Author Archives: bowlandclimber

PILGRIM’S PROGRESS. THE HIGH PEAK.

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Day 9.    Whaley Bridge to Buxton.

I have my pilgrim shoes on once again, actually, they are my new boots. I bought a pair of HH lightweight boots about three years ago, and they have served me well. Last time out, I noticed a slit in the uppers, and the soles are wearing out. No problem, because I was so pleased with the original pair that last year, I purchased the same to be kept ‘under the bed’ until needed. They should fit straight from the box, I hope.

I’m continuing my ‘pilgrimage’ from home, Longridge, to Lichfield, following in the footsteps of Saxon monks through Mercia.  I’ve crossed Greater Manchester and I’m heading into the Peak District proper. 

My train from Manchester covers ground I recognise from my last trip. New Mills., Peak Forest Canal, arriving back in bustling Whaley Bridge. There is not a lot of ancient history in Whaley, although the name is of Anglo-Saxon origin. The Romans chose here for the crossing of the river Goyt on their road from Buxton to Manchester. Coal mines and mills were the biggest employers until the early 20th Century, and the canal and railway improved prosperity. 

The only cafe open is the Bridge Bakery, which proves very popular.

I sit outside with my drink, indulging myself with a Pain au Chocolat for my second breakfast.

Getting into conversation with a charming lady with a tale to tell. Both her husband and son-in-law suffered a stroke within 24 hours of each other. I end up staying much longer than planned. The morning is disappearing by the time I leave. 

It starts off well alongside the Goyt.

It was back in 2019 when the Todbrook Dam, directly above the town, leaked, causing a hurried evacuation. I had not expected the repairs to be continuing, so my planned paths were initially closed and diverted away from the dam. (The repair is running over budget and behind schedule).  A bit of improvising was needed. In hindsight, it would have been easier just to follow the road, which I end up on in any case.

The ongoing path, when I find it, skirts that all-too-familiar developer’s metal fencing before flower-filled meadows. 

I reach the few houses and the church at Taxal. Last night, I drew a red line on the map with my possible route, mainly based on the Midshires Way in the forest on the west side of the Goyt Valley. I meet a gentleman preparing to go metal detecting somewhere hereabouts. He suggests a better way on the east side, closer to the River Goyt.

I have time to explore the small 12th-century church. It is dedicated to St. James, associated with the Pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela. It is only later that I read there are examples of his symbol, the scallop shell, around the church. The bell tower is the oldest structure within the church. I admire the stained glass of the East window.

While sitting outside, another man appears through the graveyard, walking his dog.  He also recommends the lower route, especially if you have a dog, which I obviously don’t. 

So the decision is made, dog or no dog, let’s go with their recommendations. I drop down to a ford over the shallow Goyt but resist the temptation to get my new boots wet.

I’m soon on lovely paths, often in trees and then in open meadows, with the River never far away. I think I have made the right choice as the Midshires Way seems to involve a lot more steep climbing. My path just gradually ascends over the next couple of miles.

At one point, men from the Environmental Agency are ‘electric fishing’, monitoring the fish population., 

A road comes in from somewhere, and the car park is busy with people walking babies and dogs.

I don’t need to cross the dam; an unexpected lane goes alongside the east side of Fernilee Reservoir, following the line of the old Crompton to Whaley Bridge railway. Completed in 1831 to carry minerals, coal and goods through the hilly rural terrain, the highest and steepest in the country at the time. It closed in 1967. I enjoy my easy stroll along here. 

The interpretation boards recount the valley’s history before the construction of the two reservoirs. Stockport Corporation built Fernilee Reservoir in 1933 for drinking water, covering the old gunpowder mill, paint mill and several farms. 

When the last member of the Grimshaw family of Errwood Hall died in 1930, Stockport Corporation acquired their estate as well. In 1968, it completed the Goyt Reservoir, now known as the Errwood Reservoir. The  dam of Errwood Reservoir requires a bit more effort to reach, and once there, I see that the water is very low, the ugly side of reservoirs.  

Lunch is taken sitting on some rocks. It would be interesting to follow the course of the old railway over to Buxton or the Goyt to its source. But having rejoined the Midshires Way, I’ll be content with that. I almost miss the path, leaving the road and dropping down to a stream.

It is now continuous climbing for 600ft or more, I wonder if this has been a packhorse route.

Good to be up on the open moor on a day like this.

There are improving views northwards over Chapel-le-Frith to distant Kinder, and is that Castle Naze above Combs? 

I know I must be getting near White Hall outdoor centre when I spot apparatus in the woods and hear screaming children enjoying themselves. A boy comes hurtling past on a zip wire.

This P&NF sign dates back to 1938, number 95. I wonder where number one is?

The skylarks are in full force, but I fail to get a decent audio of them. 

The straight road was Roman, up from Buxton heading to Whaley Bridge. It has been resurfaced lately, allowing for carefree walking to my highest point of the day, which is about 1,500 ft. My attention is drawn to a line of gritstone crags to the left. I start imagining climbing routes up them. I expect they have already been documented. (Later at home, I track them down – https://www.ukclimbing.com/logbook/crags/buxton_boss-17725/#overview) I’m starting to tire, so stop for frequent drinks of water. I’m glad I brought plenty, as the temperatures are in the mid-twenties. The traffic-free lane meets up with the main road, which I am worried about walking down. But after a short stretch, a footway appears all the way into Buxton.

The houses are on the grand scale, most now split into appartments.

In the centre are the Dome, the Opera House, the Baths and the Crescent, to name a few.  Regency architecture is everywhere.

As I sit in the shade by the church, its bells ring out, 4pm.  St. John’s, the parish church from 1811, doesn’t look particularly inviting.

Time to fill my water bottles up at the well. St. Anne’s Well is built on the site of former wells, and pilgrims of old would have stopped here for the pure warm water. They also visited the mineral spars.   Buxton Mineral Water is bottled from pipes at this site. A couple have travelled from Leicester to fill up many gallon containers.

After the disappointment of St. John’s church, I seek out the oldest building in Buxton, St. Anne’s Church. Unsigned, it is tucked away down an alley. A single-storey building from the C17th.  It was the parish church until St. John’s was built. Unfortunately it is locked at this time of day.

There are some interesting old pubs in this part of town.

My room for the night is in the market square, located above The Vault, a former bank that has been converted into a pub.

I received emails from them. “Rooms@theVault is a Self-Service concept that requires very little interaction between yourself and the staff” – scary.

On the day I received instructions on gaining entry to the property. 

  “ACCESS –Your accommodation is located above The Vault pub, which is situated on the corner of Buxton’s Marketplace, opposite the Town Hall. Facing the pub, turn right for 20 yards down Chapel Street. Turn left along Torr Street (by the balloon shop) and you will see a wooden gate clearly marked. Walk down the passage to another clearly marked wooden gate. Take the wrought iron staircase to the black door and entry keypad.
REAR DOOR ACCESS CODE – 1303

ROOM ACCESS – Once in the building, you have been allocated Room 3, and your key safe code is 0033.

KEYS – On your keyring is a metal door key, a key card for the electric slot in your room and a plastic fob (when held to the entry keypad, this automatically opens the rear door).

EXIT – When leaving the building, you need to press the door release switch, which is located to the right of the exit door. The staff in the pub have no responsibility for the guests staying in the accommodation and will not be able to assist with check-in“.

What could go wrong? Well, I can’t find the first wooden door to start with, as I walk up and down Torr Street, nobody can help. I realise the wooden door is open, so I can go straight down the passageway. The outer door opens with the magic code, but I don’t initially see an obvious way to get the room keys out of the coded box. I eventually sit on the bed in my room. I need a coffee, it’s been a long day.  Modern technology sometimes confuses me; dare I go out again? 

The room was perfect, clean, spacious and well-appointed.

View of the marketplace.

The TV is in another world to me. I am unable to get a news channel to appear among all the other suggestions on Netflix and Disney. And no, I don’t want to watch a five-year-old episode of Love Island.

I venture out with care, clutching my key and remembering the codes. Fish and chips £12. Just to retain my sanity, here is a blast from the past, some of you may recognise. Established in 1972, I would often call in to buy equipment if climbing in the area. Nothing to do with Joe Royal, the footballer.***

CONRAD COUNTRY.

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Limestone wanderings. 

This is Conrad Country.  That sounds like the title of a cowboy film. Do they still make them? I have the temerity to suggest taking Conrad, alias Sir Hugh, on a walk in his own backyard. I do have the backup of Walk 7 from Cicerone’s Short Walks in Arnside and Silverdale in my pocket. I never know whether we are in Lancashire or Cumbria.

We both have busy schedules, mostly consisting of hospital appointments and garage visits, but today we are able to meet up and enjoy the good weather.  I give him the option of a short or a longer walk, and unsurprisingly, he opts for the latter, provided I am happy with his slow pace on any hill. I’m more than happy, the slower the better.

Walk 7.  Leighton Moss and Cringlebarrow Wood is the title, but that only scratches the surface – we experience much more.

From the outset, at a lay-by in Yealand Storrs, as we enter the woods of Yealand Hall Allotment…… a couple walking a dog, the first of several encounters along the way. When they overtake us, the dog is nowhere to be seen; it is, in fact, taking a lift. I often come across people carrying little dogs or pushing them in a pram. In the high Pyrenees, we were overtaken by a couple of female fellrunners, each with a pooch in a pouch.

We stroll through the woodland, whose floor is a limestone pavement.  Rocks are everywhere around here. There are distant views down to Hawes Water, which we bypass by going down Moss Lane to the road at Red Bridge.

We enter Trowbarrow Quarry by a track I have never used before.

This limestone quarry operated for a hundred years, closing in 1959. In addition to lime for building and agriculture, James Ward developed new techniques for producing Tarmacadam, which combines crushed limestone with bitumen. It is now a nature reserve and climbing arena. We observe both today.  Look here for an excellent overview of the reserve.

