I mentioned earlier that I was going to follow the seasons up here on the fell by a regular photographic ‘diary’ of the changing vegetation. Wouldn’t it be great to set up a time lapse camera.
I was up there today and just wanted to share the fragrant blossoms on the Mountain Ash, (Sorbus aucuparia)
Hasn’t the plantation greened up nicely?
Glasson across the mud flats.
I manage to make my routine cycle ride to Glasson a little different this time.
*
I find myself driving into Lancaster on a hot afternoon. Thankfully it’s a Sunday. I normally avoid Lancaster City’s roads wherever possible, they are a nightmare of one way streets and I’m always in the wrong lane at the next junction. I’ve come from Halton on the north side of the Lune and I need to get to Glasson Dock on the south side of the Lune. Any mistake in Lancaster will send me all the way around again, possibly to be repeated ad nauseam. My worst nightmare. There are too many choices and everyone else knows where they are going. Today I can’t read the signs clearly, there is a reason for this that will become obvious shortly.
I don’t have time to admire the magnificent city centre Victorian architecture as I queue at traffic lights. A bit of lane drifting and I think I’m on the right way near the hospital, but no I’m heading for Aldcliffe which I had cycled through earlier today. At least I’m south of the Lune. I stop to look at my map, I don’t have satnav, and yes a left turn will take me to the A588, the main road to Glasson.
*
The day had started with a drive up the motorway to park up as usual at Halton ‘station’. It was very busy and I just about squeezed in on a verge. I unloaded my bike and realised I had forgotten my helmet. Even though I was going to be off road all day I felt very vulnerable with just a peaked cap. My worst cycling accident happened on Blackpool Prom when a collision with another cyclist sent me head first into the tram lines. Thankfully I was wearing a helmet that day. Hence my apprehension now. 
Not having been on my bike since February, surely not that long – it has been very wet, I was looking for a straightforward ride. Well it was, I arrived in Glasson on a high from all the fragrant May blossom lining the route. I had cast a clout now that May was out and I was glad of it as the temperature soared. The tide was well out exposing acres of mudflats. I smiled cycling down that slight dip in the old rail track at how on a couple of occasions I’ve nearly come to grief in the floods that can cover the way, all was bone dry today. The motorcyclists were out in full force.
My usual haunt, the village shop across the harbour had undergone a change, a wider door straight into the bakery section. I usually order one of their cheese and onion slices. Is this the only reason I cycle to Glasson? But what had happened to their really quite good coffee machine? It had gone but you could get one from the Smoke House shop next door. Have they missed a trick there? I was going to call in there anyhow for some smoked mackerel for Sir Hugh whom I hoped to visit later in the day. I got my coffee and sat outside the shop enjoying my slice whilst chatting to a fellow cyclist who had come down from Hest Bank. It was a great day to be out. Before leaving I returned to buy the mackerel and enjoy a bit of banter with the lady shop assistant who was struggling to unpack crisp packets for an instore display. For a full selection of their products – The Port of Lancaster Smokehouse
Refuelled I set off back with renewed energy. Whizzing along the old railway line past Ashton Hall golf course and taking the side route to Aldcliffe to join the canal, which stays surprisingly rural, for a last burst through Lancaster to the Lune Aqueduct. It was only then I became aware that I wasn’t wearing my glasses, I hardly need them hence the delay in realisation. Was i still under the influence of the May blossom? A furtive search in my handlebar bag failed to find them. You know more or less straight away where you have probably left them. In the shop where you were balancing mackerels, glasses, phone and credit card. 
So once back at the car I set off to navigate to Glasson.
My glasses had been handed in at the shop, the lady assistant was still battling with the crisps. So all was fine. Well almost, in my fluster about the glasses I’d forgotten I was nearly out of fuel – where is the nearest garage?
Sir Hugh never received his mackerel and in any case he was taking advantage of the good weather and wandering in the Eden Valley once more. I hope he has enjoyed a more relaxing day than mine. I await his report at conradwalks.
Here I am in Bleasdale again, I walked around a couple of weeks ago.
Mike is searching for a four mile walk for his, increasingly aging, walking group. I suggest this as an option. good surfaces on the whole, no stiles or steep inclines. a toilet at the start and a pub not far off for lunch. We are joined by Moira who will be leading the walk if Mike is still sailing in Scottish waters. A perfect warm Spring afternoon awaits us.
I am writing it up again as I have come across some additional interesting history of the area, courtesy of Historic Walks around Bleasdale, Dixon and Jarvinen, hidden in my bookshelves from 1988. Anyhow I never tire of this circuit in the bowl of the fells.
As usual we park at the Grade II listed Saint Eadmer’s Church, the only one named so in the country. “There was a church on this site in the C16th. In 1702 Christopher Parkinson of Hazelhurst gave £5 10s a year for the wages of a minister. It was rebuilt in 1835. Mullioned windows from the original church were incorporated into the tower and decorated stones can be seen in the wall next to the gate“
Nearby is Admarsh Barn, now converted into living accommodation. “Above the door is a date stone 1720 with the initials of the Robert Parkinson” mentioned above. 
The short diversion to Bronze Age Bleasdale Circle is duly taken. It will look better when the replaced circle of trees have grown.
We walk on heading for the fells. Sheep and lambs are everywhere and we spend time trying to reunite a bleating lamb with its mother in another field, best to let them sort it out themselves. 
Bypassing Admarsh Farm (1814) we climb slowly to Holme House farm, these are remote farmsteads. Now for an interesting historical update. The lane continues to Hazelhurst Farm passing an isolated cottage on the way. this had been derelict for years but is now refurbished and occupied.
“A hamlet known as Coolan once existed here, consisting of six cottages, the inhabitants making a living from wool combing and straw hat manufacturing. Only the old village stocks and a deserted cottage remain today (1988) as forlorn reminders of their industrial enterprise. The wool was transported as far as Burnley and Halifax and the packhorse bridge was built along the route at Brooks. Careful inspection of the farm walls around Hazelhurst will reveal the remains of mullioned windows, dressed building stone and old doorheads, part of the old Coolan“
We are distracted by the farmers bringing in their sheep so we don’t see the stones – next time I will be on the lookout. 
On through Clough Head, over the bridge built by the boys from the reformatory school, whose buildings still stand along the way. “This bridge was built by the boys of North Lancashire Reformatory School between 1858 and 1859 under the guidance of Christopher Foster, mason instructor at the school. Above the upstream arch of the bridge is a dated foundation stone and above the downstream arch is a carved tablet showing the bridges tools of construction. The school was established by W. G. Garnett, J.P. of Bleasdale Tower in 1857, to give one hundred boys useful employment, principally in agricultural labour, and their farming operations brought many areas of moorland into good cultivation“
I managed to take a photo of the downstream parapet once, 
We don’t go up to the Tower but follow the estate road left past the Packhorse Bridge, by beautiful beech hedges and the old school buildings, closed in 2019 when only two pupils were registered. back to our car. 
What a lovely walk in the bowl of the fells and now a little more of its history told.
I haven’t done ‘that local walk’ this year. The fields, to be honest, have been too wet. It was a walk I repeated many times during the lockdown, remember that? It has always been one of my favourites taking me straight into the countryside. From my front door up the road and into the fields. Across them to Gill Bridge, up the lane and into the Derby Estate. Through Ferrari’s Country House grounds and back on the road past Little Town Dairy and the Derby Arms.
Today was the first time this year I’ve been able to walk in the area in trainers, sun and wind have helped to dry the ground in most places. A pleasure to be out. The grass was long and lush ready for silage.
Even the path by the pond was dry enough. 
Along the lanes and hedgerows white flowered Cow Parsley, Garlic Mustard (Jack by the hedge) and Stitchwort predominate.
