Here I am in Bleasdale again, I walked around a couple of weeks ago.
Mike is searching for a four mile walk for his, increasingly aging, walking group. I suggest this as an option. good surfaces on the whole, no stiles or steep inclines. a toilet at the start and a pub not far off for lunch. We are joined by Moira who will be leading the walk if Mike is still sailing in Scottish waters. A perfect warm Spring afternoon awaits us.
I am writing it up again as I have come across some additional interesting history of the area, courtesy of Historic Walks around Bleasdale, Dixon and Jarvinen, hidden in my bookshelves from 1988. Anyhow I never tire of this circuit in the bowl of the fells.
As usual we park at the Grade II listed Saint Eadmer’s Church, the only one named so in the country. “There was a church on this site in the C16th. In 1702 Christopher Parkinson of Hazelhurst gave £5 10s a year for the wages of a minister. It was rebuilt in 1835. Mullioned windows from the original church were incorporated into the tower and decorated stones can be seen in the wall next to the gate“
Nearby is Admarsh Barn, now converted into living accommodation. “Above the door is a date stone 1720 with the initials of the Robert Parkinson” mentioned above.
The short diversion to Bronze Age Bleasdale Circle is duly taken. It will look better when the replaced circle of trees have grown.
We walk on heading for the fells. Sheep and lambs are everywhere and we spend time trying to reunite a bleating lamb with its mother in another field, best to let them sort it out themselves.
Bypassing Admarsh Farm (1814) we climb slowly to Holme House farm, these are remote farmsteads. Now for an interesting historical update. The lane continues to Hazelhurst Farm passing an isolated cottage on the way. this had been derelict for years but is now refurbished and occupied.
“A hamlet known as Coolan once existed here, consisting of six cottages, the inhabitants making a living from wool combing and straw hat manufacturing. Only the old village stocks and a deserted cottage remain today (1988) as forlorn reminders of their industrial enterprise. The wool was transported as far as Burnley and Halifax and the packhorse bridge was built along the route at Brooks. Careful inspection of the farm walls around Hazelhurst will reveal the remains of mullioned windows, dressed building stone and old doorheads, part of the old Coolan“
We are distracted by the farmers bringing in their sheep so we don’t see the stones – next time I will be on the lookout.
On through Clough Head, over the bridge built by the boys from the reformatory school, whose buildings still stand along the way. “This bridge was built by the boys of North Lancashire Reformatory School between 1858 and 1859 under the guidance of Christopher Foster, mason instructor at the school. Above the upstream arch of the bridge is a dated foundation stone and above the downstream arch is a carved tablet showing the bridges tools of construction. The school was established by W. G. Garnett, J.P. of Bleasdale Tower in 1857, to give one hundred boys useful employment, principally in agricultural labour, and their farming operations brought many areas of moorland into good cultivation“
I managed to take a photo of the downstream parapet once,
We don’t go up to the Tower but follow the estate road left past the Packhorse Bridge, by beautiful beech hedges and the old school buildings, closed in 2019 when only two pupils were registered. back to our car.
What a lovely walk in the bowl of the fells and now a little more of its history told.
If you go down to the woods today, you’re sure of a big surprise.
I had heard of the Pendle Sculpture Trail for years but never searched it out. Launched in 2012 to commemorate the 400th anniversary of the trial of the Pendle witches. The Pendle area is steeped in witchcraft heritage and legends. I have previously walked the 50 mile Lancashire Witches Walk from Barrowford to Lancaster Castle, where the witches had been tried, again commemorating the 400 years. Along that walk are a series of cast iron Tercets (like a Haiku) embossed with stanzas from the walk’s poem, written by the then Poet Laureate Carol Ann Duffy, each one relating to one of the ten witches hung.
The Pendle Sculpture Trail has a similar theme and starts in Barley taking you around nearby Aitken Wood. We come armed with a leaflet downloaded from the Visit Pendle website. It shows 26 installations, I think we find a dozen at most. sculpture_trail_print_friendly_2019_v2.pdf (letswalkinpendle.co.uk)
An easy stroll out of Barley on a private United Utilities lane is pleasant in the morning sunshine but there is a cold wind blowing from somewhere. Is there a storm witch behind us? Entering the woods is an outsized rubric cube type wooden puzzle. We marvel at its intricate construction but have no idea why it is here.
Be prepared for a steep start to the forest trail, perhaps we are out of puff and so don’t spot the first few sculptures. A roe deer disappears in the trees.
We can’t miss the Magic Chair (Ben Gates) right by the path. Intricate wood carvings connected by metal fastenings. distorted and moulded. Spooky limbs and eyes but lovely boots. It was a little cold on the bum to sit in for long.
I am disappointed we missed, or had it disappeared, the Quaker Tree in view of my recent postings on George Fox and the beginnings of Quakerism.
The Witchfinder (Martyn Bednarczuk) was obvious through the trees. Based on Roger Nowell the local magistrate who investigated and prosecuted the witches. Very stern. Why do people feel the need to insert coins into wooden statues, apart from being unsightly it hastens the demise of the wood.
Neither of us can work out the significance of the Ceramic Column, (Sarah McDade) and it isn’t particularly attractive despite the exquisite smoothness of the ceramics which is appreciated by Clare who dabbles in pottery. The good thing about outdoor sculptures is there are no signs saying ‘don’t touch’.
Are we getting our eyes in, for we soon spot the next two. Reconnected 1 and 2. (Phillipe Handford) are trees that have been felled and cleverly sprung back to their stumps. I like these, very organic. Unfortunately, as it is with wood, rot is setting in.
Nearby and rather scary is the resin Wishing Widow, (Joe Hesketh). The artist herself, a local lass, apparently was a loner in her childhood and felt herself a witch, casting spells on her classmates. This may explain her strange sculpture.
We miss a few more until we come across the Rings of Time, (Phillipe Hartford) strung from the trees. Maybe a nod to Star Trek or the rings aging a tree. We don’t see the significance of the dates on the discs, but here is a full explanation. All a bit too obtuse as we are stood below them.
1324 – Barley ‘Barlegh’ appears
1507 – Pendle Forest deforested by Henry V11
1612 – Local ‘witches’ taken to Lancaster Castle
1652 – George Fox
1661 – Richard Towneley’s barometric readings on Pendle Hill
1750 – First Inghamite church in Fence
1894 – Black Moss reservoir built
1912 – Clarion House built
1918 – War memorial in Barley
1935 – Aitken Wood planted
1938 – Whitehough established
1945 – end of WW2 and losses from Barley
1987 – The Pendleway created
2012 – Sculpture trail started
2018 – second phase of the trail
One of the blank discs is for when time began and an empty ring for infinity.
The Black Dog, (Incredible Creations) can’t be missed. More like a fierce demonic wolf than a dog. Black dogs were associated with witchcraft back in those days. We give him a replacement horn for the one that had gone missing.
Look up and you will see Three Bats In Flight,(Steve Blaycock) another animal associated with witches, is this all getting too scary for children? I hope I don’t have nightmares.
Somehow we miss other bats allegedly hanging in the trees. The Living Wall, (Phillipe Harford) is unanimously dismissed as rubbish.
I am looking at the all encompassing greenery on the trees in the shady forest and there all of a sudden is a Dryad, (Incredible Creations) emerging from her tree. She is covered with Ivy, has acorn earrings and a butterfly in her hair. Closer examination shows it isn’t a living tree at all but part of the sculpture, the bracket fungi have me fooled. There is even a ladybird lurking around the back. Dryads or Tree Nymphs only live as long as the tree they inhabit, which could be a long time.
.
Spiders, owls and a fairy are not found; we aren’t doing very well really. But there is a Unicorn, (Incredible Creations again) another mythical beast. Only the deep surrounding mud prevented Clare taking a ride of fancy. As we leave the forest a stark metal silhouette of Chained Witches, (Peter Naylor) being marched from Pendle to Lancaster. I am impressed with the detail imparted by a few strips of metal, a reflection of the artist’s skill.
As the artist says and implies in his sculpture “These women were not actual witches but rather misunderstood individuals. Some of them were elderly, and some with various mental issues. Society and the authorities unjustly persecuted and executed them. The sculpture serves as a reminder of their plight and the importance of empathy and justice in our own time” The latter I fear sadly missing.
All along up here in these delightful woods Pendle Hill has been looking doen on us, as it seems to do in most of this part of Lancashire.
We walk back down to the Black Moss reservoirs and take a different path home through fields full of primroses and trees festooned with healthy lichen.
Across the way the rather stark Aitken Wood hides her secrets.
That witchy wind has become even colder so we are glad of a coffee in the friendly little café back at the carpark in Barley. Next up for more Pendle sculptures is Letcliffe Park in Barnoldswick.
If you do this walk, about three miles, be sure to highlight the sculptures we have missed.
This post has been two weeks in the writing, not that that makes it any better.
It’s been a strange time. Monday, having my haircut with Phil, a traditional barber, we all come out with the same style, fine by me. Most of our conversation was about mutual friends who have or who are shortly to depart our presence. With a humorous twist I can’t go into details here.
After my recent soaking on Longridge Fell I decided on some indoor culture for Tuesday. There were some interesting exhibitions at Abbots Hall Gallery in Kendal. I drove up in horrendous wet conditions on the motorway, found somewhere to park, £3.50, and walked to the hall only to find it only opens Thursday to Saturday at this time of year! Why didn’t I check? I phoned Sir Hugh in Arnside hoping for some sympathy and coffee, but ironically he was in Preston shopping. Drove back down the motorway in horrendous wet conditions.
