Category Archives: Family

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.

*

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 CAN SEE CLEARLY NOW.

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My son drops me off at a large shed (clinic in these NHS days). on a commercial estate off Eastway, Preston, next to Aldi and Greggs. See you in half an hour.

I have come to have laser treatment, YAG, to my right eye, which had blurred 18 months after cataract surgery. Posterior capsule opacification, a common problem. (YAG stands for Yttrium Aluminium Garnet, a synthetic crystal widely used in technology, medicine, and jewellery.)

Drops are used to dilate my pupil, and 15 minutes later, after a few flashes and bangs, I can see perfectly well again. That’s the sort of treatment I like.

 

 

 

A WEEK TO REMEMBER.

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  My walking task this week – Walk to remember. I was excited, I would recall places, people and events on my daily walks around the village. Then I would return home and search for photos and diary entries to enhance the memories. But it was not to be. Walking to remember was based on flimsy research that suggested that after a short walk, one’s receptive memory is enhanced for a period. As I’m not studying for any exams or learning poetry, perhaps I should, I did not bother to test it out. 

  But I had a week to remember.

  Another birthday came along. My family turned up trumps and took me out, first for a walk and then for a lovely meal. My daily walks around Longridge, with my arm still in a sling, are, by necessity, becoming tedious—almost a repeat of lockdown. But friends have responded and driven me to ‘new’ venues for exercise and nature. More pub meals ensued. The weather has varied from pleasant springlike to wintry storms. I spent one of those wet days in the Preston Harris Museum and Art Gallery, which gave me something to post about. 

    What will next week bring? I’ll be walking with my ears, the 14th of 52 ways*. Have we really reached the 14 th week of the year already? At least the clocks change this weekend, which usually sees me setting off on some multi-day walk or pilgrimage. I’m already plotting for when I’m released.

  • 52 Ways to Walk. The Surprising Science of Walking for Wellness and Joy. Annabel Streets. Bloomsbury Publishing. 2022.

 

ANOTHER WEEK DAWNS.

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I’m ticking off the weeks since my shoulder operation. The pain is subsiding. I saw the consultant, and he emphasised the need for my right arm in a sling for another month minimum. My brain is adapting to left-handedness, but there are so many occasions when you need two hands. I’m not complaining.

This week starts with a mixed forecast but mainly dry, allowing me to walk a few miles most days around the village. What of my 52 Ways to Walk book? I choose another week’s topic that fits my circumstances. Walk Within an Hour of Waking. Walk at Altitude, Walk by the Sea, Walk With a Dog, and others will have to wait.

  Those of you who know me will realise I’m not one for the crack of dawn, except when I’m away on a multiday trek. That slothful habit, combined with my present fitful sleeping, doesn’t bode well for the task ahead.  But I don’t need to be up at an unearthly hour – just walk within an hour of rising. That fits in perfectly with my first leisurely morning coffee.

  The purpose of this early walk is to stimulate your receptors with natural light at the start of the day. A quick burst of cortisol and serotonin prepares one for the day ahead. I’m all for that, especially at this time of year when feeling sluggish. For years, the importance of bright natural light in winter has been recognised as a way to combat SAD (Seasonal Affective Disorder), also known as the Winter Blues. (Symptoms: Low mood, lack of interest in hobbies, guilt, irritability, difficulty concentrating, craving carbohydrates, and oversleeping.) Recognise those? Somewhere, I have a ‘lightbox’ for therapy, but I always forget about it until about now. 

  Natural winter sunlight is what is needed. Hence, walking within an hour of waking, it doesn’t have to be a long walk, I aim to get back for my second coffee within half an hour. I’m feeling rather smug with my early morning walks, and probably more refreshed for the day ahead. Today, son number one visited to help out with transport. We had the chance later to drive up the fell for a glorious walk on the forest tracks, not a stile or ford in sight. A welcome change of scenery. Still no one-handed photographs, but I will leave you with this little number from 1966!

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.

NATURE IN MY LOUNGE.

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This morning, as I was preparing to write a short post on our peaceful walk with the dogs yesterday, a loud bang was followed by the sound of breaking glass. 

Coming downstairs, I found a Collared Dove panicking in a window of my lounge. I managed to hold and then release him or her out the front door. Looking around, I saw a hole smashed through a window at the back and a Sparrow Hawk perched on a ledge outside. There had obviously been a chase which ended up through my window. I hate to think what would have happened if the hawk had followed into the room. Suffice to say, there are no photographs of the birds, only of the hole in the window.

