Category Archives: Bowland Fells.

WOODLAND GREENERY, GRIZEDALE.

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Why we need trees?

Amble Amid Trees is the next chapter in my 52 Ways to Walk book, and I hope to complete it today. I was inspired by the woodlands in Lancashire’s Grizedale the other day and planned to return as soon as possible to explore them more deeply. No time like the present. This is a broadleaved deciduous woodland, so it will give me a different experience and habitat from my usual haunts: the conifer plantations up on Longridge Fell.

Do we take the trees in the English countryside for granted?  I probably do. I walk amongst them without identifying them and neglect to appreciate their importance in our ever more fragile environment. Only 13% of our land is forest, and only 2,5% is ancient woodland. Over 50% of our woodlands are in decline—the worst in Europe.

The answers to Why We Need Trees, according to  the useful Woodland Trust website, are:

1. Mitigating climate change.                                                                                                                      2. Biodiversity.                                                                                                                                                3. Health and wellbeing.                                                                                                                              4. Food production.                                                                                                                                         5. Urban green spaces.

Enough of the science; let’s go for a walk. Not a marathon, just a stroll or even a dawdle, taking in the atmosphere of the deciduous woodlands.

I choose the wooded area we skirted on our Nicky Nook walk last week, but this time park up on the Oakenclough fell road at Grizedale Bridge, the one that gives motorists great views over the Fylde and Morecambe Bay. On the OS map, a concessionary path leads into Holme Wood and alongside Grizedale Reservoir.

This seems to be a popular circular walk, judging from the cars parked up.  The constructed path leaves the parking and heads for a walled seat and then some sheepfolds, not Goldsworthy’s this time.

An interesting old slotted gate post is incorporated into the walk. Investigating some Alder trees, I see an old ford across the Grizedale Brook. Before the reservoirs were built, there would have been many cart tracks around here. The ford is circled on the 1840s map below. (See another one later in the woods). 

The first trees I come across are Alders, with their roots in damp soil. There are a lot of them on this walk. The Alder has both male catkins and female flowers and cones on the same tree.

Taking my time, I notice so much more than my usual march through the forest.  I didn’t expect to see so many alders; they are everywhere along the stream. In the wood proper, oaks and beech dominate. But because they are crowded together, they grow tall and narrow rather than their usual spreading profiles. The valley sides are densely packed with trees.

Note that the oak leaves have stems, which suggests they are Sessile Oaks; English Oak leaves have no stem. If I had found some acorns, they would have been stemless (sessile). For some reason, I couldn’t see any acorns anywhere low down.

Further on, in more open ground, Silver Birch were more prominent.

I’m becoming preoccupied with identifying the trees rather than just enjoying the ambience of the wood itself. Following a stream gives added interest. There is bird song, but not a lot at this time of day, mid-afternoon. Robins, wrens, nuthatch, blue and long-tailed tits, and a jay. I spot some grey wagtails by the stream. Mostly, though, it’s quiet and peaceful. A few flowers hang on in the undergrowth: Herb Robert and Red Campion. The raspberries are over, but there are plenty of brambles. I tell you what flourishes on the forest floor: ferns.

I was hoping to find fungi under the beech but only spotted a few on dead tree trunks. This Boletus was well past its best.

Old walls still stand from before the reservoir was built; everything is mossy and green among the trees.

This is a fine one marching up the hillside. In parts, the dreaded Rhododendron is taking over, all adding to the greenery but stifling the native trees.

The path through the woods crosses the stream several times here at an old ford. Notice the cobbles, which give it a sense of antiquity before the reservoir came.

There are scattered hollies, rowans, hawthorns, ash, willows and the occasional sycamore where the canopy is thinner. And probably far more I don’t recognise. Eventually I come alongside the reservoir, but it is mainly hidden by the tree growth. Only at its far end, where I find a seat, is there a vista along it, time to sit and stare.

What a beautiful, diverse habitat for my amble amidst trees. I’ve had a good session of forest bathing – stress lowered, and immunity boosted.

I’m soon back on the public footpath under Nicky Nook and come to the end of my woodland greenery. The large beech tree at the gate has been shredding beechnuts for decades; the floor is completely covered.

Field paths take me back to the car park.

Just before I reach the car, I notice this lone marker stone by the track; it leads to that old ford I pictured at the start of the walk. 

A reminder of the traditional agricultural landscape before the reservoirs were built and land was lost. At least here, United Utilities have had the good sense to allow access to these beautiful woods.

I have made a mental note to return here once the autumn colour arrives on the trees.

THE TURBARY ROAD, KINGSDALE.

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Yordas Cave plus a surprise. 

Somewhere I have photos of my children, and later my grandchildren, popping out of a simple cave system on the Turbary Road above Kingsdale. After searching, I can find only one photo of my two sons with friends, taken about 40 years ago. 

Taking my first-edition copy of Wainwright’s Walks in Limestone Country (1970, 18/-) off the shelf to refresh my memory of our explorations. There it is: walk number five, The Turbary Road, Rowten Pot and Yordas Cave.

Time for a revisit.

The  Tow Scar Lane climbs steadily between walls to reach the Turbary Road. This track was thought to have been used to let people legally cut peat on the hills and transport it as fuel. The Enclosure Acts, particularly in the 18th century, divided agricultural land into fields demarcated by hedges or, as here in the Dales, by stone walls. The ‘Green Tracks’  allowed movement through the enclosures. This ‘Green Track’ was tarmacked at one time but has fallen into disuse and become a stony track. 

The morning is ‘fresh’ as we say in these parts. Windy, with the threat of rain, is a more apt description. The hilltops are wreathed in cloud, but there is brightness out to the west. I have a spring in my step, pleased to be out in the limestone country. Up to my right is Tow Scar, a line of broken low cliffs and limestone pavements; there is a trig point up there somewhere, but I’ll give it a miss as I have more interesting objectives. 

A farmer with his crook is out to tend his sheep, the same as for decades past. 

The lane seems popular with dog walkers; I encounter several on my 500ft of ascent. Two catch up to me just as the rain arrives. By the time I have donned waterproofs, I am sodden, which is often the case. I walk on; they are heading down.

Now on the open fellside the way becomes one of those delightful sheep-cropped grassy tracks through the limestone.

Familiar hills surround me: the bulky Gragareth up to my left, Whernside towering above the head of Kingsdale, and, over to the right, the stately Ingleborough. Whernside shows its summit,  but the usually distinctive Ingleborough struggles to throw off its cloudy mantle; it remains moody nearly all day.

On the map, this whole plateau is dotted with shake holes, limestone pavements, caves, and potholes.  A water-worn karst landscape. And they are here to be seen as the Turbary Road weaves along. 

This is the area I referred to in my introduction. I don’t go out of my way to visit each one, but Rowten Pot makes its presence known well in advance by the noise of water gushing down it. I refrain from going as close to the edge as I used to, but I try to get a video of the atmosphere—first, the initial stream drop, and then a few yards away, Rowten Pot itself.

The ground around Jingling Pot is where my family had their adventures, but today I can’t locate the little caves, or rather, I don’t spend enough time searching for them. I regret that now.

The rain has stopped, but the clouds persist overhead; my rain-proofs stay on for the rest of the day. Constantly, the view up to the head of Kingsdale and the slopes of Whernside holds my attention as the light changes. As for Ingleborough, well, it’s there sometimes.