Then on the Friday drove down to Manchester to visit my longtime friend, since university days, who is suffering with Pancreatic Cancer. It was a joyous occasion as we dutifully reminisced our days in various flats in London; beer, curries, girls, music and football. He showed me around his local park, John Leigh. What a wonderful space cared for by wonderful volunteers, a blue print for community parks anywhere.
The sun shone on Saturday, Sunday and Monday but I was ill, another humorous incident I can’t recall here. The tablets were working so I hoped to take advantage of a good forecast and complete a walk I have had in mind for some time – The Sedbergh Quaker Trail. It was not to be, three close friends died this week and I was quite depressed. I missed the good weather.
Preparations were underway for all my family visiting at the weekend for my birthday. I awoke in the night and found that my electricity had tripped. At 3am I was paddling about in my dressing gown trying to find the problem. I isolated it to the kitchen and disconnected everything in there, but it still tripped. Into the garage for extension cables to at least keep my freezer and fridge working. The birthday dinner must be saved., not sure how I will cook it. An early phone call, Saturday morning, to our community electricians and within an an hour Paul is prowling around the kitchen with his magic electric probe. “The problem is between these sockets and the dishwasher” Visions of the walls coming down. But as both of us lie on the floor peering into the dark of that forgotten space behind the kickboard below the units the evidence is clear – a mouse has been nibbling at the wires. Within a short time he has rewired it and all is go. I’m keeping the space open until a few mice have been humanely caught and deported.
The birthday meal was a huge success.
All of this has nothing to do with Sedbergh and the Quakers but may explain my tardiness.
***
Historians mark 1652 as the beginning of the Quaker movement. In that year on Pendle Hill George Fox, (1624-1691) is said to have had a vision commanding him to “sound the day of the Lord” to a great gathering of people. I have written about Fox’s Well.
In June1652, fresh from his vision on Pendle Hill, George Fox arrived in Sedbergh. He did not preach in St. Andrew’s church there but the next day he was encouraged to attend a large gathering of ‘Seekers’ and other nonconformists in and around the small chapel on Firbank Fell a few miles from Sedbergh.
Fox wouldn’t go into the chapel to preach but instead spoke for three hours to the gathered crowd from the top of a nearby crag – this is now known as Fox’s Pulpit. Many Seekers were convinced by Fox on the Fell that day and added their weight of missionary zeal to his and what became the Society of Friends, or ‘Quakers’ – after Fox told a Derby judge to “tremble at the word of the Lord” By 1660, there were 50,000 followers.
Meeting houses for silent prayer and contemplation, such as Swarthmoor near Ulverston, and Brigflatts near Sedbergh, were subsequently built. Brigflatts,1675, in Cumbria, is one of the most famous Quaker meeting houses, known and loved by Friends all over the world. It is acknowledged for all the simplicity of its lime-washed stone walls and interior woodwork — panelling, columns and balustrading — as one of England’s vernacular gems. For many, the peace and tranquillity of the Meeting House at Brigflatts leave a lasting impression. (information from their website.)
People of all faiths can admire the Quakers’ respect for all humans, their tolerance and belief in peace without the need for churches, rituals, holy days, or sacraments, to practice religion. Rather religion should be something one lived and acted out every day. These ideas were radical in a period where the established church held great political power, and many early Quakers were imprisoned and oppressed for these beliefs. Quakers were conscientious objectors in both world wars. Because Quakers were barred from universities and many professions, one natural outlet for them was in business. A large number of British businesses were founded by Quakers, including such household names as Barclays, Lloyds, Carr’s, Clarks, Cadbury, Reckitt’s, Rowntree, Fry and Terry’s. The football team In Darlington that I supported as a teenager was nicknamed The Quakers from the links within the town.
***
This Tuesday the forecast is good, Despite a bit of faffing I am parked in Sedbergh by 10 am. Too soon to pick up a leaflet from the Tourist Information Office describing this walk. I’ll just have to do it from the map and follow my nose, I think I am pretty good at that.
I pay a visit to St. Andrew’s church. Once through the cemetery I’m on a quiet lane to Birks, a hamlet of farming cottages, a brief flirtation with the River Rawthey.
Through muddy fields to visit Brigflatts Meeting House. What a beautiful peaceful place. Built in the style of a Cumbrian farm house, it has open doors for visitors. The porch with its ?original studded door leads into the main room. A place for prayer or contemplation. Alongside was another room used as a library of relevant books and a place to sit and have a brew. All very inclusive.
I move on, suitably refreshed in mind and body. I think I miss a turn to Ingmire Hall but find myself on The Dales Way for the first time in 40 years. It is a little disappointing following the road verge for some while. Some rather complicated navigating through The Oaks, holiday lets now, and I’m on the banks of the Lune for a short stretch to the strangely named Lincoln’s Inn Bridge. The adjacent farm had been an in at one time.
I leave the Dales Way until rejoining it later in the day, and find a way up into the mixed woodlands which will be resplendent with bluebells in a few weeks time. For photos of them have a look at John Bainbridge’s post from 2022.
Emerging onto a narrow moorland lane at New Field.
Onwards and upwards I reach the highest point and there on the right is the rock or pulpit from where Fox is said to have preached way back in 1652. An isolated spot as you could find.
The plaque affixed to the rock reads –
Here or near this rock George Fox preached to about one thousand seekers for three hours on Sunday, June 13, 1652. Great power inspired his message and the meeting proved of first importance in gathering the Society of Friends known as Quakers. Many men and women convinced of the truth on this fell and in other parts of the northern counties went forth through the land and over the seas with the living word of the Lord enduring great hardships and winning multitudes to Christ.
I sit atop of the rock eating my sandwich, nobody about to hear my words. The chapel mentioned up here fell into disrepair and has vanished but there is an abandoned graveyard with one lone standing gravestone.
I choose a nearby squelchy, but well signed, bridleway to take me back down the valley. The Howgills are spread out in front of me, but unfortunately the summits are cloud covered.
Half way down past Goodies Farm I cross the bed of an old railway. This was from Ingleton, via Kirkby Lonsdale and Sedbergh. to join the main line at Tebay. It opened in 1861 and the rails were finally lifted in 1967, twelve years after it had closed to passengers. I had previously passed below it near Brigflatts and seen in the distance the Waterside Viaduct.
I cross the River Lune on a recently rebuilt footbridge and back onto the Dales Way but now going in the opposite direction.
A series of farms and fields take me south. The farmer at Hole House complains about the wet weather causing problems at lambing time. At Nether Bainbridge most is falling down.
Along the track a farmer is repairing his drystone wall. I get the whole history of the area. A magic conversation.
I leave the Dales Way at Bramaskew and walk on to High Branthwaite, taking the farm lane up to Howgill Lane which I can follow all the way back to Sedbergh. The alternative was to walk along the higher fellside of Winder Hill on open access land. After nine miles I was happy to use the traffic free lane. All the time looking at the surrounding fells. The Howgills, Baugh Fell and Dentdale with time to spot a few early flowers. The area is mostly neglected by hiking community who go elsewhere to the honey pots. I’ve not met a single walker all day on my ten mile round.
Back in Sedbergh the village is buzzing with visitors mostly decked out in the latest walking garb. The, no doubt otherwise helpful, Tourist Information closed at 4pm so I never acquired that walk leaflet.
I’m parked up at the same spot as a couple of weeks ago in straggly RIMINGTON. There seem to be more cars about than last time, perhaps a walking group have departed some time before me. But I never meet another walker throughout this short walk. Looking again at Clitheroe Ramblers’ 25 Walks in the Ribble and Hodder Valleys I see this is the only one I have not completed in the past. It should prove ideal for a short off the cuff walk.
C18th Bustards Farm, my starting point in the village.
It is a pleasure to be back on the better drained limestone hills after last weekend’s mud-bath. Straight forward walking out of the village, across fields on a concessionary path and then a footbridge across Ings Beck. Robins are singing from every tree, Jays are making a commotion in the woods, yellow Celandines are poking through and the sun is shining, so perhaps we have turned a corner in the seasons. I’m soon alongside Twiston Mill and on to the minor road. I resist the short diversion up to Witches Quarry, a popular limestone climbing venue.
Twiston Mill.
Its silted up mill pond.
Each chapter in the book is written by a different local author and the standard of accuracy has varied, todays is not the best and I have to resort to my OS mapping on the phone to find my way above Twiston. Its uphill all the way to meet the next minor road. I recognise some stretches from a reverse walk in March two years ago which helps. The Blackthorn Blossom is just starting, as it was last time I came this way.
Looking back to the Ribble Valley.
All morning Pendle Hill has been looming above me, a little hazy at times and at the road its big end is directly above. The scenery changes here, I’ve left the green pastures and venture onto the open moors for a stretch above Coolham Farm. This is the highest I get on Pendle’s skirts. I have to imagine Ingleborough and Pen-Y-Ghent ahead of me in the haze but can pick out Rimington far below.
Out of nowhere a wall enclosed green lane appears heading down from Twiston Moor. I follow it, doglegging, until alongside a deep wooded clough, the upper reaches of Ings Beck. I try to take some pictures of the red buds on the Larches here but the breeze makes it difficult to focus.