Fortunately, neither bird seemed any the worse for the encounter. I’m still picking up pieces of glass. I feel that my house and I are jinxed this year.

*

To go back to yesterday, my son and youngest grandson took a short, enjoyable walk from Brock Bottoms car park with the two dogs. We walked as far as the old mill, which is slowly being overtaken by vegetation. While we pottered around the mill ruins, the dogs enjoyed the river.

I treat them to a meal at the nearby Cross Keys, my grandson was somewhat outphased by the size of his pork ribs…

… but he is a growing lad.  The dogs had sausages. 

Meanwhile, back at home, my two little kittens were unconcerned about the dogs, and thankfully, the dogs were unconcerned about them. They are slowly taking over my home, as cats do. 

Each to their own.

Oscar on plastic bags in the kitchen.

Dusty taking a lounge cushion.

Let us out of here.

Life is never dull. 

PILGRIM’S PROGRESS. PART OF THE PORTWAY?

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Day 12. Bakewell to Winster.

For the next stretch of my ‘pilgrimage’, I’m booked into a B&B in Matlock. I won’t bore you with my travel logistics. These days, it is becoming more difficult to find accommodation in the smaller towns and villages. 

Where did merchants, drovers, and pilgrims, making lengthy journeys, stay overnight before the arrival of inns?  Before starting this walk, I had never heard of The Portway.

“There are several ‘portways’ in England, such as the route over the Long Mynd in Shropshire, but the Derbyshire Portway seems to be the longest and the best-researched. The route in Derbyshire was first suggested by Cockerton, a historian from Bakewell, in the 1930s, who based his idea of a long-distance route on a string of ‘port’ place names such as Alport and Alport Height, which can be linked together by existing tracks and paths. These place names are reinforced by references to a ‘Portwaye’ in some medieval documents and two Portway lead mines.  It seems clear that the word is Anglo-Saxon, and was applied by them to pre-existing, non-Roman routes.. A ‘port’ suggests a place of safety and shelter, so I think a portway was a long-distance route which had ‘ports’ for travellers at intervals of roughly ten miles. Sites where wayfarers could sleep, cook and graze their animals overnight. In Derbyshire, these are likely to have been on high ground for defence”

Stephen Bailey.  Old Roads of Derbyshire. 2019. 

An introduction from the book I’ve just been reading. Well, that adds another dimension to my walk. Again, like pilgrim routes, the portway is not defined precisely on any map, so my wanderings between significant Saxon religious sites can be combined with linking possible ‘ports’ together. They are likely to have had very similar routes.

I’m back in Bakewell for another four days ‘pilgrimaging’. As usual, I start the day with a coffee,  this time in the Graze café.

The church clock is striking 10 as I leave the hustle and bustle and start to climb steeply up Butts Road. They provide a handrail for the elderly,  and I make good use of it. At the top, there is a fresh breeze, so I’m hoping for cooler temperatures than of late. Alongside the cemetery, a gent is walking his dog. We stop to discuss the weather, and the conversation drifts to long-distance walking and eventually to climbing. He, in fact, moved here originally to be near the rocks. A pleasant interlude after the steep climb.

Suddenly, I’m out into rolling limestone country on a walled lane, and I feel I’m on an ancient route. A portway? Losing and gaining height as I go.

A short stretch on a road, and I spot the stile I’m looking out for. Pleased to be off the road, I enter a swaying sea of oats and, hopefully, by my passing, help to define the right of way. Skylarks are everywhere; it’s a glorious morning.

I reach the lane at Conksbury Bridge in Lathkill Dale. Across the way is the site of an abandoned Medieval village, but from here I can’t make out any features.

 Going down Lathkill Dale for a distance, I’m unable to access the stream. A man is picking raspberries from a particularly fertile patch, and I join him for a while. Last year, there was hardly any, but this summer is giving a bumper crop. Ice cream and fruit for him this evening.

Continuing downstream to Alport is an option, but I want to visit Youlgreave, it must be nearly 40 years since my two sons and I did a Limestone Loop around the Peak District, staying in YHAs. I remember the one in Youlgreave being at the top of a steep hill away from a river. My sons were convinced every youth hostel was at the top of a hill at the end of each day.

Youlgreave was mentioned in the Domesday Book. It increased in size in the late 18th century when lead mining prospered. It is now a magnet for visitors, thanks to narrow streets, interesting limestone properties, and charming cottages. The village street is hectic, far too narrow for the number of cars using it. 

