Author Archives: bowlandclimber

NOVEMBER ARRIVES.

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  Searching hidden wells.

  The clocks have changed.    It’s November, not my favourite month.

  Hopefully, most of the noisy Halloween and Bonfire Night bangs have passed. Recent research has shown that the noisy grenades launched into the sky at this time of year, apart from scaring the hell out of ourselves and our pets, have a significant adverse effect on our bird population, especially the newly arrived migrants—time to switch to silent fireworks.

  General lethargy has already set in; my Circadian clock is now running fast or slow, I don’t know which.  All I know is that I don’t really get going today until after two o’clock. There is a break in the rain, although the clouds suggest more is to come. Yesterday I only managed half an hour in the plantation before the heavens opened. Today I try a longer walk on the fell. I have identified a feature on the map that I would like to investigate.

  Just off the track, two wells are marked, one of which is named Dobson’s. Let’s see what an older map has to show, 1912, before the afforestation.

Yes, they are both marked. Let’s go and have a look. 

There are no cars parked at the usually busy rough layby on the fell road. It’s, as I said, not the best of days.

I walk down the road to join the footpath going up to Brownslow Brook.  This used to be one of my regular runs; I now carefully follow it with my two ski poles for security. We are in the second generation of trees here since I moved to Longridge. Mountain bikers use this path, and I wonder if it is them who have been trying to repair it since I was last here. I cross Brownslow Brook and climb into the area which was cleared a few years ago. 

Higher up is one of my favourite trees, I call it the Brownslow Beech.

  But nearby is a windblown beech which supports a lovely selection of fungi. I’m entranced for a while searching for them. 

Green Thorn, the farm on the fell, is on the market if you fancy a ‘getaway from it’  property. Note this photo; next year, there may be an executive mansion enjoying the view over the Ribble Valley.   I do a little circuit on the main track before heading back.

  However, on the way, I keep an eye on my GPS to locate the wells, which are just off the main track. Strangely, the OS map coming up on my phone differs slightly from the one I viewed this morning.  Dobson’s Well is marked virtually on the track. 

  I later check my paper map – yes, it is. I stop and look at the appropriate point, nothing but trees, but I can hear water. I dive into the vegetation to track it down. I don’t find a well, but I do see an outflow of water.  Was it a spring rather than a well? Only Mr Dobson would know.

  Now, let’s try to find the other well, marked on the map just a short distance away. Exactly where I wanted to leave the main track, there appears to be a path or more likely a mountain bike trail.

  I follow it for a while, watching the little red arrow on my GPS close in on the well. Once again, I have to take to the trees. They are tightly packed, and I push through cautiously. Curiosity killed the cat.  After some time, I admit defeat – there is no water to be found. I wonder if the forestry operations have obliterated all signs of it. Well, I have tried, and perhaps I’ve had a 50% success. 

I continue down the main track with murky Pendle across the valley. A pleasant walk on the fell, making the best of a November afternoon. 

I’m still pulling pine needles out of my hair. 

A BUSY DAY AT RIVINGTON.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

Looking back up to the tower.

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THE LONGRIDGE POSTIE WALK.

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  Is it a myth or a fact? 

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

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

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

 The day promises well.

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

  The track has the feel of an old way.

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

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

   This is from a previous post.

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

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

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

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

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

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

  The way is well provided with bridges and stiles.

 Even the odd clapper stone, no longer used.

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

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

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

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

1847
1895

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*

TWO FELLS. EASY EASINGTON AND WINDY WADDINGTON.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Wife?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Easington Fell in the background.

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

 I’m still the only car parked up.

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

*

VISITING THE RELATIVES.

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Chipping to Longridge.

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

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

Dusty and Oscar hanging out.

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

 Is there some racial segregation going on here?

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

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

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

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

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

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

  And there is the family.

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

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

*

BOWLAND NAVIGATION – NUL POINTS.

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A Croasdale Diversion.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Going.

 

Gone.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The curiosity shop would be shut by now.

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

The rest of the way was lovely. 

*

BACK TO BOWLAND.

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Croasdale nostalgia.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

LIMESTONE PAVEMENTS, FUN, AND FUNGI.

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

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

No wish today, unfortunately.

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

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

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

Beetham is soon behind us.

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

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

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

The path wanders through the woods

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

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

More fungi.

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

ICKNIELD WAY  13. To the end.

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The Mill to Knettishall Heath.

   

Hardly a church in sight today. 

I’m at the end.

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Giant puffballs are the size of footballs.

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

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

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

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

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

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

It is good to be back.

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

*

The Bell Inn, Thetford.

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

ICKNIELD WAY 12. The King’s Forest.

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Icklingham – to New Zealand Cottages, The Mill.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What’s out there?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I eventually escape the arena…

…back into Breckland forestry.

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

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

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

ICKNIELD WAY 11. Sunny and Sandy Suffolk.

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Kentford to Ickingham. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Here are some of the windows.

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

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

Old granary next to the farm.

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

It is a comfortable inn with good food and of course…I’m enjoying being in Suffolk.

*

ICKNIELD WAY  10. Hemmed in.

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Stretchworth to Kentford. 

Making my own breakfast is a help, as I’m able to get away before nine. I just walk up the road to Stretchworth.

As usual, leaving the villages, I find myself in a narrow corridor. Little do I realise that I will be doing the same for most of the morning.

But first, a few fields to get to cross the Devil’s Ditch, which here is more like an embankment. This was the border country between Mercia and East Anglia.