I had forgotten how extensive the quarry is; coming here for climbing, one tends to focus only on the highest walls. On the quarry floor today, a group of naturalists from Liverpool is combing the area with insect nets. The chap we talk to is enthused about a male horse fly, Sir Hugh tries to look interested.

A brief visit to the fierce Red Wall.

But more interesting are two climbers just starting up Assagai Wall, we find some boulders to sit on and follow their progress while eating our lunch.

Finishing Assagai on those magnificent flutings.

We wander into a ‘walled-off area’ with signs asking you to watch your step – the Bee Orchid grows here, but I think we are a little early for it. Above rises the slab of Coral Sea, and that’s exactly how it originated before being tilted at right angles by the Earth’s movements.

Nobody is climbing on the cracked main wall, so I try to find the coal seam that crosses the limestone floor, to no avail.  The time I was here with the Rockman, we had no success either. Meanwhile, the insect nets are sweeping all around us. One enthusiast even has a ‘vaccum cleaner’ to suck them up! We, both au fait with the quarry, can not find our way out as described in the guide. Eventually, we discover the ‘carabiner gate’ and the ongoing mini gorge.

The gate is dedicated to John Mabson, of whom I can find nothing. Except for copies of the poem, an Irish funeral song.

May the roads rise up to meet you,

May the wind be always at your back,

May the sun shine warm upon your face,

May the rains fall soft upon fields

And until we meet again

May God hold you in the palm of his hand.

Very appropriate for a mountaineer.

The track has had trees cut down to encourage a more diverse flora.

Crossing the road, we enter RSPB Leighton Moss Nature Reserve and come across another type of nature enthusiast – the ‘twitcher’. Recognised by their camouflage and their loooong lenses.  There is a hushed silence in the hide. Again, we feel inadequate, not able to tell a comorant from a crow.

Now for the steep bit, in the grounds of Leighton Hall, Sir Hugh cruises it.

Our next objective is Cringlebarrow Wood. The public footpath passes through it, but ‘Private’ notices abound. There are tracks everywhere, legal or otherwise.

If you look closely at the map, you will see Deepdale Pond clearly marked. It’s in a ‘doline’ (a natural amphitheatre created by the collapse of a cave) and is yet another truly extraordinary place. It’s more of a swamp than a pond now. We follow animal tracks to find it.  So far, I’ve been unable to convey this through a photograph and doubt I ever will. A deer makes a rapid getaway.

More woodland tracks bring us back to the car.

A lovely wander through this limestone wonderland. ‘Conrad’s country’ has a wealth of things to explore. I’ll be back.

***

A TRIP TO CHORLEY.

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The Yarrow Valley. 

Whilst the Speaker of the House is trying to control today’s PM question time, I pay a visit to his home town of Chorley. Sir Linsay Hoyle has been its popular no-nonsense MP since 1997. He has been the Speaker since 2019 and has not been without controversy during that time. He comes across as passionately proud of his Lancastrian heritage and promotes Chorley and its vicinity at every opportunity. Time to have a look around.

First, an outpatient appointment at Chorley Hospital.  I have received excellent health care here over the past few years. Today is no exception. The appointment is handled promptly and professionally.   I find myself back at the car before lunch. The day is perfect for a walk, and I weigh up my options. I should have done some advance planning. First that comes to mind is a revisit to Rivington and an ascent through the gardens, but continuing to Rivington Pike, which I’ve not climbed for years. No, I will leave that until I have a meet-up with the Bolton Rockman. 

Astley Hall is just around the corner, but I’m not in the mood for indoor galleries today. I need a walk. I have heard about Yarrow Valley but never visited it, so this could be the ideal opportunity to explore.

I drive across town and soon find the car park for the country park.

“Yarrow Valley Country Park covers over 300 hectares and is located between Chorley and Coppull. Created on land previously used for bleaching, dyeing, calico printing and mining, Yarrow Valley Country Park is of local historical importance.
With restored mill lodges and water courses, footpaths, picnic areas and a purpose-built visitor centre, the park provides an ideal setting for a host of recreational activities.”

For a detailed history of the industries previously occupying the valley, look no further than the excellent blog of https://lancashirepast.com/2020/10/17/birkacre-mill-yarrow-valley-country-park-near-coppull-and-chorley/

Of course, I know nothing of this when I arrive today. I don’t really have a plan except to walk as much of the attractive areas of the valley as feasible. Guides are available online for several walks, but being unprepared, I follow my nose most of the time. My phone map will have to do.

I start by climbing up to one of the settlement lodges, and immediately, I’m in a different world of water and ducks. The walk alongside the Big Lodge brings more of the same.

The swan’s cygnets are having a treat.

Then I’m on paths through the woods adjacent to the River Yarrow. The mill race is a popular photographic spot, but from then on, I hardly meet a soul.

The path is quite uneven and awkward in parts. I notice the remnants of a mine shaft, a reminder of the industrial past.

Drybones is a strange name hereabouts; the track bypasses an unseen house of the same name. I’m keeping to the right bank of the Yarrow, but at a bridge, take the right bank of the wrong stream and walk on for perhaps a half mile before realising my mistake, it is easy to rectify. All is green and verdant.

Back at the bridge, I take the more obvious track up the true valley.

Open fields lead me to the next footbridge over the Yarrow, and this is where I hope to follow the water upstream on its right side, even though no path is marked on the map.

A ‘twitcher’ says I can get through, but it is muddy and awkward in places. It turns out to be a delight in the woods with dappled shade alongside the lively stream. There is bird song everywhere.

The footbridge not taken.

I’m aware I’m walking further and further away from my starting point, and I’m pleased to see the footbridge taking me to the other bank for my return journey. This path is much wider and well trodden through the stately beech trees. 

There are regular seats overlooking the water, ideal spots to stop and enjoy a snack and a drink – except I didn’t bring any.

Rather than just retrace my steps further alongside the river, I take to the open fields and climb away from the river, only to find myself in a new housing estate and even more ongoing development. I suspect there would have been many objections, patently ignored, to building in this beautiful environment. More fields are earmarked for the bulldozer.

I escape down a little track and then through fields displaying Early Purple Orchids.

I am soon back at the hustle and bustle of the Big Lodge. Baby ducklings were everywhere.

In the car, my bottle of water is too hot to drink, and my chocolate has melted, so I go across to the Treeface cafe for sustenance.

A perfect little walk around this beautiful area. I’m not sure why I’ve never visited before, but I will certainly return. Oh, but there’s also Astley Hall and its gardens, and I notice a round Chorley walk sign…

***

PILGRIM’S PROGRESS. THE GOYT WAY.

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Day 8.   Marple to Whaley Bridge.

An excellent breakfast, and I am away early (for me). I pick up the locks again and walk to the top. I love all the paraphernalia and ingenuity associated with these canal locks.

Near the top is a basin and a short side branch, along with a sign which explains some of the cargo when the canal was thriving. (Samuel Oldknow had a significant influence on the development of industry in the area, as you will find out later.)   Notice we are still on the Greater Manchester Ringway, which Martin is doing in stages, using transport in and out of town. I will follow this splendid project with interest.


I have been as far as this point before on the Peak Forest Canal, until branching off onto the Macclesfield Canal to follow the Cheshire Ring.  

Today, I follow the Peak Forest for a short distance past the marina. A boat owner enthuses about this stretch of canal to Whaley Bridge. I could follow it all the way for a quick six miles, but I’m keen to see more of the Goyt, so next to a crossover bridge, I take an alley down over the railway to a bridge over the Goyt 200 ft below.

 Another of those Peak and Northern signs down here. No mention of the Goyt Way, which I thought I was on. Over the bridge, I notice unexpected excavated remains in a field.

All is revealed once I start reading the interpretation boards.  This was the site of Samuel Oldknow’s Mellor Lodge, which he built near his Mellor Mill, the largest cotton mill in the world at the time, in 1790. 

I meet some of the volunteers who are excavating and preserving the vast industrial area by the Goyt. The mill burnt down in 1892. All is accessible with excellent information. Have a read here and here.

I did not expect to find all this industrial archaeology down here and spend a lot of time wandering through the remains and chatting to the volunteers. A hidden gem. I walk on past the lakes built by Samuel Oldknow to supply his mill. These are private but open occasionally. They are signposted Roman Lakes, but this is a Victorian affectation derived from a nearby ‘Roman Bridge’.It was good to see some Early Purple Orchids.

And I’m not sure what this shrub is; it looks tropical.I wander along the valley where the Goyt is livelier, passing under the towering railway viaduct. All very pleasant.

At a junction, there is one of those signs. I should have gone to Mellor, perhaps, as there is a Saxon cross in the graveyard there. However, the morning is dwindling, and it is a couple of miles off route.

I do have a look at the ‘Roman’ bridge over the Goyt. Obviously not Roman, more likely a rebuilt C18th packhorse bridge with added railings – but quite picturesque in its setting.

I see my first Goyt Way sign just as I’m leaving the river,it coincides with the Midshires Way.

Some lane walking through horsey country, and I’m puffing up the hill past the isolated Strine station.  A lady is leading a pony with her daughters up the hill; I catch up with them at the top, where an inn suddenly appears, The Fox. We exchange pleasantries; they are on a fairly long hack, mother leading one daughter on the Welsh Pony, while the other daughter walks – it was her turn to ride yesterday. They are a friendly family and are waiting for the inn to open in ten minutes. I’ve been out for three hours and barely covered four miles this morning, so I have no intention of stopping. But it is sunny and warm, I’m enjoying the conversation, and the mother does offer to buy me a drink, so here I am, almost an hour later. I’ve learnt a lot about ponies and the area; it’s a pleasure to meet children who don’t have their faces in their phones all the time. They seem inspired by my simple adventure and wish me well. 

From this height, I have an easy walk down a lane back to the Goyt.

Construction works almost block the way, but I like their signage. 

I am looking forward to following the Goyt through the gorge at New Mills, which is signed as the Torrs Trail. It doesn’t go to plan. Pleasant walking alongside the Goyt brings one into the gorge opposite Torr Vale Mill, where my map suggests you have to cross the bridge to escape.