All Saints Church dates back to the late 12th century, and I feel it would be best to dedicate a separate entry to my in-depth look around; otherwise, this post would become overly long. All I’ll mention here is a carving of a Norman traveller carrying his bag and shaft. Just like me.

The YHA is still here, looking as I remember it, but I don’t recall the cafe on the ground floor. Anyhow, I go in hoping for a pot of tea, but nobody is in a rush to serve me.

Wandering on, I reach the village fountain, which has an interesting history. A farmer’s daughter, a local spinster in her 70s. Hannah Bowman formed the Women’s Friendly Society of Youlgrave and had plans to bring water to the village. Previously, the villagers had to walk down to the valley for water. A 1,500-gallon capacity conduit was built in Youlgrave’s marketplace on the site of its ancient Saxon cross. At its opening in July 1829, the Derbyshire Courier voiced its approval: ‘The inhabitants of Youlgrave are rejoicing from at last having their anxious wishes realised by a salubrious spring of soft water being conducted to the village cross, where it now forms a beautiful radiated fountain discharging upwards of 10,000 gallons in 24 hours. The spring is as pellucid as crystal, almost equal in purity to distilled water. The cistern fills up overnight, and residents pay an annual charge of sixpence to use the splendid new facility”

It is still functional, owned and run by the villagers.

From the fountain, I take the lane down to the valley, where a clapper bridge spans the River Bradford. Lower down the river is proving popular with locals who, in this heatwave,  are enjoying paddling and swimming in the deeper pools created by the weirs.

By the lower clapper bridge I sit on a bench for a spot of early lunch before the climb out of the dale.

I’m not sure which way to navigate around Castle Ring at Harthill, marked by a red arrow above. The Bronze Age hill fort is on private land. This entire area, including nearby Stanton Moor, is characterised by numerous prehistoric circles and standing stones.

My choice is influenced by the fact that I’m now on the waymarked Limestone Way, last crossed in Miller’s Dale. So to the left we go, proving very pleasant in the shade provided by the stately beech trees.

I recognise the parking place on the road, which I’ve used many times for climbing at Cratcliffe. Despite being on the ‘Limestone Way’, this is gritstone country. Britain’s geology frequently baffles me. One of those stone circles can be seen by a tree in the fields below. Ahead are the twin rock pinnacles of Robin Hood’s Stride; the trees have grown since I was last here.

Let the Limestone Way wander on; I’m off to take a look at those climbs of old, and there is a Hermit’s cave to be found somewhere. There are voices in the trees. I’m hoping for some climbing action.  I get to enjoy some high-standard bouldering with friendly youngsters.

Everywhere seems overgrown as I try to find my way to the Hermit’s cave, but eventually, there it is. You can just make out the figure of Christ on the cross. 

https://derbyshireheritage.co.uk/curiosities/cratcliffe-hermitage/ gives a link to the Portway.

I peek around the corner at the imposing main crag. Did we really climb up there?

Below the rocks – everybody had a Hilary in their lives.

I find my way back to the Limestone Trail and begin the slow, now weary climb up Dudwood Lane, which is initially metalled, but soon becomes rough. 

Portaway Mine, presumably a lead mine, is marked on the map. 

One of those lovely stone squeeze stiles lead me into Winster through parkland..

There is a meeting of villagers in the church, St John the Baptist’s, so I won’t disturb them. The tower dates from 1721, and restorations to the body of the church were completed in 1885.

Today, the village is bedecked with bunting for its Wakes Week celebrations. I only have five minutes to spare before my bus.

“Lead mining, for which Winster was renowned, may have originated here in Roman times. The boom in mining from the late 17th century turned the village into a prosperous town, one of the largest in Derbyshire.

Historically, Winster was also a main crossing point for many roads and trackways, one of the most important being The Portway, an ancient trading route that passes close to the village. Salt routes from Cheshire came through the village, as did the main turnpike from Nottingham to Newhaven in later years.

With more than 70 listed buildings, Winster has one of the most impressive street scenes in Derbyshire, and the main street is an array of impressive buildings which merge with a jumble of cottages up the bank on the southern side. The Old Market Hall, which dates from the 17th century and is now owned by the National Trust, together with The Old Hall and Dower House, are particular highlights”

 I’m lucky to catch that bus as the roads have been closed for resurfacing until today.

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. 

A GENTLE RETURN.