I’m heading towards the location of Yordas Cave, obvious from the copse of trees;  a high stile takes me into the correct field without any need to climb walls. A large limestone block serves as my lunch seat whilst in the sunshine. Life seems good and all the cares of the world drift away.

A mountain biker is struggling up the hill; once he is on the Turbary Road, all will be plain pedalling.

My way is down alongside Yordas Gill, which will drop into the cave system. I divert to look at the waterfalls just above their descent underground, accessible only to well-equipped cavers. 

Yordas Cave was a show cave in the 19th century. I have visited it many times over the years. Today I have forgotten my torch! Being a Sunday a steady procession of people go in with portable, high-power LED lamps that give fantastic light. I inch forward into the main chamber, as far as I can safely go without a torch. I try to take photos when the cave is illuminated. For some reason, I don’t think to use flash; I rarely do.

A bloke from my native Durham is flying a drone from the entrance. We chat about his YouTube site, but I have forgotten the name. It would be good to see the footage.

To make up for my ineptitude, here are a couple of links for Yordas Cave.

https://oldfieldslimestone.blogspot.com/2014/05/yordas-cave-palace-of-norwegian-giant.html

All I have to do now is walk down the quiet road in glacial Kingsdale. It does go on a bit. Of interest, there is the dry riverbed of Kingsdale Beck. A lot goes on underground here. The waters reappear at Keld Head Resurgence, where someone is fishing. It starts raining again.

Dry Kingsdale riverbed.
Keld Head Resurgence.

At the top of the rise, a man is enjoying the view from his car. Of a similar vintage to me, it turns out he was a serious caver in the past. He has a caravan down in Ingleton and has come up here for a break, possibly whilst his wife prepares the evening meal. We natter on about all things: caving, climbing, fluorspar, cataracts, and whisky. A good half hour passes, but I’m in no rush. He even offers me a lift down the road, which of course I decline.

At the junction with Westgate Lane, there is some stone seating and a toposcope, mainly focused on the distant Bowland Fells—a good place to sit and take in our beautiful northern counties. The skies are now clear with good distant views, and even Ingleborough is smiling on us.

The straight lane will take me back to my car. An ugly transmitter is to the left, and an isolated barn by the roadside further down.

Only when I come alongside the barn do I see that it is attached to a sheepfold and has been renovated recently. A little wooden gate allows access, and a sign on the door proclaims it to be Toby’s Fold.

As you know, I am a fan of Andy Goldsworthy’s land art, and I own one of his books written with the Lakeland poet David Craig. It describes a journey down old drove roads from the Lowlands of Scotland through Cumbria to Lancashire and Yorkshire.  He erected and dismantled a sandstone arch at various sites, often sheepfolds, along the route. A crazy project, really,

In Andy’s words,  “I will make an arch in Scotland from Locharbriggs red sandstone. It will be erected in a sheepfold on the Lowther Hills near to where I live, after it will follow a drove route from Scotland through Cumbria and into Lancashire or Yorkshire. This is one group of work within the sheepfolds project which will have its origin outside Cumbria yet still leave its mark there, in common with people,animals and things which have passed through this area over the centuries, leaving evidence of their journey but neither coming or staying there.
The arch will stay overnight at folds along or close by the drove route. it will be erected and photographed at each site before being dismantled and taken to the next. Some of the folds (still identifiable on the maps) no longer exist; others are in need of repair. Several virtually derelict wooden folds will be rebuilt in stone, continuing what I see as a tradition of first drawing a fold with rail, fence, or posts before it is made in stone. The arch will, wherever possible, leave behind it a trail of revived working folds, a trail of goodwill”

So this is where the arch ended up – I never knew. Peering through the window, there it is—the red sandstone arch illuminated by small roof lights.  I always imagined that, after reading the book about the arch’s journey and seeing the photos, the arch was like one of those Looper caterpillars moving from place to place. How wonderful that, unknown to me, it has found a resting place here – but will it loop off in the future on another Goldsworthy adventure?

My car is 10 minutes down the road. It’s been a day of changeable weather, but what a great way to end the day finding the Arch.

*

NICKY NOOK.

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The Nook and Leafy Grizedale.

I hardly dare post about this little hill above Scorton once again; I’ve done so many times before.    But today is another day. JD has roped me in for a walk up a hill; I get to choose the hill. Like my walk down the Fylde Coast the other day, one has to grab the good weather days as Autumn creeps upon us.

Nicky Nook, let’s do it the other way round from what I usually do. Clockwise today, the popular way for Garstangonians.

We walk through the grounds of St. Peter’s; its spire is that one visible from the M6 as you flash by north of Preston. It advertises itself as a pilgrim church, but the door is firmly locked. We leave by the Lynch Gate, passing some enormous tree fungi, Giant or Black Staining Polypore.

Snowhill Lane takes us out of the village and across the noisy motorway heading to Wyresdale Park and lake. Without thinking about navigation, we chat away. The chatting subsides when we start the steep steps off the lane, signed to Nicky Nook. More people are coming down than going up, suggesting we started late, which we did to make the best of the weather. It’s a steady plod, but not as steep as I expected—plenty of chances to stop and admire the ever-expanding views over the Fylde and Morecambe Bay. By now we have left the motorway noise, but you can see it snaking up towards Lancaster University.

The trig point, a modest 215m, has been freshly painted and stands out ahead. We stop and take in the 360-degree panorama; it is clear apart from the far Lakeland Fells, although my photos don’t show up well. Amorphous Bowland Hills crowd the eastern skyline. It’s too windy to linger long. Taking the long route off the fell to the north, we pass one of the Triangulation Pillars used to survey the route of the Thirlmere Aqueduct, which takes water from the Lakes to Manchester. And as we go through the fell gate, a promised bench is found for lunch out of the wind. Serendipity.

Entering  Grizedale Valley is like stepping into an ancient forest. The stately beech trees are laden with nuts, A mast year. The reservoir is full but sadly lacking in birdlife. Soon we are alongside the brook and out into the open—and a last climb up past those photogenic roots and onto the lane. I need to explore these woods further; I notice a path going off into them near the reservoir for next time.

The motorway noise intrudes again as we slip into Scorton. The bowling club is in full swing; I’m always reminded of one of Beryl Cook’s paintings, not the naughty one.

A short but sweet walk in good company.

St. Peter’s starting time.

Giant Polypore.

New Kid on the Block.

Steep steps.  

Grizedale.

Grizedale Reservoir and lots more trees.     

More Beech trees!    

A mast year.  

Creeping roots.  

A SUMMER’S EVE AT CHIPPING.

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The usual Leagram circuit, one I have repeated many times.

When I say usual, I don’t mean ordinary; this is a beautiful little walk in the bosom of the Bowland Fells.

My son, off work for a week, phones after lunch wondering whether I fancy a walk; I don’t need asking twice. I ponder where to go; recently we have been on Longridge Fell, down at Brock Bottoms and up Beacon Fell – the regular ones. Chipping comes to mind and the walk through the Leagram estate.

There is free parking at the village hall.

Chipping is a charming village with venerable stone properties. In the past, it has won ‘village in bloom’ competitions. And today it is certainly in bloom. We walk past the cottages of Club Row and the Cornerstone cafe, closed on Tuesdays.

