I find myself walking along a slippy rocky ledge just above the fast flowing River Roeburn. I have long since lost the path if ever there was one. Then it all stops at a steep landslide. Go back or try to climb out into the woods above. Chapter 8, of Cicerone’s Walking in Lancashire, ‘The Enchanted Valley’ of Roeburndale had promised so much.
I have battled with the paths down here before. This time coming in from the south with detailed instructions from the guidebook it should be a doddle. I’ve had my lunch in the little Methodist Chapel at Lower Salter and I find the ladder stile into fields above the Roeburn. There are helpful ‘Concessionary Footpath’ signs although for some reason a map presumably showing them has been vandalised. The vague path keeps above the gorge and its trees until a way down is found to the river at a footbridge I recognise. But the guide says “remain on the west bank”. I try to but the path just disappears in the undergrowth and tree cover. I retreat to the footbridge and try the east bank. 
A path comes and goes, I ignore the obvious path we had descended from this side to get here last time. I battle on by the river hoping a better path may appear, but it doesn’t. I enter a rocky gorge and spot a vehicle ford across the river. Awkward side streams need careful attention. There are some footbridges but with their wooden slats missing, presumably only in use in season by the shooters or fishermen. I don’t know where they lead to anyhow, so I don’t risk crossing them commando style. There is even a pulley cage across the torrent a little farther on, I certainly wouldn’t risk that. There was a serious accident near here in January 2022 involving an all-terrain vehicle pulling a trailer when a bridge gave way
The last post.
Maybe I should turn back, but my stubbornness drives me on hoping to find a way that might correspond to the guidebook. The gorge deepens and my only way of progress is at the water’s edge on those slippery rock ledges just above the water. I even contemplate walking in the shallows but they are fast-flowing. This is the river that flooded in 1967, taking out all the bridges and demolishing many cottages downstream at Wray. 
The camping bothy appears on the other side, it’s marked on the map so I know where I am. But the landslide looms ahead and this is where I realise my best way of escape, not necessarily the safest, is to climb the couple of hundred feet up a steep bank above me, knowing there are paths along the top edge of the woods.
It is steep and slippery and I make frequent use of tree roots, clumps of grass and my knees on my slow progress upwards. Not a place to have an accident, especially alone. I reach the top and the wall into fields but find no trace of the paths we had used in reverse last time. So I just continue following the top edge of the woods inside the fell wall. Roe deer scuttle in front of me. The GPS on my phone keeps my position up to date. 
I eventually have to climb the fence into the fields when I become hemmed in by a deer fence and then can meet up with right of way coming up from the river. This deposits me onto the lane which I nonchalantly follow back to my car parked in Wray. 
All’s well that ends well. With hindsight I should not have bushwhacked for so far searching for a path by the river. After crossing that footbridge I should have taken the path heading out of the gorge and walked back through the woods. The OS map doesn’t have the paths marked. Certainly the Cicerone guide book chapter is totally misleading for this section down Roeburndale and anybody using it will soon become lost. Undeterred I want to revisit these woods later in the year for their spectacular bluebell display, any takers? This post has some good photos.
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The day had started out better, walking out of Wray using little lanes and crossing Hunts Gill Beck by a bridge which narrowly avoided destruction by a falling tree.
Wray Bridge.
Then above Alcock’s Farm a long series of fields to Harterbeck Farm. A family are out for a pleasant Spring stroll, why didn’t I do the same? Lambing has been in full throw. The way was clear but the ground was boggy, which became rougher the farther I go, it would be just as enjoyable, probably more so, to walk up the quiet road leading to the farm without losing the views or the curlews calling. Next time. Great Coum, Gregareth, Whernside and Ingleborough were constant companions on the NE horizon. Ingleborough always wears the crown and demands to be photographed.
Harterbeck is a lonely farm by any standards. It obviously has a problem with moles and the windows inserted into the back wall must have involved ‘Bob the Builder’.
I’ve been exploring Lancashire for years but I have never been into the steep-sided Pedder Gill and seen the waterfalls of Goodber Beck. Must have spent too many times abroad in warmer climes and neglected my own doorstep. From the farm, after crossing a small beck, the track drops down to the little footbridge and a bit of scrambling down the gorge gets me in close with the waterfalls. A hidden Bowland gem! 
A stroll down the fields and I pass through Lower Salter farmyard. The farmer is repairing his drystone wall, must be the season, but he is not as chatty as the one in Lunesdale the other day. What an isolated life they live up here. 
At the road is the little Methodist Chapel. I go inside for a sit-down and snack.
Built in 1901, the land given by Mr Francis Skirrow of Lower Salter Farm, the cost of the chapel was £180. Mr Skirrow intended the chapel to be used as a school room during the week. This is evidenced by the fact that the pews have holes for inkwells. However, his idea never materialised owing to an inability to hire a teacher. There is a commemorative plaque to Flight Lieutenant Thomas Dirk Bayliss who lost his life on July 3 1979 when his Jet Provost trainer aircraft crashed into a field near High Salter Farm after the pilot became disorientated in heavy mist and flew off course.
