Category Archives: Bowland Fells.

BACK TO BOWLAND.

Croasdale nostalgia.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A BREATH OF FRESH AIR.

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

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

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

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

The views over the Ribble Valley are hazy.

More fungi appear under the conifers.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thats enough fresh air for today.

TRY AND TRY AGAIN.

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I thought the noise from the A59 was increasing; we had not heard it all morning. And there it was, suddenly in front of us, with cars rushing past. This was not part of the plan; we should have been in quiet fields heading back to Worston. Halted in our tracks, out comes the map, and I realise my mistake. While chatting away on the easy lane, we had walked right past our footpath junction. Backtracking, we added half a mile to our walk. To make matters worse, that was the second time I had made a similar mistake this morning. I will annotate the map with a couple of red blobs, and I must try harder with my navigation.

After our unsuccessful walk a couple of weeks ago when non-existent stiles and cows defeated us, I come up with another idea for Mike’s exploration for his group’s walk. Starting from and finishing at a pub, no awkward stiles, no steep inclines or boggy hollows. I base my walk on one advertised in the Ribble Valley Walks with Taste leaflets. https://www.visitribblevalley.co.uk/things-to-do/walking/walks-with-taste/

With a few tweaks, I have a walk of the preferred 3.5 miles. Now, let’s try it out on the ground. I have walked most of these paths before, but that doesn’t always make them suitable for an elderly walking group.

The quiet village of Worston is just off the busy A59, but it seems in a different world away from the hustle and bustle. It does not attract the tourists like nearby Downham, even on a bank holiday weekend. There is ample parking at the pub, The Calf’s Head.

I know my way through the squeeze stile onto the path alongside Worston Brook. We are in limestone country at the foot of Pendle, and I search the walls unsuccessfully for crinoid fossils.

There is work afoot in the brook as though they are trying to alter the flow of the water, which sometimes floods the village.

Above us on Crow Hill, horses stand out in silhouette.

Ahead of us are Warren Hill and Worsaw Hill. These are all the remains of reef mounds, where calcium deposits built up on the Carboniferous sea bed. (not quite the same as Coral reefs, but that’s where the geology becomes too complicated for me) The last Ribble Valley ice sheet passed over and around these mounds and eroded weaker rocks, giving the rounded hills we see today. I’ve been up Worsaw Hill once, great views and a Bronze Age burial mound at its southern end. But today we are just concentrating on the path ahead.

We reach Worsaw End Farm without having to climb a stile, bonus points for me. This farm at the very base of Worsaw Hill and its barn are famous for being used as a location in the old black-and-white film Whistle Down the Wind, starring Hayley Mills. I have just spent an hour and a half watching the film on YouTube. I will link it in at the end of this post. Worth an atmospheric watch. Jesus Christ, he’s only a fella.

We walk on without any religious encounters. The lanes around here are virtually traffic-free. So quiet that I make my first mistake and wander on further than necessary, involving a retrace up the hill to try again at the field gate we missed.

Back on track, we are walking on the bridleway connecting the farms below Pendle Hill on this western flank. Easy going past the historic Little Mearley Hall.

This oak could go onto my list of favourite trees. From up here, we have hazy, distant views of our familiar Kemple End and the BowlandFells.

But Pendle always takes prominence.

At Lane Side, we follow a track down the hillside. It has been recently stoned over and is not the most pleasant of surfaces for walking. But we manage to walk all the way down to the A59 without realising.

Backtracking again.

After our second backtrack, the fields are followed easily back to Worston with only one stile to negotiate.

In my recent posts, I have been highlighting the proliferation of fruit and berries in our hedgerows this season. How’s this for a hawthorn bush?

A pleasant green way leads to the village green, where there is a curiosity, a ‘bullring’ embedded in a stone. Was it used for bullbaiting?

