Category Archives: Art and architecture.

PILGRIM’S PROGRESS. MILLS, RAILS AND COBBLES.

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Day 4.  Accrington – Haslingden.

I completed this short walk a week or so ago but didn’t get a chance to record it before being carted off to the hospital. I have left it till now to maintain the sequence of my ‘pilgrimage’ to Manchester or even Lichfield.

Leaving Accrington bus station, I end up in the Town Square area: municipal buildings, banks and churches from the Victorian era. Faded grandeur comes to mind.

I search for St James’ Church, founded on this site in 1546. The present building dates back to 1763 and is showing its age, but services are still taking place. Inside are memorials to the Peel family and 11th Battalion East Lancashire Regiment, better known as the Accrington Pals. 

Nearby Cannon Street Baptist Church has been converted into luxury apartments. And looks very smart. The centre of Accrington would be worth further exploration.

I strike out past the Tesco store, past the skate park and pick up a Cycleway 6 sign. Hynburn Greenway.

Hereabouts is the Ashton Frost Cog Wheel from the steam engine of Primrose Mill in nearby Church. The mill was built in 1884 and was capable of driving 400 Lancashire Looms. Demolished in the 80s. Scaitcliffe Mill was built in the 1850s as a cotton mill and later became Platt Brothers manufacturing looms.  All that was left was the canteen, now the offices of Hynburn Borough Council.

Across the way is the building of Globe Mill, a rival works manufacturing machinery for the Lancashire textile industry, 1853 – 1993, at its height employing 6000 people. Now a conference centre.

We are in the centre of Lancashire’s Industrial Revolution here. At one time, wall-to-wall mills and even a coalmine, right under the centre of Accy.

The cycleway goes alongside Platts Lodge between tall red metal columns. I now find these were the supports for a railway bridge. The lodge was built before 1848 when the Lancashire and Yorkshire Railway arrived from Bury, hence the surviving bridge columns over the water. The lodge served several industries in the vicinity but is now a nature reserve, even if it is a little neglected. Mill buildings across the way are a further reminder of the industrial past.

Looking back at town centre flats.

Before leaving the urban environment, another mill site, Victoria Mill, is passed through, the obvious weaving sheds displaying their roof lights.

This is what the whole area looked like on a 1900 map.

National Library of Scotland.

Now, on the Hynburn Greenway, the old rail line stretches slowly up a 1 in 40  incline from Accrington towards Baxenden—a good example of a reclaimed cycle/footpath. One soon forgets the busy town.

Down to the right is the Priestly Clough; the woodland here is ancient, from at least AD1600. At Shoe Mill Bridge, there used to be a five-arched bridge carrying the railway over the stream and a very tall mill chimney.

At Baxenden, the railway walk runs out, and a diversion through more old cotton mills, now used as a scrap yard, takes one across the road almost next to the famous Holland’s Pies factory.

Now, high on Back Lane, I have better views of the open countryside and distant moors. Was this the original byway before the Turnpike Road and industries arrived in the valley bottom? A stone trough gives some antiquity. There is Holland’s Pies in the valley.

 As I drop into Rising Bridge, there are terraced houses heading steeply down to the main road where there had been cotton mills. Note the cobbled streets; to be accurate, these are ‘setts’. Rectangular and often made from hard-wearing granite. Cobbles were rounded and taken from rivers.

Up a side street, I find a bench for lunch before going under the A56. A nearby carved wooden ‘Once upon a time’  chair is dedicated to a baby’s death.

Sometimes, it’s the smallest stories that are most beautiful, the smallest footprints that make the biggest impact and the tiniest of hearts that create an eternity of love.

Now, back on a small lane. The traffic on that roundabout looks horrendous; this is when you are glad to be on foot.

I fall into step with a local walker; he is interested in my route. If I had known, he said, I could have used a slightly higher route, which would have taken me past The Halo Panopticon statue.

The road climbs steadily out of Rising Bridge with isolated rows of cottages at its side. When looking at the old maps, you realise there had once been collieries and mills all around, which explains their existence. Some may have been handloomers. Everything is on a slant along here. The road is named The King’s Highway on those maps.

Stone setts are just below the surface.

I come across The Griffin Inn, the headquarters for Rossendale Brewery; I can’t go past without sampling their pale ale, appropriately named Halo. That’s Haslingden Moor across the way.

A distinctive feature on the hillside as one drives down the A56 past Haslingden is the squat church of St. James. This is to be my final destination for today. Little ginnels lead me into the churchyard. The church is closed.  Not a place to be on a misty night, the abandoned gravestones and memorials give it a ghostly atmosphere.


Here is an extract from the church’s history:-

Our building is, reputedly, the highest church above sea level in the country. The first recorded mention of Haslingden Church was in 1284 when it was one of the seven chapels in the Parish of Whalley….in 1296, the Tithes value of the Glebe was six pounds per year, and in 1535, the value of the living was put down in the King’s Book as seventeen pounds, eight shillings and threepence.

Between 1550 and 1574, the church was rebuilt in the perpendicular or Tudor style.

Disaster struck after a long period of burying within the church, so the building became unstable and eventually fell.   The church remained a ruin until the middle of 1773 when money was collected and rebuilding began. During the reconstruction, marriages, baptisms, and burials were solemnised in the old tower, which remained standing.

The third church on the site was completed in 1780 at a cost of one thousand, four hundred and fifty pounds and in 1827, the Tudor tower was demolished, costing seven pounds, and the present one erected at a cost of nine hundred pounds and the gallery was added in 1878.

The present bells were cast in 1830, and the clock was purchased through a public subscription in 1831.

The oldest gravestone is dated 1629. They give a fascinating history; life was perilous back then.

A sombre end to the day.

Haslingden in the late 1800’s – look at all those mills.

I catch a bus back to Accrington and look forward to my next section, which strikes out across the open moors away from the industrial past.

***

PILGRIM’S PROGRESS. WHALLEY TO ACCRINGTON.

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Day 3.  Mainly Hynburn.

I managed to obtain a copy of ‘The Pilgrims’ Way from Whalley to Lichfield’ from the Holcombe Moor Heritage Group. (hmhg_chair@btinternet.com)  So, it goes further than Manchester, my original destination. That should give me plenty of walking opportunities this year. The booklet gives detailed directions for the stretch to Manchester, which I am walking at present, and then just outlines suggestions for an onward journey to Lichfield. Plenty of scope for researching and planning.

But first, let’s get to Manchester.

*

” I don’t have time for the church; I’ll start there next time” That was the last entry in my pilgrimage route as I reached Whalley and visited the Abbey. And I have little time to spare today as I am late setting off on this next section. I have relied on some previous photos to illustrate the church’s exterior and interior.

The Church of St Mary and All Saints is an active parish church in the Diocese of Blackburn. A church probably existed on the site in Anglo-Saxon times, and the current building dates from the 13th century.

C15 Whalley Abbey choir stalls.
Misericords.
C17th Church Wardens pew.
C16th St. Anton’s Cage.

C15th Perpendicular East window with C19th glass.

 

The south door, with C11th Norman Pillars, incorporated.

There are three well-preserved C10th to C11th Anglo-Saxon crosses in the churchyard, which must have had some significance to the travelling monks.

*

The day had started badly; I arose unrested after an interrupted night. I was in two minds about whether to set off, what with my left hand pretty useless and my dreary state. I eventually decided to give it a go. Last week’s walks with friends had bolstered my confidence. I thank them all.

I go for the 9.58 bus, only to find it has left at 9.48, the correct time. Back home, I procrastinate, but with the day and my mood brightening, I eventually decide on the 10.48 to Whalley.

Whalley and its Nab.

 

That viaduct.

Whalley Nab has to be climbed. I follow the ancient Monks’ trod, which JD and I had descended a few weeks ago on our Hynburn Clog walk. It is much harder in this direction. I usually walk with a pair of poles, but for now, I can only grasp one, so that will have to do. It helps steady me, but I miss the rhythm of two. I want to report on cobbles worn smooth by packhorses over the centuries, but the way is still covered in autumn leaves.

At the top, I pass the cluster of properties, all now very desirable, but how did they fair in that mini winter we endured last month?

I realise I don’t think I have ever been to the true summit of Whalley Nab. Is it on private property?

Onwards on familiar paths, over one ancient broken clapper bridge and the next restored with concrete slabs.

The terrain is undulating! I flirt with the River Calder.

All beautiful green countryside. Unusually for walking in this area, Pendle Hill is not so prominent; it is a hazy Great Hameldon, up above Accrington, I am focused on.

I vaguely remember coming through that scout camp, but  I do not know when or why. Now, I am in new fields skirting Squires Farm and suddenly into the park on the edge of Great Hardwood.

There is a well-positioned War Memorial in the park. I can’t count the number of names lost in WW1.

On a more personal note.

St Bartholomew’s Church has a funeral in progress, so I don’t intrude. The tower of the present building probably dates from the 15th century. Most of the rest of the church is from the 16th century.  In 1880, the Lancaster architects Paley and Austin renovated the church with more additions.

Typical Lancashire terraced houses line the route into town. One terrace has been taken over by a care home association.

What can I say about Great Harwood?  Years ago, I used to know a lady who lived here, and it seemed a pleasant working-class town. Now, there doesn’t seem to be a shop of any value if you don’t need your nails painted, hair cut, or your vapes replenished. There is not a cafe or convenience store in sight. Maybe I am on the wrong street. Perhaps I am being harsh; if you live there, sorry and tell me otherwise. 

The first line of John Bunyon’s ‘The Pilgrims Progress’  – As I walked through the wilderness of this world,

I leave as I entered. I do love terraced housing.