There are views across the fields to the flat Cambridgeshire countryside- Newmarket must be down there somewhere.

 

A gent walking his dog stops to say hello. Perfectly normal on a lovely sunny morning in the countryside, I always do the same. Twenty minutes later, I manage to get on my way. He never draws breath, informing me of all things medical, sharing findings from his personal research. Advice on diet, posture, tracking poles, walking, etc., etc

 

Feeling shell-shocked, I stagger across the following fields before I regain my composure. I almost walk past Woodditton Church, St. Mary the Virgin,  somewhat hidden in the trees. A simple structure of great age with an outstanding tower. Unfortunately, it is not open. There is medieval graffiti I would have liked to see.

 

And then I’m down the one-way alley: high fences and hedges on either side. I can’t see what’s on the other side, but I can guess—horse paddocks. Not the little ones for Jane’s pony, no, these are large for the thoroughbred horses. We are only a few miles from Newmarket – trainers’ fields and stud stables. Vast acres are utilised for the sport. It would be interesting to see the aerial view.

 

I plod on for miles of this. Easy walking, but with no variety.  And yet I still haven’t seen anyone riding on this trip. Horses are spotted in the occasional clearance, even practice courses, but no riders. 

 

I escape into Cheveley past some stables, looking for a coffee. Unfortunately, the shop is having a major overhaul, and all I end up with is a pint of milk. The bus shelter provides a bench – the lot of a vagabond. Some smart properties line the main street.

 

The church down the high street is massive.

 

St Mary and the Holy Host of Heaven, quite an extraordinary dedication! It is believed to be unique.

  The building was begun in 1260 with major rebuilding taking place in the 14th, 15th and 19th centuries. It comprises a nave, chancel and transepts and may have been inspired by the great cathedral of Ely. A 14th-century oak rood screen separates the nave from the chancel and choir stalls.   

The stained glass window in the chancel dates back to 1873 and is the work of Charles Kempe, a renowned Victorian stained glass artist.

The organ situated to the right of the altar dates back to 1873. The organist has fallen asleep during the service.

I notice some fine Staffordshire tiles.

 

And then I’m back behind the hedges.

 

I don’t escape easily. 

 I wonder where these gates lead?   Buzzards wheel above.

Ashley is a smaller place with even fewer facilities. But it does have a duck pond with a bench for lunch.

Before leaving, I check out the church; every village has one. An ancient one has been replaced in 1845. A simple design, one that lends itself to functions not necessarily of a religious nature. The back half of the nave has had its pews removed, creating an ideal space for families and clubs to hire. A way for churches to survive. The ukulele group practice is later today. 

Road walking is needed across the next stretch of countryside, but the road is quiet. It drops down to the River Kennett, which is running dry.

Now in the woodlands bordering  Dalham Hall estate. The guidebook suggests a diversion on paths around the estate, but I am happy to continue on the quiet road to Gazeley. (Dalham Hall is owned by  Sheikh Muhammed bin Rachid al-Mactoum, the ruler of Dubai, who has a murky past.) 

Gazeley is similar in style to the other villages visited today. There is no pub or shop.

The church is, however, a Medieval masterpiece.

The chancel, which is rendered, is C14th with Decorative Style windows. The aisles and tower are C15th with Perpendicular Style windows. You can see the contrast in the photo above. 

There is so much medieval woodwork inside, pews, pulpit, roof and screen. 

 My phone camera can’t capture the detail in the chancel, but there are photos provided.

There is a good collection of brasses on the floor. 

Even the carved font is C14th.

I spend more time than usual in this church, not just for its treasures, but to shelter from the only rain shower of the trip—time to move on. 

The road passes a converted windmill and its associated cottages. 

And then I’m crossing fields once more with just a narrow path through the sugar beet.

 

The sound of the busy trunk road to Bury St Edmunds becomes irritating. And then I’m hemmed in until the end on the narrow pavement alongside the main road into Kentford. But salvation appears in the form of a transport cafe. I’ve been hankering for a coffee all day. Can you spot the difference?

Yes, the sign was changed as I was yards from the door.  

My pub for the night, The Bell, has unusual hours for a Tuesday night, with the bar and restaurant open from 6 to 7, mainly for the residents, of which there are a few workers, as well as myself. They say they can’t get the staff.  I don’t even ask about breakfast.

I can’t complain, they have bright, comfortable rooms in the courtyard, and the food is decent. 

*

 

 

 

 

 

 

ICKNIELD WAY 9. Village churches.

4 Replies

Balsham to Stretchworth.

I’m in no rush. I eat my DIY breakfast in my room. Let the day warm up a little.  There are shops open, but I don’t need anything. When I do, there won’t be any. Sod has something to do with it.

Across the green is a small shelter, the ‘Prince Memorial’ to a local family at the beginning of the C20th, and a stone marker for The Icknield Way,  Ivinghoe Beacon, 63 miles, Peddars Way, 43 miles. So I am more than halfway. 

Thatched cottages are scattered throughout the village; this one, with its ducks and hens, is on the church approach.

Holy Trinity is another large church. The oldest part is the tower, C13th, with some impressive buttresses holding it up. Inside, the nave, supported by massive columns, clerestory and chancel date from the C14th.

The chancel features ancient carved pews, some of which have their original misericords.  Wood that is over 500 years old. 

Large, well-preserved medieval brasses to both  John Sleford and Hugh de Balsham are present in the chancel. 