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Out with, but not gone to, the dogs.

My son and partner visit from Manchester with their two dogs.

I keep the kittens locked in their large cage, but the dogs only sniff them in passing. I think it would be different if they were running loose. Anyhow, we are not in for long as we take the dogs for some exercise in the plantation up the fell.

The good weather continues, but I haven’t ventured much further than the garden. An hour’s weeding tires me out. My back is still very sore, so I’m unable to wear a rucksack — a reminder to take it easy. However, the chance to have a walk, no matter how short, is too good to miss.

The dogs know their way around the plantation and once in the open run themselves silly before cooling off in the stream.

We enjoy the dry paths, all the new greenery and the abundant bird song. There is always time for some tree hugging.

Hardly more than a mile, but invigorating for me to be out and about again. It’s good to be alive, a hackneyed phrase, but simple pleasures with the family are precious.

A sociable lunch and the family head home.

I head to bed almost straight away and sleep for 12 hours.

GARDENING LEAVE.

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After last week’s drama, my family have put me on ‘gardening leave’, with strict instructions not to go wandering in the hills or climbing at Craig Y. I’m happy to go along with that as I’m still tired, very bruised and stiff following my chair encounter and subsequent hospital stay.  I couldn’t shoulder a rucksack at present. And so much is happening in the garden at this time of year.

I’ll try not to step on a rake, put a fork through my foot or chop off any fingers.

Trust me to be laid up when the weather is set fair; ah, well, there will be more days like this, I hope, in summer.

And as a bonus, I have more time to watch the antics of Dusty and Oscar.

THE GARLIC SOUP THAT NEARLY KILLED ME. Part two.

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The outcome.

The fire brigade have done their bit, demolishing my back door to gain entry. (Might have been easier to force the Yale lock on the front door) They cut me out of the chair which had held me tight for eight or nine hours. The ambulance crew assess me, slightly hypothermic with a rapid pulse rate, bruising and swelling to my knees, hands and back. But I can stand gingerly, and I don’t think any bones are broken. A hot cup of tea is heaven.

You may remember I have recently adopted two new kittens. They are just getting used to my house and are loose in the kitchen when I fall.  There is no sign of them when the ambulance crew rescue me, perhaps they ran upstairs with all the banging. I ask the firemen to pop them into the cage with some food if they appear later. The firemen stay behind until a security firm makes the house safe. I’m off in the ambulance to Royal Preston Hospital again.

Casaulty is relatively quiet at 6.30 am on Easter Tuesday. I see the triage nurse quickly, and then go back into the waiting room in a wheelchair. An hour later, I’m wheeled into another nurse who takes blood and observations. Another hour in the waiting room before a doctor sees me. It’s difficult to tell who people are in the hospital these days, as they all wear almost standard uniforms. Back in the waiting room before a visit to the X-ray department. And so it goes on, all the essentials covered, but at a slow pace.

At some stage, I’m told I will be admitted to a ward, but at present, there are no beds. In the meantime, I have an intravenous drip set up. I prepare for a long wait in my wheelchair, but suddenly I am taken to a ward,  a bed becomes available, and I’m just lucky to be chosen for it. It is mid-afternoon by now.

The ward I am on is the Acute Frailty Unit. A succession of nurses and doctors deal with me. More blood is taken, and another IV infusion set up when the first one leaked in my arm. Their concern is the level of Creatinine Kinase in my blood. High CK levels are an indication of muscle damage, and after my trauma, my muscles are releasing loads of it. If it becomes too high, it can cause kidney damage. All the extra fluids are to speed the progress of its elimination.

This continues for four days until the levels of CK come down a little. My arms are becoming more and more bruised from the frequent blood tests and IV drips. A small price to pay.

The bruises and swelling behind the knees and on my hands and elbows lessen, but the large friction burn down my back, from rubbing against the chair seat, is very sore and oozing. It will take a few weeks to heal.  This makes it very difficult to sleep comfortably, especially when connected to a drip. The general noise on the ward I can cope with. ( I will spare you the gory photographs of the injuries) I am in much better shape than the other elderly men in the ward, who are frail.

More doctors visit me, and everyone is incredulous as to the circumstances of my injuries. All the staff are friendly and proficient, and I have nothing but praise for them. Even the meals are OK. But when may I go home?

Eventually, my bloods improve and I am discharged. I walk gingerly to my son’s car and head back to Longridge.