Just outside the garden of Clough Head Farm is the Thomas Peel Bulcock memorial of which I knew nothing. It was erected by Thomas Bulcock in 1863 in memory of his son buried here and other relations buried in Whalley and Downham churchyards. The Bulcock family apparently had a long association with the area.
Having passed through the farmyard I find myself in one of the longest fields I’ve seen in these parts. Back to green pastures I wander down the hillside to come out onto a familiar lane.
From there I traverse the hillsides above the Ings Beck where silver rich lead was mined for many years. I wrote about this last time. Today I find the remains of the limekiln for the little limestone quarry and pass the mine managers cottage. Oh and that lamp post in the middle of nowhere.
Knowing the way I am soon back into sleepy Rimington.
The converted Black Bull and Cosgroves ladies clothing shop.
Grunsagill, no I hadn’t heard of it either. This map gives a clue, only just in Lancashire.
***
I have previously come up the Skirden Beck from Bolton-by-Bowland as far as Blue Scar, but today we were heading farther up alongside its tributaries to the isolated hamlet of Grunsagill. It turned out to be quite an epic, if one can apply that word to rural Lancashire.
Mike found the walk in 25 Walks in the Ribble and Hodder Valleys by Clitheroe Ramblers. We have followed a few of their walks in recent week deep in our countryside. I notice that the publication is 20 years old now so one expects to find changes in the routes, but our experience is more that nobody is walking some of these rural paths which are becoming overgrown with poor infrastructure. What would today be like up above Bowland-by-Bowland.
Yes, it is official it has been the wettest February in recent history so we can expect mud at the very least. In fact we miss out the first water-logged field in favour of the water-logged farm lane alongside Blue Scar, with locked gates. The farm has been unoccupied for years and last time I was here I struggled to find the PROW up from Skirden Beck into and through the farmyard, only to discover there was a concessionary path bypassing the farm altogether. Forewarned we follow it today dropping us down to the beck side. Those new galvanised gates help us find the way to the footbridge and the steep climb to Ray Head Farm, 1677. The fields are merely damp.
Barking dogs guard the farm yard but are called off as we pass through and follow more gates and newly planted hedges up towards Lodge Farm. There are hills ahead we don’t recognise and behind ever present Pendle watches our progress. So far so good. We stop to take off a few layers as the day has warmed up, the sun is shining and there is no wind. A green and pleasant land given over to sheep farming.
We are back to wooden stiles now and the guide warns of difficult route finding, we go astray in the wrong field above and unable to gain access to New Gill Beck. Backtracking is the only option and we find our own way down through no man’s land to another new gate and the little footbridge over the beck. Out of the blue we come across a waymark for The Ribble Valley Jubilee Trail. Later research suggests this would be a worthwhile week’s 65 mile walk through some of the best of the Ribble Valley.
Strangely there is an in situ caravan relic in the next field, no idea how it got there.
We make better progress on a pleasant stretch alongside the beck.
And there in front of us is the imposing Beckfoot Farmhouse with its mullioned windows, dating from1686 and partly rebuilt 1876. The lower plaque in the porch says EBI AN.DO 1686.
Stately living indeed and they are making changes to the landscape hereabouts, lots, and I mean lots, of tree planting but the footpath remains clear through their estate. There has also been a lot of work done along with the environment agencies to slow down the flow of water in the beck in times of heavy rain. A work in progress no doubt. It looks like an ideal place to reintroduce Beavers?
A bit of rougher ground and a dodgy footbridge brought us to the road at Butterfields. We now follow the quiet lanes for a mile or so, at the high point Pendle comes into view again. There are lots of cyclists, presumably from east Lancashire clubs, using this switchback route. A majority of the properties seem to be holiday lets, is this the only future for English farming? See below.
We drop into Grunsagill, a once stately house and a couple of farms. Chatting to the farmer he says it is too cold and wet up here for lambing now, best in April. In fact it turns out his sheep are down in lower fields at Longridge where we have come from.
A brief spell by Grunsagill Beck, another tributary of Skirden Beck, and we descend into what is basically a holiday village, Lower Gill. Farm buildings done up as self catering units and attached recreational facilities including a heated pool.
If the day had ended here we would have been very happy with our walk.
The next three quarters of a mile however were spent sinking into the worst possible flooded fields and then even worse trying to stay afloat on what was basically a slurry lagoon. Slurry is an integral part of modern farming where animal waste together with other waste organic farm matter is converted over a period of time into fertilizer that can be reused on their lands to fertilize crops. It should be in a controlled slurry pit not dumped into farm lanes. Slurry pits are dangerous enough from the point of view of deadly gases and drowning. Out here we felt very vulnerable on the virtually impassable slurry track. God knows what damage and pollution the run off into streams is creating. It can’t all be blamed on the wet weather, this is dumped farm waste. It should be looked upon as a serious enough problem as fly tipping in the countryside and sewage disposal by the big water companies. A world away from the high end vacation focused and sanitised ‘farming’ back at Lower Gill. I wonder if it is their land and slurry?
We needed hosing down and disinfecting after the ordeal. A walk to enjoy in the summer months.
The tune is the hymn ‘Rimington’, composed by Francis Duckworth. He was born in the Ribble Valley village of Rimington on Christmas Day 1862 at the grocery store, now a house. When he was five he moved with his family to nearby Stopper Lane, where they ran the village shop next door to a Wesleyan Chapel and hand loom cottages, now all private residences. Francis’s mother died when he was 12 and he began a hard life of working in various family shops. He later opened his own grocer’s shop in Colne. He was well known throughout the area as an accomplished musician and organist and composed many hymns, often named after local villages. ‘Rimington’ appeared in 1904. He remained in Colne until his death in 1941. He is buried in nearby Gisburn’s churchyard where his memorial is inscribed with the first couple of lines of his famous hymn.
*
We find ourselves parked this morning in that village of Rimington to follow another walk from Clitheroe Ramblers – 25 Walks in the Ribble and Hodder Valleys. Once again under the shadow of Pendle Hill, only a few miles from touristy Downham where I was a couple of weeks ago. But there are no tourists here, it is a curious village strung out along the lane with no obvious centre and a variety of housing styles. The Black Bull pub mentioned in the guide is nowhere to be seen, presumably closed.
Anyhow we find our footpath heading into the fields – it is marked as a Heritage Trail, of which we know nothing. Some of the stiles are hard to spot with the sun in our eyes; as is Pendle towering above us. Yes, at last the sun is making a weak appearance today. In places the stiles have been replaced by those utilitarian galvanised kissing gates. I’m still not bowled over by them, being a dyed in the wool old git; see below. Anyway we head towards a farm through more tradional old gate posts and past a street light in the middle of nowhere. Bits of limestone break through the grass giving us a clue to the geology of the area.
Before we go farther I would like to do a poll on which of the following you feel is most appropriate in our countryside, assuming progress has to be made. Galvanised or green?
Disused mines are marked on our map, perhaps they are something to do with the heritage trail. On the ground, pits start to appear all over the hillside and across the other side of Ings Valley. Apparently silver rich lead was recovered from here originally in the C17th from bell pits and later on an industrial scale from mine shafts. A smelt mill was built in the C19th. “Between 1880 and 1885 the York & Lancaster United Mining Co. Ltd sank a shaft and raised some ore. Unfortunately, James Wiseman, the banksman in charge of the shaft top, fell down the shaft and was killed in September 1884” This latter information I gleamed later from the internet where Rimington’s heritage is well represented. We should have known this before to fully appreciate and interpret the area.
We come across a small limestone quarry but fail to spot its limekiln.
There is probably a lot of heritage around here.
In the distance below Pendle is listed but modernised Clough Head Farm. We are almost on the border of Lancashire and Yorkshire hereabouts. I remember when White Rose flags were flown in Gisburn long after it had been assimilated into Lancashire. Lanes, which switchback the slopes, bring us to Middop Hall, C17th and again listed but without much change. A grand display of mullioned windows. Somewhere in the barn are remnants of Sawley Abbey. The stone from the abbeys must have been reused in many farms in the area, we have passed some at Little Mearley Hall before.
Shortly after leaving Widdop Hall we get into conversation with a friendly farmer on his quad bike. After the usual discussion on the weather he opens up and tells us he lives at the Hall and relates its history. If only we had met him down there we may have had a closer look around.
Onwards on the deserted lane with more ups and downs than I want. Then we are heading up onto the slopes of Weets Hill to join the Pennine Bridleway on Coal Pit Lane, more heritage there. From this elevated position the Three Yorkshire Peaks are just visible but too hazy to photograph. It is a slightly better view down the Ribble Valley towards the Parlick and Fairsnape group of Bowland. And of course you can’t get away from Pendle in these parts.Soon we are on the return leg, again on quiet lanes, through the hamlets of Howgill, Newby and Stopper Lane. Lots of interesting buildings are passed and we guess at their original purposes.
A lot we walk past without a second glance, never mind a photograph. We do notice the plaque to Duckworth in Stopper Lane, but had no idea of the industry here. The historic photo is of the village’s joinery shop with its ‘windmill’. Here abouts is the village institute hall, a good half mile out of the village proper. But it does have an information board which tells us, all too late, about the Heritage Trail we have almost followed.
The sundial on Martin Top Chapel, under scafolding today, is a reminder that this life we live is short and fleeting, and also seems to comment on the changes that have occured quite rapidly in these working villages in our lifetime.