Past the cemetery, there is a rural stretch of walking on an old railway, The Great Harwood Loop. Dr. Beeching was no fan of branch lines by 1963. I found this interesting read on the history of the line and the surrounding industries. http://www.disused-stations.org.uk/features/north_lancs_loop_line/index.shtml

The Leeds-Liverpool canal on a familiar towpath to Rishton.

When we came this way on the Canal Trod in January, the bridge cafe was closed – or was it? Today, I could see from the towpath that there was no sign of life in the cafe at street level above. I am not fussed about going up into Rishton to the friendly cafe we visited last time. I carry on, but once under the bridge, I think that the cafe may be open canalside. I push at an unmarked door and enter a den of iniquity. All heads are turned to the stranger. This is darkest Lancashire. Locals huddled over mugs of tea and scones in front of a roaring wood burner. I just about decipher the owner’s welcome and rather hurriedly order an instant coffee. During the time I spend in this hidden cavern, I glean a fair amount of local gossip from the ladies, possibly some of which would be helpful to the local police.  The blokes are of the silent type. I take a furtive photo.
Soon, after crossing the motorway on the Dunkenhalgh Aqueduct, I am approaching Church, a satellite of Accy. See how I have slipped into the local dialect there.

The origins of the Parish Church of St. James, Church Kirk, can be traced back as far as the seventh century. The tower of the present church is thought to date from the 13th century. The building is a sorry sight, with services long since abandoned and notices proclaiming a conversion to upmarket accommodation—a fate of many churches. I was hoping the churches would be the highlights of my journey, but this is disappointing.

Life around here hasn’t changed much in the last century for some. I see my first lambs of the year, always a joyous occasion…… and then I am immersed in industrial squalor along the canal.

The only glimmer of hope is a solitary fisherman intent on hooking the resident pike.

The last mile into Accrington, again on an old railway line,  was slightly nervy with lots of hooded characters frequenting the area. One prejudges the situation. I arrive into the centre of town without being mugged.

Tescos seems to dominate the scene, built alongside the railway line. 

St. James Church is nearby but my bus is due in a few minutes from the modern bus station for a journey through unknown surroundings to Blackburn. Another modern bus station, right in the centre of town. I have time to delve into the thriving market hall to buy some samosas for supper. The onward journey home is much more rural.

Accrington bus station.

Blackburn bus station.

Blackburn market.

I’m pleased with my eight solo miles, using only my right hand for support. As a walk, it has plenty of variety, and as a pilgrimage, it gives ample opportunity to reflect upon both our Christian and Industrial heritages. Closed shops, crumbling mills and graffiti reflect the issues confronting our modern society.

A LOCAL RAMBLE.

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What a beautiful day again. It was a frosty start but full sun, blue skies and no wind.  Perfect for a walk. Again, I’m in luck. I have a phone call from a friend, C, suggesting coffee and maybe a walk. She knows of my predicament.

My ‘pilgrimage’ to Manchester is on hold; I would probably have been there by now, given the settled weather. But I’m delighted to be able to get out; my left hand is still useless, so I feel safer with the company.

After a coffee and a catchup, we set off on some of the lanes in Thornley.

Ferrari’s Country Inn has been in the same family for years but has recently been sold to Elle R Leisure, which owns other hotels and dining venues in the NW. Originally named Blackmoss House, it was built by the Earl of Derby in 1830 and was previously used as a shooting lodge. It was part of the Derby Estates until the late 1970s when it was taken over by the Ferrari family and transformed into a wedding venue. The new owners will name it Longridge House, which I think is a bit tame and has no real connectivity. Why not Blackmoss House or Hotel?

Today, there is much building activity in progress. It looks like an extension into the garden may be planned—lots of rubble, skips full of redundant goods, and burning mattresses. We poke into the skips and find whole dinner sets of white crockery. What a waste when they could have gone to charity. We speak to the friendly foreman who says we can help ourselves to whatever. (I just had a message from C to say that a carload is already on the way to the charity shops)

We walk on away from the acrid smoke. Across the fields, more massive ‘agricultural’ buildings have appeared. There is speculation about their use; a red glow surrounds them at night! The plot thickens.

Friends live in a cottage on the ridge above; we can see his house from here. I’ll have to ask them for information. I need to visit them sometime, possibly to acquire another couple of kittens. Here is the collection from a week ago.
The fields around Blackmoss are studded with molehills; some look ginormous.

On the road, we cross Gill Bridge over the infant Loud. We discuss the strange watershed hereabouts, which has the Loud flowing eastwards away from the coast to join the Hodder, which loops all the way around Longridge Fell to join the Ribble before reaching the coast. Meanwhile, streams just to the west, Sparling Brook and Westfield Brook, flow directly to the Wyre and out to sea, a much shorter and direct route.

In geological history, the Hodder did not flow eastward around Longridge Fell to join the River Ribble but instead ran westward along the Loud Valley from Doeford Bridge to the Derby Arms north of Longridge, continuing south-westward through Halfpenny Lane on the west side of Longridge to join either Blundell Brook past Broughton church and Woodplumpton to join the River Wyre, or else Savick Brook through Fulwood to join the River Ribble  (Wikishire)

No explanation for this is given. I have read somewhere that glacial deposits blocked the Hodder in a previous ice age, creating the watershed and the present flow of water. The other is that the earth’s crust buckled or tilted to create the division.

Taking to the fields, we head back. Going in the opposite direction to my usual sorties, my navigation is not up to scratch. Along here somewhere, we lose contact with C’s dog, causing some consternation for a while. Of course, she comes bounding back as though nothing had happened. Safely on the lead now through the farm, along Clay Lane and onto the roadside pavement.

Longridge Fell, looming above.

We part company at Mile Lane, which I follow up into the park.

I want to see a new tree planting here. Here is the idea.

Longridge Environment Group

We are delighted to share that Longridge is about to join a small number of pioneering towns and villages across Britain with a micro-wood, or Miyawaki micro forest, at John Smith’s Playing Field. Led by Lancashire County Council’s Treescapes initiative, experts in this approach to ecology, and supported by Longridge Environment Group.

 A miniature woodland, about the size of a tennis court, which is planted with native trees at ultra-high density on a specially prepared plot. To protect the tiny young trees from damage by deer and other browsing animals, the plot is ringfenced by chestnut paling.
Woodland soils have a fundamentally different character from those in grasslands. When trees are planted directly into grassland soils, they often have a higher failure (death) rate than those planted in woodlands. While most survive, they’re vulnerable to disease and drought stress and grow very slowly, as they expend so much energy on simply staying alive and healthy.
In a micro-wood, the trees are planted into a specially prepared plot, where the ground has been modified to create conditions much better suited to young trees. First, the turf is inverted, burying the vigorous grass and competing for nutrients with the trees. Then, the ground is cultivated to loosen the soil. This opens up air pockets, allowing water to percolate through the root zone, trapping warmth and allowing the roots to grow without forcing their way through cold, compacted soil. We then add about ten tonnes of organic matter, usually spent mushroom compost or well-rotted manure, topped off with about the same quantity of bark mulch. As well as fertilising the trees, this provides an instant home to the fungi, microbes and invertebrates that form the rich ecosystem supporting the trees. The mulch will also seal in water, be invaluable in hot, dry spells, and suppress competitive weeds, replicating the effect of leaf litter on a woodland floor.
When we plant the trees, we first dip them in a gloop infused with mycorrhizal fungi, enabling them to tap into soil nutrients more efficiently. The soil now resembles that of a woodland rather than a field. Conventional tree planting is carried out at a much lower density. However, when woodlands form naturally, the trees often grow at very high density. The trees that thrive initially aren’t usually the ones that create the mature woodland canopy. Species such as rowan, birch and hawthorn often grow much more vigorously than oaks in the first few years. These “pioneer” species act as a nurse crop for the trees that will later form the “climax” canopy of the mature woodland. The species mix for Longridge’s microwood includes pioneer and climax species and the small trees and shrubs forming the underwood of trees growing below the canopy.
 We follow the theory of potential natural vegetation, devised by Prof Akira Miyawaki, who advised this woodland creation technique in Japan in the 1970s. In a nutshell, we plant the assemblage of trees in the correct proportions that we think would grow on a site, with a few compromises if natural processes were allowed to take hold. We don’t plant sycamore because it will get there anyway, and we don’t plant ash or elm because of the diseases they’re suffering from.
Once the roots have become acclimatised, the trees will proliferate from late spring. Expect rowan, elder and other pioneer species to get going first. The odd one may put on over 1.5m in the first growing season. Some trees may even produce flowers and fruit in year one. The trees will form a dense thicket within two or three years. This will provide a home to vast numbers of insects and other invertebrates. These animals are the larder newly hatched songbirds, bats, hedgehogs, frogs, toads and newts. In time, a pair or two of breeding songbirds may nest there, and amphibians will find it a safe and sheltered place to hibernate.
 
They haven’t planted any trees yet, but the site looks tidy and prepared with mulch and bark. I’m not sure the fence is high enough to keep out deer. it will be interesting to see how this project develops.
 
My next port of call is JD’s house. Again, more coffee and catchup.
He accompanies me back, taking me through the new housing estate, which is far more extensive than seen from the road. Parts of it are quite attractive, with great views across to the Bowland Hills – for now. There seems to be an adequate number of ‘affordable’ properties, some of them bungalows suitable for the elderly.

We part company at Sainsbury’s, and I return home after a decent and interesting ramble. It’s not been easy taking pictures on my phone one-handed.
 
I dine on soup from the freezer for the third night running. convenient and wholesome.

A PAUSE IN MY PEREGRINATIONS.

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There is a happy ending to this story.

 I’m gazing out at the night sky from my room on the 4th floor of The Royal Preston Hospital.

With all this dry weather, you may expect me to be discussing further progress on my Pilgrim’s Way from Longridge to Manchester. That had been the plan.  I walked a little further at the end of the week, but I didn’t get a chance to write it up.