First of all, I have to report that the kittens didn’t stray and they are sitting in their cage to welcome me. In the intervening days, my son has been visiting them.

But what of the rest of the house? The back door, or where there had been a back door, has been boarded up securely. The surrounding plasterwork has suffered from the ‘break-in’ and there are bits of glass everywhere.

Outside are the remains of the door, showing signs of how difficult it had been to breach.

The offending kitchen bar stool is lying there and sends a shiver down my spine to think back to my imprisonment for over eight hours within it. I just made it out in time.

Getting comfortable with my skin damage is still a big problem, but my general mobility is improving quickly, especially as I now have more freedom to exercise. I’ll be down to the shops tomorrow.

Further lessons learnt.

Maybe buy tinned soup.

Check the house for trip hazards.

Consider an external key safe.

Consider a personal emergency button; there are several to choose from, all connecting to a call centre if needed. Perhaps it would be better to have one of the ‘clever’ watches that can make a call for you, as this could be used whilst on my outdoor activities, giving a greater range of security backup. I will look into the various options; my sons are already doing so.

Oh, for a quiet life.

THE GARLIC SOUP THAT NEARLY KILLED ME. Part One.

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A cathartic post. Self-indulgent, yes, but with lessons to be learnt.

Five am, and the fire brigade are bashing down my back door to gain entry for the ambulance men. I’m carted off to the hospital for the second time in less than three months.

*

It all began very pleasantly.

It’s that time of year again when the wild garlic proliferates in its shady spots. I know such a spot where dogs are less likely to have been. My two favourite recipes are garlic/potato soup and poached eggs on a bed of sautéed leaves. I spoke about them last year. I am again picking the fresh, young, aromatic leaves on Easter Monday.

Known as Ramsoms by country folk. The Latin name ursinum relates to ‘bear’ and refers to the fondness of the brown bear for the bulbs. Cows love to eat the leaves, hence another vernacular name of Cow’s Leek. Associated with bluebells, they are considered to be an ancient woodland indicator species. Today, the bluebells are just coming into bloom, a patchy blue rather than a carpet.

I enjoy my short walk by the river and come home with a carrier bag full of fresh leaves; they will go to nothing once cooked.

In the evening, I cook some potatoes and start washing the garlic leaves in the kitchen sink before transferring them to the soup pot. Yes, I probably am a little messy, and the kitchen tiles get their fair share of water. Turning around, I slip and try to grab the kitchen bar stool, but between us we crash to the floor. That would have been probably fine with a few bruises, except I somehow land upside down inside the wooden frame below the seat—a freak accident.

It dawns on me that, despite not initially injuring myself, I can’t get out of the frame. My torso is stuck even though I wriggle about and try to push with my arms. I can’t use my legs because they are wrapped around the bottom rung, with my feet unable to touch the ground. A sort of Chinese puzzle, think of a tortoise on its back. It is probably about 7 or 8 pm.

My first thought, obviously, is to phone for help, and that’s when the problems multiply. Where is the house phone? The handset is usually on the charger in the living room.  I have to get there. I start pushing the chair frame across the kitchen tiles,  with me inside it, using my hands and elbows. The first obstacle is the thick mat, which I somehow push out of the way. I pull on the kitchen table legs to help my slow progress, resulting in the table sliding across my path.

Reaching the door into the lounge, fortunately open, I realise that, going forward, I can’t negotiate the lip of the carpet door bar, mainly because I can’t use my feet to lift the chair legs. After laboriously spinning round and going backwards, my arms give enough lift to get the chair frame over and into the lounge. Spinning again, I push towards the phone socket but come up against the heavy leather settee. Some difficult shoving and pushing, mainly with my elbows, eventually gives me space to go past. I’m now in the dark and pulling the charger down to me, but no handset can be found.

That has taken over an hour and a half of exhausting work. It isn’t easy to relax my legs in their position, around a wooden rung which is biting into the backs of my knees. My spine is rubbing against the side of the seat, and it causes pain whenever I shuffle and try to push.

So I have to reverse the whole process and head back into the kitchen, where I hope the handset will be on the worktop. At least this time, I know how to negotiate the carpet strip. Thankfully, the handset is on the worktop and I struggle to dislodge it with the oven gloves from the cooker door. My relief is short-lived when I realise the phone’s battery is run down and useless.

Back I go, with increasing difficulty as I tire and become cold and dehydrated. My feet have become numb from a lack of blood supply.  I can’t give up, as I imagine slowly dying in this position, I’m at the end of my tether, but I manage to get the handset on the charger, and it comes to life. I have no idea what time it is.