Alterations were made to the church in the early 20th century, including stained glass windows and an imposing font cover, carved in the late 1920s by the then Rector, Edwin Burrell.

I wind my way through the village recreation grounds; all these little villages seem to have good facilities. The town councils must have their priorities right and the backing of a young, dynamic populace. As I said, they are dormitory towns for Cambridge.   

A sign points the way to Fox Lane, and I know when I reach it. Yet another thatcher’s animal adornment.

The lane that I follow for about three miles is no longer a greenway; attempts have been made to surface it in the past. However, it provides easy walking, with the chalk and flints visible through the surface.

The lane undulates between large fields. Prominent wind turbines are passed as height is gained.

Partridges run ahead of me, and there is an accompanying bird song from the hedges. Buzzards and kites fly overhead. Crabapples, haws, blackberries, and sloes are in profusion as I’ve mentioned many times this Autumn. These diversions keep me occupied on this three-mile plod.

A couple of small roads are crossed on the way, but no habitations. The lane ends abruptly at a dry ford, where I take a right turn on another lane. I soon realise why there were so many partridges about, they are feeding them to shoot them later.

Past Crick’s Farm, which turns out to be just two large sheds. 

 High fields give far-reaching views; those wind turbines don’t look far away.

Horsey fields, as I call them, are navigated until I’m alongside some neat allotments. A member is doing a bit of mowing but is happy to stop and chat. I learn a little about Brinkley, and he points me in the right direction of The Red Lion, which I might have. missed otherwise.

The Red Lion doesn’t look inviting from the outside. Have I become too thatch addicted? However, it turns out to be very friendly and accommodating,  a pint and a sit-down are enjoyed, and I stay for coffee.

Back in the village, I spend some time looking around St Mary’s church. On the gatepost is a stone skull and crossbones carving, intended to ward off evil spirits.  This church underwent many alterations in Victorian times, although the tower dates back to the 13th century, with diagonal buttressing and an unusual chequered flushwork base course. I like the red brick porch, apparently added in Tudor times.

 
 

Inside, most of the space is a Victorian restoration of the old structure. The Ensign hanging in the nave was presented to the church by the company of HMS Brinkley when it was decommissioned in 1962.

The tower arch is very tall and thin. Under the tower, there is an early 17th-century clock mechanism, an interesting survival.

 

 Bits of Medieval glass have been incorporated into the windows. 

I like the simplicity of this wall plaque. 

I read, too late, that the base of an old preaching cross, predating the church, is in the churchyard.

The way to Burrough is straightforward, and I come out onto the village green. A fine circle of field mushrooms is so obvious that I wonder why nobody has picked any.

St. Augustine Church is tucked away down a side lane. The church strikes me as unusual in having three chantries on the south wall. The tower is squat compared to many and remains unchanged from the rest of the C14th church, which has had many alterations over the years. At one time, there were chapels on either side of the chancel. Their presence is still visible in the exterior stonework.

Upon entering, the interior is devoid of pillars, and the chancel arch has been removed, leaving a boxy feel to this end.

The east window is beautiful, and contains some glass from before 1350.. The Puritans, led by William ‘Basher’ Dowsing under the 1643 Parliament Ordinance, destroyed the majority of the stained glass in the church – and what else?.

The three sedilia and double piscinae, seen in the south wall, are the oldest surviving features in the church.  Opposite on the north wall of the chancel are the three ornate niches containing medieval effigies of the local De Burgh family.

Originally, they would have been open on each side, linking the chancel and the lost north chapel. (We saw the outline of one on the outside) 

A further pair of later effigies sits in the north aisle. They show better workmanship, but are also badly weathered.  John Ingoldisthorpe and Elizabeth De Burgh, died 1420 and 1421 respectively.

Leaving the church, the path crosses the green; the old schoolhouse looks interesting.

Around the back of the Bull Inn, the path becomes enclosed for some way between horse paddocks – we are only a few miles from Newmarket.

Briefly, I join the E2 path (also the Stour Valley Path) in some woods.

Open countryside at last, before a sunken track takes me to the front door of my Airbnb.

A wonderful cottage with converted outhouses. Perfect. Another fascinating day in this region so unfamiliar to me. 

*

 

ICKNIED WAY 8. Clear Cambridgeshire Skies.

7 Replies

Great Chesterford – Balsham.

A good sign – sun shining bright through the window at 8 am. Breakfast is enjoyed whilst trying to get used to the waitress’s languid local accent. Am I in Cambridgeshire or Essex?

Somehow I’ve picked up a head cold, but fortunately, the little shop around the corner sells Paracetamol, along with everything else. A pleasant village with some old houses, I’m back in flint country.

Over to the flint church where a Sunday morning service is taking place. I don’t intrude, but I am intrigued to see the congregation watching a video screening, possibly from another church. Perhaps a joining of forces for these isolated churches with small congregations. I was hoping to see some of the medieval graffiti inside the church.

I’m reunited with the Icknield Way waymarks on the edge of the village.

The usual slow climb back up onto the flinty chalk hills. There is a Trig point at 114m I probably won’t reach any higher in the next few days; this is not mountain walking.

The views are clear in the polar air which is pushing down the country.  The calmness of the day up here blots out the turmoil of the world below. Alongside ploughed fields and down a drove road.

As the village of Liton drew closer, I could see ahead, above the treeline on Rivey Hill, a prominent water tower, a landmark for miles. First stop was the Crown Hotel, in the pretty High Street, for a coffee before they started Sunday lunch. They were busy mopping out a flood in the bar area.