I awoke the following day to find I couldn’t move my left hand and wrist. Initially, I thought I had just slept badly on it, but after half an hour, I still couldn’t use it. Some anxiety set in that I may be having a stroke. My first inclination was to phone my son to take me to casualty, not an inviting thought. I remembered some recent NHS adverts detailing the first signs of a stroke and the importance of getting to the hospital as soon as possible. So I phoned NHS 111. After a bit of faffing, when the call handler couldn’t find my address, things went smoothly, and she immediately organised an emergency ambulance.

I only had time to grab a few clothes and medications before the sirens announced the ambulance’s arrival. They were brilliant and succinct in their history-taking, examination and assessment. Blood sugars, blood oxygen, ECGs and an intravenous line inserted. I was loaded into the ambulance for a quick blue-light journey. All I could hear was the siren sounding at various bottlenecks whose locations I tried to visualise. 12 minutes door to door.

Straight into the stroke reception unit (there were over 100 waiting next door in casualty) and their friendly nurses, soon seen by a doctor of unknown rank and sent for a brain  CCT scan down the corridor. Then, on the trolley, down a corridor that looked like a war zone, into the lift and up to a space in the ward, all within an hour from my house.

By now, I was attached to a heart monitor and an IV infusion drip. From then on, I lost track of where and when. The ‘stroke’ doctor examined me and looked puzzled. He would get his consultant to see me. Nil by mouth was the sign above my head. I just lay there, not wanting to bother my family unduly.

It seemed ages before the consultant arrived. He thought I probably hadn’t had a stroke, but more likely radial nerve damage to my arm. I would need an MRI scan of my brain and neck in the morning to clarify the situation. He ordered a cake and a glass of water from the ward to prove I could swallow without choking—a practical physician. Down came the drip, and I was moved to a smaller room, now not needing constant observation.

Time goes slowly. They find me some food for supper. Son C only lives half a mile from the hospital and arrives to check on me. And importantly, with a newspaper for my evening’s entertainment. I fumbled with the pages one-handed to get to the crosswords.

The usual frequent blood pressure, pulse, temperature, and blood sugar checks continued through the night—a succession of different nurses, all very professional, tending to me. I was beginning to feel like a fraud for occupying a bed when I was obviously not ill.

Day two dawned as I watched the sun rise over those East Lancashire hills I should have been walking in. What a view it was from up here. Stretching from the Pennines, Winter Hill, over the city’s landmarks: Deepdale Stadium, home of Preston North End FC, the skyscrapers, St. Walberg soaring steeple, Tulketh Mill, to the Fylde coast and Blackpool tower. Even the Welsh Hills could be made out in the background. What a great day to be on top of a fell or in a south-facing hospital ward four floors up. I used my nose to press take on my mobile against the window.

This is how it would have looked 100 years ago.

Speech therapists, physiotherapists and occupational therapists all visited without doing anything. But when was the trip for my MRI scan? I don’t think I saw a doctor. My son M and grandson S made the journey from Manchester, loaded with drinks, snacks, books, and papers, which are much appreciated. Of course, while they were visiting, a porter appeared to take me for my scan at about 4 pm. He insisted I use the wheelchair even though I am perfectly capable of walking. This is my fourth MRI scan in the last 6 months, so I’m becoming an expert. Even so, towards the end of the half-hour session, I developed an irritating tickle in my throat, which I only just managed to control without moving.

When I am wheeled back to my room an hour later, I find M and S tucking into snacks they had bought from the hospital shop. Their choices looked most unhealthy. Considering our nation’s rate of obesity, should a hospital be selling these products, they have banned smoking. Interestingly, my meals during my stay were fine, but again, there was too much emphasis on processed sugary foods.

Day 3 dawned sunny and bright; oh, how I wish I was out walking. But with a bit of luck, I would be discharged. After three days as an inpatient, somebody came to check on my regular medication, which I had smuggled in. Apparently, they should have been under lock and key; anyhow, the locked drawer on my bedside table was broken, so they remained in their plastic bag. 

My room was cleaned, I had a morning coffee, and I was offered towels for a shower. An exciting morning. At least I managed to read one of the books Grandson S brought me.   L’Étranger by Albert Camus. I remember reading it, in the original French version, back in the ’60s at university. I did those sorts of things then. It is easy and classic to read but challenging to understand without a background in existentialism.

Finally, the consultant appeared and confirmed his diagnosis of radial nerve damage. I would need further nerve conduction studies and physiotherapy as an outpatient. But I could be discharged after I was fitted with a wrist splint. Lunch was served. I packed my bags and put son C on red alert for my escape.

Things are not as simple in the NHS as nowadays. The physiotherapist and his student turned up and reassessed my problem. “We will get you a splint as soon as possible.” Would that mean another night in the hospital?  True to his word, he reappeared with the appropriate splints and promised to tell the ward nurse I could be discharged. He came back a little later to ask for a favour. His student had only recently arrived at UCLAN to commence a physiotherapy course and was rather shy at communicating with patients as yet. Would I be happy to talk to her for a while? Of course. So I had a lovely, broad, raging conversation with her for twenty minutes or more. Aged just 18, she had travelled a week ago to England from Dubai to start her vocational training. Her English, and her understanding of its subtleties, was excellent. She has already come up against the Scouse accent and conquered it; wait till she has a Glaswegian patient.  I probably gained as much from the conversation as she did.

It was getting late when the porter came to take me, wheelchair bound to the discharge ward. I’m not allowed to walk. Thankfully, I don’t have to wait for medication; I am free to go.

I told you the story had a happy ending.

I have nothing but praise for the treatment I received from beginning to end. There are niggles that shouldn’t be there, but the staff, many working 12-hour shifts, are holding the NHS together. They deserve our utmost support and whatever pay rise that they come by. Would you work 12 hours for the minimum wage under these stressful conditions?

Now, at home, I’m learning how to pull my trousers up and put on a shirt one-handed. Taking the tops of jars is a challenge. Thank heavens for microwave ovens and air fryers.

I’ll be back on the trail before you know it.

PILGRIM’S PROGRESS. ONWARDS TO WHALLEY.

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Day 2. Ribchester to Whalley.

I have time to look around Ribchester before setting off on my walk this morning. I spoke about its mill heritage last time, and today, I alight from the bus next to Bee Mill and its repurposed sheds.

Before the cotton mills arrived, in common with many areas of East Lancashire,  the village was a centre for handloom weaving. The cottages of Church Street opposite the White Bull are a row of Weavers’ cottages noteworthy for their unusual configuration of windows. Built for the handloom weavers, they have three levels with a single window at the uppermost. Although it is commonly believed that the window in the top level is to illuminate the looms, this may not be the case as the weaving would probably have been carried out in the lowest part of the house because of the size of the loom and the need for damp conditions to keep the cotton flexible.

I pass both the pubs in the centre. I even have time for a quick look at the Roman Baths. It’s time to get moving. I follow the road eastwards out of the village, as taken by the Ribble Way. The pavement is narrow, and the road is busy, which is unpleasant. A true Pilgrim would follow the lane to visit the Norman church at Stydd with its medieval cross base.   https://lancashirepast.com/2014/07/05/the-knights-hospitallers-stydd-church-near-ribchester/

I have been that way many times, and I know the field paths onward to Ribchester Bridge are particularly muddy. This area was flooded two weeks ago, so I continue along the road to the bridge. A recent crash has damaged the parapet, dislodging stones into the Ribble; a crane is being set up to try and recover them. The bridge was built in 1789. 

I chose to walk the minor road to Salesbury Hall and then by the river to Dinkley Bridge. An alternative would be to keep on the north bank, but that path can be quite awkward. The two make a popular circuit from Hurst Green. I march past the grand gates of Lancashire Show Ground…

… and onto Salesbury Hall. A chapel existed on this site from medieval times, and slowly, a hall and estate developed around it. The original Old Hall was pulled down in 1883, and a large mansion was built on its site. Whenever I passed, it always reminded me of a French Chateau.

This hall was recently demolished, and a large modern mansion was built in 2005. Planning permission was also granted to convert the neighbouring farm complex into a rural office park—money talks.

I leave the road to enter Marle Woods. I pull out the trekking poles to negotiate the slippery terrain between tree roots. Here is Sale Wheel, the origin for Salesbury. Today, the Ribble is calm as it pours through the narrow rocky divide and spreads out in the ‘wheel’ before trundling on to Ribchester.

The footpath is slowly eroding away, a combination of footfall and floods.

The walk through the fields alongside the Ribble is a delight. More people are met, many doing the circuit I mentioned. We are all in a good mood with the winter sunshine. The new bridge is shining bright.

I catch a glance of the old Dinckley Hall before climbing up the road away from the river.

Branching off to Aspinalls. I find a seat for a break and a snack. The owners come along. It was their Mother’s seat, but I am welcome to use it. From here, I look across to Whalley Nab, with its pylon. The route goes up there next time.

Fields lead on before a drop to Dinckley Brook and ahead a holiday park. Static caravans are unexpected here in the Ribble Valley.

The path comes out at the Black Bull pub. More importantly, it is next to old St Leonard’s Church. I’ve been here many times; you can get the key to the church from the pub. Today, I look around the outside for evidence that it was built in 1557 using material from the dissolution of Whalley Abbey.