After a few minutes, I dial for help. In the dark, it takes me some time to engage three nines in a row. Ambulance control answer, and I explain my predicament. A crew will be on its way, but there is a delay of up to one and a half hours. I tell them they will have to force entry as I can’t unlock the doors.

Wow, what a relief, I just have to hang on a little longer. I can’t move by now, and I am shivering with cold, so it seems an age before they arrive, though it was probably much less than an hour. Of course, they can’t gain access and have to phone the fire brigade for help. (There was some miscommunication along the way.) Speaking through the door, they tell me it is 05.00 am, no wonder I am cold. Luckily, the local fire brigade arrive within 15 minutes and, after some difficulty, break through the back door.

The ambulance crew try to lift me out of the chair, but I am firmly stuck, so I have to be cut out by the fire brigade. What a relief, I have been on the floor for nine or ten hours.

Lessons learnt so far.

Don’t pick wild garlic.

Be more careful on wet surfaces.

Have your phone handsets charged up.

Don’t leave the key in the lock – preventing a spare key from being used.

DOUBLE TROUBLE.

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Introducing Dusty and Oscar.

You will remember I lost Seth, my 16-year-old cat, earlier this year. My friend Crusher inherited some cats when he moved to a cottage in the hills, and since then, more kittens have arrived. I intended to maybe take a couple of his stock if his children allowed me. Being unable to drive for over two months put that on hold for practical reasons. However, this week, I have been signed off from the hospital.  The nerve damage to my hand has improved to the extent that I can resume driving, so I have taxed my car and am ready for the road again.

A while back, I sent my family a picture of the cats, and they were keen to advise me on which ones to choose. In anticipation of the new arrivals, I borrowed a cage to put in my kitchen. I intend to keep them secure for a week or so until they are used to me and the house. They will also need microchipping and immunising.

Friday.

I give Crusher a ring to see if they are at home. Yes, so I collect my cat basket and drive up. The feline population are sat around the yard, all very friendly. The children have developed strong attachments to most of the older cats, so I chose two of the younger ones: a male and a female. I think. Both are short-haired black kittens, the male with a white tuxedo and paws. Crusher’s children receive some money for their ‘piggy banks’, with the promise that they can come and visit anytime.
The two kittens are subdued by their transfer to Longridge but soon relax into their new shared bed, even though I provided one each.. They don’t seem interested in food; I will give them time to settle.

Saturday.

They seem pleased to see me in the morning.
They haven’t eaten much, so I visit Sainsbury’s around the corner for some of that addictive Sheba food. That does the trick, and they are soon tucking in. I phone the vets to arrange for them to be seen next week. The veterinary nurses are sad to hear of Seth’s passing but look forward to meeting the new kittens. I think they are about 9 months old and that the female has been neutered.

What are their names?  That puts me on the spot. They did have names from their previous home, but I didn’t register them in my mind. I have already decided to call the female Dusty because she is. And who didn’t like Dusty Springfield? (I visited her grave way back in 2018 whilst walking the Thames Path through Henley.) The male is a ‘tuxedo’ with a white chest and spats. My family had suggested Oscar, because you wear a tuxedo at the ceremony. Let’s go with that for the time being.

Sunday.

I’m around the house most of the day, so the two kittens have the freedom of the kitchen. Chasing balls under cupboards keeps them entertained. They enjoy exploring and, before long, find their way onto the table and worktops. As with all young animals, ‘playfighting’ goes on from time to time, but generally, they tolerate each other well. I’m not sure who is the dominant one. They are a little too fast for my phone camera.

They eat anything and everything now, take to the scratch tower and use the litter tray.

A busy day for them.

Monday. Back into the carrier for a trip to the vets who take to the new arrivals. Going from their weight, Grace thinks they may be a little younger than 9 months or more likely have not had their fair share of food amongst the other cats on the farm.

Dusty has been neutered, but Oscar will need dealing with later.

I had noticed earlier that they had the odd cough from time to time and mentioned this. Their chests are a bit wheezy, so perhaps they have a mild infection – hopefully not cat flu. Their vaccinations are delayed for two weeks until a dose of antibiotics and steroids has had time to work.

They both are chipped without any fuss.

I return home, a little poorer, but with the kittens still in good form, and it’s time for a little telly.

Let’s see what the coming weeks bring.

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. 

IT’S A DOG’S LIFE.