But what is that metal structure across the wall below the railway? I kick myself for not investigating. It turns out to be the Millennium Walkway.    *I’ve linked to a YouTube video at the end to show what I missed*

But now I’m over the little bridge and climbing out the other side through the mill to a pub, the Rock Tavern.

I make another mistake and follow the signs to the Torr along a terrace of houses. That only brings me to the top of the road bridge in town with no obvious way down. I retrace my steps and take a slanting track down. The signs aren’t aligned correctly, I tell myself. Anyway, I’m now down at the river next to the ruins of Torr Mill.

I can remember climbing on the quarried walls down here in the past, long before they built the Millennium Walkway. I stroll down the gorge to take a look, and there are two climbers just starting up one of the steep routes. I hang around and get a series of photos of the leader progressing steadily on the wall, Electric Circus E2 5C. Thanks Simon.

I move on upstream under more arches until I’m in open countryside.  

A couple of fields and across the Goyt on a small bridge…

 …and I find myself on the Peak Forest Canal once again for the last few miles. The River Goyt is not far away in the valley, and I will pick it up again after Whaley Bridge. Easy strolling through Furness Vale, and I’m at the terminus basin of the canal. A busy little spot in the middle of Whaley Bridge. The goods shed, which provided direct access from the canal, has been converted into a café and a miscellania store. I resist the temptation to visit their book section.

There are cafes and pubs on the main street, but I have a long journey home, so I head to the station in time to operate the ticket machine for a train to Manchester and onwards.  

Another long, short day with plenty of unexpected interest and a free pint as a bonus. I’m looking forward to continuing on to the next stages once I’ve plotted a route. At least I have made it out of Greater Manchester.

Don’t forget to watch the start of the video for that section I missed. Grrr.

***

PILGRIM’S PROGRESS. OUT OF MANCHESTER.

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Day 8.   Levenshulme to Marple.

I awake at 5.30 am to the sound of heavy rain.

*

Last night, I made the decision to continue my ‘pilgrimage’ out of Manchester towards Lichfield, which will take a couple of weeks or more in stages. Feeling stronger, I don’t want to let the grass grow under my feet. That idiom likely originated from our agricultural ancestors. In reality, it means no more procrastinating.

On the strength of a reasonable forecast, a room was booked in Marple for the night. The dice was cast.

*

The more I listened to the rain, the more anxious I became. I would get drenched just walking to the bus; I would stay cold and wet throughout the day. Had I been too ambitious with a reasonably long day, having only been taking strolls recently. Is this the man of Himalayan glory?

There was no chance of getting back to sleep; the forecast now indicated that rain would last through the morning. The first thing was to fish out and pack a heavier waterproof jacket. Rather than all the usual faff getting to Preston station, especially in the rain with a long day ahead of me, why not book a taxi? So whilst having a coffee, I phone the local firm, not knowing what time they start. But they answer, and yes, they will have someone round just after seven.

It turns out to be the best decision, but in the rush, I forget one or two things, which will impact me later in the day.

I’m at the station in no time, compared to the bus and walking. A train to Manchester leaves in five minutes, and all of a sudden, I’m joining the early morning commuters, except I probably stand out like the proverbial sore thumb with my boots and ski poles.

It’s a strange world, everyone in their own space, tapping away at their phones.

I try to save the battery on mine as I realise that in the rush, I’ve forgotten my charger. I alight at Picadilly and find the stop for the 192 Stockport bus, which will take me back to Levenshulme to rejoin the Fallowfield Loop.

I’m hoping to grab a coffee at the bike hub, but I’m too early. However, this road is full of Asian cafes and ethnic grocers, and barely 20 metres from where I leave the bus is the quirky Bia cafe/bar. I take coffee with two young mothers, meeting up with their babies.

Now I’m on that green corridor, leaving behind all the urban buzz. It is surprising how quickly the scene changes. Only a few early morning joggers and cyclists are out and about. I now realise I have also forgotten my camera, putting more pressure on the phone’s battery.

Within a short while, I turn onto a public footpath that goes through the heart of Houldsworth Golf Course. Usually, I feel uneasy crossing golf courses, even on a public right-of-way, but today I hug the banks of Fallowfield Brook on a strip of land left wild, in my own little tree-lined world.

All good things come to an end, and soon I’m navigating my way through the streets of Reddish. The clouds darken, and I think I’m in for a soaking. Looking skywards, I see several swifts swooping around the rooftops. Nature comes to town, but too fast to photograph.

With a bit of luck, I emerge from the streets straight onto the Trans Pennine Trail as it enters Reddish Vale Country Park.

My ‘pilgrim’ route to Lichfield is only loosely based on what may have been a medieval way trodden by monks between Christian sites. The little booklet I have only provides a brief outline; the section from Levenshulme to Marple takes three lines. So I am free to wander at will, choosing the most attractive route linking those venerated historic locations. I do, however, make use of the marked long-distance routes and cycleways found on the map. I’m hoping today to join up with The Midshires Way, which links the Trans Pennine Trail up here with the Ridgeway across the Shires of Middle England. 

The River Tame flows down Reddish Vale.  I have been here before, without realising it, on the Tame Valley Way. That was in January 2017 when the ducks were walking on ice, not today as the sun comes out.

I cross the Tame on a metal bridge, which celebrates in verse the ancient boundary between the Palatine Counties of Cheshire and Lancashire before Greater Manchester came into existence.

A cast-iron cycle path marker sits alongside the TPT with this poem inscribed at its base. I rather liked it. 

“Tracks”

Down a wandering path
I have travelled,
Where the setting sun
Lies upon the ground.
The tracks are hard and dry
Smothered with
The weather’s wear,
My mind did move
With those who had
Before me seen,
Trodding down the ground
A track for me to follow,
Leaving marks for others
A sign for them to follow.

David Dudgeon (Belfast artist and poet), 1999.

“Artworks such as the Millennium Mileposts are important to encourage people to enjoy the journey and not just aim for the destination. The ultimate aim of the National Cycle Network is to help more people to get active by making everyday journeys on foot and by bike“.  Sustrans. 

I have seen these Sustrans posts before, but never realised that four have been designed by separate artists and scattered throughout the lands. I will take more notice in future. There are four distinctive designs. Tracks, The Cockerel, The Fossil Tree, and the Rowe design

For the most part, the river is deep in the valley, and my way is along the abandoned railway on the east side. The composite surface is a delight to walk on.

I leave the TPT and, after passing through a tunnel, I delve into a post-industrial landscape, becoming lost while trying to find a way under the motorway.

I emerge into Bredury to a familiar sight – Pear Mill—the clues on the roof. I have spent many hours at the climbing wall inside part of the mill, Awesome Walls. The attraction was the 30-metre-high walls for free climbing in the winter months. I thought I might take a coffee here for old times’ sake, but the path I took circumvented their site behind a metal fence.

A bridge appears spanning the River Goyt into Woodbank Park. Here I would link up with the Goyt Way to Marple. But first, I have a wander up the hill to a bench where I eat my lunch, as planes fly directly overhead into Manchester Airport.

Refreshed, I drop down to the Goyt at a weir, the river is full from this morning’s rain.

The path, such as it is, climbs high above the river and is steep and awkward in places. After my recent fall, I am a little wary of the scrambly bits. But it is glorious green woodland full of bird song. Blackbirds, Thrushes, Chaffinches, Chiffchaffs and Robins are competing with each other.

I drop down to the river where a gent was tackling the Japanese Knotweed, not a good idea to let it drop in the river though.

There is no way along there, so I climb back up. There are no waymarks, and I almost walk past the bridge I need to cross the Goyt. Another scramble down. I’m always pleased to come across one of these signs, especially when it shows me the route, good to know I’m on the Midshires Way.

There is the Pear in the distance and bits of Manchester.

At least I get a stretch along the river for a while.

I’m flagging, so I’m pleased to see a garden centre across the road – that means a cafe, tea and cake.

Onwards, I come to today’s historical site: Chadkirk, the church of Chad. The rebuilt chapel dates back to the 14th century, but the site is much older, possibly to the 7th century, when it is thought that St Chad visited to bless the nearby well. St. Chad is buried in Lichfield Cathedral, where he served as bishop, and I have visited his shrine on a previous walk, but I’m getting ahead of myself. The chapel is down a little lane and surrounded by beautiful gardens. Unfortunately, it only opens on select Sundays. All those flattened gravestones are from the 18th century.Up the hill past the farm is St. Chad’s Well, set in a wall, where a trickle of water flows.

This little chap was happy to be photographed. By now, my phone’s battery is running low.

I reach the Peak Forest Canal for some level walking. I recognise parts from my canal walk with Sir Hugh on the Cheshire Ring. I can’t believe that was ten years ago. 

The Hyde Bank Tunnel is bypassed overhead; this is the way the horses would be brought, and there is a wayside stone trough.


One of the highlights of this section is the aqueduct high above the Goyt Valley. They have erected a safety rail on the far side since I was last here. The railway viaduct towers above.

And if that is not enough, here comes the Marple Locks – all 16 of them.

Two lads are canoeing the canals from Tewitfields to Oxford, and they have just carried the canoes up the flight of locks!

I pop out into town and go looking for a phone charger before going in search of my B&B for the night. 

An old-fashioned guest house. Perfectly adequate, but I didn’t dare use the tardis-like ensuite shower after my recent episodes.  

All in a day’s walk. A long one full of interest and in perfect weather. That taxi ride was the catalyst.  

***

WAYSIDE FLOWERS.

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I wasn’t sure how to title this post; it’s a simple circular road walk out of Longridge onto the lower slopes of the fell. I’ve done it many times and probably written about it here more than once. I need to build up my strength again, and five miles or so is just what I need. I’m sure I will find something of mild interest to enhance the exercise. 

It’s the first of June, I was hoping to link in ‘Bustin’ out all over’ but the weather has taken a turn, and it’s cool and windy. I missed much of the good weather back in April and May. Let’s imagine. 

Back to the day, I park up at the edge of the village and immediately spot some white valerian growing by the roadside.