Beyond the church’s graveyard is another burial site – a large field dedicated to the lives lost in the adjacent Brockhall Hospital, a large Mental Institution in the old-fashioned sense. One of the largest mental institutions in Europe, housing 3,500 patients in 42 acres of grounds. A poignant memorial to the mainly unmarked graves of hundreds of residents. A Gerald Hitman bought the Brockholes site after the hospital closed and developed it as a gated housing estate. He and his son are buried there.  For a more detailed reading on the hospital and its cemetery  https://www.calderstones-cemetery.co.uk/brockhall-hospital-cemetery/

I do a little road walking, with Pendle ahead as usual, before fields across to Lower Elker where dogs come rushing at me. Fortunately, the lady farmer calls them off and has a pleasant chat with me about all things sheep.

The best and safest way to cross the busy A59 is by the bridge leading to Billington.

Whalley comes into view with the railway viaduct centrefold.

The public Right of Way towards the viaduct is blocked by a construction site with no explanation. They seem to be building everywhere in Whalley.

I am dwarfed by the railway viaduct – 600 yards long, 70 feet tall, 48 arches and over 6 million bricks, red and blue. There is a metal footbridge over the River Calder alongside the viaduct, Old Sol’s Bridge, originally serving a cotton mill on the south side of the river. It was built in 1993 to replace one built in 1909 and is named after Solomon Longworth, owner of Walmsley Mill, who donated the original bridge. Nearby is Longworth Street, formerly Factory Street,  built for the workers at the mill.

Once across, I head under the viaduct and enter the village through the original C13th gateway to Whalley Abbey.

The gardens are open, so I go through the next, C19th, gateway to look around.

The pay booth is closed, but a sign says to scan the QR code to pay; I cannot do that, so I walk about for free, which is what I expect the other visitors are doing.

The Abbey was a large Cistercian abbey founded in 1296 and dissolved in 1536 when it was largely demolished. Subsequently, a country house was built on the site for the  Assheton family. This, after many modifications over the years remains as a retreat and chapel.

Most of the ruins are just outlines of the previous monastic buildings. Some have fared better than others, and one gets a feel for the scale of the place.

My bus is due in a few minutes, so I don’t have time for the Church, I’ll start there next time.


I certainly picked a good day for this walk, with blue skies throughout and excellent views showing the Ribble Valley at its best.

***

THE START OF ANOTHER PILGRIMAGE?

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Day 1.  Longridge to Ribchester.

A pilgrimage is best started from one’s doorstep.

As you know, I’m not religious, but I enjoy a walk with a purpose. If that purpose links religious or historical sites with a new countryside, I’m ready for the challenge. In the past, I have completed several ‘pilgrimages’. Possibly the most enjoyable was cycling the Camino from Le Puy en Valay in France to Santiago de Compostela in Spain. But I have enjoyed shorter trips in Britain. St. Cuthbert’s Way, St. Hilda’s Way, The Pilgrims Way, Two Saints Way, Lancashire Monastic Way. The list goes on.

I’ve found another one, recreating a route from Whalley Abbey to Manchester Cathedral courtesy of the Greenmount Village Walking Group.  https://www.westpennineway.org/pilgrims-way-2/

But why not walk from home?

There should be a link-up. I am looking for a direct route to Ribchester before another to Whalley to connect with the above-mentioned Pilgrims Way.

There is a break in the weather after all those storms. It’s clear, but winter is still in the air. I leave at lunchtime and am unsure what held me up;  just remembered it was the Big Garden Birdcount. I live just across from the pub. Perhaps a church would have been a better starting point, but there doesn’t seem to be anything of note in Longridge’s selection. *I take a shortcut up one of our stone terraces. There was a farm here before. I usually manage to get lost in the modern housing estate that follows. The climbing for the day is done by the time I reach the old Quarryman’s Inn, which is blue plaqued, but now an infant nursery. Down Tan Yard, through more quarries, houses new and old with views over our reservoirs and on to Lower Lane. Quitisential Longridge. The road is getting more hazardous to cross at the gated entrance to Higher College Farm. Now, a small industrialised site, but with hopes to develop an entire retail park, which is totally out of character for this rural setting. Their plans have been turned down for now. It would help if they would upgrade the stile for a start.

I’m now in open fields overlooking the Ribble Valley. But first, I need to pass through one of those agricultural graveyards where everything has been saved for the day it could be required – i.e. never. Lower College Farm is, thankfully, bypassed. They have some antique farming or milking implement on display. Any guesses as to what it is?

A brief spell on Hothersall Lane. I could have carried onto the bottom and followed the Ribble to Ribchester. But no, I want to try a Bridleway more directly to Ribchester. It is tarmac to Ox Hey and then muddy fields on unmarked paths; my GPX comes in handy on several occasions. The benefit of this higher way was the extensive views over the Ribble Valley, with Pendle Hill always taking the eye with the ever-changing light playing across its flanks. The Ribble winds its way through Ribchester, and from up here, it can be seen snaking into the distance, where the Hodder and the Calder have joined it. As well as Pendle, I can make out the lower hills of Whalley Nab, where this pilgrimage will take me.

I make a beeline to Parsonage Farm, where the land drops away to the Ribble Valley. I’m looking straight down to Ribchester from up here, and the staggered slanting roof lights of Bee Mill stand out.

This reminds me that Ribchester was once a busy mill village. There were two large cotton mills on either side of the road:  Ribblesdale Mill, with 405 looms, now demolished and replaced by a housing estate and the above-mentioned Bee Mill, 320 looms, the remains used by small industrial and retail units. The latter is also known as Bannisters Mill from the family that has owned it for generations.  When I first moved to the area in the early 70s, it was still operative, and we would buy fabrics from their mill shop. Its chimney was demolished in 2003. Here is an aerial photo from 1950, courtesy of Historic England, of Bee Mill in the foreground and Ribblesdale across the road. 

But I’m getting ahead of myself – I haven’t even reached the village.

My path takes me to the site of Bremetennacum, the Roman fort of which much has been written. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bremetennacum Nearby metal detectorists are combing a field, presumably legally? I’m heading to St. Wilfrid’s Church, Grade I listed with abundant historical interest. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/St_Wilfrid%27s_Church,_Ribchester

I go inside for a proper exploration, they have a good printed guide avaiable. There was a church on this site from the C13th, chapels were subsequentally addded and the tower in the C 15th. Unusully ‘dormer windows’ were constructed in the roof to give more light. Victorian restorations took place in 1881.
I find a few curios.

Dormer windows.



C14th font.

Church Wardens’ box pew.

Triple stone sedilia, for seating the clergy during mass.

C13th double bowled Piscina.

Inscribed box pew.

‘Lepers squint’ opening to the outside.


The Dutton Chapel on the north side contains fragments of a wall painting of Saint Christopher from the 14th or 15th century. At one time church walls would be extensively illustrated but most has been lost over the centuries. 

Modern stained glass, Dutton Chapel – can you spot Pendle?      

Fragments of Medieval glass.   

Carved figure on a column to Dutton Chapel. C14th.

 

Victorian glass in the Houghton Chapel.

In a niche inside the church I spottted a Scallop shell, someone else has been on a pilgrimage. The scallop shell was traditionaly associated with Pilgrims, especially en route to Santiago de Compostela. Mine, from 2001, is hanging from my bed.
 
In the churchyard there is a prominent sundial. Its original C14th base was for a cross, crosses were prominent on Pilgrim routes as waymarkers and for prayer. 
The Roman Museum is closed but I wrote about it here – https://bowlandclimber.com/2019/11/28/a-lancashire-monastic-way-6-red-scar-to-ribchester/
 
I wander down to the riverside, a picture of calm, and yet only two weeks ago it rose 10feet or more, flooding the lower part of the village, a frequent occurence. There is evidence of its ferrocity in one of the riverside trees. The fisherman across the way casting his favourite spot.

Today’s Journey really was completed at the Church; I wandered up the narrow lane to catch the bus home.

* After a bit more reading, I find that St. Lawrence’s Church on Chapel Hill in Longridge was built as a chapel of ease for St Wilfrid’s, Ribchester, in the early 16th century, So there is a connection, and perhaps I should have started there rather than at the pub.

***


Continue reading →

DAY TWO OF THE CANAL CLOG.

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After the trek to the restaurant, a good breakfast sets us up for the day. The day is dull compared to yesterday; as you will see, it stayed that way all day. Along with the rush hour traffic, we are soon back at the canal bridge. This area is known as Clayton le Moors, famous for its Harriers athletic club,  JD used to run with them in the past.

Enfield Wharf is where we join the canal. There is an old warehouse by the steps, and what used to be stables are on the other side. Both are listed buildings and reminders of past trade and transport on the canal.

Copyright Mat Fascione.

Things are changing along the canal. A housing estate is being built right up to its bank, and already there has been a breach. To our eyes, they don’t seem to have reinforced the bank before the houses were started. Looks like trouble at t’mill. We use the canal towpath for about three miles; there are no locks on this stretch, but there is plenty of other interest. The M65 motorway runs parallel to us, so there is always some traffic noise. Leaving Clayton, we edge past Huncoat, where coal was mined, and bricks were fired; the canal would have been busy with traffic – as is the motorway now.

One of several swing bridges serving farm tracks. 

And another.

We wonder how the chap we met yesterday is progressing on his trek to Leeds. Our canal stretch is over by bridge 119; we take easily missed steps onto a lane leading to Shuttleworth Hall—another world after the gentle canal towpath.

Shuttleworth Hall is a C17th Grade I listed house. It looks impressive, with the arched gateway leading to the towered doorway,1649 date stone, and all those mullioned windows. It is now a farmhouse, and we go around the back to follow the footpath. Dogs are tied up and barking, straining at the leash. It is worrying that the farmhands go to them and hold them down – “they like to bite.” We make a hasty retreat.

Down a track and then into a reedy field. JD thinks he has found the path.   He hasn’t, and we flounder through the reeds before coming out onto a lane by an old cotton mill. Initially, it was water-powered, but at some stage, a boiler and chimney were built to provide steam power.