‘Bull Baiting’, by Henry Thomas Alken. 1820

We end up sitting in the beer garden of the Calf’s Head, enjoying a pint with Pendle ever present. Our walk has been a success. About 3.5 miles, only one stile, gentle gradients, points of interest and that stunning Ribble Valley scenery. We were not over enthusiastic about the artificial stony track down from Lane Side, and it might be worth exploring the bridleway coming down from Little Mearley Hall alongside Mearley Brook as an alternative. That gives us an excuse to come back to this quiet corner of Lancashire and another visit to the Calf’s Head beer garden.

And as promised –

THE CHANGING FACE OF THE COUNTRYSIDE.

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My morning stroll takes me into Chipping Vale. On a four-mile walk deep in the Lancashire countryside, I don’t see a single cow in the fields.

Down the lane to Longridge House, their new sign is up. There is a touch of Autumn to the isle of chestnut trees. The renovations to the hotel are coming to a close.

And then I’m in the fields. Mainly newly cut, looking very green against the backdrop of the Bowland Fells.

But look closely, and there is an Industrial landscape developing on the farms. Large sheds are being built everywhere, presumably, but I may be wrong, for housing cattle.

These industrial-scale sheds are transforming black Moss Farm.

Come back in six months and see the finished product. I walk on, rather mystified by the whole process and let my eyes take in the larger scene, first the Bowland Fells and then Longridge Fell. Nothing changes up there.

I’m heading for Knott Farm, which I have not visited since the farmer, whom I knew, died a few years ago. There are some of those new gates, but not many people come this way.

The farmhouse has had some work done to it, but overall, the property looks abandoned and unloved. This was a living farm at one time in the same family for generations. The date stone says 1888.

I come out by the hard-working egg farm and cross straight over the main Chipping road and take fields and farm tracks to climb the lower slopes of Longridge Fell.

The Sloes and Rose Hips are ripening fast, a bumper crop this year.

I have time for some blackberry picking.

There is a footpath linking the farms lying halfway up the hill. It will have been used for many decades. The little clapper bridge is worn by the passage of countless feet and hooves.

And what a view from up at this modest elevation. But not an animal insight. I link the footpaths and little lanes past the farms.

I’ve never discovered what this is.

An English country garden.

Just for the record, in case AR is reading this, some farmers hang onto their vintage tractors.

As I approach Little Town Farm, I realise all the cattle are under cover, hence my header photo. A huge square footage of sheds. The cows must be put out to graze from time to time, but the majority of the fields are cut for silage for winter, if not all year round, feeding. Four robotic machines do the milking of the 190 cows on this dairy farm.This is a progressive farm agriculturally and has also diversified into a farm shop, a cafe, and a garden centre. The needs of modern farming. And they are busy today, so it must be successful.

Things are changing, but I’m still privileged to live on the edge of this glorious countryside and glad to have you along.

***

THE WEATHER FOR HEATHER.

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It’s August and the heather is in full bloom. I’m not tramping across some remote Bowland Fell as I’ve been relatively indolent in the high temperatures we have been experiencing. I don’t seem to cope with the heat as I used to. Often, just for a little exercise, I have been coming up to Cowley Brook Plantation to enjoy the shade and any breeze.

And that is where I am today, and the heather is suddenly magnificent. It hits me in the eye as I set off on one of my little paths.

As I brush through it, the aroma is earthy and yet sweetly floral. It is not at the stage when the heather releases clouds of pollen. Bees and butterflies are skimming around. I suddenly feel released into another world. All of this 200 metres from the road.

A family are picnicking with their baby and toddler. The youngster has discovered the joys of blackberry picking and is running around excitedly. That’s how to bring up your children. I steal a few juicy ones.

In the news today were warnings that hedgerow fruit this year was ripening too soon, and there may be a shortage in Autumn when the birds need it. The Rowan trees up here were certainly full of fruit; let’s hope the birds know how to ration it.

Catch it while you can.

A BOWLAND STROLL.

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A lot of Bowland Fells involve some serious tramping, remote and rough; tough paths, if you can find them. Today, I will show you a gentle* walk into the Bowland heartlands.