The centre of the village was a delight for a Northener.

Across a ford on the River Granta is St Mary’s Church. A large church that reflects the wealth of Linton as a historical market town.The church dates, as most around here, from the C12th.

The tower from the 14th Century has four unusual inlaid black flint crosses.

Also on the tower is a small exterior doorway; maybe a priest lived in the tower when it was built.

Is that a ‘lepers’ window around the side of the chancel?

The morning service has just finished, and the remaining friendly parishioners are all too pleased to chat. In comes a chap with one of those sticks that take pictures from above and then magically disappear. He had come in to film a 360-degree vision of the church interior. Whilst we are talking, he produces one with us in the centre. I don’t know how to show you the 360-degree moving one he sent me.

The arched nave is supported on solid stone piers with a clerestory above. On the southern side are three c.1200 unusual circular clerestory windows,

On either side of the chancel are two small chapels. The northern one, mostly filled with the organ, contains a fascinating marble monument to Sir John Millicent, who died in 1577. In the middle, Sir John and his second wife rest their hands on a skull. Above and below are shallow carvings of their children and of Sir John’s first wife,

Back outside, I find a seat for a spot of lunch. The attractive village appears to be popular with day visitors. A thatched pub along the way has the dog and duck displayed, as is the custom, in straw on the roof ridge.

My guide mentions the Linton Clapper stile. A listed monument and one of only four in the country. I crossed the busy recreational field to where it was supposed to be. No sign of it. I ask a passing local, and he points out I’m standing right next to it, so underwhelming it is. I prevailed upon him to demonstrate it in action. This is a recent reconstruction, so I’m unsure why it is still listed. I leave the park with my tail between my legs.

Suddenly, out of the village, a familiar white track leads up the fields. At the top, a seat offers a place to catch my breath with a view over the Granta valley. Built of sturdy metal by an engineer in 1981, but unfortunately suffering from timber decay.

Onwards, the water tower I saw across the valley this morning comes into sight, and I’m surprised to find some houses up here also. I walk down their gravel access lane.

Escaping a short stretch of road, my path crosses several harvested fields.

Arriving at a Roman Road running from Colchester to Cambridge. The ancient Icknield Way is possibly 3000 years older. I follow the Roman road eastwards for some distance.

A byway heads off towards Balsham.

I’m getting into a slower stride for the last mile. Balsham is one of the highest villages in Cambridgeshire, and once again, there are those extensive views. I enter the village by the Old Butcher’s Shop, with the dog running away with the sausages.

Time to find my inn for the night. Somehow, I have ‘The Bell’ in my head, but upon entering, I’m informed they don’t have rooms. Am I in the right village? Have I cocked up my forward planning? They suggest trying the Black Bull down the road. Checking my booking, that is where I should be. Another tail between my legs moment.

Once at the correct pub, I book in, knowing that they are closing early tonight for their staff party in Cambridge. As arranged, they provide an evening meal to take to my room and a self-service breakfast for the morning. This suits me fine. Second night in a row for a long soak in a spacious bath and an early night with my paracetamol.

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ICKNIELD WAY. Continuation.

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                                                                  Kentford. A L Collins.

I started planning this next section of the Icknield Way Path as soon as I arrived home from finishing the first half to Great Chesterford in Essex. If I complete it, I will link up with the Peddars Way, which I walked with Mel way back in 2003. All part of the Great Chalkway, though I didn’t know it at the time.

My walk from Ivinghoe Beacon through Buckinghamshire, Hertfordshire, Cambridgeshire, and Essex was a success, with well-maintained paths, diverse wildlife, a selection of pubs, and interesting churches and towns. I’m heading into a different scenery, after Kentford, the chalk is overlaid with sand. This is the Breckland – open sandy heath with Scots Pines. 80% of Breckland heathland was lost between 1934 and 1980. Huge areas have been planted with conifer plantations, and many heaths have been ploughed for arable crops.

I won’t be passing any large towns. Sorting out accommodation in the small villages along the way hasn’t been easy. But for a change, I’ve been able to find somewhere each night virtually on the route, so no faffing with bus timetables. Perhaps restocking with food might be difficult. The weather will take care of itself. I have a day’s journey down by train to Cambridge and on to start in Great Chesterford.

If you want to make God laugh, tell him your plans, an old Yiddish saying.

*

Since my last walk, I have sourced a copy of a book, The Icknield Way, written by Edward Thomas in 1913, with illustrations by A L Collins. Thomas had walked the route in 1911. He talks of byways and paths and gives a vivid, if lengthy, description of the chalk highways. I realise, upon reading bits of it, how much has changed over a century. Lanes that he used are now dual carriageways; hence, the current guidebook seeks out the most interesting way as close as possible to the historical road.

Thomas (1878 -1917) gained a second-class degree in History at Oxford. He then decided to pursue a career as a writer, encouraged to publish essays based on the detailed notes he took on his walks. His first book, The Woodland Life, was published in 1897. He endured years of poorly paid writing but became one of the foremost critics of the day. He developed a close friendship with the American poet Robert Frost, and it was he who encouraged Thomas to write poetry. (Frost’s most famous poem, “The Road Not Taken”, was inspired by walks with Thomas and Thomas’s indecisiveness about which route to take.) In the last years of his life, Thomas wrote over 140 poems. He was killed in battle in France in April 1917. The poems that made his name were published after his death.