Orange Tip Butterflies are ever present but decline to rest for a photograph. I thought the same of the Lapwings wheeling about but I managed to capture one in flight. 
What’s afoot along the lane, lots of new agricultural buildings, more industrial looking than rural. Large plant machinery is using my track to dump clay from the site into nearby fields. Scary monsters. 
Ferrari’s has just been sold for a rumoured 2.5 million pounds. The gardens look perfect today, they have been designed with weddings in mind – that’s how these sorts of places make their money, not from you and I buying a pint and a packet of crisps. 
I’m tempted to stop for a drink at the Derby Arms but it is early in the day and one might become two. I could have had a pot of tea at the farm shop. And let’s not forget the Alston Arms on the corner. Aren’t we lucky to have an abundance of catering establishments within walking distance. Locals on the local walk.
That local walk weighs in at just under four miles. I should do it every day.
I have been out tonight with a plastic bag collecting wild garlic and coming home my car has a heavy pungent smell. This always reminds me of an incident that happened years ago, I may have mentioned it before.
I was climbing with a friend from the village. We drove up to the Eden Valley in search of some sandstone. It must have been this time of year as on the foot approach along the river we ploughed through swathes of garlic. Even the base of the crag, where we dumped our sacks, was covered in the aromatic plants. The day wore on as we climbed several routes. Packed up we retired to a pub in Orton for a pint or two. The landlord even mentioned the garlic smell to which we had by now become oblivious. Arriving back in our village, rather later than planned due to the pub visit, I dropped my friend off at home. When I next met up with him he related how his wife had given him a good dressing down for being late, but even worse accused him of not climbing at all but dining out at an Italian restaurant with a secret belle, the garlic odour being so strong. He had difficulty persuading her otherwise. My car and climbing gear stunk for weeks.
No secret rendezvous tonight, just a short walk into some shady woods to harvest some Wild Garlic leaves. As a bonus I also enjoyed a good show of Bluebells. 
My bag of garlic is now emptied onto the kitchen worktop. I separate out the flowers, they are useful as a topping on salads for a quick flavour boost. the leaves I wash. In the past I have used them in a nettle and garlic soup and have made a tasty pesto sauce. But tonight I’m going to sauté the leaves in butter to have with a couple of poached eggs, accompanied by some new Jersey potatoes. 
Et voila…
I found this upsetting, so may you.
I keep dipping into Mark Sutcliffe’s Cicerone guidebook. I almost didn’t today, I am late up having not slept at all well (nothing unusual there), the day’s sunny start was changing and the forecast suggested rain later. But a sudden spurt of enthusiasm has me breakfasted and in the car by 10.30. I know that’s late by most peoples standards but what does it matter, there is plenty of daylight since the clocks changed. A little rain won’t hurt me. A quick whiz around the motorways and I’m parked on the Tockholes road and starting the walk by 11.30.
I nearly came to do this walk a couple of weeks ago but the route description “a boggy indistinct path” and “the going is much tougher than it looks” were a warning especially after all this year’s rain. but some drier days have come along and my impatience gets the better of me.
All starts off well with a stony land rover track heading somewhere into the hills. I’m guided out of a noisy lapwing’s territory. The grasses have that dead yellow colour to them after the winter. The track turns a corner and becomes a boggy path which I soon manage to lose. Before long I’m staggering around amongst tussocky mounds, how can things go wrong so quickly? 
Looking back to the carpark with Cartridge Hill to the left.
Going…
going…
gone!
I can see groups coming off Great Hill over to my left but the guide says cross a gully before joining the main track. I find a way down. I pass the ‘trial shaft’ marked on the map and come close to the long abandoned farmhouse of Pimm’s, its location next to the trees. Four coming the other way are on a professional navigation course. Others are D of E out training, map cases attempting to strangle them in the breeze. And then I’m left to myself for the slow trudge to the top. There are 360 degree views but all a little dull for photography. When was I last up here? November 2014 with Al “The Plastic Bag Man” – I am going to his funeral this week. Is that coincidence I am here or is some hidden agenda guiding me? 
Looking back to Darwen Tower.
The well constructed summit shelter is tempting for an early lunch but I’ve not enough miles under my belt yet. One of those lovely Peak and Northern Footpath Society signs has me on my way southwards along Redmond’s Edge with the masts of Winter Hill beckoning from afar. It was never like this before – a paved way becomes a veritable King’s Highway across the morass. Hundreds, probably thousands, of gritstone flags ripped out of old cotton mills line the route. Lancashire had more mills than most other places in the industrial era. Some flags bear the scars of the machinery embedded into them. This modern paving is to prevent erosion, I can’t imagine how much this two mile stretch must have cost. It gives effortless strolling, is quite creative in parts but doesn’t compare with the worn flags of the packhorse trails across the Pennines. Must be great for the Mountain Bikers though. In some places the peat is fighting back. Those dry stone walls up here must have also taken some constructing. 
Onwards over Spitlers, the highest point, now on gravel and the road coming up from Belmont is reached, masts towering above us. I never realised that the River Yarrow started up here. A cyclist pulls in after her steep road ascent and we get into all things cycling, talk of electric bikes which we both eschew, for now.
Strangely I didn’t meet many people on that last two mile stretch but those I do have dogs and bar one not on a lead. The ground bird nesting season is in full swing, Curlews, Meadow Pipits, Skylarks and Lapwings are all around. What makes dog owners ignorant of the effects of their dogs running loose across the moor? There are signs everywhere saying control your dog. Starting to get grumpy. 
And then it was the noisy motor bikes hurtling past on the road. I shouldn’t get grumpy on a lovely day like this, but I do. Fortunately after 200m I escape onto an old footpath, possibly the original way, past Hoar Stones down into Belmont. The path is well contoured and drained, a delight to walk. A quarry is passed with strange strata of overhanging slabs of rock. Fell ponies are cropping the grass and take very little notice of me. I arrive into the linear village far too high to consider a diversion to the Black Dog. I now in retrospect wish I had done as it was on one of our irregular meet-ups in November that I last saw Al. I irreverently call him “The Plastic Bag Man” because of his trade promoting and selling plastic packaging. Hopefully he won’t he won’t be vilified for all that environmentally damaging plastic. So many good outings with him. 
My way onwards involves crossing the dam of Belmont Reservoir to link up with the Witton Weavers Way on the east side of the valley. But, no the way is closed for ongoing reservoir works. I had no intension of walking back up the busy A675 road. Drawing a discreet veil over my progress I find myself on the other side and on the lane up to Pasture House Farms. I share the way with a Labrador walker who’s daily route has been disrupted by the dam works. We admire the spring lambs but up ahead are cows that she is scared of, I sympathise, but then lead on to the open rough pasture where the herd. is grazing. They take no notice of us, I go north she heads south. Yet another of those brief encounters. 
Easy going on a good level track, past Lower Pasture Barn Farm, which has had several reincarnations since it was a ruin. My camera has started taking square pictures and multiple exposures, it is too fiddly to sort out on the move. Another of those P&NFS signs points up to Darwen Moor which I resist, my car park is almost insight. A hidden little path through the trees off the road takes me directly there. 
An afterword. I’ve mentioned my late friend Al (the plastic bag man) too many times in the last couple of weeks with his name and memory cropping up all over the place. Tonight on NW TV news there was a segment on a chap with the same ‘fibrosing lung disease’ waiting for a transplant. Al unfortunately wasn’t fit enough to be considered for that.
***
An afternoon up on the fell.
First stop Craig Y Longridge where I do some easy low level traversing. There is only one other climber here, a friendly bearded wonder from Southport, he is trying far harder things than I. As part of my training programme, those were the days, I rest every few feet. To justify this I do a little bird song identification with the help of Merlin. At the far end of the crag where I hide out there are trees and bushes, I often see wrens, blackbirds and goldfinches. Leaving my phone recording for five minutes brings up Robin, Goldfinch, Chiffchaff, Blackbird, Wren, Wood Pigeon and Blue Tit. Not a bad sample from an urban site. My friend from Southport is perplexed. Oh, and the Grebes are back on the little reservoir across the road. 