Two pubs and a church. The post office/shop has the honour of being the longest continuously serving shop in the UK. A local wool merchant opened the first shop here in 1668. Since then, it has been used as an undertaker’s, a butcher’s, and, most recently, a Post Office.

More of the church and the other pub later.

Past the old mill, with the water wheel still just visible. Past the war memorial and onto a quiet lane.

The quiet lane takes us to the Leagram Hall estate, where a public footpath heads into the hills. Stately trees line it, though some have succumbed to recent storms.

Leagram Hall was originally built as the keeper’s lodge for the surrounding medieval deer park, or laund. It has been associated with the Weld family for generations.  https://www.chippinghistory.co.uk/assets/documents/life-at-leagram-hall

It offers a grand view over the ancient deer park, with Longridge Fell and Pendle in the distance.  On past the sheep farm, the lane meanders into the hills with a few properties hidden away. At the base of Saddle Fell, free-range eggs for sale, a road is joined to take us back to Chipping. Out of familiarity and too much chatting, photographing becomes forgotten, except for my header effort.

Down past various old mills and properties on Chipping Brook until the millpond of Kirk Mill is reached, where two lads are trying their hand at fishing, without success. Most of the houses below here were for workers at Kirk Mill and the subsequent Berry chair works. There is ample information about the works online. Their website has fascinating modern history. Watch the Grenada video in the welcome section for some vintage footage.

This property may be remembered as the ‘showroom’ for the chairs and tables.   

Back into the village by the church.

I have things to show my son at the church.

A Saxon font which may have been used as a plague stone.

We take a longer look at the Berry Memorial Window, installed in 1967. It incorporates the tools of chair-making, the two ancient sources of power, water and fire, and naturally biblical symbolic representations. If you look closely, you’ll see the water wheels and cogs, chairs, and church all depicted.

A more sinister history is associated with the churchyard. Under the ancient yew tree is the gravestone of  Lizzie Dean.

Across the way is the Sun Inn and the window where the tragedy took place. A story I’ve told many times.

Lizzie was a scullery maid in the year 1835; by all accounts, a pretty and pleasant young lady, she liked to dress in colourful clothing. That year, the poor girl had the misfortune of meeting a local lad who told her he loved her deeply. He played a cruel trick on her by proposing to her, in the hope that he could have his wicked way with her. After he had carried out his plan, he told poor Lizzie that he no longer wished to marry her. Lizzie’s heart was broken in two. You can imagine the pain she must have felt; to add to her heartache, her ex-lover proposed to her best friend, and she, against Lizzie’s wishes, agreed to marry him.

On the day of the wedding at St Bartholomew’s Church, Lizzie made her way up to the pub attic overlooking the churchyard. She calmly wrote a suicide note and placed a rope around her neck, and died in the Sun Inn’s attic.

In her clenched fist was the suicide note; it read, “I want to be buried at the entrance to the church, so my lover and my best friend will always have to walk past my grave every time they go to church.”

The one thing Lizzie has done is to bring a lot of custom to Chipping; may the poor girl rest in peace!

There is far more of Chipping to explore than I have touched on today; it’s worth a visit. If it were in the Cotswolds, it would be inundated with tourists; let’s celebrate it as a Lancashire secret.

On the drive home, we stopped off at the Derby Arms in Thornley for a bite to eat. This place still feels like a country Inn. 

 

Outside in the beer garden is an old Fergie in good condition but painted yellow.  I wonder how many more summer’s eves like this we will enjoy as Autumn approaches.

*

I CLIMB A HILL.

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“There is only one way to know a hill, and that is to put your feet on it and walk”  A Wainwright.  A Pennine Journey. 1938.

This post should have been about an ascent of Winder in the Howgills. But it isn’t. I’m up on Fairsnape in Bowland. Circumstances change, and I have become more flexible about my daily walking.

Last night I exchanged emails with Sir Hugh.

“Just sat through a two-hour funeral mass. What is that book your book club is reading? I need an antidote”   BC.

“Above and beyond!    Fludd by Hillary Mantel. A bottle of red is recommended,”   Sir Hugh.

“I’ll do both. Book ordered; bottle opened.  Thanks”   BC

 

He had mentioned this book whilst we were out walking the other day. The novel apparently presents an uncompromisingly harsh but humorous view of the Roman Catholic Church,

The funeral was a celebration of a close friend’s joyful life. She was a devout Catholic, so I respect the family’s arrangements. But the service was a mystery to me. Apart from the lovely heartfelt eulogies delivered by the girls, the rest was a dirge delivered by a robotic priest. Being non-religious in the accepted sense, I hereby apologise for my criticism.

The wake, however, was a shared recollection of times past, over fifty years for me. I don’t always remember the names of the friends from those times, but neither do they. Lots of hugs make up for it; we are a close-knit community. A few glasses of wine help.

Which all brings me round to this morning: I took Sir Hugh’s trusted advice and drank that bottle of wine last night and possibly a couple of whiskies to celebrate my friend’s life; these are emotional moments. I don’t feel like driving up to Sedbergh, and it’s raining first thing – well, at 10 am. I fester.

My 52 Ways to Walk suggests  ‘Climb hills’ – that is easy in these parts. But instead of the distant Winder, I substitute Fairsnape, just up the road. I start my climb at 12.30!

A simple circuit of Saddle Fell and Fairsnape, which I have done probably dozens of times and written about infinitum. This six-or seven-mile round used to be my fell run when I needed to get fit for the Alps or wherever. I’ve vague memories of doing it in just over an hour and a half, but I took shortcuts. Today it takes me a leisurely four hours, with all the stops for chats and lunch. I start with that walk up the lane to Saddle End Farm.

The day is fresher than of late, and on the tops a stiff wind is blowing, but perfect for walking and distant vision. It seems to be a popular walk today, with most people going clockwise, whilst I prefer widdershins. Normally I use trekking poles, but until my shoulder is a little stronger, I’m doing without them, so it’s hands-in-pockets strolling. I meet some interesting people coming the other way, which gives me a chance to rest on the endless ascent and look back at the unfolding views: distant Pendle and Longridge Fell across Chipping Vale.

Low down, I take a double look at these two trees I never noticed before. No, it’s not my camera angle; they are growing like that. It gets windy on this ridge. More green metal gates have appeared since I was last this way.

A strange whirring sound seems to be coming from somewhere up ahead; it is only when a group of men come into sight that I realise they are operating a drone. Looking across the bowl below Fairsnape, the bracken is a striking green, at the height of its growth.

Towards the top of Saddle I always pay my respects to the pile of stones that was once a shelter. This was the scene of a tragedy. I mark the approximate spot with a red dot on my map at the end.

On 26th March 1962, three siblings left home, travelled by bus to Chipping, and walked over the fells, possibly to Langden Castle. On their return over Saddle Fell, they were faced with severe winter conditions, which resulted in the two brothers losing their lives due to hypothermia. Their sister Sheila survived to raise the alarm at Saddle End Farm. The brothers probably took shelter in the hut.  There was no Mountain Rescue Team in the area at that time, so it was left to the police and locals to search; British Aircraft Corporation loaned their Whirlwind helicopter to help. Shortly after this tragedy, a South Ribble Rescue team was established, which is now the local Bowland Pennine team.

Once through the highest gate, it is easy walking. It is good to see a youngster out in the hills, and he seemed to be enjoying it.

