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.

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  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.  

  The river picks up pace approaching the rapids, but bears no resemblance to when it is in full flow. The Wheel is barely turning.

  I sit on a rock, drinking my coffee, watching the river flow by; at peace with the world.

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But never mind Dinckley, Dusty is the star of the show.

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