Moving on I drive to the far end of the fell and mosey about in the hidden quarry there. First I spot a couple of Roe Deer disappearing on my approach. I do a little low level traversing again, finding the lowest traverse too hard, before I sit and listen. All trees and in the countryside – so what will I hear? Wren, Blue Tit, Great Tit, Siskin, Willow Warbler, Chiffchaff, Pheasant, Blackbird, Wood Pigeon, Robin, Goldcrest. 
Moving on I visit another hidden quarry and dream about climbing one of its steeper walls. Whilst I’m there – Blackbird, Wren, Willow Warbler. Coal Tit, Pheasant, Siskin, Jay. This quarry is common land yet the neighbouring property is trying to fence it in. 
On the way home I can’t resist a brief walk around my favourite plantation. Proper ‘twitchers’ are hoping to see the Barn Owls quartering the fell. I disappear into the trees, but I can hear the Cuckoo across the way. I’ve never seen him of her, but they always return to the same spot. A spell binding call. In the higher quarry pond Mother Mallard has eight ducklings, only one in the photo, I wish them all the best. 
So back to the bouldering – Its not all about the grade, its all about the song.
I’ve used various alliterations based on Fair and Fairsnape in past titles, so lets just keep it simple today, Fairsnape Fell. The last time JD and I were up here was nearly four years ago – time for a revisit. I was pleased with his suggested pick up time of 10 am, even more so this morning with ice on the bird bath.
We were parked up in a little layby under Saddle End Farm at 10.30. The hoards all use the narrow lane below Fell Foot as we were to see later. It was steadily uphill for a long stretch but the sun was warm, there was no wind and the Skylarks were singing. Since my last visit here they have installed some of those green metal kissing gates. We just pottered along chatting, a few fell runners passed us on the way. This circuit used to be my training run, JD had lengthier projects. 
We take the driest way along the ridge and visit the highest point of Fairnsape, 522m. despite the deep mud surrounding it. 
More boot sucking areas were skirted on the way to the trig point, Paddy’s Pole and shelter. There are always a few people about up here. The last time I bivied here for the night there was a crowd of campers. Today there was room for us in the shelter, newly equipped with benches, for a light lunch. 
I have to admit it’s been a difficult few days with one death after another of my closest and dearest friends. As I intimated, conversation with JD is easy, we have similar interests and political views. But what I didn’t expect as we exchanged anecdotes, as you do, how often my recently departed pal Alan, the plastic bag man, came into the conversation. Al and I went back 40 years with many adventures on the way. We can’t all live for ever.
As we headed along the ridge towards Parlick the crowds were coming up. I love this stretch with the views down into Bleasdale, across the Fylde and Morecambe Bay. A couple of gliders slid past. 
Taking the easy traversing route to the west of Parlick we find that it has been very much improved in the last year, what was a badly eroded track was now a pleasant promenade and some more of those metal gates have been added. Yes and there below were the lines of parked cars if you look carefully.
We slunk off towards Wolfen Hall after negotiating an old wooden gate held up by string, time for a replacement metal one. Rather muddy paths had us back to Saddle End. It will take some time this year for the fields to dry out.
Back at the car I regretted I had no loose change for their excellent free range eggs. 
A great day to be out. Good company and warm sunshine. 1300feet in six miles.
Looking back at Parlick and Fairsnape.
***
If you go down to the woods today, you’re sure of a big surprise.
I had heard of the Pendle Sculpture Trail for years but never searched it out. Launched in 2012 to commemorate the 400th anniversary of the trial of the Pendle witches. The Pendle area is steeped in witchcraft heritage and legends. I have previously walked the 50 mile Lancashire Witches Walk from Barrowford to Lancaster Castle, where the witches had been tried, again commemorating the 400 years. Along that walk are a series of cast iron Tercets (like a Haiku) embossed with stanzas from the walk’s poem, written by the then Poet Laureate Carol Ann Duffy, each one relating to one of the ten witches hung.
The Pendle Sculpture Trail has a similar theme and starts in Barley taking you around nearby Aitken Wood. We come armed with a leaflet downloaded from the Visit Pendle website. It shows 26 installations, I think we find a dozen at most. sculpture_trail_print_friendly_2019_v2.pdf (letswalkinpendle.co.uk)
An easy stroll out of Barley on a private United Utilities lane is pleasant in the morning sunshine but there is a cold wind blowing from somewhere. Is there a storm witch behind us? Entering the woods is an outsized rubric cube type wooden puzzle. We marvel at its intricate construction but have no idea why it is here. 
Be prepared for a steep start to the forest trail, perhaps we are out of puff and so don’t spot the first few sculptures. A roe deer disappears in the trees. 
We can’t miss the Magic Chair (Ben Gates) right by the path. Intricate wood carvings connected by metal fastenings. distorted and moulded. Spooky limbs and eyes but lovely boots. It was a little cold on the bum to sit in for long. 
I am disappointed we missed, or had it disappeared, the Quaker Tree in view of my recent postings on George Fox and the beginnings of Quakerism.
The Witchfinder (Martyn Bednarczuk) was obvious through the trees. Based on Roger Nowell the local magistrate who investigated and prosecuted the witches. Very stern. Why do people feel the need to insert coins into wooden statues, apart from being unsightly it hastens the demise of the wood.
Neither of us can work out the significance of the Ceramic Column, (Sarah McDade) and it isn’t particularly attractive despite the exquisite smoothness of the ceramics which is appreciated by Clare who dabbles in pottery. The good thing about outdoor sculptures is there are no signs saying ‘don’t touch’.
Are we getting our eyes in, for we soon spot the next two. Reconnected 1 and 2. (Phillipe Handford) are trees that have been felled and cleverly sprung back to their stumps. I like these, very organic. Unfortunately, as it is with wood, rot is setting in. 
Nearby and rather scary is the resin Wishing Widow, (Joe Hesketh). The artist herself, a local lass, apparently was a loner in her childhood and felt herself a witch, casting spells on her classmates. This may explain her strange sculpture.
We miss a few more until we come across the Rings of Time, (Phillipe Hartford) strung from the trees. Maybe a nod to Star Trek or the rings aging a tree. We don’t see the significance of the dates on the discs, but here is a full explanation. All a bit too obtuse as we are stood below them.
1324 – Barley ‘Barlegh’ appears
1507 – Pendle Forest deforested by Henry V11
1612 – Local ‘witches’ taken to Lancaster Castle
1652 – George Fox
1661 – Richard Towneley’s barometric readings on Pendle Hill
1750 – First Inghamite church in Fence
1894 – Black Moss reservoir built
1912 – Clarion House built
1918 – War memorial in Barley
1935 – Aitken Wood planted
1938 – Whitehough established
1945 – end of WW2 and losses from Barley
1987 – The Pendleway created
2012 – Sculpture trail started
2018 – second phase of the trail
One of the blank discs is for when time began and an empty ring for infinity.
The Black Dog, (Incredible Creations) can’t be missed. More like a fierce demonic wolf than a dog. Black dogs were associated with witchcraft back in those days. We give him a replacement horn for the one that had gone missing. 
Look up and you will see Three Bats In Flight, (Steve Blaycock) another animal associated with witches, is this all getting too scary for children? I hope I don’t have nightmares. 
Somehow we miss other bats allegedly hanging in the trees. The Living Wall, (Phillipe Harford) is unanimously dismissed as rubbish. 