As always, I deviate to visit the true summit of Fairsnape. 521.9m. Once up here, the views open up northwards and eastwards; until now they have been to the south. The three Yorkshire peaks are in the haze; not sure they will come out on camera. Looking north is wilderness for miles. I find a sheltered spot for lunch. 

The notice board tells of the efforts to ‘re-wet’ the peat, which is now recognised as a vital part of our efforts to combat climate change. The evidence is here: despite weeks of high temperatures and little rain, the bogs are alive and well. –

Lots of water and carbon-retaining Sphagnum Moss.

I stroll over to the well-positioned trig point, 510m, cairn and shelter; gliders drift past. 

The ridge onwards to Parlick is a joy to walk, with views down into Bleasdale and across the Fylde plain.

You can see in this photo of Parlick that I sneak off to the right onto a traversing line, omitting the summit.

Perhaps those new green metal gates are an improvement. I’m soon back down at Fell Foot, near where most people have parked and walked up from.

The lane towards Wolfen Hall may not be legal for its full length, but I do get unobstructed views of Pendle and Longridge Fell.

I am warned of a bull in the fields where I usually traverse, so I am content to walk down Wolfen Hall’s access road; this one is legal. It brings me to the cluster of holiday cottages on the site of the disused Wolfen Mill. The original millpond is incorporated into the grounds.

Back at the car, I buy my fresh farm eggs; Spanish omelette for tea tonight?

So that’s my ’52’ walk for this week sorted, a lot easier than some of the more perverse challenges – and you should see what’s coming up.

It was interesting talking to people visiting this area for the first time and hearing how amazed they were by the scenery.  Mind you, it was almost perfect weather, good old Bowland.

*

 

CALM RESTORED.

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There’s nothing that beats a beautiful garden for restoring one’s equilibrium. Woodlands, lawns, borders, meadows, roses, ponds and more.

Add to that a fantastic view across Chipping Vale of the Bowland Hills and some delicious cake. All in the aid of charity.

My frustrations of earlier melt away.

FRUSTRATIONS.

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I’m up early, for me, and setting off for a short walk up the fell at 8 am. Gotta beat the heat.

I don’t often walk up Spire Hill these days. My  ‘It’s grim up north’  Scots Pine has been cut down. They have tried to improve the fell by drainage, which is the opposite of what we should be doing; we need to restore the carbon-holding mosses up here. Trees have been cut down for no reason on the fell alongside the wall. And worst of all, the area around the trig point is desecrated by some egocentric individual who thinks this is the most iconic and desirable trig point to visit and sign his inane ‘summit book’. Shades of social media influencers – well, we don’t need them in an Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty, AONB.  See later in my frustrated rant**

Whilst up here, I wander into a wooded area owned by United Utilities. I am astonished to find motorcyclists camping in its midst. And even more horrified to see signs of open fires. This is a high-fire-risk area, but obviously, some people don’t care.  I take a picture from a distance and log a grid reference and then pass them by, probably sleeping off last night’s indulgences. I know I am being prejudiced as to their presence. But how did they get in here? There is a small gate for walkers, but the main gates are normally padlocked. I realise on the way out that the padlock has gone, and I suspect forced entry. The notice on the gate gives a phone number to report any problems. I make a note of it as my phone turns off.

Back home a little later and with my phone charged up, I try the local United Utilities number advertised at the gate. No longer usable, is the answer I receive. Looking up United Utilities online, they have a 24hr contact number.  One gets the usual ‘your call is important to us’ message as they try to direct you to an online help zone. I’m having none of that and hold through several different phone options, none of which are relevant to my situation. I haven’t had a leak, a flood. or moved home, nor do I want to pay my bill.

At last, a human, or at least I think he is, answers. Name, address, phone number OK Then he asks me for my email address, and I have to stop him and explain, without all the red tape, that I haven’t phoned about a domestic water issue, but that I am concerned about one of United Utilities’ properties. He doesn’t seem to have a list of properties available. What is the postcode? Is there a house nearby? I actually find the postcode whilst talking to him, but it doesn’t help. I know I’m up against it when I offer him the grid reference. Have I what3words? It is becoming obvious that he is unable to locate the property in his system. Amazingly, he asks me once more, is there a leak or a flood?  I reiterate the possible danger of a forest fire, but he doesn’t seem to have a way of dealing with that. There doesn’t seem to be any person in authority to speak to, so I suggest I might be better off phoning the police – he thinks that is a good idea, and I feel he is glad to get me off the phone.

There were many negatives there, and at the end of the call, United Utilities was unable to satisfactorily address a case of unlawful camping and the potential for a forest fire on their property. I tried my best to explain the problem and the location, but his computer system didn’t have the capacity to process my information. In the past, a handler would have written down all the information on a piece of paper and known who in the operation to speak to.

A call to the police on 101 was more straightforward; I was put through to the appropriate person. She processed my information quickly and identified the problem and its exact location. Somebody would be sent to have a ‘word’ with the campers. I have no idea of the follow-up.

One tries to do one’s best in these situations but become frustrated by the inflexibility of the systems. One hears of the same problems dealing with any of our utilities, banks, medical or other establishments.

As a follow-up, I try to complain to United Utilities. Having had no success on their phone lines, I go straight to their website. This is again a complicated affair, but I persist with the form-filling only to receive a refusal to send at the end of the procedure. A ‘bad gateway’ to blame, I do not know how to fix that problem, so I give up.

One last try: I’ll write an email directly to them, though finding their email address rather than their website is not easy. I doubt they will receive my complaint. I may try phoning them after the weekend when they may be better staffed.

** More frustration with the situation up at Spire Hill, which I visited earlier in the day. Way back, I emailed Bowland AONB, now retitled National Landscapes, and overseen by Natural England, concerning the installation of what I can only call paraphernalia. I will remind you of my photos at the time.

I received no reply from Natural England.

I next contacted the countryside officer at Ribble Valley Council to query whether any planning regulations were being broken. I emailed him photographic evidence, and he promised to look into it. After three weeks, I had heard nothing, so I spoke to him again and was told he had handed the problem to Natural England in Bowland. Nothing has been heard since. These public servants are poor at communicating with their public. Time for another telephone call next week.

To rid myself of the frustrations, this afternoon I’m planning on visiting one of our local gardens open under The National Garden Scheme for charity. Flowers and cake should calm me down.

 

A WHITTLE WANDER. Part one.

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Whittle-le-Woods to Hoghton.

I came across the Whittle Wander on the LDWA  excellent website. I was looking for a short, long-distance way to get me back into the swing of things. It turns out to be a 16-mile circuit from Whittle-le-Woods “that takes in the canal, the river, and the beautiful countryside of the West Pennine Moors, reaching the Darwen Valley”. The author, Trevor Headley, a specialist in this area, has several publications.  I previously walked his East side of the Ribble Valley. which was well thought out and an enjoyable route. I struggled to get Headley’s contact details to order his guide for the Whittle Wander, so I had to be content with an outline map, which I plotted onto my paper maps.  Awkwardly across three 1:25,000 sheets. Incidentally, the route is not waymarked.

Thus armed, I set off on the bus to Preston, then continued on to Whittle-le -Woods. I alight at the church on the main road, and there, right next to the bus stop, is a signed footpath. The map suggests a path going between houses, so I start confidently.

The path has the impression of antiquity, possibly the route to and from the church. I pass the Parish Club. Originally a Methodist Chapel completed in 1840. Then, in 1897, when the current Methodist Chapel was built on the A6, the building became the Parish Club until 1911, when it became ‘Whittle Pictures’ and subsequently a thriving factory. It is now repurposed once again as a community centre.