On the map this looks like a nice gentle rural walk, perfect for Mike’s training schedule before flying off to Madeira’s sunny adventures. I agreed to join him, secretly knowing the true facts from a relatively recent visit.
Another route he had chosen from Clitheroe Ramblers’ Walks in the Ribble and Hodder valleys. Today it was the Hodder.
The cloud was down on the Bowland Fells which is a shame as there is a fell race up there today. Even Longridge Fell stayed under mist as we drove alongside to park in Bashall Eaves. We had a window of dry weather until about three this afternoon. Better get a move on.
All started well along a farm track, the guide’s instructions just said follow a waymarked route through the farm and cross five fields. Of course there were no waymarks and we had to ask the farmer the way out of his yard. He looked us up and down and delivered the fateful “there is a lot of water in the fields” before sending us into those fields. The first was the worst, a glutinous shaking morass. It was best to keep sidestepping the worst and not linger as your boots were being sucked down. To make things worse the stiles, if you could find them, were rotting and held together with string. Not a good start to the day and I knew things were to become far worse. Not many people come this way.
If we are going to have to become accustomed to water logged ground in the future I think I need to invest in some good walking Wellingtons.
Agden Farm was a Land Rover graveyard, at least the cows are kept inside,. The path, as it was, disappeared into undergrowth before tackling a steep ravine on muddy steps. This was the first of several cloughs we encountered today, steep and slippery down and steep and slippery back up.
Guesswork and some dodgy stiles delivered us to the next roller coaster, Paper Mill Wood, where at the bottom a fast flowing stream had to be forded. There was a brief respite alongside the River Hodder, the scenery idyllic. This is fishermen’s territory and there isn’t a lot of public access.
Open fields above the Hodder, with the instruction to head uphill to the three oaks. That was easy enough, they were unmistakable. Now head for a lone ash. This brought on a discussion on identifying trees in Winter mode, a skill neither of us had, I may go on a course I see they are running at Brockholes Nature Reserve. Drop down to a stile wasn’t very helpful as we couldn’t see one. But there was the faintest evidence of a path, the first today. Not many come this way.
I was telling Mike about the next bridge, at one time erroneously marked as ‘Roman Bridge’ but more likely a mill packhorse bridge, we were heading for. How maybe 35 years ago my eldest son and I arrived at it on a walk to find it taped off and in a dangerous state. We recklessly crawled across the crumbling stonework with a large drop below us. I had returned a few times after it was rebuilt as a wooden structure in 1997. But the bridge we came to today didn’t look very impressive, perhaps my memory is playing tricks.
No we weren’t there yet. Dropping farther into the woods we eventually arrived at the deep ravine of Mill Brook and the dramatic ‘new’ bridge. It was an impressive, as I had remembered it, and no doubt expensive, piece of engineering. The brook is 40 feet below. Having not met a single person since the first farm, a spaniel trotted across the bridge in front of us, soon to be followed by his master. The conversation that ensued turned out to be between two architects, one practising and the other retired. I listened in. He, the practising one, had just come from Lees House where he had been responsible for recent renovations. He warned us of more slippery paths to come and then posed on the bridge for his photo.
The way onwards and upwards was indeed awkward through a series of fallen trees. Not many people come this way, get the idea.
The guide book has you continuing across fields to pick up the road for a while before doubling back to Lees House. A rather pointless exercise as there is on the map a lane direct to the house from the edge of the woods. All right, it may not be a public right of way but we were happy to risk it and we were soon through the buildings without encroaching on their privacy and back on track.
On track meant a narrow hemmed in path past Lees House and a slithering descent through the woods to yet another footbridge over Mill Brook. (I wonder if a direct way could be found alongside the brook from the near the ‘Roman’ bridge). I have never found an easy way up from this latest footbridge, often ending up in impenetrable Elephant grass. Today we staggered steeply upwards through the mud and low tree branches. Not many people come this way. The grass has not started its growing season yet, but was lurking in the background. Eventually we were in the open fields heading to salvation. In hindsight, a wonderful thing, I think I might know a better way next time.
Salvation was reaching the farm track at Micklehurst Farm in the middle of nowhere. It was great to hear and see Lapwings flying over these fields. Some of the caged working dogs were noisy but probably harmless, but the brown one on a short chain looked particularly menacing. How strong are those chains?
We didn’t quite make the entrance to Browsholme Hall. The seldom travelled side road took us through felled plantations, now being resurrected as nature reserves. That often in these parts is an equivalent for pheasant breeding and shooting grounds.
I diverted from the direct way back to Bashalls to show Mike the Saddle Bridge below Rugglesmire Hall. Probably from the C17th but restored, by public conscription in 1954. It is known locally as Fairy Bridge, said to have been built one night by fairies to help an old woodcutter who was being pursued by witches. A delightful spot.
In the hamlet of Bashall Eaves, maybe a dozen cottages, is a preserved Lancashire Cheese press worth a picture.
A delightful walk, all great fun. Those six miles took us over four hours. Come prepared for a testing time, but enjoy the unspoilt environment and wildlife of Bowland.
After all that arty stuff over in Yorkshire last week it is time to get back to some proper Lancashire walking.
This walk is described as a classic in the booklet published by Clitheroe Ramblers – 25 Walks in the Ribble and Hodder Valleys. An excellent little production from 2004 with several authors describing their favourite local walks. I can vouch for most of them.
Wednesday is the only decent day of the week before a yellow warning for snow and ice. I thought of going for my usual cycle ride around Morecambe Bay and visiting Sir Hugh, but he turns out to be occupied, it can wait till another time when he is free. All this thinking and procrastinating and it is nearly lunchtime. Who else would be free for a quick short walk – I phone JD and he says he will be ready in 15 minutes, that’s what friend are for. Somehow I feel I need company today.
An easy drive and we are parked up by the little stream in Downham, one of the prettiest villages in Lancashire. The estate does not allow overhead electricity lines, aerials or satellite dishes etc , making it a popular location for period films. The classic 1961 film Whistle Down the Wind was based on the area and more recently the BBC 1 series Born and Bred. Many of the buildings in the village and surroundings are listed, including the stone bridge we are parked by.
But we haven’t come to look at the houses, no we have a brisk 5 miles to walk in the limestone country below towering Pendle. The guide book is very functional and basically just gives you directions without any historic or geological embellishments.
Chapter 14. A Downham Classic. Gill Morpeth.
We are soon unto fields heading towards Worsaw End Farm and there below us is the barn where Alan Bates (AKA Jesus or ‘the man’) sought refuge from the law and entranced the children from the village in that famous 1961 film, Whistle Down the Wind. Hayley Mills is the girl feeding and protecting him. I have just found out that the original novel was written in ’59 by Mary Hayley Bell, wife of John Mills and mother of the star Hayley Mills. If you get a chance to watch this black and white movie you will recognise a lot of the scenery but it is deeper than you think with strong allegorical passages as well as Lancashire humour. “he’s not Jesus, he’s just a fella”
The phrase ‘Whistle down the wind’ comes from Falconry. When falcons are released to hunt they are sent upwind and when turned loose for recreation they are sent downwind. So down the wind is to be cast off to find ones own path. There is no wind today and we have a map so perhaps there are no similarities to be drawn. We just get on with walk.
Above us is the rounded Worsaw Hill, a grassed over limestone reef knoll which today is popular with the local sheep. I went up it once for a spectacular view down the Ribble Valley, well Clitheroe Cement works at least. We pass briefly into the yard of the farm featured in the film and than are back into fields alongside the meandering Worston Brook. We spot an almost hidden ‘packhorse bridge’. The water looks so clear, having come down from Pendle. I remember fishing as a child for Crayfish in these Pennine becks. I met a woman recently who was doing some research for DEFRA on crayfish in certain locations, they are apparently a very good indication of water pollution.
We approach Worston but don’t visit it, half a dozen houses and a good rural inn, The Calf’s Head. Instead we take a direct route up the fields towards Pendle. I don’t recognise this way, but when I look at my map from the last time I have, So much for my memory. I do know I have been past Little Mearley Hall many times and point out the windows supposedly taken from Sawley Abbey after the dissolution. I warn JD about the tied up dog that will surprise us round the side of the barn, yes he is still there today but seems to have lost his bark. The farmer is busy planting new mixed hedging along the way, they have grubbed up so much in the past..
The walk now follows for a mile or so a line of farms scattered at the foot of Pendle, Angram Green, Moorside, Barkerfield and Hookcliffe, all looking ancient and steeped in Lancashire’s countryside. As always with JD the conversation is stimulating and far reaching. We are making good time without stopping as I want to delver him home to help his wife with the grandchildren after school.
Cutting across fields towards another reef knoll the guide mentions a barn at Gerna a strange name for these parts, ?Nordic. The farm itself has been gentrified.
Soon we are following the lively beck back into Downham, the cottages here having the water run under there front entrances.
That’s been a quick walk for me, just two hours for the five miles which bodes well for my rehabilitation into longer trips, of which I have a few in mind.
Here’s a few snaps to give you a flavour of the area and maybe entice you to Downham for this enjoyable walk.
Pretty Downham cottage.
Worsaw Hill.
The ‘Jesus’ barn.
Disappearing bridge over Worston Beck.
Hazy view down the Ribble Valley. Kemple End, Beacon Fell and Parlick.
JD hoping we don’t have to go all the way up Pendle.
Little Mearley Hall with the Sawley windows to the left.