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I’m not really a dog person. As you know, I prefer cats. But here is a gentle video for a Sunday morning, courtesy of my daughter-in-law from the woods yesterday. Starring Gizmo and Phoebe.

Nothing happens, I’ve edited out all the human tree-hugging.

*

These quotations from notables can’t all be wrong.

“The dog lives for the day, the hour, even the moment.” – Robert Falcon Scott

“Every dog must have his day.” – Jonathan Swift

“You think dogs will not be in heaven? I tell you, they will be there long before any of us.” – Robert Louis Stevenson

“The dog is a gentleman; I hope to go to his heaven, not man’s.” – Mark Twain

“In times of joy, all of us wished we possessed a tail we could wag.” W.H. Auden

THREE IN A ROW.

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The weather holds, my hand is no better, but again, for the third day, I am lucky. My son and partner come up to see me. They bring their two boisterous dogs; there is no Seth to keep them under control this time. The answer is to take them for a walk when they arrive. So once again, I have a lift up to the fell and people to keep an eye on me if any problems arise. I hate to be fussed over, as I feel perfectly well. It’s just my hand that hangs uselessly from its wrist.Cowley Brook Plantation on the fell is our usual destination with the dogs.They seem to recognise it now after many visits, and once through the gate, they are off lead, chasing whatever scents they pick up. There are deer up here, possibly foxes and traces of other dogs to explore.Disappointing to see so many dog poo bags discarded in the first hundred yards. Time for a litter pick foray before things deteriorate and the morons think it the norm. I’m not sure when I will be able to get back up here as I can’t drive.It’s a cold, breezy morning with the wind moaning through the trees. Even more have come down since my last visit, and some are precariously lodged against others, not the safest place to be in a gale.Our usual round is giving the dogs a chance for some wild water swimming. Dogs don’t stay still for long for their portraits.

At least we have worn them out. Back home for some pasta and salad before the family heads to Manchester.I do appreciate all the well wishes and help I’ve received these last few days. Being able to walk up the Fell is so beneficial to me.

A PAUSE IN MY PEREGRINATIONS.

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There is a happy ending to this story.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This is how it would have looked 100 years ago.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I told you the story had a happy ending.

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

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

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

SETH.

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Seth has used up the last of his nine lives. He died peacefully a few days ago. As he has been mentioned several times in these pages, I am writing a little tribute.

I remember a previous cat, Arthur ( named long before the eponymous cat food), dying of feline leukaemia. He had not been vaccinated against it. That was back at the end of 2007. I had a few weeks in Egypt that winter, relevance later, and planned to walk the Haute Randonnée Pyrénéenne (HRP) from the Atlantic to the Mediterranean in the summer, having previously cancelled for a hernia operation. Knowing I would be away for long periods, I didn’t look for another cat.

I squeezed in a climbing trip to Valencia early in the year and then had some training for the HRP. The Pyrenees trip was exciting because of the late snowfall in June, but the pieman and I completed it, though not quite as planned; that’s another story.

Halfway across, I received a text telling me of my third grandchild’s arrival. He is a strapping 16 now. Another text arrived from Dor, my cat person. She had been visiting a friend’s farm, and Lily had just produced four delightful kittens. Knowing my catless state, she was excited and convinced I would take one of them on my return. I knew Lily as a beautiful, friendly cat; part Tabby, part Maine Coon, so I had high hopes for her kittens. Yes, I’m interested, was my reply, but I won’t be back for another month or so.

My first visit to the farm was when the kittens were about eight weeks old, but we couldn’t catch them in the woodpile. They did look cute, though, and I pointed out the one I preferred, an absolute ball of fluff. The plan was to return when the farmer had enticed the kittens into her porch. A few days later, I received the phone call and drove up with Dor and a cat basket in readiness.

Two of the kittens had already been taken by a local contractor to be used as ‘ratters’ in his premises. I wonder what sort of life they have had.

I was happy with my choice of kitten. Settled with a cup of tea and cake, the ladies then proceeded to convince me the two female kittens couldn’t be separated. I was ambushed, as was their plan. So, money was donated to a charity, and we drove home with the two kittens—my original choice of the fluffy one and the other wiser-looking one.

Naming the two of them was easy following my recent visit to Egypt, where cats have been given Godlike status.

BASTET is the Ancient Egyptian cat goddess associated with the home,  fertility, and childbirth. Thought also to protect against evil spirits. Probably the most famous of all the cat gods.  Images, in her most common form, depict the head of a cat and the body of a woman with an air of authority and disdain. That will be the fluffy one.