Cambridge here I come.

*

I leave a dull and rainy NW. The Preston Station waiting room had this message—an apt start to my journey.

I didn’t realise I’ve booked a first-class seat to Birmingham, all for £30.

The ongoing cross-country train wasn’t as comfy. Nuneaton, Leicester, Melton Mowbray, Oakham, Grantham, Stamford, Peterborough, March, Ely, all pass by in a blur.

 

The sun comes out as I reach Peterborough. Cambridge is somewhat chaotic, with no trains going further south. Eventually, I find a bus taking me back to Great Chesterford, where I finished last time. The bus takes forever to negotiate Addenbrooke’s Hospital, what a place.

My hotel is an old English Grade II listed house with lots of character inside; ie somewhat dated and jaded but perfect for my tastes. It dates back to the 18th and 19th centuries and was once a coaching inn on the London to Newmarket road. Somewhere below it are Roman remains.

The name Chesterford is of Roman origin, but little remains as more recent builders plundered the stone over the centuries.

The room upgrade was a bonus: a bath and a four-poster.

I’ve become accustomed to a bit of luxury at the start of my trips.

An early night is called for after a journey of nearly 10 hours.

A BREATH OF FRESH AIR.

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I’m mooching about back home after my recent enjoyable week’s walk on The Icknield Way, of which I completed about half the distance.  The weather has taken a turn for the worse with hefty rain for the last few days. But I am determined to get out this afternoon once the sun appears. I head up the fell for my favourite short circuit in the plantation.

Driving up, I couldn’t help but notice the floodwater on the Loud in the Chipping Vale below. That’s Beacon Fell in the background. The heather has lost its colour for this year, but it is still wet enough to soak my trainers and trousers as I push through it.

I start to notice all around fungi that have appeared with all the moisture of the week. I think these are Slippery Jack, but I won’t be taking any home for tea. 

I make my way through the trees; the bracken is beginning to die off, but you need to know where the path leads. By the time I get to the top, I’m virtually in the clouds. A silence has descended on the fell. I enjoy the solitude.

The views over the Ribble Valley are hazy.

More fungi appear under the conifers.

Reaching the main track, I bump into another Lonridge resident walking his dogs and searching for fungi. As we chat, we realise that at our feet are some baby puff balls.

I recommend to him and to you This Entangled Life, a book about “how fungi make our worlds, change our lives and shape our futures”. 

As I said, it was late in the day and not the best time to discover fungi; the slugs have discovered them already.

I persist and find some lovely Sulphur Tufts growing on a log.

This upright fellow, I think, is a Grisette which I’ve not come across before. 

Whilst I’m on my hands and knees below the trees, I come across this Reindeer Lichen growing on a branch. How beautiful is that?

And this rock appears to be painted white, but no, there is a lichen spreading over it.

I’m heading back down through the trees towards the brook, which is in a lively mode after all thec rain..

I get wet feet at my usual stepping stone crossing point. Driving back down the fell road, I see a glimmer of brightness over the Lancashire plain against the mug on the fell. 

Thats enough fresh air for today.

ICKNIELD WAY 7. Halfway, and home.

8 Replies

Chrishall to Great Chesterford.

My Uber taxi drops me off back in Chrishall. Large fields are crossed before a lane brings me to the next village, Elmdon.

 The house in front of me was previously The Carrier Inn, one of five pubs in the village at one time. Beer was safer than water. These agricultural settlements reached a peak population at the end of the 19th century before mechanisation made much of the labour force redundant and drove people to the towns. And now they are probably inhabited by workers from the city.

The Church of St. Nicholas is prominent above the village. 

The tower is C15th, but the rest of the church was rebuilt in the 19th century. I don’t find much of interest inside except for a C16th marble altar tomb and an embossed coffin lid. 

I stroll around King’s Lane …. some delightful buildings.

Once out of the village, little byways pass through the fields. I seem to be on the local dog walkers’ route. Everyone is happy on this glorious morning.

I wind my way up to the isolated church at Strethall, its tower just visible.

Small compared to others, it is plain inside with a splendid arched chancel. Much is C12th. The stained glass is Victorian, and the east window is so large that the structure of that wall has been compromised. An iron cross bar was inserted, but more recently, oak beams have been installed across the chancel for extra strength. Some of the pews are over 600 years old. I have been meaning to mention the tiles I’ve seen in the churches this week. Many have been encaustic tiles. Encaustic tiles were traditionally created using different colours of ceramic clay, with the pattern inlaid into the body of the tile. The different coloured clays can extend into the base tile by up to 6 millimetres. This means the patterns remain visible even after centuries of wear. I spent time in a tile museum in Ironbridge last year learning about this process. I wonder if these tiles originated in Coalbrookdale, Shropshire?

There is a hall and its farm nearby, and that is Strethall – all is peace and quiet. Even the narrow lanes have no traffic apart from a couple of cyclists out from London for the day.

The following field of beet is massive; my narrow path takes over 10 minutes to traverse, about half a mile. Sign of things to come?

Ahead is an equally massive and newly ploughed field, and I’m dreading crossing it. Thankfully, a narrow hedged strip has been preserved and what a wildlife corridor it proves. Full of birdsong and berries galore, as is the norm this year. Covies of partridges fly out as I progress—Roe deer disappear across the fields. This is what rambling is all about, but then the distant rumbling of the M11 slowly impinges on the senses.