Let’s make it a wayside flower walk. In no particular order, I come across lots of species. You will recognise most of them.

Must make some cordial.

I have probably missed many more. 

I pass the golf club…

 wind up and down the lane…

to enter the plantation through the rapidly growing bracken…

where there has been diverse replanting, all is green and lush…a robin rejoices…

the old trees are rather gloomy…

but somewhere up above there’s a hidden male cuckoo…

 

“when the cuckoo first cuckoos in the leaves of the oak

and brings joy to mortals on the boundless earth”        Hesiod, seventh century BC.

I come out onto the higher fell road with distant views to Pandle…

and even a zoom to Pen-Y-Ghent…I head up to the seat on Jeffrey Hill for a drink and that view over to the Bowland Fells.

But what a mess somebody has left, not to mention the fire risk. What are they thinking? I will try to drive up later to clear the rubbish.

It’s all downhill on the road back to the village. I have time to catch the Great Crested Grebes on and off their nest doing a spot of housekeeping. I can clearly see four eggs this time. Fingers crossed.

It is raining when I reach my car – so much for June. 

PILGRIM’S PROGRESS.  URBAN FOR A DAY.

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Day 7.   Across Manchester.

Perhaps it is time for a recap. I started this ‘Pilgrimage’ from home at the end of January; my plan was to follow a possible medieval route from Whalley Abbey to Manchester Cathedral. By then, I had discovered a publication which extended the way to Lichfield.

And so it was that I reached Manchester Cathedral at the end of March. Circumstances prevented me from making further progress. At that time, the Cathedral was closed for an event and I didn’t have a chance to look around.

*

Today I’m back.  Bus and train from home, find me outside the Cathedral as it opens. I especially want to see the Saxon ‘Angel Stone’ inside. I’ve been linking Saxon finds along the way, which may have been on a Medieval route. Whalley and Manchester came under the realm of the Lichfield diocese way back then.

There is a long history, from 700 AD, of a church on this site, and https://manchestercathedral.org/timeline gives an ample summary.

One enters the long aisle of the nave with the new Stoller Organ pipes taking prominence above the Medieval carved wooden screen.

The choir stalls are fine examples of intricate wooden carving, along with the C16th ‘misericords’.

I go in search of the Saxon Angel Stone. It is attached to a column at the front of the nave and protected by reflective glass, which makes viewing it difficult. Found in the south porch during restoration work in 1871, it is thought to date from the 11th century or before, perhaps from an early wooden church. An angel is depicted holding a scroll with some lettering, but I find it hard to interpret. The Old English inscription reads “into thy hands, O Lord, I commend my spirit”

This is a better image from the British Pilgrimage Trust.

There is so much to see within the Cathedral that I am not even going to attempt to depict it all; a separate post would be needed.  But I do want to highlight the stained glass West Windows.  These are modern replacements for those damaged in the Second World War.

The cathedral was affected by the 1996 IRA bombing and the more recent Arena shootings of 2017. Visit yourself to find all the fascinating history.

I always admire the statue of Gandhi standing outside the cathedral, his ‘preachings’ a contrast to the high church.  

What I don’t know is that nearby is a section of ‘The Hanging Bridge’, a medieval arched bridge spanning Hanging Ditch, a watercourse which connected the rivers Irk and Irwell. The ditch formed part of the city’s defences in medieval times. (See below in Platt Fields later in the day). The only clue to this was a sign I spotted on leaving the precinct. Apparently, parts may be seen in the Cathedral Visitor Centre. (next time)

The next point of interest is the Nico ditch in Platt Fields, Fallowfield, three miles away, and the guide suggests catching a bus. Heresy. I will walk.

I stride out onto Exchange Street, avoiding the Arndale Centre, giving the appearance that I know my way. It has been years since I’ve been in this shopping area of Manchester, and I’m confused. People are setting up displays for the Flower Festival over the Bank Holiday weekend.

I recognise St. Anne’s Square and the busy King Street. Albert Square is under wraps and home to a tent city. Across the way is the upmarket Rajdoot restaurant, let’s hope they dish out some food for the homeless.

Trams and cycle tracks are everywhere, and a country boy like me must be careful at the crossings.

At last, I’m on Oxford Road and heading south through the university areas. A visit to Manchester wouldn’t be complete without a street mural.

I resist visiting the Manchester Museum, that’s a day in itself, but instead head to The Whitworth Art Gallery just down the road.    If you’re only interested in the walk, skip this section, another potential day in itself.

Their website states – “The Whitworth is proudly part of The University of Manchester, operating as a convening space between the University and the people of the city. It was founded in 1889 as The Whitworth Institute and Park in memory of the industrialist Sir Joseph Whitworth for ‘the perpetual gratification of the people of Manchester’ and continues this mission today in new contexts” 

There are several exhibitions I am keen to view. But first, I head to their airy restaurant for morning coffee.

There are four major exhibitions spread through the gallery; every space is light and airy, with the works displayed and interpreted to their best advantage.  I spend over two hours in here, leisurely looking around – it could easily have been more. I have no intention of trying to give a comprehensive view, only an outline of what’s on offer, but I do highly recommend a visit at the moment.    I should come to Manchester more often.

First on my list is ‘Turner in Light and Shade’. This marks the 250th anniversary of his birth and pairs all seventy-one of his Liber prints, 1807 to 1819, with a series of his watercolours. “These demonstrate how his use of light and shade atmospheric effects in his paintings were laboriously transferred to prints using lines, dots and spaces”. 

Storm in the Pass of St. Gothard. Switzerland. 1845. Watercolour.

 

Peat Bog, Scotland. 1812.          J M W Turner. Artist and etcher.        G Clint. Engraver.

One needs to be there to see the subtleties of Turner’s works. They even provide magnifying glasses to examine the engravings in detail.

In bold lettering, more rooms host WOMEN IN REVOLT!  Organised by Tate Britain, 90 women artists whose ideas have highlighted the women’s liberation movement.  “Exploring six key themes, spanning two decades of art and activism. Maternal and domestic experiences, anti-racist and LGBTQ activism, Greenham Common and the peace movement, and independent punk music”. That’s a lot to take in. Perhaps spend an afternoon in this space alone.

Mirror wall, Greenham Common.

Małgorzata Mirga-Tas is an acclaimed Roma-Polish artist. There are 20 textile-based works by her, alongside pieces from the Whitworth’s textile collection.  “The exhibition challenges stereotypical representations of Roma people throughout history. Elaborate, colourful, textile-based compositions featuring striking portraits of Roma people”. Enjoy the colourful portraits and learn something about the Roma history.

Exchanges. Whitworth holds an outstanding collection dating back to the 15th century. Paintings, prints, drawings, photographs, stitched, printed and woven textiles. The items on view reflect that diversity. 

All this gallery tramping is more tiring than walking through Manchester, and I still have far to go.

Wilmslow Road runs through Rusholme and is known as The Curry Mile, due to the concentration of Asian cafes. I used to visit here from the 70s to the 90s for basic Chappati and Dhal. One of my sons was attending university here, which meant frequent visits. On occasions, after climbing in the Peak District, we would often end up here for a cheap meal on the way home. That was until the time our car was broken into and all our gear was stolen. Looking around today, there are far fewer restaurants and more vape sellers, cheap jewellers and hairdressers, the way of many urban streets. 

An Asian supermarket’s fruit and vegetable display attracts me. Four delicious large satsumas are a refreshing treat as I walk down the road on a hot afternoon. It’s not far to Platt Fields, a large open space with a large pleasure lake and numerous recreational features. Tenting is going up on one of the fields for a national BMX meet at the weekend.

 My reason for visiting Platt Fields is the ‘Nico Ditch’ hidden away in one corner of the park. This was a ditch 5 miles long and up to 5ft deep across the previously boggy southern side of Manchester. Dating from the sixth or seventh centuries. Built by Anglo-Saxons as a defensive barrier. In most places, it has been filled in and built upon as part of the city’s urban sprawl. A stretch remains here. There isn’t much to see. South of the Girls’ school and behind iron railings is the sunken track of the ditch. The least vegetated section is on the edge of the park in the grounds of the chapel.

I have an option of catching a bus from here, which seem to run every minute or even borrow a bike.

But I decide to continue another mile or so towards the countryside. I do this on a pleasant old rail track which brings me out to the main A6 road in Levenshulme.

A bus soon has me in Piccadilly Gardens, from where I struggle to orient myself to find the station from which I can make my way back to Longridge.

*

*

I am satisfied with the day – I manage to almost cross out of Manchester into more rural landscapes, and on the way, take in some historic and cultural sites. I’ve started looking at the ongoing route to Lichfield, which I am now encouraged to follow. The guidebook is vague, giving only a brief outline and suggested paths. All the better, as I can now pore over maps, creating my own route and searching for accommodation in the towns and villages I pass through.

A NEW ERA.

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I’ve been for a cycle ride today.

I’ve owned several cycles over the years, ever since I was a child. I learnt to ride a sit-up and beg bike in a farmer’s field when I was about six. A series of second-hand bone-shaking bikes were used for getting to school.  A new Triumph cycle with Sturmey-Archer hub gears was a present for passing the ‘eleven plus’.  I started going further out into the countryside of Durham and Yorkshire. Youth hostelling with mates from school became a regular holiday activity. 

The early Triumph bike.

 

When I was about 15, I became obsessed with a racing cycle in the local bike shop window. It was something special – a hand-built Baines ‘Flying Gate’. It certainly stood out from the crowd with unusual geometry, beautiful paint work, and chrome-plated forks and stays. If I remember correctly, the cost was £20, a princely sum for a schoolboy. The shop owner agreed to keep it for 4 months for me until I had saved enough money. Somehow, I must have scrimped, saved and maybe borrowed, as eventually I walked out of the shop with that bike. I don’t have a photo of that bike, but it looked like this…

It was initially in fixed-wheel mode, and I used it for 10 and 25-mile time trials on the flat roads south of Darlington. Eventually, I upgraded to Campagnola gears, two front chain wheels and five rear sprockets. As well as my daily bike, I toured the country on it in my teens – incredible freedom in those days.