I am looking at the all encompassing greenery on the trees in the shady forest and there all of a sudden is a Dryad, (Incredible Creations) emerging from her tree. She is covered with Ivy, has acorn earrings and a butterfly in her hair. Closer examination shows it isn’t a living tree at all but part of the sculpture, the bracket fungi have me fooled. There is even a ladybird lurking around the back. Dryads or Tree Nymphs only live as long as the tree they inhabit, which could be a long time.
. 
Spiders, owls and a fairy are not found; we aren’t doing very well really. But there is a Unicorn, (Incredible Creations again) another mythical beast. Only the deep surrounding mud prevented Clare taking a ride of fancy.
As we leave the forest a stark metal silhouette of Chained Witches, (Peter Naylor) being marched from Pendle to Lancaster. I am impressed with the detail imparted by a few strips of metal, a reflection of the artist’s skill. 
As the artist says and implies in his sculpture “These women were not actual witches but rather misunderstood individuals. Some of them were elderly, and some with various mental issues. Society and the authorities unjustly persecuted and executed them. The sculpture serves as a reminder of their plight and the importance of empathy and justice in our own time” The latter I fear sadly missing.
All along up here in these delightful woods Pendle Hill has been looking doen on us, as it seems to do in most of this part of Lancashire. 
We walk back down to the Black Moss reservoirs and take a different path home through fields full of primroses and trees festooned with healthy lichen. 
Across the way the rather stark Aitken Wood hides her secrets.
That witchy wind has become even colder so we are glad of a coffee in the friendly little café back at the carpark in Barley. Next up for more Pendle sculptures is Letcliffe Park in Barnoldswick.
If you do this walk, about three miles, be sure to highlight the sculptures we have missed.
***
I hear the sound of Curlews in the air as soon as I leave the car. That haunting call across the rough fields.
It had been a toss up this morning, Belmont or Bleasdale. I have unfinished business on Great Hill and Spitlers Edge, but how boggy was it going to be up there. Let’s play safe and use the lanes of Bleasdale Estate for a drier round.
Spring is in the air, but only just after the last couple of days’ hailstorms. Blossom adorns the little lodge. A cheery row of daffodils line the road leading into the estate. Immediately the expanse of Bleasdale opens up with the familiar Bowland Hills as a backdrop. I don’t spot the Curlews but I do witness a few Lapwings performing their aerial display. And what is going on with those sheep and seagulls, with pheasants and jackdaw in attendance? 
The wood to the right which was disappearing under foreign Rhododendrons has been grubbed up and the replacement mixed planting is only white tree casings at present, all looking very barren. But around the corner is a similar plantation now a few years old and the bird song emanating from it is orchestral this morning. They are all busy bonding and nest prospecting no doubt. Robin, Chiffchaff, Siskin, Song Thrush, Willow Warbler, Wren, Chaffinch, Tree Creeper. Goes to show how trees are so important as a habitat.
It doesn’t look much but what bird life thrives in there.
No body is about at the buildings, once a reformatory school, as I turn right towards the more open moor. Everywhere are sheep and their lovely lambs, it is difficult to take a photo without including them. 
The two remote farms are still operating as such, whereas other properties have been converted to residential use.
It’s awhile since I’ve been to the Bronze Age Circle. Last time was after one of our winter storms and the place was a mess with fallen trees. Time for another look although I know the fields to get to it will be muddy. All is clean and tidy the debris has been cleared away, the inner circle, indicated only by posts, and ditch are obvious again and there is a welcome planting of trees around the periphery of the site. Does it all line up with that nick in the fell’s skyline? Once the Preston Harris Museum is open again I must visit to look at the artifacts from this site. Persons unknown have been attaching ‘clooties’ to one of the remaining trees.
St Eadmer’s Church is always worth a look, standing as it does in isolation below the fells. 
The school is no more but the buildings have taken on a new residential life. 
I do eventually get caught in an April shower which looks far more severe on Fairsnape. 
Then on past one of the estate’s landmark beech hedges. 
There’s a bee on the gorse and a pheasant strutting his stuff, it must be spring. 
As there is nobody staying I have a look around the camping chalets in the field as I pass. Pretty basic tent sides with an inner living space and log fire. The one I scout around, forgive my nosiness, is called Curlew. They go under the Glamping Hideaway’s banner of Lanterns and Larks. A holiday away from it all? 
Sometime I must have a closer look at that little packhorse bridge near the farm. 
That has been a whistle stop tour of Bleasdale, get you boots on and do it for yourself sometime.
By the way it is more like winter again today. ‘Cast not a clout till may is out’.
***
Al.
Today. This morning the day begins well as I sit listening to a beautiful Blackbird serenading his belle. My spirit is uplifted. Then the phone rings – my climbing friend, Al, had passed away in the night. I’ve expressed my vulnerability here before, possibly cloaked in obscurity. Today I feel very vulnerable.
Yesterday. We had been out on a gentle walk in the Bowland uplands, I was about to write a post about it. My ex-work partner and I meeting up with a close friend who had recently lost his wife to that cruel cancer of the pancreas. I had attended her funeral last week. We three walked through farms owned by The Duchy of Lancaster. now King Charles. A welcome sunny afternoon after all the rain. We talked of many things. Lambs frolicked in the fields just beginning to dry out. primroses covered the banks surrounded by reef knolls. This is Curlew country.
A chance conversation, or was it destined? at one of these remote properties with a retired teacher. Not sure how it started but at one stage – “Do you remember Dave? I was his senior colleague for years in Blackburn” “Bloody hell yes, a lovely bloke I climbed with him for years” I replied. Naturally more reminiscing followed and I promised to phone Dave and tell him of the meeting and bring him up to date.
I first met Dave in Preston Hospital when he was recovering from a serious climbing accident. An accident in which Al was influential in saving his life. Despite that accident Dave and I formed a comfy climbing partnership with his wife’s encouragement.
A few years later through Dave I met Al (1982). I remember the day. It was at Attermire, a limestone crag north of Settle. Barrel Buttress to be precise. The start of a forty year friendship. He has made many appearances in my posts as ‘the plastic bag man’ – a reference to his trade rather than his street appearance. Regular meet ups in the Lancashire quarries every Wednesday night followed, along with the ‘rockman‘ and the ‘pieman‘. Holidays in the alps became an annual treat. Long days on the trails and long nights in the refuges. We lived life to the full is the euphemism.
We all got older and for some, physical activities were restricted. But that friendship continued with catchup meetings for a drink or a meal. Latterly all Al could manage was a phone call and then not even that. Bringing us to this morning. I ended up phoning Dave, not about my chance meeting with his headmaster but with news of Al’s death. Circles within circles.
Thanks for bearing with my vulnerability, here are some photos of that walk yesterday with friends in Bowland including that iconic phone box, now put into another perspective.. My thoughts are with Al’s family.
***
In the words of Bob Dylan – It’s not dark yet.
I find myself walking along a slippy rocky ledge just above the fast flowing River Roeburn. I have long since lost the path if ever there was one. Then it all stops at a steep landslide. Go back or try to climb out into the woods above. Chapter 8, of Cicerone’s Walking in Lancashire, ‘The Enchanted Valley’ of Roeburndale had promised so much.
I have battled with the paths down here before. This time coming in from the south with detailed instructions from the guidebook it should be a doddle. I’ve had my lunch in the little Methodist Chapel at Lower Salter and I find the ladder stile into fields above the Roeburn. There are helpful ‘Concessionary Footpath’ signs although for some reason a map presumably showing them has been vandalised. The vague path keeps above the gorge and its trees until a way down is found to the river at a footbridge I recognise. But the guide says “remain on the west bank”. I try to but the path just disappears in the undergrowth and tree cover. I retreat to the footbridge and try the east bank. 