Crossing the busy road at Altham Bridge, we join the River Calder on its way from Cliviger through Burnley and onto Whalley before joining the Ribble. What an environmental disaster the next mile is. First, an evil little brook comes through the field from an industrial site. We can smell the hydrogen sulphide from some distance away. And then, the water looks like sulphuric acid bleaching the vegetation before discharging into the Calder. (back home, I may well try and report this pollution incident to the Rivers Authority, something I’ve not done before)

Then, what should be a pleasant walk through the meadows alongside the river was blighted by a continuous line of plastic bottles washed up by the last flood. There were thousands of them. Who’s responsibility is it to clean up this mess? I’m sure the farmer doesn’t have the time or resources to tackle it. Today, it is unsightly and probably of some danger to grazing animals. Still, it brings home to us the amount of plastic going down our rivers into the sea and probably ultimately into our food chain. The loutish public, who randomly dispose of their drink containers, are beyond educating. The only answer is for manufacturers and supermarkets to stop using plastic, but no government has the will to impose this. My hazy photos don’t show the full extent of the plastic.

We are relieved to leave the river and climb up towards Read. The old Blackburn to Padiham Loop Line is no more. But the history of it is fascinating to read giving an added insight into the area’s industrial heritage.    http://www.disused-stations.org.uk/features/north_lancs_loop_line/index.shtml

We enter the village alongside an old mill now repurposed. Two large stone blocks, probably from the mill, will provide a lunch spot while we try to digest the plastic problem.

Rather than follow the busy road, we climb up into the posher part of Read, which eventually takes us through the grounds of Read Hall. I’ve often wondered about the domed stone structure in a field; looking up the listed buildings, it turns out to be a C19th icehouse with a square entrance on its north side, not visible from the lane. Beautiful parkland follows a far cry from the industrial centres only a few miles to the south.

I’m on familiar ground now and make a beeline to the cafe at the Garden Centre alongside The Calder. After a welcome coffee, we meet up with the river over Cock Bridge, thankfully, for a litter-free walk. A final climb up to Whalley Banks, an isolated hamlet of stone houses.

From there, we follow the old packhorse trail heading to Whalley Abbey. And there are those six million Accrington bricks of the famous viaduct.

We have no time to look around the town, as soon we are on a little bus speeding back to Longridge. Without venturing far from home, we have completed an interesting circuit: good exercise and a good stopover, all a little tainted by the plastic pollution we encounter.

Time to have another search on the LDWA site.

***

***

And by popular request, well, Sir Hugh and Eunice, at least – a clog song as suggested by Tony Urwin.

DAY ONE OF THE CANAL CLOG.

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JD’s wife drops us off on a frosty Moor Lane up Whalley Nab above the town. I know this is cheating, but it puts us directly onto on the route, saving 400 feet of climbing. And there is our first waymark: for the record, we are not wearing clogs!

A warm-up stroll along the lane brings us to a farm and a conversation with the lady farmer. She bemoans the recent theft of her quad bike, an essential tool on moorland farms. What she would do to the perpetrators is not printable. We can look back across to Longridge Fell and the Bowland Hills behind, but as usual in these parts, Pendle takes pride of place. All the snow from last week has amazingly disappeared. Once we leave the lane into rough fields, the walking becomes taxing for a mile or so. Waterlogged ground with the odd icy patch, undulating in and out of small valleys, awkward stiles, low blinding sunlight, navigational errors, and some thick gorse bushes to negotiate. I’m not complaining; just look at that blue sky.

When we reach the chain of reservoirs, things improve, and we meet other walkers. Some share our joy of the day, and others unhappy about the pending encroachment of urban areas into the scenery.

More awkward climbing brings us to a minor road on a ridge from which a misty Blackburn is seen down to the west and the distant sprawl of modern industrial sites and towns to the south and east in the M65 corridor. Other recognisable features, Darwen Tower and the Winter Hill mast, seem very distant. There are enough green spaces for our route to follow, and we have good views of the Hambleton Hills. Can you spot the canal?

We joined the Leeds-Liverpool Canal, 60 miles from Liverpool and 67 and a bit miles to Leeds, the longest canal in Britain. Starting in 1770, the canal took 50 years to construct, including the 91 locks. In the C19th, it became the main highway for industrial goods across the Pennines. A seat provided a good lunch spot after five miles of walking.

The towpath allowed much more relaxed strolling as we slowly circumvented Rishton, our first major mill town on the route. There was evidence of abandoned mills alongside the canal. Many have been demolished and replaced by modern housing; others are now used for different purposes.  Out of interest, here is an extract from Grace’s Guide to British Industrial History, listing mills once operating in Rishton. Can you imagine the conditions and pollution? And the noise of all those clogs on the flags in the morning.

  • Rishton Victoria Cotton Mill Co, Ltd., Victoria Mill; 50,000 spindles, 208/50° weft, 168/328 twist; 1,100 looms, shirtings, T cloths, domestics, sheetings and heavy bleaching cloth. Pay day 28th of each month, by remittance. William Wilson, manager; R. H. Place, secretary.

As it once was.

There is a cafe on the bridge, but it is closed, so we explore further along the High Street until Cafe 21 appears. This cosy spot is frequented mainly by locals having all-day breakfasts. Two cups of coffee cost £2.50. which may reflect their quality, but we appreciate the sit-down. Off-road cyclists are having problems with their electric bikes.

Back into the countryside for a while before crossing the M65 on the Dunkenhalgh Aqueduct, built in the 80s.

Rude Health. Copyright.

Once over, we leave the canal for now and take an optional bridleway heading towards Church, a district of Accrington. The church is visible from a distance, above the canal at Bridge 112. This is a ‘changeline’ bridge where the towpath moves to the opposite bank, but the horse’s tow rope stays attached to the barge. My camera has gone to sleep along here, so my photos are taken from the Geograph site, with the original credited. A useful source of information – http://www.geograph.org.uk

Peter McDermott. Copyright.

 

Ian Taylor. Copyright.

I now regret that we didn’t follow the canal loop in full.

A family of gorgeous ginger cats inhabit the canal-side farm.

Just over on the other towpath is the halfway point on the canal with a suitable line, milestone and surround. 63 5/8 miles either way.

Mat Fascione. Copyright.

On a nearby bench, a youth tends his feet. Carrying a fifty-pound rucksack and doing twenty-plus miles each day, camping out each night is taking its toll, but he still hopes to reach Leeds in three days, ready for work on Monday.

We clog on slowly. Emerging onto the busy A678 Burnley Road, we have half a mile to walk before turning into the tree-lined avenue leading to the Mercure Dunkenhalgh Hotel. A C19th Tudor-style house built on the site of a C13th hall. Despite our appearance, we are upgraded to an executive double room unfortunately about half a mile away from reception and bar.

It was a bit of a slog this morning, but the canal towpath gave easy walking. A rest up in our luxurious room, a hot soak in the bath, a couple of pints and a bar snack. Perfect. The resident ghosts didn’t disturb my sleep.

***

HYNBURN CANAL CLOG.

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A search for likely walking routes in my area, Lancashire, on the Long Distance Walkers Association site, LDWA, produces an abundance of trails, long and short. To untangle that spaghetti, one can search for paths of a certain length within one’s area of interest. The forecast is suitable for a couple of days at the end of this week, so let’s see what comes up. A twenty-mile walk in the Hynburn district, that hilly industrial area between Blackburn and Burnley, The Canal Clog, would make a good two-day walk for this time of year. The reference to clogs links back to the area’s industrial heritage, cotton mills and canals. When I first moved to Longridge, another cotton town, way back in the early seventies, there was a clog maker trading there. The walk is apparently waymarked by a pair of clogs.

I download the route’s GPX file onto my phone and have a look at the description on the website, from which I print off the relevant parts.  https://ldwa.org.uk/ldp/downloads/HyndburnClog.pdf

The Canal Clog cuts the Hynburn Clog into a northern half and a southern circuit, which we will look at another time.

Dividing the trail into two roughly equal days with an overnight stop halfway takes some planning. A well-known hotel, The Dunkenhalgh, is just off-route but an ideal halfway point if we can begin at a suitable place. I pinpoint Whalley as the starting spot. Approximately 10 miles each day.

I enlist the help and good company of JD for this walk. He is willing and enthusiastic as always, and his wife is happy for him to be away for a couple of days.

Here is the route untangled.

And this is the Borough of Hynburn.

The hotel is booked, so let’s go.

PROMENADING THE FYLDE.

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No, I’m not on my cycle today. Mike phoned late last night with a promise of good weather and a desire to walk somewhere fresh. So here we are on the promenade between Fleetwood and Cleveleys on a freezing but bright blue sunny morning.

I have covered this interesting stretch more than once, most fully describing the art installations last January on a similar day.  https://bowlandclimber.com/2024/01/23/sea-swallows-and-shipwrecks/

Apart from dog walkers on the beach, it is quiet at Fleetwood. The Lakeland hills across the way are a little hazy, but Knott End and Morecambe power station seem within touching distance, especially with the zoom lens. There are reminders of rough sleeping in the shelters. We follow the fish whilst watching a ferry heading to Heysham with hundreds of wind turbines in the background. The wind farms have proliferated in this stretch of water.

The Coast Guard Lookout station is always worth a photo from both sides. But after that, with chatting, I don’t take many more.

Around the corner, heading south into the low sun, onto the renewed curving coastal defences is delightful promenading. There is barely a breeze, so we are cosy in our fleecy clothes, Mike more so with a heated gilet, one of his family’s Christmas presents.

More and more people are out from Cleveleys. Dogs and children on new bikes are everywhere. I pause to point out to Mike the ‘Shell’ half-submerged, the Ogre hidden in a groyne is completely submerged.