You hear it long before you see it.

They have gone to a lot of expense to bridge over all the lanes and slip roads. A Flag of St. George decorates the railings – I wonder about the motive of placing it there. In the interests of safety for the motorists below, I remove it.

Over the bridge, a lane takes me into Great Chesterford. Sounds as though there is a Roman connection there. I don’t think that when this house was built, they would have expected a motorway to go past their back door.

The train to Cambridge is just down the road. Getting home is more tiring than the few miles I’ve done today.    My kittens are pleased to see me. I’m surprised they recognise me, as my hair is a tangle, having forgotten to take a comb on my travels.

*

*

I think I am about halfway on the Icknield Way Path, Ivinghoe Beacon to Knettishall Heath, 106 miles. Thanks for sticking with me so far. I have probably followed some of the Icknield Way, but lots of it is lost in the mists of time. I certainly felt I was on an ancient way much of the time; there was that mystical atmosphere around. Whatever, it has made for an excellent LDW so far. It’s time to go home for a while, but I hope to be back before the end of September to finish it and join the Peddars Way on Knettishall Heath.  

 

ICKNIELD WAY 6. Thunder only happens when it’s raining.

11 Replies

Royston to Chrishall. 

Today’s earworm, Stevie at her best…

That is not strictly true; thunder can occur in stormy weather without it raining, but it is usually a sign that rain may be due. Remember the formula for calculating how far the storm is away? Count the time between the lightning flash and the thunder in seconds and divide by five for the distance in miles. I never saw any lightning today, but I certainly heard the thunder, and it rained.

I should be going home today, but I’m enjoying this walk so much that whilst I’m down here and feeling fit, why not do a couple more days? One or two phone calls last night, and things were sorted back home. I don’t have the guidebook pages from here on, but the waymarking has been so good, I think I can do without.

The stone base of the Rosia cross stands at the junction of Ermine Street and the Icknield Way. That is where my walk starts today.

A trudge alongside a main road past new housing, with an appropriate name, gaining height out of pleasant Royston.

At the Greenwich Meridian, I cross over to the drive of Burloes Hall, a permissive few yards, closed every February 1st, and I’m in the woods. However, all is not well, as the noise from the encroaching A505 dual carriageway becomes increasingly intrusive. It stays this way for about a mile.

And then I’m onto a hard farm road that goes straight as a die. Not the best start to the day, but at least it’s dry, for the moment, and the traffic noise slowly abates.

At last, I’m in fields on an enclosed path between bushes, which give a little shelter from the brisk breeze.

I think this could be Bulace as it doesn’t have the spikes of Blackthorn, Sloe.

And is this Buckthorn?

I’m passing through massive harvested fields. What must they have looked like before the combine went through a few weeks ago? The castles of straw indicate the scale of modern farming.

*

Field of corn.

So gently swaying in the breeze,  fragile and slender,

in regimental rows you stand,   golden heads bowing to command,

from the breeze that passes through.  ready for harvesting to make into hay,

tractor ready,   prepared for cutting today,

corn for cereal for me to eat,   for animals, bedding for them to sleep,

now that you’re gone `o` field of golden sunshine corn,

in place, there are hay stacks standing tall instead,

no breeze blowing through golden field of bowing heads,

I won’t mourn,

for the farmer is sewing his new corn,

With sunshine and plenty of rain,

I know my golden field will be back again.

 John Duffy

*

To the right are the chalk downs where the villages I’ll visit today lie.

I turn at a right angle and start climbing to the first village. The flora is typical of the chalk lands, which I’m becoming familiar with. It appears they have left wildlife strips at the sides of the cultivated land. The orchids must have been spectacular in the early summer. 

In the woods towards the top, roe deer scamper away on my approach, or is it the thunder overhead? The clouds are darkening, and a few spots of rain appear. Can I reach the church in Heydon before the downpour begins?


Thatched cottages and those characteristic wooden barn conversions welcome me into Heydon.

I am soaked by the time I reach the church. I have the usual mooch around and end up sheltering from the rain, which has arrived in earnest.

Holy Trinity has a fascinating history, having been mostly demolished by a bomb in the Second World War. The stone arch surrounding the north door records that a place of worship was established on the site in 1298, but there is little doubt that a church was established there long before this date, a “˜Vicar of Heydon’ being recorded as early as 1164.

In 1940, enemy bombs fell near the church, collapsing the tower and most of the north side of the nave and the north aisle.  The chancel was restored in 1952, and the remainder, the nave and tower, was completed in 1956. A collection of oak pews from other churches and a new tower clock completed the work.

The stained glass at the east end was commissioned from C E Kempe, the renowned Victorian designer who worked with W Morris.

Those steps up the bell tower tempted me. Can you see the headlines – Walker mysteriously killed in church.I have to leave at some stage and take to the wet fields and paths to Chrishall.

I don’t take many photographs.

I’m steaming by the time I arrive in Chrisall. I was hoping the Red Cow would be open for shelter and a coffee—no such luck. I’ve had enough for today.

A bus shelter helps during the heaviest downpour whilst I await my Uber taxi to deliver me back to Royston for an early shower of the hot variety.  All in the day of a long-distance walker. Turns out I have been in three counties in the one day,  Hertfordshire Essex, and Cambridgeshire. 