A little disinterested today.
Good to see hundreds of mixed hedging plants going in.
Don’t follow your satnav, they were soon coming back.
Diversifying into paper cups.
More limestone knolls below Pendle, and Rad Brook.
For my last day in Yorkshire I had a choice of venues. I wondered about the National Coal Mining Museum nearby, but due to ‘staff training’ there were no underground tours that day and I did wonder whether the place would be overrun with school children. A lady at the Hepworth had recommended a NT property, Nostell Priory, but the house is closed in winter and the gardens were restricted. So there are two to come back to. Other considerations are Bradford’s Cartwright Hall Gallery, where one can see Lowry, Warhol, Lichtenstein and Anish Kapoor, or the ever popular Salts Mill in Saltaire. But there is one other possibility – I check its opening times and am decided.
When my children were small I used to take them on occasions to the Bradford Industrial Museum, for reasons which will become clear. I’ve not been back for getting on for forty years, time for a reappraisal and it is on my way home if I avoid the M62. I let the satnav take me there from the Campanile in Wakefield. I still am unsure of its precise location in sprawling Bradford, look it up, but I am delivered to the entrance in less than an hour.
I first took my boys there for them to see the inside of a mill with working machinery. But there was also a room dedicated to transport vehicles manufactured in Bradford. Jowett cars and motor cycles mainly but tagged on the end were a couple of cycles hand built in the city. (Between the wars and ever since there has always been a tradition of quality hand built lightweight steel racing cycles from our northern towns. You may well of heard of Ellis Brigham, Bob Jackson, Jack Taylor, Dave Yates – all sort after frames) As I will tell below I had owned a Baines bike and ridden it regularly whilst the boys were young. Imagine their surprise when there was the identical cycle in the museum. “ your bike’s in a museum Dad!” I’m not sure whether that was said with pride or shame, but they never forgot.
Here is a photo I took in the museum back in the early 80s.
Going back farther in time, as a teenager, maybe 15, I was into racing cycles and time trials. There was a cycle shop in Northgate, ??Cunningham’s, and in the window was a second hand bike I coveted. A Baines ‘flying gate’ racing machine built in Bradford. For an article and photos of the Baines cycle have a read here. and here.
Priced at £20 it was out of my reach but I would still go in and look at it. Eventually I came to an understanding with the owner, a racing cyclist in the past, that he wouldn’t sell it until I had saved up the money. I don’t know how I saved out of my meagre pocket money but perhaps I was helped by my various aunts and uncles. So the day came when I marched into the shop with £20 and marched out with the precious Baines cycle.
Dragging out another old photo, sometime in the early 60s. Can’t see much of the Baines in detail, although the chromed front forks show up. Note the ‘musette’ bag strap (‘bonk’ bag) over the shoulder and the bottle with straw. That is my longtime mate Mel behind, he of the long distance walks who sadly passed away in 2020.
Here we are at the start of Hadrian’s Wall Path in 2012.
That bike was my pride throughout my teenage years, I used it to cycle to school, tour the youth hostels in the holidays and to compete, poorly, in 10 and 25 mile time trials. Most of that time it was in classic fixed wheel mode. After University and when I had settled down in Longridge in the 70s I resurrected the bike, added some Campagnola gears and started using it for cycling locally and through the Trough. At some stage I took it into Sam William’s, another ex-racer, cycle shop in Preston and arranged to have it resprayed. It came back looking brand new with chromed forks and original name transfers. The only problem was that I was informed that there was some rust in the tubing which could weaken it. That put me off using it often and I built another bike for regular use. The poor old Baines was left hung up in the garage.
That’s how it could have ended but a few years ago I had a minor declutter and advertised it on one of those well known sites. There was a lot of interest and eventually the auction ended with a substantial financial gain for me. The chap who bought it was from Bradford and a collector of Baines Cycles. He was thrilled with his purchase and intended bringing it back to life with original fittings, though not necessarily to ride. I was pleased it had gone to a good home. My youngest son, who now has more bikes than I can count, however was very disappointed I had sold it. When I send him a photo of the same bike in the museum today his immediate reply was – “I still haven’t forgiven you”
***
So back to the museum.
The museum is in the former Moorside Mill, built around 1875 as a small worsted spinning mill. Bradford Industrial Museum has permanent displays of textile machinery, steam power, engineering, printing machinery and motor vehicles etc etc. You can also visit Moorside House where the mill manager lived, and in contrast the mill-workers’ back to back terraced housing.
It is crawling with enthusiastic and noisy, young school trippers.
The whole of the first floor is taken up with machinery from the worsted manufacturing era. Worsted was from sheep’s wool as opposed to cotton fabrics from, well, cotton. Many of the processes are similar. Blending, scouring, carding, combing, twisting, spinning, winding and finally weaving are all explained. There is machinery from the water mill era through to the steam era. Now all can be seen working by the flick of an electric switch. There are set times for switching the demonstrations on, I just follow the school groups.
When the machinery is working, particularly the looms, the sound is deafening, imagine working in this environment. Hope the videos play.
There is quite a lot of educational material on the social environment in the weaving towns in the late C19th and early C20th. I am not sure how much the junior school children took in.
The development of steam engines since over 200 years ago is highlighted. They were important to the weaving industries as well as the growing industrial world. The information too complicated to take in casually, but there are many working models to admire. And down in the basement an actual steam engine, recovered from Linton cotton mill when it was demolished in 1983. Victor, as it is named, is steamed up at certain times of the year and must be a spectacular show of power.
The transport section is just the same as I remember it and there at the end of the line past all the Jowetts is that classic cycle.
The iconic Jowett Jupiter.
A black Jowett Javelin behind the Jupiter.
After a coffee in the basic café I wander outside to look at the mill owners stone house. It is furnished in the period style, early twentieth century. There is so much detail to take in, literally a view into the past.
The much humbler back to back cottages across the way, saved from demolition and again furnished in the era of the mill’s working. Some of them also show life in the 60s and 70s – lots of nostalgia there for the older visitor and amusement for the school children.
There is so much of interest in this museum, far more than I have highlighted, particularly to industrial or social historians and those of an engineering background. We of a certain age will find abundant memories for a lost but recent part of our lives.
I am pleased I stopped off for a visit, especially for that bike. We all love nostalgia.
Looking through my photographs of all the sculptures I took in the Yorkshire Sculpture Park I see some interesting shapes in nature. I’ve put a few together for my amusement.
Another time I visit maybe I should just ignore the sculptures and look at the trees.
Crossing the bridge at the end of the lower lake one couldn’t but notice the large lady strutting across the field. I have never been a fan of Damien Hirst ever since I came across his open womb pregnant Verity in Ilfracombe, whilst walking the South West Coastal Way, and this figure before me is unmistakably his. The Virgin Mother. 2005. Damien Hirst. ”We are here for a fun time, not a long time”
And there are more in the distance but I was content with long zoom images.
Charity. 2002. Damien Hirst.
The hat makes the man. 2004. Damien Hirst.
I could have walked down the valley to the Weston Gallery but time was getting on. There is always another day and I wanted to see some sculptures this side of the lake. By now the wind was getting up and it was difficult to hold either myself or the camera steady.
Black Mound. 2013. David Nash. Oak charred in situ. Another of his that will age with time naturally.
49 Square. 2013. David Nash. Silver birch which will grow into a white square by the lake.
Oeuvre (Verdigris) 2018. Gavin Turk. A large bronze duck egg.. “I made an egg that will last forever – but now we no longer no what forever means – it depends which report you read”
Hazmat Love. 2017. Tom Friedman. Embracing, wrestling or dancing?
Mind Walk. 2022. Peter Randall-Page. A continuous line carved into Bavarian granite.
Gazing Ball. 2018. Lucy + Jorge Orta.
Notice the small heart, their reference to a close friend who died waiting for a transplant.
Diario. 2016. Mikayel Ohanjanyan. Where the steel wire cuts into the marble the names of all his friends are written.
“during our lifetime, these acquaintances shape our identity, values, and human dignity”
And now for something completely different. This is based on an Invacar, the basic three wheeler, all pale blue, issued to disabled people by the NHS for thirty years from 1948. I just about remember them. They were eventually deemed unsafe. Heaton was issued with one in 1971, he says he felt like a solitary cripple in it. Now painted gold – “from lame to Lamé”
Gold Lamé 2014. Tony Heaton.
I wander up the park through the highly polished granite shapes by Japanese sculptor Masayuki Koorida.
Over the bridge up to the iconic Love statue.
Ha-Ha Bridge. Brian Fell.
Love. (Red Blue Green) Robert Indiana.
I was running out of time although the park closes at 5pm the galleries close at 4. Going the long way round and exploring I had misjudged it. I missed out on the Chapel’s Light Organ show and much more but I wanted to complete my Erwin Wurm tour from this morning. There were a few more in the garden but the light had gone for photography. Fortunately the majority were in the Underground Gallery where I had 20 minutes to spare – too short a time really for all his curiosities. Thankfully there was no one about to take a picture of any of my appendages poking through his caravan. All bendy vehicles, gherkins and sausages.
The YSP is on a grand scale and the large open spaces suit a lot of the larger statues. As I intimated there is lots more to discover. Next time I may park at the Weston Entrance and walk around from there. I did think about returning tomorrow but perhaps a change of scenery is needed and I have a couple of other options. Certainly spending the two nights in Wakefield has been a winner although I think I will give the Campanile’s pizza a miss tonight.