We planned to walk to Cleveleys and catch a bus back to Fleetwood. They say you can’t become lost walking the coast; just keep the water on one side. Somehow, we walk on towards Bispham, the busy main street of Cleveleys hidden from us on the lower prom. It takes some time to realise my mistake, and then we turn around to head north, to miss our bus stop again.. Only when we actually climb over to the road do we see our whereabouts, but luckily, there is a stop opposite the Vue cinema complex. We don’t have long to wait for the number 24 bus, which takes a convoluted route through bungalow suburbia to the ferry at Fleetwood, where the car was parked. The view across to the Lakes was much clearer, but my camera was stashed away by now.

I recommend a walk down the prom from Fleetwood on any decent day. Go as far as you like, and then bus back. Today the weather made our short walk memorable.

Back to earth—flooded roads defeated us on the lanes around Inskip. The NW region has been badly affected this week.

BEACON FELL AGAIN.

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One last walk in 2024.

The mist has abated, but wind and rain threaten the New Year’s celebrations’. On Monday afternoon, there is time for a brisk walk. I choose Beacon Fell once again for quick access and dry tracks. The car parks are packed, and families, friends and dogs throng the paths. Consulting the site map I opt for the Fellside Trail as the longest and possibly the quietest route.

I am playing with the camera my son lent me –  a 20-year-old Fujifilm S3200. I don’t have the instructions, so have had a brief look at the online manual. It’s not ideal conditions today, as you will seeand hear from the video.

I wander through the trees. It is all rather gloomy, with little to attract my attention.
Even at the pond, nothing much is stirring.

I get bored and strike off on a lesser track which at least takes me past a couple of carvings. Then I’m in amongst the crowds with excited children running along the back of the stone snake, all great fun.

It’s time to get home and hide away for a couple of days—here’s to 2025.

A BOWLAND BLAST ON THE BEACON.

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Those strange days before Christmas.

I’ve done my shopping, made the stuffing and wrapped the presents. Time for some fresh air, we are not having a frosty winter, the air is mild but the wind is howling. A short walk would suffice.

One could hardly stand upright next to the trig point on Beacon Fell—a strong, cold wind blasting straight from the northwest. I took a photo of the next rainband coming in off the sea and one of Parlick above the conifers, then retreated to the shelter of the trees. Although I was made aware of the danger of falling trees by the groaning noises coming from them in the gale.

There was a brief break in the winter showers,, but not the wind.  I parked at 2 pm in the Quarry; mine was the only car. Most peopla are crushing the supermarkets.  I know, or think I know, every path on the fell, a country park, but today I halted at the new map board installed just after the pond. Why not follow the red route? The Summit Trail sounds about right. Of course, as the walk progresses, I end up using the Sculpture Trail and then the Fellside Trail and probably others.

My red trail takes me through the trees to the information centre and cafe. I was hoping they would have a bedecked real Christmas tree on display, there are plenty of specimens on the fell, so I could get a seasonal photograph to illustrate this post, mot likely  my last before the big day. No luck.

I poke my nose into the building, a little late for a coffee but I join a family at the window seats to observe the many species using the bird feeders. Good to see youngsters enthusiastic about nature. At one time, this cafe boasted that it was open 364 days a year, but Covid stopped that, and now, if you want a brew or a snack, avoid Mondays or Tuesdays.

I climb up to look at Thomas Dagnall’s Orme View – now, who does that remind me of?

I now find myself on the blue sculpture trail, which I happily follow, rediscovering a series of wooden carvings.

After visiting the summit, I head back on the Fellside Trail – a quick hour’s walk. I was still the only car in the car park before heading home to check the drinks.

LINCOLN CATHEDRAL.

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I don’t know where to start. The whole experience of this Cathedral is mind-blowing.

As you recall, I was here to walk the Spires and Steeples trail from Lincoln to Sleaford. However, one of my objectives was to visit Lincoln Cathedral for the first time. I planned an easy walk to Washingborough from the door of the cathedral. I then caught the bus back to spend time in the Cathedral.

The steep hill up to the Cathedral is steep! But there are many shops to look into while you catch your breath. You pass through a gateway into the cathedral grounds, and there in front of you is the magnificent door with the kings’ freeze of statues above.

I arrived just after the 11 am tour had departed – time for coffee and cake in the modern cafe. By the time I had finished, it was time for the next guided tour. I was glad I signed up for it.

These volunteer guides put a lot of effort into exploring the cathedral. Ours was excellent and blended history and architecture with insight and humour. I was reluctant to take photographs on the tour, but spent time later in various parts of the cathedral.

While up at the cafe, I looked into a room telling of the cathedral’s history. The following pictures are from a slide show.

William the Conqueror had a Cathedral built in the C11th on the site of a Roman fort. In 1124, the timber roofing was destroyed in a fire. It was rebuilt and expanded, but it was mostly destroyed by an earthquake about forty years later, in 1185. Only the lower part of the west end and its two attached towers remain of the pre-earthquake cathedral.

Extensive rebuilding in the early C13th wasn’t successful, and the central tower collapsed in 1237. It was replaced and, by the 1300s, had an additional spire, making the cathedral, at 525ft, possibly the tallest building in the world at that time. This central spire fell during a storm in 1548 and was never replaced.

Enough history, now for some random photographs of the building’s interior and exterior. I didn’t really do it justice; you will have to visit yourself.

Under a trap door Roman fort remains.

Chapter House with flying buttresses.

The Chapter House.
The Chapter House.

Cloisters.

The West Tower entrance.

Rose window.
Rose window.

External Rose Window.

C12th Font.
With a locked lid.

They were setting up the 13m long Black Oak Table made from planks from a 5000-year-old tree preserved in the Fenland peat. It seats 48 people.  https://www.thefenlandblackoakproject.co.uk/

The light was fading as I left – somehow emphasising the grand Gothic scale of this magnificent Cathedral.

I never got around to the Castle or art gallery, Storm Darragh was approaching, and I thought I’d better get home before Northern Rail descended into chaos. I was lucky to snatch four fine days walking in December.

SPIRES AND STEEPLES – FOUR.

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Ruskington to Sleaford. 6 miles.

Follow the Slea.

I have time to look at the church this morning before finishing my last leg of the Spires and Steeples Trail. Once again, I’m blessed with the sun and blue sky. The sun brings to life the warmth of the Lincolnshire limestone from which this church, like all the others, is built. 

The village has a bustling main street with an enclosed stream running down the middle.  Yesterday, I thought the village had a cooking odour, it is not as noticeable today. I read that the largest employer here is Pilgrims Foods who produce Scotch eggs and cocktail sausages.


For a change, here is a church built with bricks – the 1883 Zion Wesleyan Church.

I’m soon out of the houses, crossing the railway and into open fields. Thankfully, these haven’t been ploughed, I hope to avoid yesterday’s mud.

A couple of lanes and I start walking alongside a stream, presumably the one from the village; it’s named The Beck on the map. I’ve always associated the name Beck with more Northern areas, but I suppose the Scandinavians populated here at some stage. This is proper Fenland, which has been drained since the C17th.

On the first road I come to, I meet a cyclist, and we pass the time of day as they say. I find it strange that he is riding an electric, full-suspension mountain bike in such flat terrain; of course, I don’t mention it. There is another large chicken factory on the horizon at Anwick.

Farther down the lane is an ornate stone bridge over the River Slea where The Beck joins it. The Slea runs to join the Witham, which I followed for a short way out of Lincoln; it was made navigable in 1794 up to Sleaford. Locks were built at the various working mills to maintain a sufficient water flow. Of course, the coming of the railway in 1857 reduced its traffic, and it closed in 1881.

There is parking by the bridge for ‘Stepping Out’ walkers. I have noticed their signage in several places this week.  Stepping Out is a 130 miles network of short walks across North Kesteven, 

From the bridge, there is a view of the abandoned St. Mary’s Priory, Haverholme. Established by the Gibertine Order in the C12th and in several hands after the dissolution. The ruins are from an 1830s rebuild.

My route follows the Navigation to Sleaford, so I don’t have to worry about finding my way. It gives pleasant walking passing several abandoned locks. I suspect there will be a band of committed volunteers, like elsewhere, wanting to reopen the canal, an almost impossible task.

I duck under a busy road and then the railway.

The last lock is at Cogglesford Watermill. It is still working and is open to the public for viewing. I quickly look around and chat with one of the volunteers about a similar working mill in Lancashire, the Heron Corn mill near Milnthorpe. It turns out his grandmother comes from there, but he doesn’t know about that mill.

I found this which gives some interesting history about the mill and the Sleaford Navigation.

The last half-mile is designated a nature reserve and gives pleasant walking right into the heart of Sleaford—many restored buildings are linked to the previous Navigation traffic.

My route terminates at the parish church, St Denys. The traffic is a nightmare in the town, and even worse, the market square adjacent to the church is being dug up and relayed.

St Denys is a magnificent church reflecting the past importance and prosperity of Sleaford. I manage to find its entrance behind the construction work, and once inside, all is peace and tranquillity.

The steeple contains the oldest part of the church,1180 and has a very early example of a broach spire. St Denys’ is renowned for its window tracery and its stained glass. The Gothic nave dates from around 1360 with the chancel added about 1430.

The tomb of Sir Edward Carre (died 1618)

As I said, the traffic in the town is horrendous, and I don’t feel the need to explore further. Most shops are decked out for Christmas shopping, and I have no desire to partake. There are restaurants of all nationalities; an authentic-looking Polish one tempts me, but it is closed, as is the museum. I pass the town hall, a strange little shop, the Handley Memorial (local politician and landowner, C18-19th), an art deco cinema and converted warehouses. Maybe I should have spent more time in this historic town. 