A path comes and goes, I ignore the obvious path we had descended from this side to get here last time. I battle on by the river hoping a better path may appear, but it doesn’t. I enter a rocky gorge and spot a vehicle ford across the river. Awkward side streams need careful attention. There are some footbridges but with their wooden slats missing, presumably only in use in season by the shooters or fishermen. I don’t know where they lead to anyhow, so I don’t risk crossing them commando style. There is even a pulley cage across the torrent a little farther on, I certainly wouldn’t risk that. There was a serious accident near here in January 2022 involving an all-terrain vehicle pulling a trailer when a bridge gave way
The last post.
Maybe I should turn back, but my stubbornness drives me on hoping to find a way that might correspond to the guidebook. The gorge deepens and my only way of progress is at the water’s edge on those slippery rock ledges just above the water. I even contemplate walking in the shallows but they are fast-flowing. This is the river that flooded in 1967, taking out all the bridges and demolishing many cottages downstream at Wray. 
The camping bothy appears on the other side, it’s marked on the map so I know where I am. But the landslide looms ahead and this is where I realise my best way of escape, not necessarily the safest, is to climb the couple of hundred feet up a steep bank above me, knowing there are paths along the top edge of the woods.
It is steep and slippery and I make frequent use of tree roots, clumps of grass and my knees on my slow progress upwards. Not a place to have an accident, especially alone. I reach the top and the wall into fields but find no trace of the paths we had used in reverse last time. So I just continue following the top edge of the woods inside the fell wall. Roe deer scuttle in front of me. The GPS on my phone keeps my position up to date. 
I eventually have to climb the fence into the fields when I become hemmed in by a deer fence and then can meet up with right of way coming up from the river. This deposits me onto the lane which I nonchalantly follow back to my car parked in Wray. 
All’s well that ends well. With hindsight I should not have bushwhacked for so far searching for a path by the river. After crossing that footbridge I should have taken the path heading out of the gorge and walked back through the woods. The OS map doesn’t have the paths marked. Certainly the Cicerone guide book chapter is totally misleading for this section down Roeburndale and anybody using it will soon become lost. Undeterred I want to revisit these woods later in the year for their spectacular bluebell display, any takers? This post has some good photos.
*
The day had started out better, walking out of Wray using little lanes and crossing Hunts Gill Beck by a bridge which narrowly avoided destruction by a falling tree.
Wray Bridge.
Then above Alcock’s Farm a long series of fields to Harterbeck Farm. A family are out for a pleasant Spring stroll, why didn’t I do the same? Lambing has been in full throw. The way was clear but the ground was boggy, which became rougher the farther I go, it would be just as enjoyable, probably more so, to walk up the quiet road leading to the farm without losing the views or the curlews calling. Next time. Great Coum, Gregareth, Whernside and Ingleborough were constant companions on the NE horizon. Ingleborough always wears the crown and demands to be photographed.
Harterbeck is a lonely farm by any standards. It obviously has a problem with moles and the windows inserted into the back wall must have involved ‘Bob the Builder’.
I’ve been exploring Lancashire for years but I have never been into the steep-sided Pedder Gill and seen the waterfalls of Goodber Beck. Must have spent too many times abroad in warmer climes and neglected my own doorstep. From the farm, after crossing a small beck, the track drops down to the little footbridge and a bit of scrambling down the gorge gets me in close with the waterfalls. A hidden Bowland gem! 
A stroll down the fields and I pass through Lower Salter farmyard. The farmer is repairing his drystone wall, must be the season, but he is not as chatty as the one in Lunesdale the other day. What an isolated life they live up here. 
At the road is the little Methodist Chapel. I go inside for a sit-down and snack.
Built in 1901, the land given by Mr Francis Skirrow of Lower Salter Farm, the cost of the chapel was £180. Mr Skirrow intended the chapel to be used as a school room during the week. This is evidenced by the fact that the pews have holes for inkwells. However, his idea never materialised owing to an inability to hire a teacher. There is a commemorative plaque to Flight Lieutenant Thomas Dirk Bayliss who lost his life on July 3 1979 when his Jet Provost trainer aircraft crashed into a field near High Salter Farm after the pilot became disorientated in heavy mist and flew off course.
Down the road and with spirits high I cross the stile onto that permissive path down Roeburndale… A walk on the wild side.
‘
March “comes in like a lion and goes out like a lamb” is an unreliable axiom at the best of times, and these are unusual times climate wise. Looking back at my walks this March, and there haven’t been many, they have been brief interludes between rain storms. The fields and roads in the NW are still under standing water in many places. Yesterday, Good Friday, after a sunny start the storm clouds gathered, there was distant thunder and we were treated to some hefty hail showers. The lion is still roaring. We only have a couple of days for the March lamb to lead us mildly into April.
An optimistic ‘slate poem’ has appeared in the centre of the village. I still call it a village although it has become more town sized in the last few years. 
Yes, we are ready for some sunny warmer weather.
***
Today’s short walk was more lamb than lion; weather and terrain being on the mild side. In fact I was stripping off layers as I walked up the hill out of Mellor. My first objective, easily reached, was the summit of Mellor Moor. There is a trig point, 223m, barely visible ancient earthworks, a Millennium Viewpoint pillar and the paraphernalia from a defunct Royal Observation Nuclear Blast and Fallout Monitoring Station from the cold war era. The latter is somewhere underground. I’m more interested with the 360 degree view this little hill provides, but with the day being so warm everything looks a bit hazy. Though BAE Salmesbury is prominent, are we still selling planes to Israel? I’ve been up here on a crisp winter’s day when you could see everything from the Lakes, Yorkshire, Lancashire to Wales. 
A gentle stroll down Abbott Brow admiring the blossoms in the gardens. I heard on the radio this morning that Forsythia was introduced into England in 1833 and was named in honour of William Forsyth, an C18th botanist, A few generations down the line came Bruce Forsyth.
A pleasant wander across fields alongside a stream brings me to the edge of Mellor Brook. Passing between bungalows I follow a stream in a wooded dell (presumably a tributary of Mellor Brook) alongside houses. I have friends who live in one of them but they have erected a new fence so I can’t peer into their garden. The whole place is full of bird song and I stop for a snack and drink taking in the rural ambience so close to major roads and towns. 
I manage to find my way up to and through Brundhurst Farm, yes there are noisy dogs as the guide book warned me. I forgot to mention this walk was featured in the Clitheroe Ramblers 25 Walks in the Ribble and Hodder Valleys book I have been using recently. I have now completed all the walks and would recommend them if the book is still in publication, it is advertised on their website. Local Walks (clitheroeramblers.co.uk)
There are lambs everywhere. A steep field takes me back to Mellor with the church steeple guiding the way. I even have time for a mellow pint in the Millstone Inn. 
An old well?
The Millstone Inn.
A gentle rural three miles on a mild spring day. What’s next – April showers?
***
This post has been two weeks in the writing, not that that makes it any better.
It’s been a strange time. Monday, having my haircut with Phil, a traditional barber, we all come out with the same style, fine by me. Most of our conversation was about mutual friends who have or who are shortly to depart our presence. With a humorous twist I can’t go into details here.
After my recent soaking on Longridge Fell I decided on some indoor culture for Tuesday. There were some interesting exhibitions at Abbots Hall Gallery in Kendal. I drove up in horrendous wet conditions on the motorway, found somewhere to park, £3.50, and walked to the hall only to find it only opens Thursday to Saturday at this time of year! Why didn’t I check? I phoned Sir Hugh in Arnside hoping for some sympathy and coffee, but ironically he was in Preston shopping. Drove back down the motorway in horrendous wet conditions.
Then on the Friday drove down to Manchester to visit my longtime friend, since university days, who is suffering with Pancreatic Cancer. It was a joyous occasion as we dutifully reminisced our days in various flats in London; beer, curries, girls, music and football. He showed me around his local park, John Leigh. What a wonderful space cared for by wonderful volunteers, a blue print for community parks anywhere.