***
This a rough map of my anticlockwise ramblings. 5 miles measured but more like 6 or 7 actually walked.
Looking through my photos of all things non-sculptural I have some interesting natural images which I may post as an alternative view.
Continuing my perambulation in the park I wander down towards the lake, the lower one. Here are two large ‘architectural’ installations from Anthony Caro.
Dream City 1996 and Promenade 1996. Sir Anthony Caro.
Promenading in front of the hall.
A strange but captivating ring of twelve animal heads from the Chinese Zodiac. The artist Ai Weiwei, a Chinese dissident, wanted them to be fun “everybody has a Zodiac connection”
Circle of heads. Ai Weiwei 2010.
Looking at my map I see there is a footpath around the upper lake which looks interesting. The two lakes were originally hand dug for Bretton Hall in the C18th and are at the centre of the park, they are connected to the River Deame which flows through the park. In amongst the trees I come across scattered artworks.
123454321 Sol LeWitt 1993. Mathematical progressions present in nature.
Idit Nathan and Helen Stratford’s Further Afield. 2021. are several railway sleepers inviting you to play.
Idee de pietra – Olmo. 2008. Giuseppe Penone. The tree is bronze, the stone real.
No sculpture park is complete without Antony Gormley. One and Other. 2000.
I particularly like this use of the old boat house. JocJonJosch. Eddy.2014. in which the three artists each have an oar, going nowhere.
Flagstone, 2016. Willem Boshoff. Belfast granite polished back to the molten state. The lettering translates – ‘a drop of water hollows a stone, not by force, but by continuously dripping’ Ovid.
At the end pf the lake by the bridge this young man is on his phone. But what is he thinking about? Network 2013. Thomas J Price.
I’ve never been up to the Longside Gallery on this side of the park, and despite it being closed I fancy the walk. A steep field leads me upwards with good views back over the lakes and park. Hereabouts are lots of lovely trees which has given me an idea for a separate post on nature in the park.
There is nobody about as I continue along the ridge to the Round Wood and unexpectedly come across a circular stone wall, it must be one of Andy Goldsworthy’s.
Longside Gallery. Closed.
Outclosure. Andy Goldsworthy. 2007.
Oh, there is somebody up here, a solitary figure sat looking at the view. But as I get closer he becomes much larger. Sean Henry’s Seated Figure. 2016 plays with scale. The last photo in the series fortunately has a passing lady stood next to him for perspective.
As I walk down the hill the boundary wall in the sunken Ha Ha suddenly develops small deep rectangular enclosures, could this be Goldsworthy again? In one a suspended tree has been captured, perhaps there were in the other two but decay may have moved in.
Hanging Trees. 2007. Andy Goldsworthy. (YSP photo)
I can’t get to grips with the last ‘installation’ on the hill. Seventy One Steps. David Nash. 2010. And that’s just what they are, though I didn’t count them. Charred Oak sleepers embedded in coal and slowly merging into the hillside, probably just as he imagined similar to his Barnsley lump of coal on the other side of the park.
At the bottom are the remains of the ornate C17th Lady Eglinton’s well.
The Campanile was cheap and cheerful, and was only 20 minutes away from the Yorkshire Sculpture Park in the grounds of Bretton Hall, outside Wakefield. I was parking there just after they had opened at 10am, hoping to get a full day exploring some parts of the park I had previously missed and there is always something new.
I decided to to walk the park first and go into the galleries later in the day when the weather was deteriorating. My plan didn’t quite work out.
My must see today is Trap of the Truth – over a hundred works from the quirky Austrian Erwin Wurm. I’ve tried to share a video of Wurm talking to Clare Lilley, Director of the park, but technology has defeated me. However if you click on the link below and go well down the page to their 15 minute interview you will be impressed.
What a nice bloke and how innovative. Here are some of his outside sculptures. Make of them what you want, there are a lot of hidden meanings relating to fashion and consumerism.
Leaving Wurm for now I wander off into the park where round every corner one comes across some new curiosity and probably miss just as many, That is why repeated trips here always pays dividends.
Family of Man. Barbara Hepworth. 1970,
Hydra vs Bear. A fantasy, Jordy Kerwick. 2023.
Protomartyr. Elizabeth Frink. 1984. A bonze St. Stephen.
Barnsley Lump. David Nash.1981. A lump of coal slowly disintegrating.
Whilst walking through the wheelchair accessible garden I meet one of the staff, Mick, a retired miner/mental health nurse/ Yorkshireman/grandfather and more. He was passionate about the sculpture park and works a few days a week as a general helper. Time well spent chatting to him.
Mick.
Buddha. Niki de Saint Phalle. 2000. Glistening mosaics.
Octopus. Marialuisa Tadei. 2011. More mosaics.
Sitting. Sophie Rider. 2007. The Mother hare.
Bag of Aspirations. Kalliopi Lemos. 2013. Outside the Camelia House. “human lives are valued less than their possessions”
Usagi Kannon II. Leiko Ikemura. 2013. Fukushima nuclear disaster,
A Needle Woman. Kimsooja. 2014. A needle weaving our lives.
Most obtuse quotation/interpretation so far –
“Overall my work can be summarised as an attempt to translate the longstanding historical and political ambitions of traditional figurative sculpture into a revised sculptural language appropriate to the current cultural situation. The aim of my work is to question certainties and stereotypes, introducing a variety of fact and fiction into sculpture that is descriptive but not representative of the ‘real’ world.” Kenny Hunter. Bonfire 2009.
And the most apt –
“it would be very nice to put sculpture on hillsides or in small valleys, or place them where you think it would be nice for them to be and for everybody to enjoy” Barbara Hepworth.
My passport is stamped and I’m heading over the Pennines into deepest Yorkshire. To be honest I hate the journey on the M62, particularly the ‘safe motorway’ sections. Getting around Manchester I witness some crazy driving, weaving between lanes at high speed and undertaking even using the hard shoulder. And that is after I had delayed my departure to avoid the rush hour. Around Leeds more chaos ensued. I was heading to Wakefield, home of the Hepworth Gallery.
Since 1923 the Municipal Art Gallery in Wakefield has had a high reputation for their collections and support for local artists. But it was time to expand and modernise and in 2011 the new gallery, in Brutalist style. was opened on the banks of The Calder in the city centre. Its aim was to continue to be a leading gallery with contemporary additions and also to house a large permanent collection of Barbara Hepworth’s work, helped by a family donation of her historical output.
Barbara Hepworth was born in Wakefield and went onto become one of our most famous and respected modernistic sculptors. Coincidentally Henry Moore came from nearby Castleford and they were both helped in their early careers by the Wakefield gallery.
I watch the queue of elderly all trying to fathom the complicated instructions of the carpark ticked machine. I am content to sit in the car and enjoy a leisurely flask of coffee after my hectic journey here. Time to slow down before trying my own elderly luck with the machine. The last time I was here was two years ago. A lot of water has flown under the bridge since then, quite literally judging from the volume cascading down the flooded Calder dramatically surrounding the gallery. I’m pleased it is a bright sunny day as much of the light in the galleries comes from the largo windows, and as a bonus they are being cleaned.
I am a little disappointed to see this sign on the entrance…
…needless to say I didn’t.
What’s on? Well apart from all the Barbara Hepworth collection there is a major exhibition of Kim Lim’s work, a collection of new acquisitions, the first solo exhibition of Andrew Cranston, a sound installation by Shenece Oretha and much more. Here is a sample pf the best.
On the stairs to the first floor galleries are four panels relating to the repression of women the world over but particularly in Iran. Women, Life, Freedom. In Sept2022 a young lady in Iran was detained for the incorrect wearing of the Hijab, her death in captivity sparked massed protests in Iran. The posters have been designed by four Iranian women , tellingly living outside their country. A good start to the day, art is never far from politics.
The galleries are in a circular arrangement from your arrival on the first floor. Its up to you which way round to go. Today I chose anti-clockwise, I think I always do.
The first room housed the newly acquired – A Living Collection. varied styles and mediums. The gallery is trying to give a better representation of female artists and those of a diverse ethnic backgrounds. A party of secondary school children up from Chesterfield were busy at work creating their own interpretations. Some were very good. The master in charge was effortlessly sketching his pupils scattered around the rooms. All very jolly and making the gallery come to life. In amongst them were a Hepworth and a Moore to remind one of the true history of the place.
My own favourites were a bright energetic painting by a young Jade Fadojutimi, Ob-Sess-Ion, and a thoughtful print from Jimmy Robert, Frammenti VII, not many Greek Statue subjects were coloured.
Mother and Child. Barbara Hepworth, 1934
The adjoining rooms shows a diverse selection of works from Scotsman Andrew Cranston, What made you stop here? From large scale paintings to small intimate oil and varnish on hardback book covers. The large Echoes, bleach and dye on canvas, had me entranced as did a few of the smaller ones, Granny and the more challenging The Sweet and the Weird, he has a fascination with fish. That is reflected in his larger fish picture which has a humorous tale behind it, which I will leave for you to discover..
This video tells you more about him and is worth watching.
I then suddenly find myself in the Kim Lim’s Space, Rhythm and Light.
Her career is covered from when she arrived in England in 1954. Prints and sculptures from that time until her death in 1997. Innovative from the start she was prepared to experiment with different materials and travelled widely for inspiration. For the last 20 years of her life she carved solely in stone.
