. This is a grade II-listed C17th building, partially hidden from the right-of-way.

I come out onto the main Longridge Road at the site of the now-demolished Punch Bowl Inn. (On old maps, it was named Fenton Arms) There is a lot of local controversy over the fate of this Grade II listed C18th inn. I walk down the lane beside the rubble.

An empty house is passed, and then a concrete drive winds through the fields towards Bailey Hall. I’ve not been down here for decades. Approaching the buildings, I pass barns that I later find out are cruck-framed. The largest barn has been converted to impressive living accommodation.

Bailey Hall stands alone, with the remains of the surrounding moat visible. Some windows have been bricked up, presumably in response to the 1696 Window Tax introduced under King William III. The whole building appears unbalanced to me.

The remains of the Chantry Chapel are difficult to make out, mainly a pile of stones. It had been built and occupied as an outlier to Whalley Abbey. so the local population could pray without difficult travel.

The moat is clearly seen on the east side of the house, where I enter the woods and drop down to a footbridge over Bailey Brook. (interestingly marked as Foot Stick on old OS maps)

The way across the fields to grade II listed Merrick’s Hall (Priest’s House on the old map) is marked by white poles, which are a great help; if only more farmers would do the same. The hall is unoccupied and in a poor state. Through the south side windows, I can just make out an elaborately carved fire surround in one room. At the front of the hall are some interesting mullioned windows, but all a little sad.

The farmer has a sizeable collection of scrap metal.

I have never been in St. John’s parish church, just across the road, so it’s yet another discovery for today. Built in 1838, it has a plain interior. What strikes me immediately is a beautiful stained glass window reminiscent of the Arts and Crafts style of William Morris and Burne-Jones. The box pews were removed in the early 20th century and replaced with pine pews.

The church prides itself on its eco-sustainability; it won a coloured glass award. On the west wall is a charming church clock.

All I have to do is walk down the steep Dene to finish this worthwhile little circuit of Bailey.

The Bayley Arms (note the change in spelling) looks very dilapidated, let’s hope it doesn’t suffer the same fate as the Punchbowl.

National Library of Scotland.

OUT OF THE ROUGH.

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Dusty and Dinkley.

In my last post, some time ago, I was in the rough.

Well, I seem to have taken some time to escape. Out of nowhere, my throat became encased in sandpaper, and my voice struggled to function. A week of hot drinks, gargling and cough medicines ensured the bug didn’t get onto my chest, the main worry for us oldies. Disturbed sleep was mitigated with whisky.

Of course, there was that stormy Friday when one of my mature trees snapped in half, pulling with it a climbing rose I’ve had for 40 years with stems thicker than my arms. The devastation was evident from my kitchen window, but I was in no state to go out and sort it.

On the mend, I eventually ventured out with a chainsaw and loppers. But that rose was a nightmare; it would hook me up from all angles, taking lumps out of my jacket and skin. An hour a day was all I could manage—slow progress and still not all cleared.

For company, I would bring out my kittens to play in the garden. Oscar is becoming a proficient climber, while Dusty quarters the lawn, honing her skills in pursuit of insects. I need to keep an eye on them as a tom from across the road is very aggressive towards them.

In a second, Oscar is up a tree, but little Dusty is chased out of the garden.

That was the start of three days of worrying for her safety. I went around neighbours’ gardens and alleys, rattling tins and knocking on doors. I left bedding and a litter tray out to offer her some olfactory guide back. I resorted to a Facebook message. And it rained nonstop. She was spotted in a garage but ran off, which gave me hope. But it was unlikely she would willingly return to my garden after the scare she had experienced.

To my joy, yesterday, after a vain morning search for her, she turned up in my porch. A lovely neighbour found her in their garage and coaxed her out. She was happy to be picked up and brought home. With relish, she tucks into a juicy chicken drumstick. Oscar is thrilled to see her, and we are now all having a cosy purring night together.

I hope we are all out of the rough.

Which is all a prelude to my walk today. It would have been easy to sink into another coffee and a book, but the sun shine beckons—time to get moving. I have in mind a gentle walk alongside the Ribble at Dinkley.

Surprisingly, I am the only car in the usually popular Marles Wood carpark. To vary the day and for an easy start, I just walk along the road to the pub and church at Old Langho. It’s a quiet stretch of road, and I relax into a gentle rhythm, enjoying the crisp air and sunshine.

I remember when this house was a pub, The Tanners Arms and then a Chinese Restaurant, Mr Foo’s? Allegedly, he lost the place playing mahjong.

I’m not sure when the next bus will come along here.

I pause at the sandstone bridge over Dinkley Brook.

My obligatory shot of Pendle, with his head in the clouds.

The Black Bull hasn’t opened yet, and there is a burial service at St. Leonards Church, so I move on. You can read more about the church and Brockhall Hospital cemetery here and here.

More lodges are being built on the adjacent site. I am soon through and dropping down to cross Dinckley Brook for the second time this morning.

Once up the slope, I head for the cluster of houses. Dinckley is a scattered community. Rather than continue on the lane, which I’ve walked before, I fancy a footpath going past Cravens, which might give me a view from the hillside over the Ribble. I often feel anxious walking down private drives, but I needn’t have worried; a series of gates takes me through their yard and back out into fields. The views I hoped for don’t materialise due to a belt of woodland above Dinckley Hall, but I do look across to Longridge Fell above Hurst Green.

And there is this stately oak.

Wire fencing hems me in; its purpose becomes apparent at a gate. The wigwams are just visible on the skyline before I reach the road going down to the hall.

Now on familiar territory, I make my way past that lovely shiny new bridge, replacing a ferry and a previous suspension bridge, whose opening plaque from 1951 is still on display.

Despite all the rain we have had, the river is running low, with the shingle beaches visible.

The flood debris left on the banks, some 10 feet or more above today’s level, is scary.

The bridge is better viewed from this angle.

As I say, the river is low and ambling along at a slow pace, which I happily go along with. Entering Marles Wood, the only leaves left are on the young beech trees.