I’m with the Baines, my old mate Mel alongside.

London became home for 6 years whilst I was studying. At the end of my first year, I bought an old bike from a departing student. Heavy duty with the obligatory front basket – it served me well for all those years. I was sad to pass it on to another student when I left.  I wouldn’t dare to cycle in London these days.

Professional and family life took over for a few years, but it wasn’t long before I fetched the Baines from my parents’ home and started riding the Lancashire lanes. The years passed, and eventually the bike needed a respray and general upgrade. The firm warned me that there was some corrosion in the tubing, which had me worried with thoughts of a snapped fork whilst going at speed. I used it less and less, preferring a Raleigh road bike my son made up for me, more reliable and with better gearing suited to the local hills. Notice this has my original Brooks saddle and Caradice bag.

About that time, mid to late 80s, I bought a new ‘mountain bike’, a Dawes Wild Cat. It has been a superb workhorse and has travelled the trails of Britain and Europe. You may have seen its bright yellow frame in photographs on my cycling posts of the last few years. It is still going strong.

In a bout of house/garage decluttering and clearance at the beginning of the 2000s, I stripped the Baines Flying Gate down to its frame and forks and offered it for sale on eBay. There was considerable interest in what was a prewar classic.  The highest bid went to a gentleman from Bradford (where the original Baines factory was), a collector of Baines cycles.  It was going to a good home, and I wish I had kept his details, as it would be interesting to see his collection. My youngest son, a cycle fanatic, has never forgiven me for selling it. An inferior example of a  ‘Flying Gate’ can be seen in the Bradford Industrial Museum.

I continued cycling off and on over the years, using the Raleigh for road trips; I managed it through the Trough a couple of times, not so long ago.     

https://bowlandclimber.com/2014/07/29/cycling-through-the-trough/  https://bowlandclimber.com/2014/08/07/breaking-the-50-mile-barrier/

On my regular trips to the Lot Valley, I used a variety of rickety bikes to explore the French countryside, often with wine tasting thrown in. A leisurely pace was called for.

Most cycling recently has been on off-road cycle trails using the Dawes. Morecambe Bay and The Fylde are my favourites, though I have often been around the Preston Guild Wheel. I find the local roads scary with boy racers and speeding agricultural juggernauts.

In the past, I have been somewhat dismissive of electric bikes, heavy and cumbersome and not necessary for my mainly flat rides. I vowed not to invest in one until I was well on in years. But at the end of last year, I saw Ribble Cycles, a long-established and respected Lancashire firm, was having a sale. Why wait for those years to creep up on me if there is a bargain to be had?

Their hybrid e-bike was on sale, with a £500 saving on the internet. Not certain of my sizing, etc, I wanted to see the bike first before ordering. Luckily, they have a saleroom in Clitheroe. So I booked an appointment and went across to see what was on offer. The shop is an Aladdin’s cave for cycle enthusiasts with some beautiful bikes on display. The electric Ribble Hybrid ALe was perfect, well featured and not much heavier than my mountain bike. So I arranged to purchase one, which would take about a month to deliver. The good news was that the in-shop price had been reduced by £900. I took delivery before Christmas, just as my cataract operations were scheduled. Bad weather and then my own frailties have meant that it has hardly been touched. Today, I gave it a spin to get used to its handling and motor assistance. Only a short ride to visit a friend in the hills. I have downloaded the app onto my phone, which links to the bike as a form of computer. It didn’t work for me, but I’ll worry about that later. The bike itself was comfortable to ride, well geared, and the electric motor, when needed, was a help on those hills. I will be venturing further in the coming weeks. 

SIMPLE PLEASURES.

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I have taken people’s advice and I’m slowly recovering. Muscles ache in the most unusual places. Taking advantage of the remarkable spell of weather, most days I go for a short wander up on the fell or call in at Craigy for a chat with the climbers there. My garden is getting a good weeding, in short bursts.

This is a good opportunity to highlight the trees in the garden, as most mornings, they greet me when I draw the curtains. It’s not quite dawn, but this is an attempt to capture the bird song in the trees. Using ‘Merlin’, I counted 15 species in 10 minutes. I do have fields behind the garden. I only wish I could see most of them! Turn the volume up. 

House Sparrow, Robin, Wood Pigeon, Wren, Song Thrush, Mallard, Blue Tit, Blackbird, Greenfinch, Jay, Goldfinch, Dunnock, Pheasant, Jackdaw, Great Tit.

Whilst out and about, I am pleased to see the return of the Great Crested Grebes, a little late this year. They have built a floating nest, and every time I pass by, the male is out fishing or collecting more nest material whilst she sits tight. One day, I had a glimpse of the empty nest, and there was certainly one egg there, perhaps two; time will tell.

Catching a picture of my two lively kittens is becoming much harder.

Simple pleasures.

ON MY DOORSTEP.

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I am fortunate that I can walk on paths and quiet lanes, in pleasant countryside, directly from my house, well, only just as the urban development creeps outwards. I’m frustrated at missing all this good weather, so let’s go a little further today and try a four-mile circuit.

The Chipping Road past the cricket ground leads to the Bowland Hills, but I won’t go that far today.

On past the Derby Arms, looking every bit an English country pub.

I turn off down the chestnut-lined drive to the ‘Ferraris Hotel’, which is being transformed into a more upmarket wedding and events venue. The conversions are taking longer than anticipated, don’t they always? They have named the new venue ‘Longridge House’, which it certainly isn’t.  They could have used the original name ‘Black Moss House’, which is still referenced on the OS map. There is much building activity as I walk past on a right-of-way through the grounds.

The woods close to the hotel still have a decent flush of bluebell blue. The garlic is flowering and past its best for picking, not that I am tempted after my recent near-fatal accident involving the humble plant.

Something feels a little different as I reach the fields, where have all these trees been cut down from?

It is a hot day, and I am glad to make use of the memorial bench for a rest and a drink. The bench is in memory of a farmer who once cared for these fields, which I am looking out over. That is Longridge Fell in the background.

The lanes leading back to Gill Bridge are full of white blossoms. The Hawthorn hedges are resplendent with their white flowers, ‘May Blossom’. Their fragrance is not appreciated by all.

Along the verges are more patches of white – Stitchwort, Cow Parsley, and Garlic Mustard.

I take to the open pastures to head cross-country back to the village. The lambs are looking robust and have grown well in the last few weeks of perfect spring weather. These fields are the hares’ habitat, and I see four charging off into the distance, far too quickly for a photograph. Buzzards soar above, and there is a far-off cuckoo.

I march on through the normally boggy bullrush area. When did it last rain? 

This shady track brings me onto Inglewhite Road, where a decent footway takes me home. 

Another short, simple walk, but with all the ingredients of a nature ramble on my doorstep.

*

I have a list of modest projects I hoped to complete this year, including the Pilgrimage to Lichfield from Whalley, the Fife Coastal and Pilgrim trails, filling gaps of the Great Chalk Way, and the Trans Pennine cycle trail. My muscles are currently struggling, and I can’t even shoulder a rucksack, so I hope you will bear with me as I try to find enough interest in staying local.

A GENTLE RETURN.

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Out with, but not gone to, the dogs.

My son and partner visit from Manchester with their two dogs.

I keep the kittens locked in their large cage, but the dogs only sniff them in passing. I think it would be different if they were running loose. Anyhow, we are not in for long as we take the dogs for some exercise in the plantation up the fell.

The good weather continues, but I haven’t ventured much further than the garden. An hour’s weeding tires me out. My back is still very sore, so I’m unable to wear a rucksack — a reminder to take it easy. However, the chance to have a walk, no matter how short, is too good to miss.

The dogs know their way around the plantation and once in the open run themselves silly before cooling off in the stream.

We enjoy the dry paths, all the new greenery and the abundant bird song. There is always time for some tree hugging.

Hardly more than a mile, but invigorating for me to be out and about again. It’s good to be alive, a hackneyed phrase, but simple pleasures with the family are precious.

A sociable lunch and the family head home.

I head to bed almost straight away and sleep for 12 hours.

GARDENING LEAVE.

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After last week’s drama, my family have put me on ‘gardening leave’, with strict instructions not to go wandering in the hills or climbing at Craig Y. I’m happy to go along with that as I’m still tired, very bruised and stiff following my chair encounter and subsequent hospital stay.  I couldn’t shoulder a rucksack at present. And so much is happening in the garden at this time of year.

I’ll try not to step on a rake, put a fork through my foot or chop off any fingers.

Trust me to be laid up when the weather is set fair; ah, well, there will be more days like this, I hope, in summer.

And as a bonus, I have more time to watch the antics of Dusty and Oscar.

THE GARLIC SOUP THAT NEARLY KILLED ME. Part two.

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The outcome.

The fire brigade have done their bit, demolishing my back door to gain entry. (Might have been easier to force the Yale lock on the front door) They cut me out of the chair which had held me tight for eight or nine hours. The ambulance crew assess me, slightly hypothermic with a rapid pulse rate, bruising and swelling to my knees, hands and back. But I can stand gingerly, and I don’t think any bones are broken. A hot cup of tea is heaven.

You may remember I have recently adopted two new kittens. They are just getting used to my house and are loose in the kitchen when I fall.  There is no sign of them when the ambulance crew rescue me, perhaps they ran upstairs with all the banging. I ask the firemen to pop them into the cage with some food if they appear later. The firemen stay behind until a security firm makes the house safe. I’m off in the ambulance to Royal Preston Hospital again.

Casaulty is relatively quiet at 6.30 am on Easter Tuesday. I see the triage nurse quickly, and then go back into the waiting room in a wheelchair. An hour later, I’m wheeled into another nurse who takes blood and observations. Another hour in the waiting room before a doctor sees me. It’s difficult to tell who people are in the hospital these days, as they all wear almost standard uniforms. Back in the waiting room before a visit to the X-ray department. And so it goes on, all the essentials covered, but at a slow pace.