The sun shone on Saturday, Sunday and Monday but I was ill, another humorous incident I can’t recall here. The tablets were working so I hoped to take advantage of a good forecast and complete a walk I have had in mind for some time – The Sedbergh Quaker Trail. It was not to be, three close friends died this week and I was quite depressed. I missed the good weather.
Preparations were underway for all my family visiting at the weekend for my birthday. I awoke in the night and found that my electricity had tripped. At 3am I was paddling about in my dressing gown trying to find the problem. I isolated it to the kitchen and disconnected everything in there, but it still tripped. Into the garage for extension cables to at least keep my freezer and fridge working. The birthday dinner must be saved., not sure how I will cook it. An early phone call, Saturday morning, to our community electricians and within an an hour Paul is prowling around the kitchen with his magic electric probe. “The problem is between these sockets and the dishwasher” Visions of the walls coming down. But as both of us lie on the floor peering into the dark of that forgotten space behind the kickboard below the units the evidence is clear – a mouse has been nibbling at the wires. Within a short time he has rewired it and all is go. I’m keeping the space open until a few mice have been humanely caught and deported.
The birthday meal was a huge success.
All of this has nothing to do with Sedbergh and the Quakers but may explain my tardiness.
***
Historians mark 1652 as the beginning of the Quaker movement. In that year on Pendle Hill George Fox, (1624-1691) is said to have had a vision commanding him to “sound the day of the Lord” to a great gathering of people. I have written about Fox’s Well.
In June1652, fresh from his vision on Pendle Hill, George Fox arrived in Sedbergh. He did not preach in St. Andrew’s church there but the next day he was encouraged to attend a large gathering of ‘Seekers’ and other nonconformists in and around the small chapel on Firbank Fell a few miles from Sedbergh.
Fox wouldn’t go into the chapel to preach but instead spoke for three hours to the gathered crowd from the top of a nearby crag – this is now known as Fox’s Pulpit. Many Seekers were convinced by Fox on the Fell that day and added their weight of missionary zeal to his and what became the Society of Friends, or ‘Quakers’ – after Fox told a Derby judge to “tremble at the word of the Lord” By 1660, there were 50,000 followers.
Meeting houses for silent prayer and contemplation, such as Swarthmoor near Ulverston, and Brigflatts near Sedbergh, were subsequently built. Brigflatts,1675, in Cumbria, is one of the most famous Quaker meeting houses, known and loved by Friends all over the world. It is acknowledged for all the simplicity of its lime-washed stone walls and interior woodwork — panelling, columns and balustrading — as one of England’s vernacular gems. For many, the peace and tranquillity of the Meeting House at Brigflatts leave a lasting impression. (information from their website.)
People of all faiths can admire the Quakers’ respect for all humans, their tolerance and belief in peace without the need for churches, rituals, holy days, or sacraments, to practice religion. Rather religion should be something one lived and acted out every day. These ideas were radical in a period where the established church held great political power, and many early Quakers were imprisoned and oppressed for these beliefs. Quakers were conscientious objectors in both world wars. Because Quakers were barred from universities and many professions, one natural outlet for them was in business. A large number of British businesses were founded by Quakers, including such household names as Barclays, Lloyds, Carr’s, Clarks, Cadbury, Reckitt’s, Rowntree, Fry and Terry’s. The football team In Darlington that I supported as a teenager was nicknamed The Quakers from the links within the town.
***
This Tuesday the forecast is good, Despite a bit of faffing I am parked in Sedbergh by 10 am. Too soon to pick up a leaflet from the Tourist Information Office describing this walk. I’ll just have to do it from the map and follow my nose, I think I am pretty good at that.
I pay a visit to St. Andrew’s church. Once through the cemetery I’m on a quiet lane to Birks, a hamlet of farming cottages, a brief flirtation with the River Rawthey. 
Through muddy fields to visit Brigflatts Meeting House. What a beautiful peaceful place. Built in the style of a Cumbrian farm house, it has open doors for visitors. The porch with its ?original studded door leads into the main room. A place for prayer or contemplation. Alongside was another room used as a library of relevant books and a place to sit and have a brew. All very inclusive. 
I move on, suitably refreshed in mind and body. I think I miss a turn to Ingmire Hall but find myself on The Dales Way for the first time in 40 years. It is a little disappointing following the road verge for some while. Some rather complicated navigating through The Oaks, holiday lets now, and I’m on the banks of the Lune for a short stretch to the strangely named Lincoln’s Inn Bridge. The adjacent farm had been an in at one time.
I leave the Dales Way until rejoining it later in the day, and find a way up into the mixed woodlands which will be resplendent with bluebells in a few weeks time. For photos of them have a look at John Bainbridge’s post from 2022. 
Emerging onto a narrow moorland lane at New Field.
Onwards and upwards I reach the highest point and there on the right is the rock or pulpit from where Fox is said to have preached way back in 1652. An isolated spot as you could find. 
The plaque affixed to the rock reads –
Here or near this rock George Fox preached to about one thousand seekers for three hours on Sunday, June 13, 1652. Great power inspired his message and the meeting proved of first importance in gathering the Society of Friends known as Quakers. Many men and women convinced of the truth on this fell and in other parts of the northern counties went forth through the land and over the seas with the living word of the Lord enduring great hardships and winning multitudes to Christ.
I sit atop of the rock eating my sandwich, nobody about to hear my words. The chapel mentioned up here fell into disrepair and has vanished but there is an abandoned graveyard with one lone standing gravestone.
I choose a nearby squelchy, but well signed, bridleway to take me back down the valley. The Howgills are spread out in front of me, but unfortunately the summits are cloud covered.
Half way down past Goodies Farm I cross the bed of an old railway. This was from Ingleton, via Kirkby Lonsdale and Sedbergh. to join the main line at Tebay. It opened in 1861 and the rails were finally lifted in 1967, twelve years after it had closed to passengers. I had previously passed below it near Brigflatts and seen in the distance the Waterside Viaduct. 
I cross the River Lune on a recently rebuilt footbridge and back onto the Dales Way but now going in the opposite direction. 
A series of farms and fields take me south. The farmer at Hole House complains about the wet weather causing problems at lambing time. At Nether Bainbridge most is falling down.
Along the track a farmer is repairing his drystone wall. I get the whole history of the area. A magic conversation. 
I leave the Dales Way at Bramaskew and walk on to High Branthwaite, taking the farm lane up to Howgill Lane which I can follow all the way back to Sedbergh. The alternative was to walk along the higher fellside of Winder Hill on open access land. After nine miles I was happy to use the traffic free lane. All the time looking at the surrounding fells. The Howgills, Baugh Fell and Dentdale with time to spot a few early flowers. The area is mostly neglected by hiking community who go elsewhere to the honey pots. I’ve not met a single walker all day on my ten mile round.
Back in Sedbergh the village is buzzing with visitors mostly decked out in the latest walking garb. The, no doubt otherwise helpful, Tourist Information closed at 4pm so I never acquired that walk leaflet.
***
Found this interesting BFI film on the internet.
“A tribute to Lancashire, land of industry, leisure, sublime landscape – and laundry detergent”
No not the Welsh Magician from the Arthurian myths, but the Merlin Bird ID app uploaded to my phone. This very clever app, as if by Merlin’s magic, lets you listen to a bird’s song and quickly identifies it for you, 95% accurate. You can also upload other details or photos for identification. I know the vast majority of birds if I spot them, but have always been poor with their songs. I’m aiming to improve matters by regular use of the sound ID function. Practice makes perfect. Hence Merlin came out with me today.
I nearly didn’t bother with a walk as it rained all morning and didn’t promise much better for the afternoon. But come the stoke of one pm and some optimistic brightening I am ready to go at the top of the village. My plan is to simply walk around the familiar fell road, avoiding the sodden fields and moor.