Across Chorley Old Road, once the coach route to Preston, the path runs through open countryside. Further on, there are notice boards telling of its history and recent attempts to preserve it, an old way between Leyland and Brindle.

At its end, my map appears to show a footpath that runs right before ducking under the motorway. It doesn’t feel right, little used and overgrown. Himalayan Balsam is taking over. There is no obvious turning towards the motorway, and soon I’m heading in the wrong direction. A quick turnaround, still no sign of a motorway underpass. Is my map reading at fault, or is there really no path?

A closer look at the map later shows there was no way.

I head back to the cottages. at Hill Foot Farm…

…and use the road to Whittle Hills, another character house.

Then, according to my map, a farm track to North Bank Farm. Even here, the signing is confusing. I want the higher of the two motorway underpasses, A on the above map, so, ignoring the signs, I brave the farmyard and walk out at last; it seems to have taken an age to reach the other side of the motorway.

Under the motorway.

You may wonder why I have been so fixated on the map features and Rights of Way on this walk. Well, I’m into week 26 of my 52 Ways to Walk, at the longest day, – Walk with a map. I’ve been walking with a map all my life, only recently using phone OS mapping. So today I am relying completely on my paper copy of the 1:25,000 map, my phone consigned to the interior of my rucksack. I think I have an innate sense of direction, so I don’t need my compass to orientate me, it’s safely in the rucksack too, you never know. One has to constantly maintain a greater awareness of one’s surroundings, near and far, to correlate with the paper map, spotting features and signs to fix one’s position at any one time. I was lost earlier because I had misread the map – there was no continuation under the motorway from the first path.

The footpath now goes through fields, thankfully recently mown, and over some hidden stiles to emerge onto a minor road.

 

Right in front is the track heading up the field towards Denham Hall, now all plain sailing and a joy to be out in the countryside.

More fields take me to Walmsley Fold, busy with modern machinery.’ Fold is a common name on the map in these parts, originally an animal enclosure which grew into a farm or small community.

A quiet road reached Top o’th Lane, a row of cottages originally built around 1800 for quarry and handloom workers. The loom room windows in the basements. They have a fine view across to Great Hill and the western Lancashire Pennines. 

 

It’s good to be up high looking out over Preston, the Bowland Hills and Pendle,

But then I find myself in a large field full of frisky cows paying me too much close attention, not so pleasant. I back off carefully until I can escape via a stile into Brindle village.

I wander into St. James’ church. Its tower is from about 1500, the naive C19th, with many changes over the years; Paley was involved, as usual. I am immediately struck by the amount of stained glass. Every wall has large windows. 

On the edge of the village is the Old Smithy and next to it the Parish Pound. I’m sure there is more to explore in the village, but it is time to get going; the day is heating up. Heading towards Hoghton Tower, which can be seen on its hill in the distance. I navigate through fields and country lanes, possibly using my own variation of the Whittle Wander.

I come out onto the main road at Riley Green, next to the Royal Oak. 

I could finish here, but I want to complete the loop around Hoghton Tower and the River Darwen. I have described this in more detail when I last visited here on a similar walk. I’ll make do with a few pictures today.

 

Whilst I am taking the photo of the Giant Hogweed, a Kingfisher flashes by – wow.

And then I’m back at the Royal Oak for a quick half before catching the bus back to Preston.

The Whittle Wander wanders off back to the start via Wheelton and places, but I’m leaving that half for another day, hopefully it will be as interesting as today’s walk. Won’t be just yet, though, as the heatwave settles in.

***

 

 

 

BANK HOLIDAY, BEER AND ICECREAM.

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Beautiful Bowland.

I always stop at the crest of the Roman Road, heading from Cow Ark to the Hodder Valley, for the view of the Bowland Fells, Ingleborough and Pen-Y-Ghent. My photos never seem to portray the scene.

I find the little car park on the edge of Newton-in-Bowland and remember to close my car doors this time. I always enjoy the riverside stretch between Newton and Slaidburn, and today I’m going to incorporate it into a short circular walk. I intend it to be short, as it is the hottest day of the year so far, breaking May records.

Newton is a pleasant hamlet of interesting stone properties, which I explored in 2020. 

I only have a brief wander today as I try to find the start of my footpath out of the northern side of the village. My phone mapping isn’t working, so I’m navigating off the OS paper map. There are no signs, and I seem to be walking up a private drive. I can’t see a way out to the right, but I spot a ladder stile to the left and climb into the field. This is not where I meant to go, but a faint path leads up the hill. Maybe I should have tried harder to find the path I intended.

Anyhow, I am on a public footpath which is rarely used by the look of it. Soon, I’m looking down at the roofs of Newton and across to Easington and Waddington Fells. The faint track continues up the hill,

The fields are full of buttercups, dandelions and daisies.

A farm up ahead is marked on the map as Crawshaw, and in a field adjacent, a basic little campsite. Two couples are sitting out in the sun, enjoying their getaway. This is the back of beyond – an idyllic spot.

Onwards through fields where I come across one of those Peak and Northern signs I so like, I didn’t expect to see one up here.

The next farm is hidden by a substantial shelter belt of trees. This is sheep country. The farmer and his dog are bringing in a ewe and her two lambs. We chat awhile, and he points out where the path goes. He doesn’t see many walkers up here.

Across the way is the bulk of Burn Fell, the site of an aircraft crash in 1945. I last explored up there seven years ago – It feels like yesterday. 

It’s all downhill from here, taking in the spring flora. Strangely, there is very little bird song; this should be lapwing and curlew country. 

I come out onto Woodhouse Lane, which I am familiar with, and stroll down into Slaidburn. The pub and the Youth Hostel have both closed, but the little cafe down by the river is doing a roaring trade. A popular stopping point for bikers and cyclists, and today for picnickers on the green. I can’t resist an ice cream cone.

The River Hodder is followed back to Newton, a track I know well.

The woods at Dunnow are alive with bird song; they look like a fantastic environment.

I try to ignore the pungent smell of wild garlic.

One emerges at the arched bridge over the Hodder.

The Parkers Arms has an open door, so I end up buying a pint of Bowland Bumble Bee, a tasty pale ale, enjoyed in their garden.

A satisfying round of this quiet corner of Bowland. Using the paper map makes you concentrate more on your envronment.

* 

 

 

LOCAL, ONE MORE TIME.

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I’ve contented myself with mainly local walks for the last few months, whilst not allowed to drive post-shoulder operation. Hence, my posts have been more mundane than usual. Another week and I’ll be back driving – for good or bad, the cost of fuel will come as a surprise.

However, today I find myself walking up ‘Mile Lane’ again, my usual three-mile walk to go shopping. I don’t need to walk that far to the shops, but they say exercise is good for you. Besides, I’m testing out this week’s idea from the 52 Ways to Walk book’s entry, Walk Hungry. I’ve already done Walking after Eating, which wasn’t conclusive about whether it aided my digestion or lowered my blood sugar. Not a very scientific approach, I’m afraid.

Finishing this morning’s crossword mid-morning, I still hadn’t dressed or eaten. An opportunity to rouse myself and walk hungry.  So without further hesitation, I’m out walking. Would it help regulate my fat burning and insulin levels, as some of the book’s science suggests? I would have to walk regularly before breakfast to obtain any benefits, which wouldn’t fit my rather ramshackle lifestyle.