JD is always a willing companion for my fantasies. This morning he creates mayhem trying to park outside my house, whilst the lane is being used as a diversion for road works elsewhere. I have been up since 6 am with the noise of the traffic, only another week to bear.

We are on our way to Dunsop Bridge, the gateway to the High Bowland Fells.

You can park for free on the little lane by Puddle Ducks Cafe. We are there before the cafe opens, and already parking spaces are at a premium. Should I take a waterproof or fleece? The forecast is for a dry and sunny day. But this is Bowland, so I pack both.

And then we are on our way into the Dunsop Valley.

It is a long valley, at first open meadows, but then becoming clasped by the fells. A cold wind is blowing up the valley, and we are tempted to don windproofs. When it turns to August drizzle and then rain, we succumb to the inevitable and feel much better for it.

After passing the confluence of the Brennand and the Whitendale, we take the left fork towards the Brennand Valley. But first, there is a seat at the junction for elevenses, with a view. I have water, but JD has coffee, which he is willing to share.

We contemplate the harsh life that farmers have in these upland valleys as their tractors pass by. The bench we are sitting on, as well as an adjacent flowerbed, is a memorial to Jack and Sylvia Walker, recent tenants of Brennand Farm. I always marvel at the view up Brennand Valley from here, with its green meadows, lonely farms and fells disappearing into the background. Timeless. But all a bit murky today.

A zoom to Brennand Farm in the murk.

Leaving the road we take to an old byway high above the river, traversing below the fell, Middle Knoll. The last time we came this way, we climbed to its unfrequented summit, just for the sake of it. Today, we just follow the waterlogged path. At some point we meet up wth the track coming up from Brennand.

By now, the skies are clearing and we can make out the upper reaches of the seldom explored Brennad Water. The purple blush of the heather on the fell tops shows up in some of the photos. Looking at the map, it’s time I had another trip up there.

I think we chose the wrong side of the wall for the continuation up boggy ground. There is a plentiful supply of Spagnum Moss and reeds up here. Oh, and the mist has come down again.

But eventually, all vague paths meet near the watershed. It is then downhill, gently at first and then steep and more awkward than I remember. There has been a lot of tree planting on this slope, and it all feels different from the last time I was here. But the Whitendale farmstead is there below. A bumper crop of berries this year on the Rowan.

A footbridge crosses the river, and there ahead of us is a bench for lunch by the Shepherds Cottage. The properties are empty, the farm tenanted from United Utilities, is run by Brennand Farm. The Crown owns Dunsop village, and the tenants pay their rent to the King.

I become distracted by house martins flying in and out of their mud nests under the eaves.

Time to get going, rather than follow the road back down the valley, we know of the rough path on the east side of the river. At times difficult to follow, boggy in parts, it improves as it follows a pipeline now high above the river.

The track crosses Costy Clough, which looks like a wild place, before we reach the water board road for the stroll back to the village.

We stop only to identify a probable clump of Larch Boletus underneath a larch tree with which it is ectomycorrhizal. Look that one up and read if you can, Entangled Life by Merlin Sheldrake, for a whole new perspective on the fungal world.

We fail to identify this pink flower growing in the bog, mainly due to the fear of falling in. So, a good introduction to the delights of Bowland in all its guises. Don’t forget your waterproof.

* Let’s rephrase that as ‘relatively gentle’.

SHOWERS WITH SUNNY SPELLS.

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A favourite phrase for the TV weather forecaster.

At the tail end of Storm Floris, I didn’t know what to expect for Tuesday’s weather.

It was raining first thing, but it brightened sufficiently for me to venture out locally, hoping the strong wind would blow the showers away. I needed some exercise after a few days of lethargy and inactivity, and I wanted to check on how the building work was progressing at a local country inn. A few miles were soon planned to include the latter.

Walking out of the village past the cricket ground, the skies darkened, and the mist came down on the hills. There was still rain about. I stayed on the country lanes until I could cut back on the track leading to the hotel. The hills stayed hidden, the wind blew, and it continued to rain, though only lightly. A typical day in the north west, though more like April than August.