At some stage, I’m told I will be admitted to a ward, but at present, there are no beds. In the meantime, I have an intravenous drip set up. I prepare for a long wait in my wheelchair, but suddenly I am taken to a ward,  a bed becomes available, and I’m just lucky to be chosen for it. It is mid-afternoon by now.

The ward I am on is the Acute Frailty Unit. A succession of nurses and doctors deal with me. More blood is taken, and another IV infusion set up when the first one leaked in my arm. Their concern is the level of Creatinine Kinase in my blood. High CK levels are an indication of muscle damage, and after my trauma, my muscles are releasing loads of it. If it becomes too high, it can cause kidney damage. All the extra fluids are to speed the progress of its elimination.

This continues for four days until the levels of CK come down a little. My arms are becoming more and more bruised from the frequent blood tests and IV drips. A small price to pay.

The bruises and swelling behind the knees and on my hands and elbows lessen, but the large friction burn down my back, from rubbing against the chair seat, is very sore and oozing. It will take a few weeks to heal.  This makes it very difficult to sleep comfortably, especially when connected to a drip. The general noise on the ward I can cope with. ( I will spare you the gory photographs of the injuries) I am in much better shape than the other elderly men in the ward, who are frail.

More doctors visit me, and everyone is incredulous as to the circumstances of my injuries. All the staff are friendly and proficient, and I have nothing but praise for them. Even the meals are OK. But when may I go home?

Eventually, my bloods improve and I am discharged. I walk gingerly to my son’s car and head back to Longridge.

First of all, I have to report that the kittens didn’t stray and they are sitting in their cage to welcome me. In the intervening days, my son has been visiting them.

But what of the rest of the house? The back door, or where there had been a back door, has been boarded up securely. The surrounding plasterwork has suffered from the ‘break-in’ and there are bits of glass everywhere.

Outside are the remains of the door, showing signs of how difficult it had been to breach.

The offending kitchen bar stool is lying there and sends a shiver down my spine to think back to my imprisonment for over eight hours within it. I just made it out in time.

Getting comfortable with my skin damage is still a big problem, but my general mobility is improving quickly, especially as I now have more freedom to exercise. I’ll be down to the shops tomorrow.

Further lessons learnt.

Maybe buy tinned soup.

Check the house for trip hazards.

Consider an external key safe.

Consider a personal emergency button; there are several to choose from, all connecting to a call centre if needed. Perhaps it would be better to have one of the ‘clever’ watches that can make a call for you, as this could be used whilst on my outdoor activities, giving a greater range of security backup. I will look into the various options; my sons are already doing so.

Oh, for a quiet life.

THE GARLIC SOUP THAT NEARLY KILLED ME. Part One.

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A cathartic post. Self-indulgent, yes, but with lessons to be learnt.

Five am, and the fire brigade are bashing down my back door to gain entry for the ambulance men. I’m carted off to the hospital for the second time in less than three months.

*

It all began very pleasantly.

It’s that time of year again when the wild garlic proliferates in its shady spots. I know such a spot where dogs are less likely to have been. My two favourite recipes are garlic/potato soup and poached eggs on a bed of sautéed leaves. I spoke about them last year. I am again picking the fresh, young, aromatic leaves on Easter Monday.

Known as Ramsoms by country folk. The Latin name ursinum relates to ‘bear’ and refers to the fondness of the brown bear for the bulbs. Cows love to eat the leaves, hence another vernacular name of Cow’s Leek. Associated with bluebells, they are considered to be an ancient woodland indicator species. Today, the bluebells are just coming into bloom, a patchy blue rather than a carpet.

I enjoy my short walk by the river and come home with a carrier bag full of fresh leaves; they will go to nothing once cooked.

In the evening, I cook some potatoes and start washing the garlic leaves in the kitchen sink before transferring them to the soup pot. Yes, I probably am a little messy, and the kitchen tiles get their fair share of water. Turning around, I slip and try to grab the kitchen bar stool, but between us we crash to the floor. That would have been probably fine with a few bruises, except I somehow land upside down inside the wooden frame below the seat—a freak accident.

It dawns on me that, despite not initially injuring myself, I can’t get out of the frame. My torso is stuck even though I wriggle about and try to push with my arms. I can’t use my legs because they are wrapped around the bottom rung, with my feet unable to touch the ground. A sort of Chinese puzzle, think of a tortoise on its back. It is probably about 7 or 8 pm.

My first thought, obviously, is to phone for help, and that’s when the problems multiply. Where is the house phone? The handset is usually on the charger in the living room.  I have to get there. I start pushing the chair frame across the kitchen tiles,  with me inside it, using my hands and elbows. The first obstacle is the thick mat, which I somehow push out of the way. I pull on the kitchen table legs to help my slow progress, resulting in the table sliding across my path.

Reaching the door into the lounge, fortunately open, I realise that, going forward, I can’t negotiate the lip of the carpet door bar, mainly because I can’t use my feet to lift the chair legs. After laboriously spinning round and going backwards, my arms give enough lift to get the chair frame over and into the lounge. Spinning again, I push towards the phone socket but come up against the heavy leather settee. Some difficult shoving and pushing, mainly with my elbows, eventually gives me space to go past. I’m now in the dark and pulling the charger down to me, but no handset can be found.

That has taken over an hour and a half of exhausting work. It isn’t easy to relax my legs in their position, around a wooden rung which is biting into the backs of my knees. My spine is rubbing against the side of the seat, and it causes pain whenever I shuffle and try to push.

So I have to reverse the whole process and head back into the kitchen, where I hope the handset will be on the worktop. At least this time, I know how to negotiate the carpet strip. Thankfully, the handset is on the worktop and I struggle to dislodge it with the oven gloves from the cooker door. My relief is short-lived when I realise the phone’s battery is run down and useless.

Back I go, with increasing difficulty as I tire and become cold and dehydrated. My feet have become numb from a lack of blood supply.  I can’t give up, as I imagine slowly dying in this position, I’m at the end of my tether, but I manage to get the handset on the charger, and it comes to life. I have no idea what time it is.

After a few minutes, I dial for help. In the dark, it takes me some time to engage three nines in a row. Ambulance control answer, and I explain my predicament. A crew will be on its way, but there is a delay of up to one and a half hours. I tell them they will have to force entry as I can’t unlock the doors.

Wow, what a relief, I just have to hang on a little longer. I can’t move by now, and I am shivering with cold, so it seems an age before they arrive, though it was probably much less than an hour. Of course, they can’t gain access and have to phone the fire brigade for help. (There was some miscommunication along the way.) Speaking through the door, they tell me it is 05.00 am, no wonder I am cold. Luckily, the local fire brigade arrive within 15 minutes and, after some difficulty, break through the back door.

The ambulance crew try to lift me out of the chair, but I am firmly stuck, so I have to be cut out by the fire brigade. What a relief, I have been on the floor for nine or ten hours.

Lessons learnt so far.

Don’t pick wild garlic.

Be more careful on wet surfaces.

Have your phone handsets charged up.

Don’t leave the key in the lock – preventing a spare key from being used.

OUR HOME FELL.

11 Replies

After my glorious day in Bowland yesterday, I was content to potter around the house today. After breakfast, I lost myself in an hour-long video depicting the climbing scene in Llanberis over the last 50 years or so. And what an anarchic scene it was, with lots of interesting characters involved, but that won’t necessarily interest you. If, however, you are curious – https://www.ukclimbing.com/videos/categories/trad_climbing/adra-6479

Another cup of coffee is being enjoyed when the phone rings. It is JD suggesting a walk up to Spire Hill (Longridge Fell to you). “It is less than 10 miles, and we will be back before it rains at 4 o’clock”. I rarely turn down an offer of a walk with good company; I’m just grateful that friends still include me. “I’ll be round to your house in 20 minutes“

My day sack is ever ready, packed with the necessaries. All I need to add is some water and snacks.

JD lives towards the top of Longridge, and it is only a short drive to the edge of the village to start the walk. It is breezy but not as cold as yesterday, so I don’t need any extra layers this time. The lane is familiar territory, and we chat the time away. Before long, we reach the  Newdrop Inn crossroads, the inn is now closed and converted into residential units, but it will always be the Newdrop to us.

A little further, we leave the road to walk past a small reservoir and through rough moorland. Our attention is taken by a Roe Deer buck bounding across the land. I doubt whether my phone camera will catch it. And there is another. Their white posteriors are so prominent—magic moments.

Joining the lane, we climb higher onto the fell, now on rough ground. The land owner up here is courting controversy with drainage ditches, tree felling and worst of all, a six-foot boundary fence topped off with two unnecessary barbed wires—just the height for that lovely deer to rip open its belly.

Passing on, we weave through all the fallen trees. There is devastation on this part of the forest caused by recent storms. 

Our goal is not far away now. We have a break at the trig point and watch a Peregrine fly past.

More walkers arrive, several with dogs off the lead. Not good news for ground-nesting birds, notices clearly advise the correct etiquette. But I find some dog owners self-endowed.

It’s downhill all the way on the lane past the golf club, and we reach the car as the first drops of rain appear.

A simple walk over familiar territory to that good viewpoint, Spire Hill, 350m. When walking with someone and chatting away, I don’t take many photographs, which may be a good thing. Here are a few.

 

The lane leading to the fell, seen high above.

 

There is a sheep in there somewhere.

The Newdrop.

 

A blurry buck, well camouflaged, except for his white rump.

This stately pine could become one of my favourite trees, I have several.

The new lord of the manor’s gates…

…and his welcoming signs.

That lethal barbed wire fence.

Picking a way through storm damage.

Spire Hill trig,350m, with the Bowland Fells in view.

Identifying Wood Sorrel.

***

Our route from the village.

CAST NOT A CLOUT.

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I’m sitting at the true summit of Fairsnape Fell, 522m. While I eat my sandwich lunch, I enjoy clear views of the three peaks of Yorkshire.  I had prepared that sandwich last night, thinking I might head to Manchester to continue my pilgrimage. I awoke this morning at 6 am, came down to make coffee and feed the kittens. Retiring back to bed and crosswords, I dozed off. The sun was streaming through my window a couple of hours later. It is too late to go to Manchester with all the faffing of buses and trains. But not too late to make the best of the day with a climb up into the Bowland Hills. A sunny forecast tempts me out.