Mile Lane again.

But there are benefits, as I enjoy the ever-changing skies, bright blue one minute and threateningly black the next. We are in a spell of changeable weather; rain is forecast by lunchtime, but it appears to blow over without troubling us. Notice in my photo across the meadows towards the village and St Wilfred’s steeple, the cows are lying down – an old folklore of rain to come. (Late afternoon, we experienced a heavy hail storm!) 

Last week I talked of the Hawthorn blossoming in our hedgerows, and was reminded by Shazza of the abundant Cow Parsley. I’m able to redress that today on Mile Lane, which I have said many times is less than half a mile long.  The Cow Parsley is indeed profuse this year.

Also very prominent in the hedgerow is another white flower, Garlic Mustard. Appropriately named ‘Jack In the Hedge’. The leaves do have a faint garlic smell.

Whilst I’m taking time examining the flora, I notice the flower spikes on the Holly. We are more used to its showy red berries in the autumn and winter, but the flowers are quite complex and often go unnoticed.

Another strong, sweet scent comes along as I pass a Mountain Ash in full flower. The Rowan, also once called the “witch wiggin tree,” was planted outside homes in ancient times as a protection against evil and witchcraft. They are common in Lancashire; we had a lot of witches.

With the Bowland Hills in the background, I move on into the park. Diverting to check on the Miyawaki Forest, planted here last year, it’s good to see the native trees have grown significantly this season and are reaching above the paling fence. It will be interesting to see which varieties do best.

The local council is limiting mowing in parts of the park for environmental reasons, resulting in a colourful splash of Buttercups.  In amongst them is a young Oak, one of several planted by our active local Environmental Group. Things are looking up for nature, and hopefully, the younger generation will take heed.

Did you, as a child, hold a buttercup under your pal’s chin to see if they liked butter?  A glow appeared like magic. Of course, we all liked butter because the flower petals are highly reflective to attract insects.

After shopping, I reach home – my poached egg tasted that little bit better this morning. Maybe walking hungry is a good idea. Do you have a favourite walk to the shops?

 

 

A SUNDAY STROLL.

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What’s that noise?

It’s week 20 of my 52 Ways to Walk crusade. 20 weeks of the year gone just like that. I’m still walking locally and plan to revisit some paths I’ve not used of late. At the same time, I will try out Sing as you Stride. My singing is worse than my dancing, which I attempted a couple of weeks ago, so I’m hoping these paths are little used, and that I don’t meet anybody.

The book states, “Singing whilst walking has been used throughout history – by marching soldiers, hiking schoolchildren, dissenting protestors, and weary families.” Singing helps maintain a good tempo and takes your mind off background stress. I recognise some of that.

Thoughts of tunes from my recent musical Virtual Walking post come to mind. The ones with a marching tempo, unsurprisingly, worked best. However, other thoughts bring out different tunes. The sight of rabbits has me dragging from my memory “Run rabbit, Run rabbit, run, run, run. Don’t let the farmer get his gun, gun, gun”

I am lucky to live on the edge of the countryside. This afternoon, the hawthorne’s aroma fills the air, I am one of those who find it pleasant.  An almost hidden stile leads into the fields. Not many people use these field paths, and in their isolation, I see hares and roe deer when I’m not singing. A cuckoo is heard, as is a woodpecker. Swallows are flying around, and a ‘blue’ butterfly flutters, apparently aimlessly, above the long grass. All very satisfying.

I cross and recross Westfield Brook several times as I wander on. The day is made for singing.

I come out onto a lane and almost immediately take a path I’ve not used for years, and I’m pleasantly surprised by all the young trees planted then and how they have grown in that time.

Around the corner, I was hoping for a brew at friends’, but not unexpectedly, they are out enjoying the weather. I vary the route home by cutting through the small industrial estate at Sandbanks and then, reluctant to follow the busy main road, extend my walk across the other side into fields and then through a wood yard where roof trusses are fabricated. There is a way out at the far end if you look carefully.

Little does one know of this manufacturer on the outskirts of town.

Then you are back in the fields, cut ready for silaging, haymaking is a thing of the past. Green lanes bring me back into Longridge, where I successfully navigate one of the extensive new housing estates to home. The singing has ceased by now!

 

DANCING IN THE WILD.

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I can now manage stiles, so my options for walks from home multiply. Let’s visit some of our neighbouring field paths, which I usually have to myself. Given this week’s walking topic, Take a walk dance. Solitude would be an advantage. I’m not the best of dancers.

In March 1599, Will Kemp, a comic actor in Shakespeare’s company. Morris danced from London to Norwich and wrote a book about it called “Nine Daies Wonder”. It took him 23 days. His reasons for this escapade are not clear. The reasons for my walk dance are not entirely clear either. Anabelle Streets, in her book, gives us this.

“Dance has been proven to lift mood, improve balance, and boost aerobic fitness. I like to break up my walks with short bursts of dance and wave my arms in the air”  All very plausible, adding some playfulness to the activity and boosting our dopamine.

I’m ready to go, although I haven’t decided on my dance step yet.

It’s amazing what you can find on YouTube.  I’ve no idea who Su Lee is; she is not the best dancer, but it’s a simple, catchy tune to accompany me as I dance through the fields. Yes, I know I’m far too old for this malarkey.

  When I think back on long road treks, I often skipped a few steps to break the rhythm.
As children walking to and from school, we would devise some playful steps to avoid the cracks along the way. And what about kicking a tennis ball or a stone down the pavement? I still do.
  The fields are the driest I’ve seen them for a long time, there are flowers everywhere, and lots of birdsong – it makes you want to dance. I took a few of the usual photos, but thankfully no selfies, by the time I reached the road home, all dancing had stopped to preserve my dignity. My dancing days are over.

 

Out of the village. 

Down a green lane.  

Open fields and the Longridge.  

Bowland View.  

 

Sheep and lambs are bewildered by my antics.  

Sycamore
Oak.

 

Strange.  

I normally walk past this seat, but today, after all the exertions, I was glad to sit and stare at the views and blue sky. My phone ran out of juice, so you will just have to believe me. I’m pretty much out of juice myself; I realise what the last four months have taken out of my life.

A MEASURE OF CARE.

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I’m back at the Harris in Preston.

  A Measure of Care

“Artists Ruth Levene and Ian Nesbitt took a ledger written in the late 19th century out of The Harris archives and returned it to the place where it was written. The ledger was written by John Weld between 1880 and 1888, a Victorian landowner, antiquarian, naturalist, and amateur painter who lived at Leagram Hall near Chipping. The artists asked local farmers, birders, residents, ornithologists, conservationists, and historians to reflect on what they read, and their stories and observations form a new presentation in partnership with In Certain Places”

On my last visit, I wasn’t able to fully appreciate this audiovisual presentation of Bowland’s environment through modern eyes, reading the original writings of the C19th, John Weld. That time, there were too many people coming and going, and I was the only one sitting down trying to listen.

Today, by virtue of an early arrival in Preston, the room in the Harris is deserted.

I get myself comfortable on the settee and let the sounds of the countryside surround me. Here is a flavour of the presentation; the audio quality is not the best.

It begins by assessing John Weld’s book in relation to current bird species. I don’t know who the reader is.