Hidden Bowland fells.

Hidden Longridge Fell.

As I approached the hotel, it still looked like a building site. Ferrari’s, as it was known, has been bought by a Manchester events group who are hoping to upgrade the place for upmarket weddings and functions. The ‘functions’ area of the hotel looks good, and I believe they have already hosted pre-booked weddings. The guests would have had to look away from the mess in the car park.

The building was originally built as a hunting lodge for Lord Derby on his Black Moss estate. The Ferrari family had been running it as a hotel for thirty years. A name change was needed, and as the nearby pub, marked on the map, is called The Derby Arms, the name Derby couldn’t have been used. What about reverting to the original Black Moss House? But no, they have chosen the rather boring and inaccurate Longridge House. This is Thornley, not Longridge. These things matter; it’s a shame they didn’t consult locals about the name change.

At the road entrance, they were erecting new signage.

Meanwhile, down the road, the Derby Arms continues as a fine country inn. My sunny spell briefly occurred with views to Longridge Fell from the cricket pitch on the way back.

And then it rained, I was like the proverbial drowned rat by the time I reached home. Not all walks are honey and roses. Compare with the last time I walked this way in May.

WAYSIDE FLOWERS.

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

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

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

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

Must make some cordial.

I have probably missed many more.

I pass the golf club…

wind up and down the lane…

to enter the plantation through the rapidly growing bracken…

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

the old trees are rather gloomy…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A NEW ERA.

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I’ve been for a cycle ride today.

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

The early Triumph bike.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

ON MY DOORSTEP.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

OUR HOME FELL.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The lane leading to the fell, seen high above.

There is a sheep in there somewhere.

The Newdrop.

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

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

The new lord of the manor’s gates…

…and his welcoming signs.

That lethal barbed wire fence.

Picking a way through storm damage.

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

Identifying Wood Sorrel.

***

Our route from the village.

CAST NOT A CLOUT.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

THAT HILL AGAIN.

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Just another local walk.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rooks are busy nesting in the tall trees.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

BIRTHDAY FAMILY FUN.

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A self-indulgent post.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Some of us walked down the snake.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What’s the secret to growing old gracefully?

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

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

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

COVID LOCKDOWN – FIVE YEARS ON.

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In late January 2020, I was staying in a pub in Stainforth, halfway through a Yorkshire Dales walk. It was Chinese New Year, and there was a Chinese Banquet on offer. My comment on my post that day – “There was talk in the bar of a new virulent virus spreading in China“

That virus crept up on us. And by March, we were locked down, a new addition to the dictionary. Perhaps, in hindsight, we should have reacted sooner, but as they say, hindsight is a wonderful thing; foresight is what is needed.

It started slowly.

30 January – The first two cases of COVID-19 in the United Kingdom are confirmed: two Chinese nationals staying in York.

4 March. The total number of confirmed cases 27.

5 March. The first death from COVID-19 in the UK is confirmed,as the number of cases exceeds100.

10 March. HM Government allows the Cheltenham Festival to go ahead.

16 March. PM says, “Now is the time for everyone to stop non-essential contact and travel”

19 March. PM says the UK can “turn tide of coronavirus” in 12 weeks.

20 March. Cafes, pubs and restaurants to close.

23 March, PM announces lockdown in the UK, ordering people to “stay at home”

16 April. Lockdown extended for ‘at least’ three weeks.

30 April. PM says, “We are past the peak” of the pandemic.

Two metres social distancing. Work from Home. Eat out to help out. Rule of six. Face masks. Three Tier System. And so it went on with second and third lockdowns.

Looking back at my posts, I started to self-isolate in February 2020. I was in a vulnerable group for various reasons and was thinking ahead of the government. My walking became restricted to my immediate locality, but I still valued daily exercise. I was lucky that on my doorstep was accessible countryside, and I made the best of local footpaths, avoiding most people.