I have to give a shout-out to my Airbnb accommodation in Royston. An unassuming property in a cul-de-sac on a newish estate. An Italian couple, Antony and Elena, provide a room and a bathroom in their spotless house. Access is by a key box. The epitome of the original Airbnb ethos before all the commercial chalets and country cottages jumped on the bandwagon. Check out La Caza

What more do you need?

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ICKNIELD WAY 5. A three church day.

9 Replies

Wallington to Royston.

My taxi driver is Sri Lankan and a keen walker, particularly fond of the Austrian Alps. The journey goes quickly, with us chatting about different places. Obviously, he knows the areas in Sri Lanka I have been to. I point out George Orwell’s cottage to him as he wishes me good luck on a day when, according to the weatherman, thundery heavy showers are a certainty. 

Of course, it is bright sunshine as I set off up the lane towards the church, which I visited yesterday. 

A stile leads into a field where a herd of Jacob sheep is grazing, and I keep a watch on the heavily horned ram watching me. At least I have had no cows to deal with on this walk.

In the following few fields, my way is well worn between harvested crops until I have a choice of four cleared paths to the road at the few houses of Redhill.

Thatched cottages are becoming more and more common in the surrounding villages. A hedged track leads onwards, and I enjoy a second breakfast from the bumper crop of blackberries. Having gained height, I can see for miles.

Horsey enclosures herd me into Sandon—more thatch, both grand and humble.

I wind through the village and head across the green to the prominent church, All Saints, its limestone walls gleaming in the sunshine. I’m surprised they have allowed an IW waynark on the listed lynch gate.

Inside, a man is kneeling, not praying, but painting the altar rails—a good chance to discover local knowledge, as he is happy to chat. He is sorry his wife isn’t there, as she is busy writing up the Church’s history.

Half an hour later, I emerge and find a bench in the churchyard for an early lunch whilst it’s dry.

A couple of ancient lanes, Park and Notley, are signed for the Hertfordshire Way as well as my route and several others..

I decide I’d like to visit the church at Kelshall, so I change routes for a while and walk across newly ploughed fields.  A family of roe deer runs ahead of me. Then, through paddocks straight to the church, by which time I’ve accumulated an inch or so of mud on my boots.

St. Faith is another interesting church from the C15th. Its very distinctive walls are built from local flints. Modern glass doors give access through the porch, once you have wiped all that mud off your boots. Notice the C15th Medieval cross base and shaft in the churchyard.

The Medieval inner wooden door retains its original fittings.

The plain interior is visually appealing. 

But then look up and see the spectacular painted beams.

In the north, nave the roof beams are treated differently. The support beam ends are decorated with carved figureheads, which I struggled to photograph. Nor did I photograph effectively the coloured Medieval rood screens.

Fragments of medieval glass.

The village itself has a medieval cross base alongside a modern millennium cross.

On the lane are some fine houses, Fox Hall and Cottage.

Beyond the duck pond, a lane leads straight to Therfield Church, with the remains of a motte and bailey just visible on the edge of the churchyard. 

St. Mary’s is a much larger church. There has been a church on this site since Anglo-Saxon times, a C14th church replaced it, until in the late C19th it was rebuilt in a ‘similar’ Gothic style by  G.E. Pritchett. There are lots of C14th adornments incorporated into the church. Some bits didn’t make it,

Again, carved angels support the roof beams. The font is C14th. Hidden away is a cabinet full of small objects, I assume have been found in the surrounding fields, though there is no explanation. Fascinating collection.


I’m churched out and hope to get a drink and a bite to eat in the pub – but no, it’s closed. On the edge of the village are a few benches, so I eat some chocolate there. 

A message on one of the seats sets me off singing again. Not one of the best from The Specials, but listen to the brass section at the end.

A lane drops from here with views over the distant Brecklands.

I should have looked behind me; the sky is blackening. Within seconds, I’m in the middle of a heavy rainstorm, with the added interest of nearby thunder. The views disappear, and the track floods in no time.

I soon have my waterproofs on for what they are worth, but I forget the rucksack cover. Thankfully, as I’m in a treelined lane, I have some shelter from the wind, but the rain gets through everything. 

Entering Therfield Heath, there is no let-up; I just keep walking. I probably lose concentration, and I’m loath to use my phone in the downpour. I realise I’ve not seen any waymarks for a while. I’m on a good track, but it’s going in the wrong direction; I have no choice but to continue. A side trail might get me back on route, but when I follow it, I end up on the edge of a golf course. 

The rain stops as quickly as it started. Looking up, I can see the extent of the Heath, which should have been a highlight of the day.. The map shows tumuli and barrows up there. I think I can make out one of the tumuli.

A lane sees me safely past the golf club and onto the road into Royston.

My first thought is to find a café for a hot drink, but I end up having eggs on toast as well. The rain starts again, so I’m in no hurry to leave. The Tesco Express, where I buy sandwiches for tomorrow, is flooded after the downpour. 

Royston is an ancient market town situated at the junction of Ermine Street and Icknield Way. An old stone cross base, the Roisia Stone, sits at the junction.

Somewhere below the crossroads is Royston Cave. Only open at weekends, so I miss it. 

“Royston Cave remains an enigma. No records of its age or purpose exist. Some theories suggest it was used by the Knights Templar, while others claim it was a private chapel or hermitage, and some believe it to be a pagan site situated on two energy lines. Discovered by accident in 1742, Royston Cave is man-made, bell-shaped and cut 8 metres into the chalk that lies beneath Royston’s ancient crossroad, Ermine Street and Icknield Way. The cave is decorated with low-relief wall carvings, which are mostly Christian in depiction and medieval in style. The carvings include representations of the Holy Family, the Crucifixion and notable saints such as St George, St Catherine and St Christopher. Elsewhere are figures of a horse and an Earth Goddess, believed to be pagan fertility symbols. In addition to the carvings, the cave was found containing a human skull, an unmarked piece of brass and fragments of a drinking vessel.”   From the TripAdvisor site.