 

The call of the Curlew is in the air.

And then two local ladies talk of the Curlew’s Bowland habitat.

 

We are given an explanation as to how modern farming methods have impacted the Curlew.

Even back in the late C19th, birds were under threat from shooting and agricultural practices.

Here is a mention of the Nightjar, a bird I’ve never seen or heard.

And of the corncrake, peewit. yellow hammer in separate videos.

Throughout the presentation, images of an imaginary future showing extinct birds being archived.  Probably unnecessary, but making a point.

The plight of the Hen Harrier is diplomatically dealt with.

I used to regularly see Hen Harriers in parts of Bowland, but they are much rarer now. A visit today from AB et famille brought back those halcyon days bouldering in Croasedale, 20 years ago, when we would nearly always see Hen Harriers along with Peregrines, Merlins, Stonechats, and Kestrels. I last climbed with AB at King’s Meaburn; he has moved to pastures new in the south of France.

There are touching comments from a local, which is a good place to finish. “I stopped shooting”

An enjoyable way to spend some time in the Harris whilst it is still being shown. I often wonder what happens to video presentations once their run is over.

And if you are interested in Hen Harriers and all things environmental, link into…                        https://www.henharrierday.uk/get-involved/skydancer-day/?utm_source=brevo&utm_campaign=Hen%20Harrier%20Action%20Late%20April%202026%20Newsletter&utm_medium=email

VISTA VISION.

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Two birds with one stone – not literally.

The first figurative bird is to climb up Longridge Fell, which, for various reasons, I’ve not achieved this year; Sir Hugh’s transport comes to my rescue on this account.

The second figurative bird is to Walk with Vista Vision, yes, this week’s walk of the 52. I’m not sure whether to involve Sir Hugh in this process.

So yes, I’m hoping to kill two birds with one stone.

The morning starts with strong coffee after my sleepless night, and as it turns out, a similar but strange disruptive occurrence for Sir Hugh. (If he posts about it, I will give a link at the end) He has kindly come down to Longridge to ferry me to pastures new. I promise to then take him up high with minimal effort. The day bodes well for a fell walk—clear blue skies but with a chilly east wind, which is easily combatted with an extra layer. As expected, the layby on the southern side of the fell is busy with cars, probably mostly dog walkers. I remember in the later lockdown times, hundreds of cars parked along here, I went elsewhere.

The main track is a gradual gradient up the fellside, suitable for our advancing years. We keep a steady pace, which allows us to chat and catch up as we go. There is a lot of shared history between us.

The forestry road continues without reaching the top, so we take a side track, which has seen many fallen trees since I was last up here.

As we approach the ridge wall, I talk of the ‘promised land’ ahead, a quote from Steinbeck’s The Grapes of Wrath.

We go through the gate onto the open fell, and there in front of us is the Vale of Chipping with the Bowland Fells stretching across the skyline—my Vista Vision. And there is more in the haze over to the Yorkshire Three Peaks. Photographs of this panorama never do it justice, well, not mine at least, even though I must have scores.

The wall leads us towards the trig point on Spire Hill, 350m. I’m really dreading it, but don’t say anything to Sir Hugh. I came up here at the end of last year and was dismayed by the inappropriate summit ‘furniture’ that had been constructed. I wrote about it at the time.

Things have taken a turn for the worse; the perpetrator has since erected an ‘information board’ that obstructs the views true fell walkers have come to admire. Sir Hugh is not impressed.

Moving on quickly.

I know the ridge trail ends up in boggy ground amongst fallen trees, so we take a relatively new mountainbike track southwards to meet the fell road. This track is a delight to walk, though I certainly wouldn’t want to ride its treacherous jumps. But what a contrast to all the crap at the trig point.

Back on the forest road, we follow it eastwards, enjoying the vistas in all directions as we go.

There was once a clearing on the fellside hereabouts with a log to sit on and admire Sam’s View. The hills bordering the Trough Road, beloved by cyclists, running through the Bowland Fells. Today, the log is disintegrating, and the view is obstructed by new tree growth.  We still find a bank seat in the sunshine. As is the way we discuss diverse topics, for some reason, A J Cronin’s novel, which we probably read as sixth formers way back when. Despite recalling the medical plot, the name of the book doesn’t come to us till later in the walk – The Citadel.

Merlin picks up a noisy Robin and a Willow Warbler? I’ve no idea what the latter is doing up here, but we spot its slender profile on a waving tree top.

Sojourn over, we cut back to the main forest track and begin the homeward leg. We now have vista views to the hazy hills of East Lancashire.

A final path takes us out of the forest past one of my favourite beech trees.

All day I have been visually scanning the horizon and distant fell vistas. According to research, this, rather than focused vision, has a liberating effect on the brain’s sensors. I just know I like panoramic views from up high.

Sir Hugh’s version…https://conradwalks.blogspot.com/2026/04/longridge-fell-with-bc.html

 

 

OVER THE HILL.

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Somewhere on WordPress, someone uses the title “Over the Hill”. You can imagine his or her demographics. Today, I’m over the hill whichever way you take it.

I cancelled a walk over Longridge Fell at Easter because there were no buses, and it rained anyway.

But today the weather is perfect, little wind and full sun with temperatures in the high teens. After lunch** I take the little bus towards Ribchester and alight at Ward Green near Angel’s Restaurant. As I walk up the lane, I realise I am probably overdressed for the conditions; too late now to divest myself of my jacket. I plan to take a traffic and stile free route over the tail of Longridge Fell, maybe avoiding all the noise pollution from the other day.

I pass the Written Stone, on which I have often commented.

Ralffe Radcliffe laid this stone to lye for ever AD 1655

  The enclosed lane above is drier than usual, and I am soon in the fields below the development at Craig Y. The youngsters bouldering there knew nothing of how it used to be open fields.

I’m pleased to see the pair of Great Crested Grebes are back, though no sign of their courting dance today. I miss not carrying my telephoto camera.

Spot the Grebe.

It’s downhill from here, still on a very quiet lane. These houses must have a wonderful view of the Bowland Fells.

Halfway down, I take a farm track back towards Longridge, passing this curious structure built into a wall.

Past the busy working farm is a stone house recently empty.  The man who lived here was always around as you walked through. I remember some of his stories.

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

One wonders how much local history has been lost. The old house will soon be converted.  I don’t go looking for the cheese stone. Here’s a previous photo.

 

To be honest, I’m feeling weary, overheated in my winter jacket, and in pain from a pulled muscle from the recent, persistent cough. I trudge on, my mind drifting to a drink and a sit-down in the farm cafe further on. A friendly dog runs up to me. I recognise her, it’s Zola, an Australian Kelpie. Not far behind is C, remember those slate poems, out enjoying the sunshine. In my weary state, I turn down the offer to accompany them, but gallantly, they turn around and head home, where I am very grateful for that drink and sit down.

The last mile past the cricket pitch and via Sainsbury’s drags on. It gives me time to look up at the way I came over the fell.

I’m reduced to a snail’s pace by the time I reach my house. I certainly feel over the hill.

      _____

  ** After lunch.  This week’s ‘way to walk’ topic is ‘Walk after eating,’ which doesn’t motivate me. The blurb says walking aids digestion. I’ll leave it at that.

THE HARRIS IN PRESTON. 3. THE ART GALLERIES.