Today, I revisited one of those local walks. What has changed in five years?

Most evidently, there is a significant housing development on this side of town. Inglewhite Meadows is its ironic name.

As I walk away from town, more expensive bungalows are lining Inglewhite Road.

Have a read and compare photos from five years ago. https://bowlandclimber.com/2020/04/20/a-bitter-taste-in-my-mouth/

These new stiles have started to appear around the district.

I am glad to get onto the quieter Ashley Lane. Even here, two ‘executive houses’ have been completed and occupied. There is no such thing as a green belt any more; anything goes. Just follow the money.

At last, I’m in the fields, and all is peace and quiet, just as it was in lockdown. Not many people use these paths anymore. I follow my instincts and eventually hit the footbridge across the stream, Mill Brook. There was once a mill further downstream near Goosnargh. The farmer sees fit to dump his waste in the field.

March Hares are popping up all over the place, and in the trees, the starlings are preparing for a murmuration I only just briefly catch..

Going back on myself, I recross the stream and head up to the waterboard pumphouse. From up here, the hills are reassuringly the same.

The Bowland Hills.

Longridge Fell.

Now enclosed by a new fence, I head towards the road. I’m sure these two were here before. https://bowlandclimber.com/2021/01/18/a-quiet-sunday/

The stile onto the busy road is lethal; you are in danger of stepping straight into the traffic.

I stroll back home, three miles completed and glad of the freedom we now enjoy. But could it all happen again?

I’ve enjoyed reading back through my old posts from that period and how we all managed.

***

THE STEEP SIDE OF LONGRIDGE FELL.

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Longridge Fell is an example of a cuesta; the ridge has a sharp drop or escarpment on its northern side and a gentler slope on its southern side.

Today, I was tackling that steep northern side.

A tardy start to the day meant I was too late for journying to East Lancs to continue my Manchester ‘pilgrimage’. But the forecast was too good to miss, so a quick change of plan sees me catching the number 5 bus to Chipping; there is a stop on my corner. There are only two of us heading to Chipping.

The bus turnaround is next to St Bartholomew’s Church; I wander into the graveyard to pay my respects to Lizzy Dean, whose tragic story I have mentioned several times in these pages. Her gravestone is under the ancient yew tree. The church was established before 1230 and rebuilt in 1506, so one can only guess the tree’s age.

Lizzie was a maid living in the Sun in the year 1835. She met up with a local lad who claimed the deepest love for her and proposed to her, and she gladly accepted. However, two days before the wedding, James told Lizzie he had fallen in love with her friend Elsie and called off their wedding day. He now planned to marry Elsie in the church opposite.

On the wedding day, Lizzie went up to the pub attic overlooking the churchyard. She wrote a suicide note, placed a rope around her neck, and died. The note in her fist 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 story doesn’t end there. For almost 200 years, the ghost of Lizzie has haunted the Sun Inn and the churchyard opposite. Just ask anyone in the village.

A cyclist who had passed me back in Longridge whilst I was waiting for the bus is attending a grave. We exchange pleasantries. It turns out to be his parents’ grave. All his family came from Chipping, and many worked in the nearby Berry chair factory. He points out the adjacent grave where two of his uncles are buried following a car crash in Longridge in 1973. Three chairworkers died in that accident. http://kirkmill.org.uk/workmates-killed-in-tragic-accident-december-1973/

He is cycling back to Garstang while I am heading for the fell, which I can see plainly across the vale to the south—first, a stroll down historic Windy Street.

Once out of the village, I pick up a field track by the bridge over Chipping Brook. I have never found the paths easy to follow in this area, but today, things have improved by the way marking for the relatively new Ribble Valley Jubilee Trail. https://www.ribblevalley.gov.uk/mayor-1/mayors-walk

Strangely, all the gates and stiles have been dismantled, leaving free passage for animals between the fields leading to Pale Farm, and they have certainly curned up the wet ground. Lapwings are heard but not seen, but March Hares bound out in front of me. Some convoluted ‘diversions’, well signed, lead me past the next habitations.