Down the road and with spirits high I cross the stile onto that permissive path down Roeburndale… A walk on the wild side.
Entering the woods of Billinge Hill we pay particular attention to the guide’s directions. There are paths everywhere up here, some I recognise, but mainly I am ‘lost’ blundering about in a hopeful direction. Using a bit of creative thinking we follow the steep and slippery paths down alonside a ravine. Mike is not happy, any of his group who may have made it this far would be now struggling. 
Sat alone on the isolated true summit of Fairsnape, deep in Bowland, I’m poking at one of my sandwiches, egg and tomato, made a month ago. They went into the freezer when hot weather and circumstances cancelled an outing at the last minute only for them to re-emerge this morning. there is a distinct unappetising taste. Should you freeze hard-boiled eggs? I’ve just traversed some of the loneliest hills up here and am in need of some sustenance. The morning has been misty on the fells, however with a welcome cooling breeze. Distant views are restricted from my lofty perch, most of you will never have been here. Only a few curlew and grouse share my space. I poke again at the sandwich and decide to toss it into the heather for probably the seagulls, who now also patrol these heights, to scavenge.
If I close my eyes I could be at the seaside, the sound of gulls is everywhere. I think they are Black Backed, Great or Lesser?, a large colony exists up here. I try for a video, more for the sounds than the fleeting fly overs. They are becoming more aggressive, dive-bombing me. I look down and there below my feet is a scrape of a nest with three eggs. Better move on taking extra care where I place my feet. 
A new path has been fashioned from the top of the Barley steps to the trig point. I must admit it blends as well as possible into the plateau and must save a lot of erosion. There is also a new stone shelter built into the nearby wall. Once through the wall as if by magic everybody disappears, and I have the whole of Pendle Moor to myself. There is no wind today, so it is almost perfect silence apart from all those soaring skylarks.
Down on the River Wyre in St. Michael’s a tragic drama is transpiring, a 45-year-old local lady, Nicola Bulley, has gone missing whilst walking her dog by the river. You will have seen it on the national news, the trauma her family are going through as the days pass, without resolution, doesn’t bear thinking about.
I find myself climbing a minor limestone cliff on a ‘footpath’ in the environs of Silverdale. That was not what I wanted with my dodgy knee. I push on, having to check my position using my phone and eventually reappear onto lanes I recognise and make it back to Leighton Moss car park at the end of a grand outing.
At the end of the causeway a lane leads up into the grounds of Leighton Hall. This was the home of legendary Lancaster furniture magnate, Richard Gillow, it is still in the family. Today it is closed to visitors, but there are sounds of shooting from the woods above. It is open pheasant shooting season, and it doesn’t sit well with the RSPB reserve below. Do these toffs still need to carry out these barbaric practices? They can be seen heading for a resplendent lunch before making a reappearance later in the day.
Not sure how I find myself on the summit of Warton Crag but here is the trig point and the metal beacon. I find a place to sit and look out at the view across the sands of Morecambe Bay. Checking the surroundings for stray dogs I get out my sandwich and flask. What a place for a picnic.
The streets were still busy. I was disappointed to see also that the Grant Arms in the centre had closed; I stayed there on the Irwell Sculpture Trail; it was pretty grotty at the time I must admit. It is now a financial investment office. You can see why traditional pubs suffer as quite a few small bars were scattered around, offering a good range of beers often home-brewed, cocktails and a bright environment. They were all full of happy people.
I knew that the next section around the north side of the forest would be hard going. I aim for a pile of stones, marked as ‘The Wife’ on some maps.
I’m soon off the fell and on a lane past Scriddles Farm. Don’t know the derivation, but we have had some lovely S’s today – Simpshey, Shivering and Scriddles.
The next mile or so was not the best, unmarked paths and crumbling stiles. To make matters worse the afternoon light was rapidly deteriorating. I followed this way in reverse a while back with Sir Hugh and The Rockman, we struggled 
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At the next farm I weave through a complicated series of gates in their garden. Enquiring of a lady, to confirm my way, that few people walk through here – she says “most get lost”. I doubt the irony strikes her. Again a few yellow arrows wouldn’t go amiss. At last, I’m free and walk down a lane to another farm, Whitemoor Bottom. The guide says take the footpath on the right, but there is no obvious way – I strike boldly through the farmyard and onwards down the fields. This is horsey country and barriers keep appearing, is it this side of the wires or the other? Determination sees me through, and I drop into a wooded gully with little sign of others coming this way. But I’m on course and eventually come out onto a lane at Holly Bush Farm. Sand Hall, which looks as though it should be listed, is passed, and the lane takes me to Foulridge Reservoir.
It’s two months since I was last able to do a walk out of Mark Sutcliffe’s guide book. Finding one locally I strode out today on his Jeffrey Hill chapter. The suggestion was to park at Little Town Dairy, a farm shop, nursery and café. I feel guilty using a businesses’ car park if I’m not giving them any business so I parked by the road higher up on the route, which was to prove tiresome later in the day.