As I climb the fell road I keep stopping to listen to the birds in the hedgerows and trees. Merlin does the rest. My leisurely progress gives me time to look at my surroundings, particularly the stone walls marching alongside me. A stone placed on the verge a few years ago has started to develop a pronounced mossy growth, whereas the ancient walls are completely enveloped in vegetative growth. 
Higher up the road the north facing wall is completely different to its south facing companion.
Dropping down to the weir at Cowley Brook I leave the road to wander up through my favourite plantation. Even the noise of the fast flowing brook doesn’t stop Merlin picking out the bird song. Straight away it identifies a Gray Wagtail and there in front of me is the tail wagging bird. I might have missed it without Merlin’s prompting.
There is water gurgling from every nook and cranny but I know how to avoid the worst bits. At the top of the plantation I rest awhile on a tree stump looking out over the Ribble Valley although all the tops including Pendle are in mist. I’ve been lucky so far as there has been some brightness and the rain has held off. I celebrate with an orange. 
Hitting the road to Jeffrey Hill I change my plan on a whim. Rather than just walk back on the road why not go up to the trig point of Longridge Fell 350m. the most southerly named ‘fell’ in England. Having set out on a road walk to avoid the mud here am I heading off up one of the squelchiest tracks at this time of year. 
There is something different about the walk alongside the wall, a tracked vehicle has been up here. I then notice the drainage ditch that they have been excavating. Why I ask? Surely not just for us walkers. Are there plans afoot to plant more trees? I ponder this as I walk on and then notice they have dug a similar ditch on the other side of the wall. I can’t believe what I see – one of my favourite trees, the solitary Scots Pine I christened ‘Its Grim Up North’ from its windblown appearance, has been uprooted for the sake of the ditch and is lying on its side. I almost cry. How could they have done this? 
I have alluded to it many times on walks up here and have a folio of photographs of it as it was
I plod on rather dejected. There are more drainage channels going in other directions. (is this the same work you saw above the Dog House Clare?)
I take that narrow tunnel through the trees. I’m expecting problems at its end as the last time I came the other way I couldn’t get through because of fallen trees. They are still there blocking the way but it looks like people have started to find a way round or more correctly through them. Only just, 
I emerge near the fell wall and head up to the trig point. It is fast disappearing in the thick cloud, and is that rain I can feel? Have I misjudged the time and conditions by adding on this detour? What time does it get dark? A quick march up and then I’m heading back down through the mirk, no sign of the Bowland Hills or even Chipping Vale down below. It is excessively boggy on this stretch. I am however rewarded by Skylarks singing joyfully overhead. Merlin and I can hear them, but there is no chance of seeing them in the mist which is getting worse. It is good to see the appropriate slate poem by the gate is still intact. Needless to say I don’t meet a soul, there isn’t even a car parked up at Jeffrey Hill, a rare occurrence given its popularity with dog walkers.
It’s just a long walk down the road now but I am getting gradually drenched. My phone with Merlin is buried in my deepest pocket. No one at the golf course which has been closed for many days this year due to a combination of flooding and mist. I still manage to find a couple of wayward golf balls in the verge, they will go to my son whom seems to loose a lot himself. There are some newborn lambs in the field, the first I have seen this year.
I am back at the car by 5pm, seven and a half miles under my belt, more than I had anticipated and I’m ready for a good long soak in my bath.
***
For the record here is a list of the birds Merlin recognised, I only actually saw a fraction of them but I’m getting better at recognising a Robin’s song from a Wren’s or a Chaffinch.
Robin; Blue Tit; Collared Dove; Carrion Crow; House Sparrow; Goldfinch; Rook; Starling’ Fieldfare; Chaffinch; Gray Wagtail; Coal Tit; Long tailed Tit; Wren; Great Tit; Jackdaw; Skylark; Blackbird; Goldfinch; Pheasant; Greenfinch; Dunnock. 
Here’s the Robin.
***
I’m parked up at the same spot as a couple of weeks ago in straggly RIMINGTON. There seem to be more cars about than last time, perhaps a walking group have departed some time before me. But I never meet another walker throughout this short walk. Looking again at Clitheroe Ramblers’ 25 Walks in the Ribble and Hodder Valleys I see this is the only one I have not completed in the past. It should prove ideal for a short off the cuff walk.
C18th Bustards Farm, my starting point in the village.
It is a pleasure to be back on the better drained limestone hills after last weekend’s mud-bath. Straight forward walking out of the village, across fields on a concessionary path and then a footbridge across Ings Beck. Robins are singing from every tree, Jays are making a commotion in the woods, yellow Celandines are poking through and the sun is shining, so perhaps we have turned a corner in the seasons. I’m soon alongside Twiston Mill and on to the minor road. I resist the short diversion up to Witches Quarry, a popular limestone climbing venue.
Twiston Mill.
Its silted up mill pond.
Each chapter in the book is written by a different local author and the standard of accuracy has varied, todays is not the best and I have to resort to my OS mapping on the phone to find my way above Twiston. Its uphill all the way to meet the next minor road. I recognise some stretches from a reverse walk in March two years ago which helps. The Blackthorn Blossom is just starting, as it was last time I came this way. 
Looking back to the Ribble Valley.
All morning Pendle Hill has been looming above me, a little hazy at times and at the road its big end is directly above. The scenery changes here, I’ve left the green pastures and venture onto the open moors for a stretch above Coolham Farm. This is the highest I get on Pendle’s skirts. I have to imagine Ingleborough and Pen-Y-Ghent ahead of me in the haze but can pick out Rimington far below.
Out of nowhere a wall enclosed green lane appears heading down from Twiston Moor. I follow it, doglegging, until alongside a deep wooded clough, the upper reaches of Ings Beck. I try to take some pictures of the red buds on the Larches here but the breeze makes it difficult to focus. 
Just outside the garden of Clough Head Farm is the Thomas Peel Bulcock memorial of which I knew nothing. It was erected by Thomas Bulcock in 1863 in memory of his son buried here and other relations buried in Whalley and Downham churchyards. The Bulcock family apparently had a long association with the area. 
Having passed through the farmyard I find myself in one of the longest fields I’ve seen in these parts. Back to green pastures I wander down the hillside to come out onto a familiar lane. 
From there I traverse the hillsides above the Ings Beck where silver rich lead was mined for many years. I wrote about this last time. Today I find the remains of the limekiln for the little limestone quarry and pass the mine managers cottage. Oh and that lamp post in the middle of nowhere.
Knowing the way I am soon back into sleepy Rimington. 
The converted Black Bull and Cosgroves ladies clothing shop.
A sprightly five miles.
***
Grunsagill, no I hadn’t heard of it either. This map gives a clue, only just in Lancashire.
***
I have previously come up the Skirden Beck from Bolton-by-Bowland as far as Blue Scar, but today we were heading farther up alongside its tributaries to the isolated hamlet of Grunsagill. It turned out to be quite an epic, if one can apply that word to rural Lancashire.
Mike found the walk in 25 Walks in the Ribble and Hodder Valleys by Clitheroe Ramblers. We have followed a few of their walks in recent week deep in our countryside. I notice that the publication is 20 years old now so one expects to find changes in the routes, but our experience is more that nobody is walking some of these rural paths which are becoming overgrown with poor infrastructure. What would today be like up above Bowland-by-Bowland.
Yes, it is official it has been the wettest February in recent history so we can expect mud at the very least. In fact we miss out the first water-logged field in favour of the water-logged farm lane alongside Blue Scar, with locked gates. The farm has been unoccupied for years and last time I was here I struggled to find the PROW up from Skirden Beck into and through the farmyard, only to discover there was a concessionary path bypassing the farm altogether. Forewarned we follow it today dropping us down to the beck side. Those new galvanised gates help us find the way to the footbridge and the steep climb to Ray Head Farm, 1677. The fields are merely damp. 