Time for a coffee in the excellent restaurant.
A room full of Hepworth, Moore and ethnic statues is given over to Shenece Oretha’s experiments with sound. In her residency here she spent time tapping and touching the different sculptures and recording with high sensitivity microphones. The results are hypnotic and enhance ones experience of the exhibits. I am entranced and try to guess which sound matches which statue. Have a listen.
The next gallery highlights Barbara Hepworths works, many of them prototypes for larger projects. The surealism was added to by the window cleaner.
There is a reconstruction of her studio and more examples of her plaster carving and bronze casting techniques. A room given over to The Art of the Potter highlights ceramics from the Wakefield’s collections over the years.
The last room is given over to all things Yorkshire with more Hepworth and Moore sculptures and including a painting by a Philip Reinagle, 1793, of the old Wakefield Bridge and Chantry Chapel. The chapel was built in the C14th and is one of only four surving in the England.Looking across from the gallery window that bridge, now closed to traffic, is visible with the chapel prominent. Time for a walk out in the sunsgine to take a closer look and bring the picture to life.
Now to head to my cheap hotel, the Campanile on a nearby industrial estate, for a good night’s rest before the YSP tomorrow. I can’t face the M62 twice in one day.
It never used to be so busy at the Cow and Calf Rocks’ carpark A bright Saturday has brought crowds up here above an equally busy Ilkley. We are here to find the last of Simon Armitage and Pipa Hall’s Stanza Stone Poems, Beck, hidden in Backstone Beck where the latter comes down at speed towards the town. I have downloaded some ‘simple’ directions but am afraid I may get distracted by the nearby climbing crags.
Ilkley Quarry, the Cow and Calf and the Rocky Valley were favourite haunts of my early climbing days. There was plenty of traditional excitement to be had on the rounded gritstone. But no let’s find the poetry stone first.
‘Take the path out of the car park’ was an obvious start, we could manage that. The paths are more well used than I remember them, were they even here back then? But there are lots of them going off in all directions. And there are people in all directions too. Some coming up from Ilkley by way of the tarn, most like us wandering from the Cow and Calf and others from over the moor. Dogs, in all shapes and sizes, are everywhere, which gives Zola plenty of canine interactions, Clare is on hand to call her in when things are starting to get out of hand. I am amazed that she can bound off into the distance (Zola, not Clare), in a place she has never set foot in, and keep reappearing at our heels. The bracken is dead which helps us find the narrower paths. All the time we have a panoramic view of Ilkley down below in the Aire valley.
‘Head towards a plantation’ was the next instruction, yes, but which one? A solitary Stanza Poem fingerpost then takes some of the adventure away. The sound of the beck meant we were close. ‘Scramble up alongside the beck’ was our instruction – but steps have been provided recently. ‘Squeeze through between a gorse bush and a boulder’ the guide says. But someone has cut the gorse bush back. Is this all down to the YouTube/Instagram/what three words phenomena creating honey pots in our wild countryside? I’m beginning to feel a little cheated, this was to be the climax of our poetry trail with the most difficult stone to find. Zola obviously finds it for us, but then in the end we have it completely to ourselves.
False trail
Is this what you are looking for?
What a spot, a wild tumbling beck with the brown bracken clinging to the hillside. Water is splashing around the rocks and there in the centre of it all is the Stanza Stone. A proud boulder sitting in the flow as was Pipa Hall when she carved out the letters. We ask ourselves how did they find this elysian place?
A bit of precarious scrambling had us up close to the poem which is slowly taking on the patina of all the other water splashed rocks. What will it be like in another ten, twenty or fifty years? all a very short period of time for the stones up here on the moor. The references to the curlew and the dipper are perfect for the situation. If you have read any of Simon Armitage’s poems you will recognise his acute observation, engagement and ability to weave his words. If you haven’t, a good start would be an anthology of his writings – Paper Aeroplane, 1989 – 2014. The title poem at the very end is one of my favourites, a self-effacing offering worlds apart from Tennyson, Simon is no stuffy Poet Laureate.
Where next? Well I had suggested we explore the wild moor looking for those thousand years old markings in the rocks up here. Cup and ring marks and geometric carvings. I won’t bore you with our subsequent wanderings. Zola probably derived the most benefit from the open moorland obstacle course. Did we find any? I can’t say for certain, lets just leave it there. I don’t know who C Clark and Crackety Jack are.
Our only trophy was stumbling across a ‘poetry seat’ constructed in line with the poems. The sign said Marsden 451/4 miles, where we had started with Snow up in the quarries at Pule Hill in October. We have not walked the whole trail but picked off the stones on the way – Rain, Mist, Dew, Puddle and now Beck. Whichever way you approach it this gives a wonderful feeling for the Pennine scenery, the vagrancies of its weather and the talent and inspiration of the poetry team.
Going with the flow Clare posts a poem into the letter box. I wonder when it will next emerge.
On our way back to the car I indulge in some reminiscing of those carefree climbing days long ago.
There was no congratulatory drink in the nearby Cow and Calf Inn, a quick toilet stop and I was happy to be on my way home before all those high intensity car headlights had chance to confuse me. How the mighty have fallen.
***
There is however a post script. Our journey is not yet done.
The final Stanza? Armitage and Hall spoke about a seventh, hidden Stanza Stone. Although they disputed its size, both agreed it was fairly small and had been placed within either a “wooden casket” or “hollowed-out log”. Armitage added: “We took it to a place above Hebden Bridge, where the Ted Hughes poem ‘Six Young Men’ is set, and placed it under the riverbank there.” Shortly afterwards the valley was flooded, “so we’ve no idea where it is now. It’s either in the Atlantic, or in the North Sea – or lying in someone’s cellar in Todmorden”.
This may take some time to write up, and to read. I completed the short cycle ride on a frosty January, 18th. 2024.
How many times have I cycled down the seafront from Fleetwood to Blackpool? How many times have I later flown past, with the wind behind me, the several pieces of artwork without realising their significance? The answer, my friend, is blowin’ in the wind. Still appropriate to my wanderings and the present troubles of our world.
Grab a coffee, relax, listen and read on.
I aim to put that right today. I have done a little research on the Cleveleys website. Over recent years the sea defence improvements at Rossall and Cleveleys have provided a wonderful promenade, a leisure amenity alongside the coast popular with walkers and cyclists. At the same time funding was secured by Wyre Council through Sea Change, a national fund designed to regenerate the coast through the Arts.
This gave rise to Cleveleys Mythic Coastline art work following the story of The Sea Swallow A children’s fairytale, written by Gareth Thompson and illustrated by Hannah McGee, it blends legends with local features. Each primary school child in Wyre was given a copy of the book in 2011. (I need to find out if any copies are still available, just this minute ordered ordered one from ABE Books.) The book tells of the epic story of land versus sea and uses old fables from this stretch of the Fylde coast with the sea swallows protecting it. A tale of an Ogre stirring up the sea with his giant paddle, threatening the waterfront community, only to be thwarted by the story’s heroine, Mary and her golden shell. Mary is granted the ability to journey to the seabed for an encounter with the sea-ogre, who covets the shell and threatens her village with inundation. I need to read the book to find out the hopefully favourable outcome. The story and pictures from the book have been the basis for the public artwork subsequently installed along the seafront.
***
To set the scene: I unload my bike as usual near the delightful ‘Welcome Home’ statue on the front at Fleetwood and pedal off in the freezing temperatures, my hands rapidly becoming numb. There are patches of ice along the promenade and the beach is frozen solid. The tide is farther out than I’ve seen it before and one can imagine the difficulties of navigating into the mouth of the Wyre and Fleetwood’s docks. Out to sea the Isle of Man ferry is heading to Heysham whilst a couple of freighters are leaving, with the back drop of Barrow, Black Coombe and the snowy Lakeland hills.
Once past the toppling coast watchers and round Rossall Point I’m onto the new tiered promenades of Rossall’s sea defences with concrete walls showing wavy themes in relief.
Along here are three art installations I’ve not bothered to examine before. Each one consisting of three slender arching columns, grass like, decorated with a floral theme. Ragwort, Sea Holly and Sea Spurrey and their animal dependents, Cinnabar Moth, Red Tailed Buff Bee and Common Toad respectively. I can find little information on them but obviously they reflect coastal species. They are sited at access points to the beach for maximum impact, perhaps they are marker posts between here and Cleveleys.
It was along here that Sea Swallows started appearing in the back wall and at the end an impressive larger relief featuring Mary. I now realise there was another Mary ‘panel’ at the start of the wall farther back – it gives me an excuse to have another leisurely explore.
The main installations of the Mythic Coast are from the story book – The Shell, The Ogre, The Ogre’s Paddle and The Sea Swallow; and the nearby Shipwreck Memorial. They have all been put together by artists and designers from Broadbent Studio.
First up was Mary’s Shell, a large piece of spiralling metal in a shell shape on the Cleveleys beach below the café. Looking through it at low tide is the sea, at high tide it becomes completely submerged. The complex Conch shell is made from stainless steel, in Ulverston, with a blast finish and weighs in at 17 ton. Today the tide was out and I could have, should have, gone down the steps to come up close but with bike in tow I was content to view from the promenade.
The Ogre is easily missed alongside the boulder groyne just south of the Shell. It is in fact a boulder carved to represent the crouching giant. He was hand carved from a single fifteen ton block of limestone by the stonemason Adrian Wright and fittingly submerged for a lot of the time. Today I was lucky and he was plain for all to see. Again I should have gone down onto the beach for a closer look, but as I said a good excuse to return.