This sign will give a clue to some as to where I’m setting off from. I buy a dozen and pop them in the car before I leave.

A climb up to Saddle End Farm and on to the fell above. Another walker catches me and steams ahead. I plod on. The cold east wind of the last few days has been replaced by an equally cold wind from the west. My hands feel cold, but my steady progress keeps me warm. Although the Gorse and Blackthorn are in bloom below, the May has not flowered yet – hence the rural adage.

It’s wilderness up here. I pass the site of a tragedy long forgotten. The other walker in front of me probably doesn’t know the history.

On the 26th March 1962, three siblings left home and travelled by bus to Chipping and
walked over the fells, maybe to Langden Castle, on their return over Saddle Fell, they were caught in a blizzard, which resulted in the two brothers losing their lives due to hypothermia. Their sister survived to raise the alarm at Saddle End Farm. There was no Mountain Rescue Team in the area at that time, so police and locals searched with BAC loaning a helicopter to help. Shortly after this tragedy, two Mountain Rescue teams were formed in the area, the forerunners of Bowland Pennine MRT.

I mention the above because it is thought that the boys may have sheltered in a small stone hut. I remember early walks on Saddle Fell in the 70s, the hut being by the track I’m on today, its roof was almost intact.

Don’t forget I am the tortoise nowadays. And what worries me more is the story of the lost fellrunner in 2011.
https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-england-lancashire-15191235

The fast walker in front of me bypasses the true summit, probably because he doesn’t know of its existence.

I take that slight diversion to the top. An extra windproof layer is added while I gaze over to Yorkshire.. 

Our weather is fickle. not often that one can walk in a straight line between the two Fairsnape summits, the peat would swallow you up. But after three weeks of dry weather, the going is ‘good to firm’ and I make progress towards the western summit, with its cairn, shelter, trig point and people. It is a popular destination, and today I meet people from further afield,  Easter holidaying.  They are all in praise of our Lancashire hills. And all is good with clear views across Morecambe Bay and beyond. 

Gliders swoosh past, making the most of the uplift from Bleasdale.

It’s a grand romp along the skyline to outwit Parlick by that rake traversing right.

More and more people are coming up, but I’m soon down out of the wind at Fell Foot. There is a bit of a rough stretch before open fields past secretive Wolfen Hall, with Pendle and Longridge Fell across the way. 

I always enjoy the little valley of the infant Chipping Brook. Today in the plantation, Bird Cherries stand out.

I cut across fields with gambling lambs to reach my car – a walk far greater than its parts. Uplifting, wilderness, skylarks and sunshine. I’m ready for the rest of the year now, and I have the eggs for my supper.

***

DOUBLE TROUBLE.

21 Replies

Introducing Dusty and Oscar.

You will remember I lost Seth, my 16-year-old cat, earlier this year. My friend Crusher inherited some cats when he moved to a cottage in the hills, and since then, more kittens have arrived. I intended to maybe take a couple of his stock if his children allowed me. Being unable to drive for over two months put that on hold for practical reasons. However, this week, I have been signed off from the hospital.  The nerve damage to my hand has improved to the extent that I can resume driving, so I have taxed my car and am ready for the road again.

A while back, I sent my family a picture of the cats, and they were keen to advise me on which ones to choose. In anticipation of the new arrivals, I borrowed a cage to put in my kitchen. I intend to keep them secure for a week or so until they are used to me and the house. They will also need microchipping and immunising.

Friday.

I give Crusher a ring to see if they are at home. Yes, so I collect my cat basket and drive up. The feline population are sat around the yard, all very friendly. The children have developed strong attachments to most of the older cats, so I chose two of the younger ones: a male and a female. I think. Both are short-haired black kittens, the male with a white tuxedo and paws. Crusher’s children receive some money for their ‘piggy banks’, with the promise that they can come and visit anytime.
The two kittens are subdued by their transfer to Longridge but soon relax into their new shared bed, even though I provided one each.. They don’t seem interested in food; I will give them time to settle.

Saturday.

They seem pleased to see me in the morning.
They haven’t eaten much, so I visit Sainsbury’s around the corner for some of that addictive Sheba food. That does the trick, and they are soon tucking in. I phone the vets to arrange for them to be seen next week. The veterinary nurses are sad to hear of Seth’s passing but look forward to meeting the new kittens. I think they are about 9 months old and that the female has been neutered.

What are their names?  That puts me on the spot. They did have names from their previous home, but I didn’t register them in my mind. I have already decided to call the female Dusty because she is. And who didn’t like Dusty Springfield? (I visited her grave way back in 2018 whilst walking the Thames Path through Henley.) The male is a ‘tuxedo’ with a white chest and spats. My family had suggested Oscar, because you wear a tuxedo at the ceremony. Let’s go with that for the time being.

Sunday.

I’m around the house most of the day, so the two kittens have the freedom of the kitchen. Chasing balls under cupboards keeps them entertained. They enjoy exploring and, before long, find their way onto the table and worktops. As with all young animals, ‘playfighting’ goes on from time to time, but generally, they tolerate each other well. I’m not sure who is the dominant one. They are a little too fast for my phone camera.

They eat anything and everything now, take to the scratch tower and use the litter tray.

A busy day for them.

Monday. Back into the carrier for a trip to the vets who take to the new arrivals. Going from their weight, Grace thinks they may be a little younger than 9 months or more likely have not had their fair share of food amongst the other cats on the farm.

Dusty has been neutered, but Oscar will need dealing with later.

I had noticed earlier that they had the odd cough from time to time and mentioned this. Their chests are a bit wheezy, so perhaps they have a mild infection – hopefully not cat flu. Their vaccinations are delayed for two weeks until a dose of antibiotics and steroids has had time to work.

They both are chipped without any fuss.

I return home, a little poorer, but with the kittens still in good form, and it’s time for a little telly.

Let’s see what the coming weeks bring.

THAT HILL AGAIN.

12 Replies

Just another local walk.

A few weeks ago, whilst unable to drive, I caught the bus to Chipping, crossed the fields and climbed straight up onto Jeffrey Hill. I had huffed and puffed my way up, making a mental note that I was getting too old for such steep stuff.

I can’t believe I am climbing the very same hillside today.

I have been a bit lethargic of late, and combined with a plethora of birthday celebration engagements and minor appointments  (that must have been my tenth Covid Jab), I have not ventured far in this April’s mini-summer. I was in danger of missing it. But this morning the phone rang, it was Mike suggesting a walk. He is off to Gran Canaria next week and wants a ‘training’ walk with some steep hills. I roused myself, ate some breakfast and packed my sac.

He has been given a map of a walk his neighbour takes her dogs on. Glancing at it, I could see it crisscrossed paths from Thornley over Longridge Fell and looked to be well over eight miles, more than the five or so Mike, suffering from early Parkinsonism, usually is happy with.

We park down the road at Little Town Dairy, a thriving farm, shop, cafe and garden centre. Even though it is just after ten, they are busy. Another look at his map printout, and we try to find a way out of the farm complex.

Little Town Farmhouse, notice the stone from a Lancashire cheese press.

We are saved by the family’s matriarch, who recognises us and comes out for a chat. She sends us on our way up the fields—the footpath veers to the left to the first awkward stile of the day. We virtually have to rebuild it to make it useful.

Let’s check the map to get our bearings. But the map has somehow disappeared since leaving the car a short while ago. So much for the suggested walk; we are free to make our own route from now on. Out comes my phone with its downloaded OS mapping so we can roughly trace the course of the intended walk. 

It is a beautiful day; the cold easterly wind that has bothered me recently has gone, leaving sunshine and warmth. Lambs are playing in the fields. Celandines and primroses are blooming on the banks. Bluebells are just starting to make an appearance in the shady areas.

We reach the road at one of those new metal kissing gates that I’m usually not a fan of, but after the struggle we have already had with broken wooden stiles, it is a pleasure to pass through.

We take to a small country lane, and for some reason, I take a photo of its sign. There is a Forty Acre Lane further up the hill.

The quiet lane gives easy walking through Wheatley along the base of the fell.

Rooks are busy nesting in the tall trees.

 At its end, we continue on an old bridleway. This used to be a boggy mess but has, in recent years, been properly drained and resurfaced. The ford at the road has very little water in it today.

A short road stretch past Thornley Hall and we are at the base of that hill again, with a hazy Cardwell House peering down at us from way up on Jeffrey Hill. It feels like climbing in Gran Canaria in today’s heat, but we get there in the end.

A welcome seat is at the top where we rest, snack and rehydrate. A few tears ago, this was part of an art installation with an evocative carved wooden totem by Halima Cassell.

Unfortunately, the statue has gone elsewhere, but its curves are represented in the seats surround. https://bowlandclimber.com/2014/11/15/a-new-kid-on-the-block/

A stroll up the road and we sidle off into the Cowley Brook Plantation, where I think I must know every track. Out comes the Merlin app for the multitude of bird songs up here today. 

We stroll on down the switchbacks of the lower fell road. Blackthorn and Gorse are in profusion.

Mike admires his golf course from below. It’s looking good.

It has been a day for spring flowers at their best; I feel lucky to live in a beautiful part of Lancashire.

We finish through fields back to Little Town and a cup of tea. The walk turned out to be 7 miles with 700 ft of ascent, mostly on that steep hill. I’m pleased I caught the last of the good weather, and Mike is ready for his holiday. 

***

BIRTHDAY FAMILY FUN.

16 Replies

A self-indulgent post.

Birthdays come around every year. This year, we decided to celebrate as a family. A quiet getaway for us to meet up without too much fuss; no surprises, balloons or embarrassing kissagrams.

For some time since it reopened, I have enjoyed eating at the Cross Keys Inn at Whitechapel.  I refer to its reincarnation in recent years. There has been a Cross Keys here for over a century; it was known affectionately to locals, tongue in cheek, as the Dorchester. 