Alongside these fields, a new wastewater treatment works is being constructed, a significant undertaking in the valley.

I then strike out across ready fields, aiming for a footbridge over the infant Loud with the steep slopes of Longridge Fell looming up above. Cardwell House, my destination, can be clearly seen at the top.
Continue reading →

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 SNOWY FORAY.

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Who doesn’t like a snowy scene?

The other day, I drove up to the New Drop Inn from the Hall’s Arms. Both these long-established locals are now closed, one becoming a business centre and the other residential units. The road was just clear of snow, but there was little room for passing other cars. The temperature hadn’t risen above freezing for a few days. I was hoping to walk around Cowley Brook Plantation to complete my year’s archive of photographs. My usual pull-ins looked dicey. I was afraid I would become stuck, so I turned tail and drove home, probably the most sensible option.

The freeze continues. Thankfully, no more snow falling around here, and the sun shines brightly. I can’t resist another attempt to walk the fell in these conditions. This time, I take caution to heart and park easily at the New Drop crossroads. The side road coming directly up from Longridge past the golf course looks treacherous, and I wish I had brought my microspikes as I walk a hundred yards or so down it.

My footprints are the only ones coming through the waterboard gate by Cowley Brook. Lovely crunching sounds as I pass into the plantation: a couple of roe deer run across my path into the trees, too fast for a photo.

Knowing my way up the hillside, I arrive at my four-way photo spot.

I have time to admire the frozen minutiae.

Continuing through the trees to reach my other fixed point.

Mission accomplished, I will put together a montage of the year later or perhaps record another year of changes in the young plantation.

While I’m up here, why don’t I go farther up the fell? It is difficult walking in the snow in the plantation, so I decide to use the road to gain the fell proper. There is very little traffic. Pendle Hill has become a giant in its winter garb.

Through the gate onto the fell, and I trudge up alongside the wall. Only a few have passed this way. I avert my eyes from the scene of the ‘Grim up North’ tree massacre. Time is a little tight, so I don’t go to the trig point but arc around at the Christmas Tree to take the balcony route back to the Jeffrey Hill carpark. The views across Bowland are spectacular, as are the distant ones into Yorkshire.

As I reach the car park, I see a motorist in trouble on the icy roads below. A notorious blackspot where cars have, in the past, slid off the hill into the fields below. I’m not sure why anyone would have driven up here in the first place. A crowd gathers out of nowhere to give advice. Luckily, the driver, unprepared in his own words, manages to dig himself out, avoid the drop and continue down the slippery road.

I march along the road back to my car, a great four miles in the perfect Winter scenery.

***

DON’T FORGET TO FEED THE BIRDS.

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An overnight dump of snow has transformed the surroundings. My car, which I shall not be moving today, is under four inches of the white stuff.

The back garden looks neat and tidy for the first time in months. I put out the usual ground feed and the select seeds on the bird table. Within minutes the blackbirds are fighting over the oats, and the coal tits are raiding the seeds.

The morning slips away.

I eventually decide on a walk. I am lucky I can reach the countryside directly from my doorstep without using the car. I have no real plan. I walk past the cricket pitch. The road, where cars have passed, is easier to use than the rutted pavement. Up ‘Mile Lane’ is my usual route. I hear the joyful cries of children long before I see them sledging down the field.

Even in the semi-urban landscape, there are sheep struggling for survival.

Someone has been out early in the park and built an igloo. I used to do that and sleep out for the night in the garden.

Everyone is in a chatty mood, so progress is slow. Hence I decide on a short loop around the reservoir rather than the longer fell road, which I did yesterday. From up here, there are views across the valley to Beacon Fell and the Bowland Fells (in cloud).

I peek into Craig Y and share a picture of it on its Facebook page.

As I wander back through the streets, more snow is in the air. It won’t be good if it freezes tonight. Around the corner, a friend, JD, is building a snowman for his grandchildren. All jolly good fun.

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.