Can you spot him?
The Ogre’s Paddle is on the higher promenade, unceremoniously in front of the cinemas and gym. The paddle was constructed in purple heart wood, from South America, and carved with decorations and text from the story by the woodcarver John Merrill.
“the Sea Ogre’s paddle drifted up, to lie on the muddy sand like some strange offering”
The Sea Swallow monument is right in the middle of the promenade. A 10m tall sculpture, it’s shape inspired by the feel of a book coming to life and the swallows flying out of it.. The swallows are the town’s protectors, and I now realise are representative of Sea Terns. Just look at that blue sky.
“This feature acts as a visual beacon to draw people from the town centre to the sea front” . The granite was supplied by Hardscape and the aluminium structure fabricated and installed by Chris Brammall Ltd. of Cumbria.
‘For at night they stand together on the sea wall, as if protecting the town with their great white wings.’
Illustrations from the book have been carved and blasted into the granite base of the sculpture. “maybe somewhere along the coast the shell waits for someone to find it again”
You may have noticed everything is curvy (wavy) on Cleveleys promenade, often practically to soften the force of the waves but more of an ongoing architectural statement. I think it works quite well.
The last piece, the Shipwreck Memorial stands proudly on the Cleveleys Promenade. A huge piece of iron, 15mm thick, laser cut with the names of lost vessels. It stands 4.5m tall against the sky, supported by two huge solid pieces of timber. The metalwork is slowly rusting, as would have the sunken ships.
It acts as a memorial to all known ships lost along the Fylde since 1643. It is positioned on the promenade at Cleveleys, adjacent to the site of the most recently lost ship – The Riverdance which ran aground in 2008 and became a tourist attraction as it slowly lost its cargo and was subsequently dismantled. In the same area the wooden ribs of The Abana, sunk in 1894, still show up at low tide. Apparently they can be seen through the disc in the memorial, I should have looked more carefully.
On the wooden supports are a couple of panels listing all the ships with more information about their wrecking. A sobering list, a huge graveyard of over 200, The first listed as Unidentified wrecked near Fleetwood in 1643 having run aground after being set on fire by Loyalists in the Civil War. In more modern times the Trawler industry suffered disproportionately. A full list of wrecks has been transcribed onto a page on the Cleveleys website.
A final installation – Coloured Sea Swallows, cast in resin, was planned to sit along the seawall on Cleveleys promenade. They have been temporarily removed following the unfortunate theft of a number of them, and are awaiting re-siting.
Historical picture.
The Shipwreck Memorial stands on the border between Wyre (Cleveleys) and Blackpool. I’ve gone as far as I want today, time to head back.
But first I stop to watch some activity on the beach. They are building more stone groynes to prevent potentially dangerous deep side channels developing across the beach. Blocks of stone, Granite from Shap and Limestone from Carnforth, have been ‘dumped’ on the beach. Concrete ramps to allow access along the beach have been built and they are now starting to carefully place the boulders at right angles to the prom forming the groynes. Each block weighs between 3 and 8 tons, anything lighter would get washed away in storms.
Needless to say I haven’t seen any Sea Swallows but a cheeky Starling joined me for some lunch.
Thanks for sticking with me. Maybe listen to Bob again.
This is not the day I had intended. The weather, is it really only the English who are obsessed about the weather? has at last changed from that dreadful rain to frost and sun for the next few days. I was ready for it. Spent time yesterday replacing a punctured inner tube with a brand new one. Cycling gear donned this morning – Glasson here I come. Not so fast laddie, the tyre has deflated overnight. I hadn’t the will to start again with the wheel, it is always the awkward back one. The bike is unceremoniously dumped back in to the garage for another time and I head in for an extra coffee.
Surely I can’t waste another day, I have missed too many this holiday season either from the persistent gloom affecting the weather and my mood.
My usual short winter walk from Chipping is on the lanes circling Leagram Hall. I love the approach up the drive with the prominent oaks, alas some have gone missing in the last few years’ storms. The snowdrops will soon be making an appearance in that copse over the wall. This land was once a Royal deer park in Medieval times. Names on the map, Laund Farm, Park Gate and Pale Farm, bear reference to its origins and there is an interpretation board telling me all. The background is Longridge Fell and Pendle. Now sheep are the main source of meat.
The lane is quite slippy in parts where the overnight frost persists, the air temperature is just above zero but as there is no wind feels pleasant enough. More than pleasant really with the sun shining, a perfect Winter’s afternoon for walking. And the good citizens of Chipping are making the most of it – a steady stream of friendly walkers encountered all the way around.
I’m heading towards the hills, Parlick, Fairsnape and Wolf Fell, but then skirt round the base of them before dropping down to the site of Wolfen Mill. This was a water powered mill built in the 16th Century. Historically the mill made spindles and bobbins for the local spinning mills, closing production in the 1920’s. All changed now with luxury holiday accommodation.
I walk down the lane above the tumbling Chipping Brook, which powered Wolfen Mill and several more down its course through the village. Kirk Mill, originally cotton spinning, being the largest My very last picture shows a waterwheel which was restored several years ago at a property in the centre of the village.
I take a signed but rather enclosed footpath on the outskirts of the village which brings me down a lane of houses, Broad Meadow. Friends lived here in the late C20th years, both deceased now, a trip down memory lane. A lot of the old properties from the C17th in Chipping are listed and the quaint streets and pubs are popular with visitors. I’ve written about them many times before. Slowly newer housing is encircling the village but the heart remains the same.
A simple stroll on good surfaces with plenty of interest which I highly recommend to local readers. Ideal for families.
I have enjoyed the year reading all of your adventures. The Lakes, Silverdale, Rivington, Ribble Valley, the Thames Valley, Cheshire, even Manchester, the US of A, Coastal ways, Northumberland. I hold them all dear.
Castles, boutique hotels, camping pods and caravans, village inns, tents in remote places, wild water swimming. You have planned your explorations carefully.
Books to read, towns to visit, art to find, food to relish, music for my ears.
Nature in abundance, history documented, environmental comments and political asides.
I’ve enjoyed them all. Thank you. Sorry mine have been limited in response.
What’s next on the horizon? I look forward to your posts appearing in my inbox. Ignore the endless boring and predictable YouTube contents, the obvious uncomfortable selfies and forgettable Facebook pages. No I rely on your intellectual input to keep me sane, grounded and stimulated. ‘Anonymous’ yet a real group of people sharing their thoughts, interests, desires and images. WordPress or Blogger are your platform. You know who you are. Thank you.
I have been visiting Morecambe on my ‘off road’ cycle rides for some time now, there is a good network of cycle paths in the Lancaster area. And that is where I am, the only choice – clockwise or anticlockwise? A tossed coin determines my day, simple enough. Lethargy sets in from the word go – I’ve not been on my bike since that unfortunate episode back at the end of August. It took two months to get my car repaired. My bike has sat in the garage for three months, I gave the front wheel some more air but think the back is OK. I capitulate early on and walk up the ramp to the canal aqueduct. Even on the flat I am struggling to keep up a decent pace and I am very wary of the narrower sections of the towpath under bridges. The water looks very cold. I realise my back wheel is taking the bumps badly, yes it is underinflated. I press on even though I know I should maybe give it some assistance with the hand pump. I’m too lazy to bother. Anyhow the sun is shining and there are few people about, let’s just get on with it. Where have all the ducks gone? Soon I am on the famous promenade stretching ahead of me for four or five miles. The tide is in and the water lapping up to the sea defences. With the sun shining the cluster of boats, usually seen floundering in the mud, give the impression of a Mediterranean bay.
As I near the Midland I can here a bell chiming, I instantly know where it is coming from – the Time and Tide Bell on the Stone Jetty. One of several around the coast of Britain. I have documented this bell before and photographed it at different states of the tide, but this is the first time I have heard its ghostly sounds. Makes me think of shipwrecks and sea sirens from the deep. I get up close and feel the vibrations, I try a video just for the sound but of course the wind noise always intrudes. That is why on the telly the reporters have those big fuzzy mikes dangled in front of them.
A couple of ladies walk by. “It must be 12 o’clock the bell is chiming” “No I think you will find it keeps on chiming” says the other. I must make the effort one day and dine in the Art Nouveau Rotunda of the Midland. Today I just cycle by and eat a banana on a promenade bench. The sea is perfectly calm.
I’m always a little wary of a short section of the cycle path past the station and down a dingy alley. I have had a near miss assault there in the past by dodgy characters. Today it is blocked by council workers clearing the ditches and they tell me there is no way through. They agree about the potential danger and explain there are no cameras on that section, a situation easily solved with little cash funding. Anyhow I follow their suggested diversion, which with the aid of my phone’s maps, brings me back onto the cycleway past their work and more importantly past the dodgy section. Thanks for that, I will keep using it in future. My progress becomes laboured as I pedal the old railway back into Lancaster, over the rattly Millennium Bridge and on alongside the Lune to Halton.
My arrival at the car park coincides with the Lancaster University’s rowing club’s Christmas festivities. I hope they all survived their river escapades, I am sure health and safety will keep an eye on the students more than in my day.
I should have pumped my tyre up way back when. Stubbornness or laziness? More likely stupidity. I was knackered at the end – I thought the bell was tolling for me.