The bus back to Metheringham departs from the Rail station.  ***

***

An enjoyable few days. The terrain has been flat and primarily featureless, but the villages and their churches are a delight. The footpaths are well-trodden, primarily by dog walkers taking their daily exercise. Let’s gloss over the mud.

If I had a suggestion, it would, I think, have been better to walk from Sleaford to Lincoln, thus culminating with a final uphill to the incomparable Cathedral. A two-day walk with a stop in Metheringham halfway.

For the record, six spires and eight steeples.

I’ve been so lucky with the weather in this week’s changing forecast. Hopefully, I can reach home tomorrow in the eye of the next named storm, Darragh. We are certainly having a mixed climate so far this winter.

SPIRES AND STEEPLES – THREE.

8 Replies

Metheringham to Ruskington. 8.5 miles.

Rural rambling through Lincolnshire lard.

I had been told about the mud in the fields on this section, but I never imagined it would be so bad, but it is December after a wet autumn. Why should I be surprised? This Lincolnshire mud is the thickest, stickiest, and heaviest I have encountered. I liken it to lard rather than soil. Read on.

It is good to start today’s walk from the pub in Metheringham, The Lincolnshire Poacher, where I’m staying.

I have time to look at the two crosses in the centre of the village. One medieval, C14th, which at one time was in the roadway but has been moved to the pavement to preserve its parts. A postcard from 1909 shows the main part of this old cross with a lamp installed on top.

The remains today.

The newer one on the traffic island has had a chequered history. When the medieval cross was removed in 1911, a new cross was built in the road celebrating the coronation of George V. Unsurprisingly, this was also damaged by an American army lorry in WW2. In 1949, another cross was erected, but its design was never liked, and eventually, in 2011, the unpopular 1940s design was replaced with a facsimile of the 1911 cross; this, too, suffered accidental demolition when hit by a vehicle in December 2020. The cross was repaired, and a new head was fitted to replace the shattered one. I wonder how long this one will survive on this busy junction?

The local fire brigade erected a beacon to celebrate Queen Elizabeth’s platinum Jubilee in 2022.

And in a corner is one of those Lion Headed water hydrants dating from installing a mains supply in the 30s. The neat 1900s Methodist church next to the bus stop is now a private dwelling. Time to get going.

I take a lane to St. Wilfred’s church, another grand Lincolnshire stone building.  The church, which has a fine interior, is, unfortunately, locked at this early hour, 8.30 am. Much of Metheringham’s village was destroyed by fire in 1599, and little more than the Norman tower of St. Wilfred’s church survived.

A couple are feeding the grey squirrels in the graveyard.

My early start is to make the most of the daylight hours. And this morning, the sun is shining bright, although the temperature is only 3 degrees.

Soon, I’m out in the countryside and enjoying the expansive views. It’s all decidedly flat, though. The sun is low in the sky, making it difficult to see to the south, the direction I’m going. Since my recent cataract operations, the world has been much brighter.

The next village, Blankney, after only a mile, is reached across the cricket pitch. It is an attractive stone-built village owned by the Blankney Estate. There has been a village here for over a thousand years. The original C18th hall burnt down in 1945.

St.Oswald’s church is just off the main road, surrounded by green fields. Again, it is constructed of pale Lincolnshire limestone glowing in the low sun. Although it has origins in the C12th it has been rebuilt many times. The door is firmly locked.

The trail wanders through part of the estate; as I said, the hall has gone, but I pass the remains of stables and a massive walled garden. One can only imagine the size of the workforce when in its heyday.

Pleasant field tracks head towards Scopwick where there is a small war graves cemetery. Most of the dead were aircraftmen from the nearby WW11 Digby airfield.

I walk through a small estate of bungalows, wondering if they are a community project, perhaps with an overseeing warden. I think when the time comes, I could live somewhere like this, keeping most of my independence. Ever hopeful of living to 90.

An enclosed path, on one side neat little cottages and on the other the Church of the Holy Cross. Again an ancient church with Georgian and Victorian alterations. This one is open, so I get to look around. 

 I have time to explore Scopwick, built around a green with a little limestone stream. Could be in the Cotswolds.

Soon, I get my first experience of that glutinous mud in large fields ploughed only recently. Not many have been this way, not the usual dog-walking terrain. The ground is soft and saturated. After a few steps, my boots accumulated a few pounds of mud, and my poles weighed down with clinging dollops of the stuff. It won’t shake off, and with every step I take, it worsens; lifting my legs is an effort, and my pace drops to nothing. The field seems to become larger and larger, with salvation farther away.

At last, dry land appears, and I clean off all the mud with difficulty. I cross a lane and come face to face with locked gates at a sewage farm. Retracing, I spot the little path leading into the woods. Some better fields, i.e. grassy, and I’m into Rowston where the church, St Clements, has an exceptionally slender tower which I could see from those muddy fields.

Over the road is the C14th village cross.

A bit of respite from fields, a quiet road, and I’m into Digby at the Red Lion Inn and the medieval stone buttercross. Nearby is a strange circular village’ lock-up’ which is Grade II listed,

Dedicated to St Thomas the Martyr (Thomas Becket), a church has occupied this site since Saxon times.   Built in the Gothic style, it has a tall crocketed spire.

I go inside and find a lady polishing the pews in advance of Christmas celebrations, quite a task. We chat about the village and my walk. It turns out she knows Longridge as friends she visits live nearby; small world as usual. I end up eating my lunch in the porch, a pleasant interlude. When I come out, the day has changed; gone is the blue sky and sun. A chilly mist has descended, completely changing the landscape.

A stone clapper bridge crosses a stream which is followed out of the village…

… straight into vast ploughed fields stretching forever. 

There is no path, and I try to follow tractor tracks. The mud is deep and clinging as before, and I feel isolated in the mist. Looking back, I can just make out Digby’s church spire. After almost a mile of slow progress, I am relieved to reach a stile into a pasture.

I’m not in the mood for any additional exercise. On the green in Dorrington stands the large ‘Dorrington Demons’ carving.

The legend says – that when it was attempted to build a church on this site, each day’s work was mysteriously undone during the night. This kept happening and one large stone was moved to the church’s present site up the hill from the village. Obviously, demons at work. (I don’t visit it but notice it later when passing on the bus)

The woolly creature watched me out of their paddock straight into another nightmare.


The pictures tell it all. The third and by far the worst ploughed field today, potatoes last year. Completely waterlogged, isolated telegraph poles are the only feature in over half a mile. My feet are sucked inder at every step, and my poles disappear to an alarming depth. My only thought is, don’t fall over; I wonder what I am doing here. Even getting to the stile at the end was a menacing quagmire.

I lick my wounds before daring to show myself in Ruskington. Across the way is All Saints Church. Like all these villages, there has been a church since Saxon times. All Saints was built with a spire, but it collapsed in the C17th. The tower was rebuilt and the stones from the spire used to construct the south porch. There is a gargoyle on the east wall of the porch from that time.  There are interesting stained glass windows. One reflecting the designs of William Morris.

 Another full day, made longer by those three muddy episodes, but very enjoyable nonetheless – at least afterwards in the shower.

SPIRES AND STEEPLES – TWO.

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Washingborough to Metheringham. 10 miles.

Tranquil villages.

I find myself back at the lower part of Washingborough near the Ferry Inn, which relates to an earlier boat crossing of the River Witham before the bridge I used yesterday was built.

From here, it is uphill to the prominent St John the Evangelist Church; I spotted its steeple at the end of yesterday’s stage. It is probably the oldest structure in the village, with the tower’s base dating from Norman times. It was restored in 1860 by Sir George Gilbert Scott, the Victorian Gothic Revival architect (St. Pancras and Albert Memorial, etc.). The warmth of the Lincolnshire limestone strikes me. Unfortunately, I cannot access the interior, which has some fine stained glass, including the ‘Zeppelin’ windows, commemorating 23rd September 1916 when a Zeppelin bombed the village in mistake for Lincoln.  An elderly lady is weeding a grave, the sister of her mother who died of Diphtheria aged five at the beginning of the last century, a sad link with the past.

 

Onwards up the hill, yes, there are hills in Lincolnshire, is a welcome carved wooden seat depicting aspects of the village’s story.

The rough ground behind it is marked on the map as Pits Woods, and as I walk through it, one gets the impression that digging occurred in the past, possibly for iron or silver ore in the limestone.

A section through housing estates is well-signed with the  S&S logo, so I’m soon alongside the railway. A new underpass has been built since my guide was written.

I then follow Branston Beck for a couple of miles. It has recently been cleaned, and hopefully, brown trout and water voles will return. There is plenty of bird life in the reeds.

The beck-side route marches straight to the village of Branston, or rather, the village is marching out into the fields. Some farmer has made a pretty penny here, and they complain about the inheritance tax, payable at 20% when the rest of us pay 40%. There’s a lot to see in Branston. First I arrive at the old sheep wash on the beck with its recent art installations.

There is a lot of artwork on a village trail relating to its history and environment.

I make a detour to view the village waterwheel constructed in 1879 to pump water to the houses of the local gentry before the main’s water arrived in the 1930s. Honestly, there was little to see, the wheel being enclosed and on private land.  The diagram explains it better than I can.

Heading up to the church, I pass a small green with three elaborately carved wooden chairs. Again, this is part of the art trail.

Nearby, a plaque on the house commemorates the Enclosure Act, which had a profound effect on the subsistence farming population. I haven’t even reached the church.

  All Saints Church has a commanding position.  There is Saxon masonry in the tower, the tower’s west door is Norman and the  Perpendicular style spire from the late C15th. Much of the church was “restored” in 1876 by Sir George Gilbert Scott, a name we keep meeting. Today, the church is locked, so I cannot see the C14th Nave or the elaborately carved benches. Note the modern replacement window from 1962 after a fire in the chancel.