Barking dogs guard the farm yard but are called off as we pass through and follow more gates and newly planted hedges up towards Lodge Farm. There are hills ahead we don’t recognise and behind ever present Pendle watches our progress. So far so good. We stop to take off a few layers as the day has warmed up, the sun is shining and there is no wind. A green and pleasant land given over to sheep farming.
We are back to wooden stiles now and the guide warns of difficult route finding, we go astray in the wrong field above and unable to gain access to New Gill Beck. Backtracking is the only option and we find our own way down through no man’s land to another new gate and the little footbridge over the beck. Out of the blue we come across a waymark for The Ribble Valley Jubilee Trail. Later research suggests this would be a worthwhile week’s 65 mile walk through some of the best of the Ribble Valley. 
Strangely there is an in situ caravan relic in the next field, no idea how it got there. 
We make better progress on a pleasant stretch alongside the beck. 
And there in front of us is the imposing Beckfoot Farmhouse with its mullioned windows, dating from1686 and partly rebuilt 1876. The lower plaque in the porch says EBI AN.DO 1686. 
Stately living indeed and they are making changes to the landscape hereabouts, lots, and I mean lots, of tree planting but the footpath remains clear through their estate. There has also been a lot of work done along with the environment agencies to slow down the flow of water in the beck in times of heavy rain. A work in progress no doubt. It looks like an ideal place to reintroduce Beavers? 
A bit of rougher ground and a dodgy footbridge brought us to the road at Butterfields. 
We now follow the quiet lanes for a mile or so, at the high point Pendle comes into view again. There are lots of cyclists, presumably from east Lancashire clubs, using this switchback route. A majority of the properties seem to be holiday lets, is this the only future for English farming? See below. 
We drop into Grunsagill, a once stately house and a couple of farms. Chatting to the farmer he says it is too cold and wet up here for lambing now, best in April. In fact it turns out his sheep are down in lower fields at Longridge where we have come from.
A brief spell by Grunsagill Beck, another tributary of Skirden Beck, and we descend into what is basically a holiday village, Lower Gill. Farm buildings done up as self catering units and attached recreational facilities including a heated pool. 
If the day had ended here we would have been very happy with our walk.
The next three quarters of a mile however were spent sinking into the worst possible flooded fields and then even worse trying to stay afloat on what was basically a slurry lagoon. Slurry is an integral part of modern farming where animal waste together with other waste organic farm matter is converted over a period of time into fertilizer that can be reused on their lands to fertilize crops. It should be in a controlled slurry pit not dumped into farm lanes. Slurry pits are dangerous enough from the point of view of deadly gases and drowning. Out here we felt very vulnerable on the virtually impassable slurry track. God knows what damage and pollution the run off into streams is creating. It can’t all be blamed on the wet weather, this is dumped farm waste. It should be looked upon as a serious enough problem as fly tipping in the countryside and sewage disposal by the big water companies. A world away from the high end vacation focused and sanitised ‘farming’ back at Lower Gill. I wonder if it is their land and slurry?
We needed hosing down and disinfecting after the ordeal. A walk to enjoy in the summer months.
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For a change you may start this post with a piece of music to set the scene.
The tune is the hymn ‘Rimington’, composed by Francis Duckworth. He was born in the Ribble Valley village of Rimington on Christmas Day 1862 at the grocery store, now a house. When he was five he moved with his family to nearby Stopper Lane, where they ran the village shop next door to a Wesleyan Chapel and hand loom cottages, now all private residences. Francis’s mother died when he was 12 and he began a hard life of working in various family shops. He later opened his own grocer’s shop in Colne. He was well known throughout the area as an accomplished musician and organist and composed many hymns, often named after local villages. ‘Rimington’ appeared in 1904. He remained in Colne until his death in 1941. He is buried in nearby Gisburn’s churchyard where his memorial is inscribed with the first couple of lines of his famous hymn.
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We find ourselves parked this morning in that village of Rimington to follow another walk from Clitheroe Ramblers – 25 Walks in the Ribble and Hodder Valleys. Once again under the shadow of Pendle Hill, only a few miles from touristy Downham where I was a couple of weeks ago. But there are no tourists here, it is a curious village strung out along the lane with no obvious centre and a variety of housing styles. The Black Bull pub mentioned in the guide is nowhere to be seen, presumably closed.
Anyhow we find our footpath heading into the fields – it is marked as a Heritage Trail, of which we know nothing. Some of the stiles are hard to spot with the sun in our eyes; as is Pendle towering above us. Yes, at last the sun is making a weak appearance today. In places the stiles have been replaced by those utilitarian galvanised kissing gates. I’m still not bowled over by them, being a dyed in the wool old git; see below. Anyway we head towards a farm through more tradional old gate posts and past a street light in the middle of nowhere. Bits of limestone break through the grass giving us a clue to the geology of the area. 
Before we go farther I would like to do a poll on which of the following you feel is most appropriate in our countryside, assuming progress has to be made. Galvanised or green?
Disused mines are marked on our map, perhaps they are something to do with the heritage trail. On the ground, pits start to appear all over the hillside and across the other side of Ings Valley. Apparently silver rich lead was recovered from here originally in the C17th from bell pits and later on an industrial scale from mine shafts. A smelt mill was built in the C19th. “Between 1880 and 1885 the York & Lancaster United Mining Co. Ltd sank a shaft and raised some ore. Unfortunately, James Wiseman, the banksman in charge of the shaft top, fell down the shaft and was killed in September 1884” This latter information I gleamed later from the internet where Rimington’s heritage is well represented. We should have known this before to fully appreciate and interpret the area. 
We come across a small limestone quarry but fail to spot its limekiln.
There is probably a lot of heritage around here.
In the distance below Pendle is listed but modernised Clough Head Farm. We are almost on the border of Lancashire and Yorkshire hereabouts. I remember when White Rose flags were flown in Gisburn long after it had been assimilated into Lancashire. Lanes, which switchback the slopes, bring us to Middop Hall, C17th and again listed but without much change. A grand display of mullioned windows. Somewhere in the barn are remnants of Sawley Abbey. The stone from the abbeys must have been reused in many farms in the area, we have passed some at Little Mearley Hall before. 
Shortly after leaving Widdop Hall we get into conversation with a friendly farmer on his quad bike. After the usual discussion on the weather he opens up and tells us he lives at the Hall and relates its history. If only we had met him down there we may have had a closer look around.
Onwards on the deserted lane with more ups and downs than I want. Then we are heading up onto the slopes of Weets Hill to join the Pennine Bridleway on Coal Pit Lane, more heritage there. 
From this elevated position the Three Yorkshire Peaks are just visible but too hazy to photograph. It is a slightly better view down the Ribble Valley towards the Parlick and Fairsnape group of Bowland. And of course you can’t get away from Pendle in these parts.
Soon we are on the return leg, again on quiet lanes, through the hamlets of Howgill, Newby and Stopper Lane. Lots of interesting buildings are passed and we guess at their original purposes.
A lot we walk past without a second glance, never mind a photograph. We do notice the plaque to Duckworth in Stopper Lane, but had no idea of the industry here. The historic photo is of the village’s joinery shop with its ‘windmill’. 
Here abouts is the village institute hall, a good half mile out of the village proper. But it does have an information board which tells us, all too late, about the Heritage Trail we have almost followed. 
If you are planning to visit this area be sure to download this map from their website. https://www.rimington.org.uk/index.php/rimington-s-heritage/heritage-trail We wish we had and feel the need to go back and check out our omissions.
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The sundial on Martin Top Chapel, under scafolding today, is a reminder that this life we live is short and fleeting, and also seems to comment on the changes that have occured quite rapidly in these working villages in our lifetime.
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