On the way down the street, I see the site of King James Ist’s hunting palace. He came to Royston between 1603 and 1627, one of his favourite places.

Across the road is the unassuming museum, which can be explored in just a short time. Bits of everything. The museum has a large collection of E. H. Whydale’s work. (1886-1952)  He lived in Royston most of his life. He was known for his sketches and watercolours of rural life. I can only find one of his paintings on display today.

View of Ashwell, Hertfordshire.

After all that, it is time to visit the King James for a quiet pint before looking for my Airbnb.

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ICKNIELD WAY 4. Just hop on the bus.

12 Replies

Ickleford to Wallington.

Walking through Hitchin to the bus stop, I must have passed about ten coffee shops—the new culture.

I’m soon back in Ickleford.  An early start is necessary, as rain is expected to arrive by lunchtime. It’s been that sort of week. 

For now, I can enjoy the sunshine.

I wonder what the timber-framed building next to the C16th Old George pub was originally used for.

Out of the village, my path crosses the River Hiz; so far, there haven’t been many rivers on this trip.

Further on, there is a pool, Gerry’s Hole.  This pond resulted from the building of the embankment for the Hitchin-Bedford railway. The unfortunate Gerry, one of the navvies, fell in after a heavy night on the beer and drowned, or so the story goes. The pool doesn’t look very healthy. There is a reminder of the abandoned railway on a nearby abutment.

The usual bridleway continues towards Letchworth. It crosses the main east coast railway, where trains fly through every few minutes. I plod on at my own leisurely pace.

I don’t really notice the Iron Age fort on Wilbury Hill before I’m deposited onto a road into town.

Which just happens to be the…

A pleasant, quiet way leading to the station. On the way, the Art Nouveau building of Spirella is passed.

Letchworth was the first of the Garden Cities in the early 1900s. My trail guidebook implies avoiding road walking through industrial areas by catching the bus. I don’t need any persuading, and I’m soon in Baldock. The problem with solo walking is that these tunes keep coming into your head. Hop on the bus, Gus. 

There appear to be several interesting Georgian houses on Main Street, Balcock, but I’m in a hurry due to the threat of rain. Always a mistake. 

A brief interlude in a chalet park, and then I’m climbing one of those narrow, sloe-lined paths. The busy dual carriageway disappears into tunnels in the chalk downs.

Large open fields are a feature on the way, with the trail clear ahead.

Buzzards are wheeling and mewing overhead. I come over a rise and notice a path, off route, heading up a hill into a copse. Looking at the map, there appears to be a church up there—Clothall St Mary’s. 

There has been a church on this site at least since the 12th century. As always, much has changed. What I see today was originally 14th/15th century, amazing—built of flint and stone.

The south door, by which you enter, is C14th. John Warren was possibly the craftsman.  Just pushing open this door and entering the church, one is transported to a different era. 

The pride of the church is the unique East Window consisting of six C14th medallions, surrounded by small C15th diamond-shaped quarries depicting birds of the countryside.

The medallion of the head of Mary depicts her with long hair.

The font is C12th Purbeck marble.  How could a small church afford this? In the past, the parish must have been much larger. Outside, there are some unusual domed graves. 

I’m glad I came up to  Clothall.

Clouds are whizzing by, but so far I’ve dodged the rain.

Back on course, the way ahead is always clear. Another walker comes alongside me. He is carrying a rucksack, so I enquire his destination, thinking he may be walking the IW trail. No, he is local and on a training walk ahead of setting out on Hadrian’s Wall path later in the month—his first LDW. I wish him well as he strides ahead of me. 

Reaching Wallington, I have time before my transport arrives.  The church looks attractive from the exterior with local stone.

The interior is stunning, featuring some lovely 15th-century woodwork in the pews and screen.

The tower is from the same period. Inside, there is some unusual graffiti, a warrior with a shield. Further graffiti in the porch depicts a hobby horse.

Up in the roof timbers of the North Aisle are carved angels, which proved challenging to photograph with my phone. Several times on this trip, I have regretted not carrying my camera. This is the church in which the author George Orwell was first married, whilst he lived in the village. There is a display all about him and his time in Wallington. 

A gardener trimming the hedge of the adjacent large house is happy to chat about the locality. I daren’t ask him who owns the million pounds property, I’m sure he would have politely veered away from the subject.

He explains about the fresh water spring down the lane, which was enclosed in Victorian times and the water piped to a pump in the village street next to the old school,  now the village hall.

He also points me in the right direction to see the cottage that George Orwell lived in from 1936 to 1948. 

My Uber taxi arrives; this is the first time I have used them, and it works out well. No longer will I worry too much about being stuck in isolated villages. 

I’m staying in the Broadway Hotel. Interestingly, the first inn to be built, in 1962, in Letchworth Garden City, which, from its Quaker heritage, had a ban on the sale of alcohol. 

It is worth reading the history of the town for the ideology behind garden cities. I missed the chance at seeking out the country’s first roundabout, but I won’t lose sleep over that. 

Oh, and of course it never rained.

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