The original building was a farm called Lower Oakenhead, dating back to the mid-1700s. Sometime in the first half of the 19th century, the owners expanded into the licensed trade, and the property became a coaching inn, The Cross Keys, that operated alongside the farm. When I used to visit it in the 70s/80s, three Hesketh brothers ran the farm and inn. Often, you couldn’t get a drink until they had finished milking. I remember the pool table, open fireplace and dominoes. The brothers needed to retire to bed early for the morning’s milking but would leave the bar open with an honesty box. As well as beer, they strangely sold Uncle Joe’s Mint Balls.

 

ttps://chorleyinnsandtaverns.blogspot.com/p/goosnargh-whitechapel-cross-keys-inn.html

It closed eventually in 2004 and was bought in 2009 by a local builder, John Holden. He slowly renovated the inn and commenced on converting the stables, cowsaheds and storerooms into holiday lets. Reopening in 2021: The postal address of the holiday properties has been renamed Dorchester Drive in deference to its history. 

It seemed the perfect place for a family gathering, so I reserved two lodges for the weekend, with the original intention that the dogs could accompany us. Booking the meal arrangements was slightly marred by my inability to drive; I like to do things face-to-face, and telephone conversations were vague regarding seating. Eventually, a friend gave me a lift up there, and I made final arrangements but without the dogs for various reasons. At least once we were there, cars wouldn’t be needed for the weekend.

Our small family, eight of us, met up there on the Friday evening; to my relief, the lodges were spacious and luxurious. Across at the inn, we were soon seated at a table adjacent to the bar, which was extremely busy and noisy with Friday night drinkers. I’m glad I’d arranged for us to be in the separate room where we could hear ourselves talk. The evening went well, with everybody enjoying the meal and atmosphere. We retired to one of the lodges for family games.

Breakfast was served for us the next morning, and it was excellent. 

The plan for the day was to walk five or six miles from the Inn without having to drive, but on returning to our lodge, the key no longer worked in my hand or all the other family members who thought they had the knack. Back to the bar. Dan, the man, came to investigate but couldn’t do any better. He phoned the property owner’s representative, but she was at the hairdresser’s. Don’t worry; it will all be sorted by the time you return from your walk. But no, all the stuff we need is in the lodge—another call to the building firm that owns the complex. John was around in no time. His key didn’t work either. A call to his friend, the locksmith, was thwarted by his attendance at a football match. He then called brother Chris to help out. By now, there was a crowd outside watching the proceedings and giving advice.

 An increasing arsenal of heavy-duty tools was employed to break through the door’s bottom panel. Burglars look away. J and C managed to remove it, with J flying through the hole created, much to the amusement and applause of the crowd.

We retrieved the gear we needed for the day’s walk and left the scene of devastation.

The planned walk across fields directly from the inn went well.

Soon, we were down to the bridge over the River Brock. There was very little water in the river.

The valley was busy with families and dog walkers. We looked a mottley lot.An earth slide proved popular with children and my not-so-young grandsons.

Leaving the river, we went through fields to come out at the base of Beacon Fell. The fun included grass whistling, a forgotten art… … and impromptu rounders.

Tree hugging is de rigueur with my family. And there were some grand trees to hug.

The trig point had to be visited.
More fun was had on the gymnastic apparatus.

Some of us walked down the snake.

and of course, the cafe for coffee and ice creams. We were lucky to have a sunny day.

The route back down the fell passed through the interesting houses of Crombleholme.

I knew the path direct to the Cross Keys was usually boggy, and so it proved today, but everyone enjoyed the challenge. A few added to the challenge by jumping the streams.

Some of us went to look around the nearby churchyard to seek out a C18th sundial. The church itself was locked.

Back at the lodges, most of us had a snooze before reconvening for pre-dinner drinks.

Another successful meal followed in the much quieter dining room. The food and staff were excellent. Back to the apartment for more fun and games, although we were all tired, so retired at a sensible hour.

Sunday dawned drizzly, we packed up and returned to my house for breakfast/lunch. Cards and presents were opened. By now, it was dry, and so the whole family descended upon Craig Y Longridge, the local bouldering venue. The three grandchildren were performing feats way beyond my ability. But I did manage to cling on with my bad hand long enough for a group photo.

What a successful weekend, thanks to my family. You’re not twenty-one every year.

What’s the secret to growing old gracefully?

Time
Health
A quiet mind
Slow mornings
Ability to travel
Rest without guilt
A good night’s sleep
Calm and boring days
Meaningful conversations
Home cooked meals
People you love
People who love you back

Ah, well, I’ll be back at the hospital tomorrow.

*

For the record, here is our recommended walking circuit of about six miles directly from the inn. 

PILGRIM’S PROGRESS.  INTO MANCHESTER.

11 Replies

Day 7.   Radcliffe to Manchester Cathedral.

An easy 10-mile walk along cycle paths.

The good weather is lasting, so it’s time for another section of my ‘pilgrimage’ from home to Manchester. A  walk, a bus, another walk, a train and a final bus deliver me to Radcliffe bus station by 10 am. Strangely, there was an Emu puppet on that crowded bus from Bolton.

I’m surrounded by busy roads and feel a little disorientated. Across the way is Asda, which I recall being mentioned in my guide: “go down alongside their petrol station to pick up the Cycle Route 6.”

It is signed up a ramp onto the bed of the old Manchester to Bury and East Lancs line. I used it before coming out of Accrington.

Like magic, within seconds of stepping onto it, all is peace and quiet. Only bird song is audible – and quite a collection of species, all no doubt mating and preparing nests. I cross the Irwell Viaduct  (Built in 1846 from timber, but replaced with cast iron in 1881 and reopened as a cycle way in 1999) and plunge into the woods. This is Outwood Country Park, where coal mines once existed.  Little, inviting paths go off in all directions.

The cycle route joins the Irwell Sculpture Trail from time to time; signposting is excellent. I was along here before    https://bowlandclimber.com/2014/08/06/irwell-valley-trail-2-into-manchester/

An Irwell sculpture.
and another.

The remains of an old platform for Ringley Road station are passed.

A667 brick bridge.

The rail line traverses beautiful, remarkedly undulating, wooded land.

I can hear the motorway long before I reach it.

I catch a glimpse of part of the Clifton Viaducet carrying the old railway across the Irwell once again; It has thirteen arches, a remarkable construction from 1846.

The day warms, and I end up stripping off layers for a change. I’m glad I brought plenty of water as I sit for an early sandwich. Dog walkers appear from everywhere. Notice boards tell me I am in Phillip’s Park, land previously an estate for a wealthy Manchester industrialist, but before that a medieval deer park. 

More parkland, Drinkwater, nothing spectacular, but with all the greens of Spring coming to the fore. Primroses, Blackthorn, Cherries and Willow catkins adding colour.

 In a clearing, there is a totem ploe.

I just keep following the cycle path 6.

My route keeps me away from the River Irwell until I arrive at the first road, Agecroft, of the day and a car park.

I cross the bridge over the river adjacent to the Thirlmere pipeline. ‘Manchester Corporation Water Works – 1892’. 

Continuing between the river and a massive cemetery. I’m impressed by the many graves that are brightly bedecked with flowers  – of course, it is Mothering Sunday this weekend.

The Irwell creeps into town. The Manchester skyline is ahead. The inevitable urban litter starts to appear where I reach housing; we are a messy and wasteful society..

When I last visited the Kersal wetlands, it was all wild; now there are houses. And this was/is a flood plain.

Murals on a pumping building reflect local history.

I cut across the fields to Cromwell’s Bridge, an impressive Victorian structure. In fact, as I wander by the Irwell, I cross several bridges with their foundation plaques.

I had noticed several large black canisters strewn by the path earlier, but now I come across a nest of them. On closer inspection, they are industrial-grade laughing gas, an illegal Class C drug. These are full and no doubt hidden for use at a later time. Welcome to the city.

I’m now surrounded by skyscrapers. 

The River Irwell creeps off through them to join the Ship Canal in Salford.  Would it be worth using a scooter or bike for the last section?

I find my way through the maze of streets to the Cathedral forecourt. I’m unlucky; the Cathedral, dating from Saxon times, is closed for a charity dinner this evening.

I will have to make time to explore when I return for onward travel to Lichfield. Yes, what started as a ‘pilgrimage’ from my house to Manchester Cathedral is leading to bigger things. I need to get the maps out and start planning.

*

With time to spare, I spot a statue of Mahatma Gandhi.

“Be the change that you wish to see in the world”

Our present world leaders are intent on war, land-grabbing and financial deals. A far cry from Gandhi’s vision.  Let’s have a look at some of his other famous quotes.

“Live as if you were to die tomorrow. Learn as if you were to live forever.”

“The greatness of humanity is not in being human, but in being humane.”

“In a gentle way, you can shake the world.”

“Change yourself – you are in control.”

“I will not let anyone walk through my mind with their dirty feet.”

“The weak can never forgive. Forgiveness is the attribute of the strong.”

“Freedom is not worth having if it does not include the freedom to make mistakes.”

“We need not wait to see what others do.”

“A ‘No’ uttered from the deepest conviction is better than a ‘Yes’ merely uttered to please, or worse, to avoid trouble.”

“The best way to find yourself is to lose yourself in the service of others.”

“To call woman the weaker sex is a libel; it is man’s injustice to woman.”

“Earth provides enough to satisfy every man’s needs, but not every man’s greed.”

“Love is the strongest force the world possesses.”

“Nonviolence is a weapon of the strong.”

“A man is but the product of his thoughts. What he thinks, he becomes.”

*

On a lighter note, the Manchester bee is all over the place.

The facade of Victoria station advertises the places it serves.  Inside, everything is new and confusing. Northern trains have a bad reputation, but I am soon back at Preston.

And on a hoarding, there is this line from Erin Hanson.
.

There is freedom waiting for you,
On the breezes of the sky,
And you ask, “What if I fall?”
Oh, but my darling,
What if you fly?

A good enough take on life as I enter another decade, I have flown most of the time.

***