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  There is ‘art’ everywhere you look in the newly refurbished Harris, from historical paintings, selected items from their collections and temporary exhibitions. There are over 800 oil paintings and over 6,000 watercolours, drawings and prints at the Harris. 

  If, on entering the rotunda, you look up, you will see a full-length 20-meter textile sculpture crafted from rayon and paper. Hannah Robson’s ‘Transformation’ sought to explore the industrial history of the local Courtaulds factory through handweaving and rayon.

   There are lots of paintings of the good and possibly not-so-good people of Preston. I highlighted benefactor Harris and architect Hibbert in my last post.

  A sombre family portrait from the 17th century.

 

  Here are two Lord Mayors from the last century.  

  Paintings give us a glimpse into the past.

  Soon, industry dominated the town—a 20th-century painting by Charles Cundall.

 

  Two portraits are synonymous with the  Harris Gallery.

    Pauline in the Yellow Dress was painted in 1944 by her husband, H J Gunn.

    Dorette was painted in 1933 by G. L. Brockhurst.  

 

  Alongside is the bold contemporary A Portrait by Anthony Pilbro from 2000.

  In the same space as these portraits is a digital picture frame operated by a camera. You sit in front of it, compose the frame with you in it, choose a background and style, press the button and hey presto – your image is part of the Harris collection. I couldn’t resist a Napoleonic pose.  

  There are more paintings from the Harris Collection scattered about this floor. I like ‘Untitled and Adam and Eve‘ by Hugh Byars, 1991.

   And the 1942 ‘In for Repairs‘, an oil by Laura Knight, while she was an official war artist.

I am always pleased to come across a Stanley Spencer. Wisteria.

 *

A room is  given over to –

  Mr Williams researches old photographs of Preton and transforms them digitally with colour, producing some beautiful images.

   He has also taken the time to create short animated videos from some of the scenes. 

   *

All that art, and I have only just reached the top floor with the promise of more.

 

   As I mentioned, the Harris has a huge collection of paintings. Let’s hope the curators are able to rotate them into the galleries. The first room features paintings selected by different communities, including HMP.  ‘The peoples choise’.

  Blue Flamingo Cafe, a community dementia outreach organisation, chose ‘In the Beys Garden‘ painted by J F Lewis in 1865. He is described as an Orientalist painter but I think this painting has hints of the Pre-Raphaelite movement.

 

   Every gallery in Lancashire should have a Lowry. Appropriately for Preston – ‘Millworkers’.

    This ainting looked interesting.

  And for a touch of Edwardian prudery. 

   There have not been many statues on show, but up here, there is a delightful bronze, Pablo Picasso, Aged 7, by Anthony Padgett, who works in the city.

 *

  I’m attracted by the sound of birdsong to a separate area where a two-screen video is playing.  

   This turns out to be a fascinating look at the ecology of the Chipping area and the Bowland Fells.  

   Unfortunately, a rowdy group of school children arrived as I was preparing to watch and listen. I gave it up as a bad job and will return as soon as possible to absorb the experience and learn more about the Weld family from Leagram Hall, where I often walk.

*

  All that remains is to visit the galleries hosting The Harris Open, an annual event that highlights local artistic talent. Anyone living or studying in Preston is free to enter.

   Here is a selection of the entrants.

 

   Probably my favourite –

Out of the 400 entrants, I forgot to look who had won.

* 

Despite the length of this post, I have only sampled from the vast array on display. More visits are necessary. 

WALKING WITH PURPOSE.

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It’s week ten of my 52 ways to walk schedule. Ten weeks into 2026 already. The context is Walk With Purpose, though I end up physically rambling.

We all need a ‘purpose’ in life, generally, and motivation on a daily basis. I’m not normally good at it, drifting through life a lot of the time. But unable to drive a car at present, I have resolved to take a daily walk to shop at my nearby supermarket. My purposeful walk. A simple goal with no need to consider the surroundings, navigation or the weather. Just march to the shop on an all-too-familiar path. And march it is – without distractions, I find myself walking at a much faster pace than normal. My eyes are focused on the pavement ahead, instinctively knowing my general whereabouts. I do notice the minutiae; cracks in the pavement between my feet, gutter litter, and a heightened awareness of birdsong from within the hedgerows. Traffic noise is sublimated, and I probably pass friends without a nod.

Apparently, people walking with a purpose, to work or the shop, do so at a quicker-than-normal l pace. I mentally picture the bowler-hatted workforce crossing into the city.

My brisk daily utilitarian walking undoubtedly provides physical benefits, and in my semi-rural environment, possibly reduces stress. Though all those city walkers look somewhat stressed, mindfulness wasn’t invented back then.

These shopping trips are too mundane to describe further, although thinking back, I once did

For the last few sunny days, hopefully heralding spring, I’ve been lengthening my recreational strolls around the village, aware that any fall would not be good for my recently repaired shoulder joint. But the same scenery each time is becoming tiresome after less than a fortnight. I need a change of horizons. I selfishly phone a friend, Sir Hugh, suggesting a meet-up and a short walk. He is, as ever, keen. Time to tell him, “Oh, but I can’t drive”. He still takes the bait and arrives at my house the next morning. My sensible plan is to keep to roads or decent tracks. I have a regular circuit of Leagram in the Bowland foothills. which fits the bill. He is my transport to fresh vistas.

I am still unable to take photos one-handed, the left at that. I can barely type, so it is over to him to fill in the details. https://conradwalks.blogspot.com/2026/03/in-steps-of-mole-chipping-with-bc.html

The least I can do is treat him to a post-ramble coffee and cake at the Cobble Corner Cafe.

I hope my family don’t see the photos. I’m back at the consultant surgeon’s tomorrow

RAIN … careful what you ask for.

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My rain dance backfired. The temperature has plummeted, and we wake up to snow this morning. That is not one of my 52 Walks.

My son and partner are coming up to see me and taking me out for lunch. The two dogs enjoy the journey and know my house well. They are more excited about seeing my kittens again than about the treats I offer. The kittens take it in their stride.

Our usual walk with the dogs is in the plantation on the fell. On the way up, as the snow thickens, I begin to have doubts about the wisdom of driving high, but there is no ice on that nasty corner, and we park safely without incident.

What a difference a dusting of snow makes to the landscape. Everything is brought into focus, distances seem to spread, and the surrounding hills look twice their height. We are the only ones out, so we have the privilege of being the first to leave footprints. Well, not exactly, the dogs rush ahead, so we are left following pawprints as we weave through the trees. The air is bitter, but the tree cover eliminates any windchill.

A good time is had by all, and we retreat to the cosy bar of a local inn. The dogs sprawl out in front of the woodburner, enjoying their doggy sausages.

What a great way to spend a few hours in good company and a brief winter wonderland.

THE FATE OF OUR WILDLIFE.

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As a lover of all things Bowland, I am led to believe that at least three of the Hen Harriers born in Bowland this year have gone missing in mysterious circumstances. It is therefore of interest to watch this Channel 4 report on the conviction of a gamekeeper for Hen Harrier persecution. The footage is upsetting.

Whilst I’m on the subject of wildlife crime, have a read of this summary of so-called ‘trail hunting’ and what it obscures.

Scent To Deceive Us: The Smokescreen Of Trail Hunting

Some of the privileged few feel they can ignore the law with impunity.  It is long overdue for the government of this so-called civilised country to take more positive action to outlaw these practices.

I have a nasty taste in my mouth.