Whilst wandering around the churchyard the peace is broken by the sound of jets above. They are gone before I see them but I’m ready the next time around. I can’t believe it, but these are the Red Arrows on an exercise. They keep circling, five in front v-shaped, with one following behind. I even get to see some red vapour trails. How do you capture that with a phone camera?

Meanwhile, time stands still in the mosaic at my feet. 

Time to move on. Once out of the houses, I am into fields of what I think is sugar beet.
 Not too muddy, and soon, I’m onto tracks across the fens. Out of the blue, a cafe appeared. Part of the Hanworth Lesure Complex. It is lunchtime so I call in for a coffee and carrot cake. Perfect.

There are pitches for camping and lakes for fishing.
Across the fields is the small village of Potterhanworth, until recently a centre for sugar beet breeding.

I look in the bus stop, which is bedecked with murals and has a window looking out to the church. 

The Church of St. Andrews has a C14 tower, but the rest is Victorian. The parish council are having a meeting inside, so I move on, I am sure I would have been welcome. Across the road from the church is another impressive building, a huge water tower built in 1903 as part of a water supply system from a borehole in a nearby field. I need to stride out; time is passing.

Nocton, has plenty of interest; these villages have made an effort to highlight their heritage.

‘Dandelion Sundial’ by Cliff Baxendale is surrounded by relief panels depicting various aspects of Nocton’s history.

The present Church of All Saints, designed by, you guessed it, George Gilbert Scott replaced an older one in the grounds of Nocton Hall; both were demolished. A local man tells me the interesting history of the hall and churches. You can find it here.

On the way out of the village, I am surprised by the delightful ‘Cow’ created by Nocton schoolchildren from old scrap farm tools which had been ploughed up in the surrounding fields. Easy going on the bridleway across what were formerly massive potato fields for Smiths Crisps with their own railway. Dunston is a small, sleepy hamlet. St Peter’s church was largely rebuilt in 1874, but its mediaeval tower remains, and there is an Early English south doorway. At least I get to look inside this one, which is good because there is a hagioscope or squint, so the congregation in the north aisle could see the altar. A new one for me.

It’s dusk when I arrive in Metheringham, a long day but full of interest.

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SPIRES AND STEEPLES – ONE.

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Lincoln to Washingborough. 4.5 miles.

Leaving Lincoln.

I emerge from a few hours enthralled in Lincoln Cathedral and start my Spires and Steeples Trail from the grand west door. In some ways, it would have been more of a climax to finish here, but let’s not belittle Sleaford until we arrive there.

I will probably write about the cathedral soon, but where will I start? There is so much history, beauty, and awe.

It’s easier to just set off on the trail. I want to tick off a few miles to make tomorrow more manageable. Out of the cathedral grounds, Lincoln Cathedral lost its spires centuries ago and down that ‘steep hill ‘ everyone talks about. It is steep, and those coming up take frequent stops to look in the tourist shop windows.

At the bottom, I dodge a few streets and pass by my first spire. The stately St. Swithins is now looking uncared for. The original church suffered a bad fire in 1644, the fate of many early wooden churches. It was rebuilt but replaced with this Neo-Gothic building in 1869, designed by James Fowler, a distinguished Victorian church architect. The mathematician George Boole was christened in the earlier church in 1815. More of him later. The congregation still meets in a nearby building whilst the repairs to the church’s roof are being funded.

The River Witham is navigable from Lincoln to The Wash at Boston, made possible by canalisation in the C18th. I cross over and start walking out of the city, passing a lock basin.

Along the banks are the remains of industries past, but it doesn’t take long to reach more rural scenery.

I come across my first S & S waymark, but I may have missed some in the city. 

Looking back, the Cathedral dominates the skyline, as it does from miles around.

The track is popular with cyclists and joggers. A cycleway, The Water Rail, goes as far as Boston on the old railway. I’ve just realised I’m on an old rail track. The railway that finished off most of the river traffic. It took a package boat six hours to get to Boston; the train took one and a quarter hours.

Easy going and I reach the old railway station, cosed 1940, where I cross the ditch into a small park. There are a few animal statues to look out for, and then I’m on the main road through Washingborough, right next to a bus stop with the first steeple for tomorrow visible up the hill.

A good start to the trip, and I finished before it became dark.

As I explained in my introduction  https://bowlandclimber.com/2024/12/06/spires-and-steeples/  I am booked into a pub in Metheringham for a few days and aim to use bus transport to the ends of each stage.

***

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PS. This walk was completed on December 3rd – I’m not crazy enough to be out in Storm Darragh.

SPIRES AND STEEPLES.

8 Replies

A long-distance path of 25 miles in Lincolnshire, the trail begins at Lincoln Cathedral and ends at St Denys Church, Sleaford. In between it visits a number of towns and villages of the region, each with churches that have eye-catching spires or steeples.
Another short Long Distance Way I’ve come up with, maybe I should start calling them Short Distance Ways. I’ve never been to Lincoln, so this is an opportunity to visit and combine with a few days of walking. At one time, more than a few years ago now, I might have attempted this route in a day. But what’s the rush?
Steeple or spire? Are they the same? A steeple is any church tower, whether with a spire or without. A spire, on the other hand, is an ornament to a steeple – defined in the Oxford English Dictionary as ‘A tapering conical or pyramidal structure on the top of a building, typically a church tower.’
Our excellent OS maps help out by their symbols defining the type of church.

Oh, and by the way, the Spires and Steeples Trail is marked on the OS maps as a recreational route.

The tallest of Britain’s steeples, that of Salisbury Cathedral, which I visited in October, rises 404 feet; the spire is 180 feet high. Lincoln’s original spire, timber covered with lead, on its central tower, was even taller; at 524 feet, it was for two centuries the world’s tallest building; alas, it collapsed in 1549 and now, without a spire, is only 272ft high. Here in Preston, we have St. Walburge, at 309ft, the tallest non-cathedral church in the country.

Salisbury Cathedral.

St.Walburge’s Wikipedia.

A steeplechase was originally a cross-country horse race using church towers as landmarks. And, of course, Bolton’s Fred Dibnah was perhaps the most famous steeplejack.

As well as the churches, there is a series of art installations in the villages on the trail, which should add some interest to a flat landscape. The area south of Lincoln seems to be named North Kesteven, a local government district established in 1974.
I’m reckoning on the train to Lincoln, changing at Manchester and Sheffield, then a bus or train to a village named Metheringham. I will be lucky to arrive within five hours.
There is a bus service between most of the villages on the linear trail so I will be able to split the sections to suit my dallying and to fit around the weather. It is dark before 4 pm at this time of year.

In Metheringham I have booked into an inn for five nights, the Lincolnshire Poacher. This is named after The Lincolnshire Poacher, a traditional English folk song associated with the county of Lincolnshire and deals with the joys of poaching. It is considered to be the unofficial county anthem of Lincolnshire. I shall be whistling it on my way.

BUILT IN STONE.

14 Replies

Almost as an aside, I was halfway around my Longridge walk when I started noticing the substantial stone-built houses.

Longridge, apart from its agricultural surroundings, was built on the proceeds of cotton mills and quarries. We have a mix of workers’ stone terraces and grander large houses built by the owners and managers.

I have mentioned the stone quarries before, and perhaps I need to enlarge the topic sometime, as well as the mills and spinning rooms. But today just a few photos of the stone houses.

It’s getting dark and the village is lighting up for Christmas shopping. I lived in one of those stone houses in the ’70s.

THE DEARNE WAY – FOUR.

16 Replies

Broomhill to Mexborough.  The Dearne dawdling to the Don.

A shorter day, or so I thought, and I have time to enjoy a leisurely breakfast. Premier Inns do put on a good spread.

The TPT is busy with cyclists this morning; it is a Saturday. Underpasses have had murals painted on them by local schoolchildren, but unfortunately, the graffiti merchants have spoiled them.

Brisk marching for me on the good surface. I’m walking through an extensive nature reserve, but without binoculars, I don’t see much. A lot of these flooded areas have been caused by mining subsidence. At one point, the exposed surface resembled a slag heap, which it probably was.

As nature intended.

I suppose cycleways are designed for cyclists and a straight, hard surface that goes on and on eventually becomes tedious for walking.

As a distraction, I notice some of the wayside stones have been carved with a ‘nature’ theme, but they are not very obvious.

A flood relief channel and a regulator to restrict the flow were built at Bolton upon Dearne. During the 2007 floods, the washlands filled to capacity but the regulator could not be operated as it had been vandalised!

I was pleased to escape the hard surfaces and walk along the grassy banking of the floodplain after Bolton. Looking at the map now, perhaps I was on the wrong river bank but that is of no consequence. I am making quick time today as there is nothing of great interest to detain me.

The river is indeed dawdling as it approaches the River Don. I want to see the confluence, but thick undergrowth makes it difficult.

The Don is a much larger waterway and navigable from the Humber to Rotheram. Just downstream from where the Dearne joins in is a large lock, and I use its access road to walk into Mexborough.

The Miners Inn, dated 1904, is now a bathroom/kitchen salesroom.

The local motte and bailey is set in a park and fairly obvious even to me.

All looks fairly bleak as I enter the town.

Things improve a little at the centre where there is a market and more shops, but all a bit run down. The loss of mining still affecting Northern towns.

The station is close at hand. The girls are setting off for a night in Sheffield, lashing down the booze on the train. I leave them to it and change for Preston.

It’s been a good trip to Yorkshire. A satisfying route with a logical beginning and end; in between, I think I walked about 36 miles. As I have mentioned, the waymarking is variable, and the downloadable guide, although informative not detailed enough for navigation. The GPX file on my phone saved the day in several places.

I never did see that flash of turquoise. But by popular request, here is a photo of Seth back from his holiday. 

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