SEKHMET, a lesser-known Egyptian cat goddess. She was the goddess of war and would protect the pharaohs in battle. Like Bastet, she rode with the sun god Ra. Associated also with healing, she was the goddess Egyptians turned to when they needed to cure life’s problems. That will be the fierce one.

Not a bad pedigree for my two.

An appointment was made at the vet for a check-up, vaccination (this time including Leukaemia), and microchipping. The vet thought them both healthy, especially the lively male one. Oh! A quick change of sex and Sekhmet was renamed SETH on the spot. The name stuck.

They were both rendered infertile a few weeks later.

My cats have always had the freedom of the house and garden using a cat flap. I was keen to accustom Seth and B (as we now called her) to the surroundings without them running off. In the family album, I have found a picture of my grandchildren, J and S,  taking them around the garden on makeshift leashes. August 22 2008.
I have looked for earlier photographs, but my filing system is chaotic.

B and Seth became part of the household and tolerated each other rather than being bosom pals. They would spend as much time in the garden as possible in the better weather. But like all cats, they could sleep for hours by the radiator in Winter. They both had bells to warn the garden birds, but from the start, Seth was never interested in hunting; he didn’t have the patience to stay still before pouncing cat-like. It was B who would bring mice and rabbits into the kitchen.

October 2008  B and Seth.

We often visited A’s farm to update her on the kittens’s progress. Lily, their mother, always keen to hear the news. More kittens appeared.  Not long after, the lady farmer, unfortunately, died at a relatively young age. Her funeral was a fitting celebration of a lovely lady.

The farmhouse was left empty; her brother farmed the fields, but cats were low on his priorities. So what of the remaining kittens? Lily, the matriarch, had passed on. Each week, under Dor’s insistence, we would drive up with cat food for the abandoned kittens. They were wild and wouldn’t come to us; they would only take the food once we were back in the car. We left tins for the brother to feed the cats between our visits. As I said, we came weekly. One particular kitten always seemed to be pushed out by the others. We tried to offer her food in a different place, and she became more friendly.

Dor became attached to this kitten, whom we named Lily after her mother. As the weeks went on, the other kittens seemed to disperse. We were solely feeding Lily. She was understandably unkempt and thin. Why not adopt her?  Dor was all for kidnapping her on the spot. I felt it better to speak to the brother first. He was quite happy for us to look after her. Us? I thought Dor would take her, but she didn’t want the responsibility. That left me. Back with a cat box, which Lily happily entered. The next day, I took her to the vet, and they found she had a dislocated jaw, probably from a fight. The bill was rapidly rising.

Anyhow, she was introduced to her cousins, Seth and B, and all got along. I was now a three-cat family. Seth maintained his aloofness but was always the one to be stroked.

Here he is with the youngest grandson, A, in 2012 both aged three and a half. They do, after all, virtually share the same birthday.

Dor came often to interact with Lily. Somewhere, I have a photo of all three cats.

B and Seth 2014.

What went wrong? I can’t remember the year. I blame myself. As I said, they had the freedom of a catflap, but that was their undoing. Road works in Longridge diverted traffic past my house; what was once a quiet lane became a busy rat run. The inevitable happened: first, Lily and then B was run over. Seth, who didn’t venture far, thankfully survived. He becomes the king of the castle.

One day, he was unhappy, wouldn’t eat and seemed in pain. The vet diagnosed a jaw fracture with loss of teeth, possibly a brush with traffic or a fox. He survived but with ongoing eating difficulties—a near escape.

The years passed, they do seem to have merged into one. Seth was always there. He was waiting for me behind the door when he heard my car.  He became a firm favourite with my friends and family, who mostly liked cats. My local cattery welcomed him whenever I travelled abroad. His affectionate personality wooed several ladies who would regularly call in for coffee, not necessarily for my company, but to have the honour of Seth’s attention on their laps for an hour or so. He didn’t just rub up against you he licked you to death. The start of a legend.

 2018.

Around this time, Sept 2021. I am able to be more specific because I wrote a post about it. Seth didn’t return home for a couple of days. He bravely dragged himself back onto my bottom stairs one morning. He had dislocated one of his hips. The vet was brilliant in treating him. How many lives is that now?   Here, he is in his cage for 6 weeks after the operation.

Life drifts on for Seth and me. And then comes along Covid lockdown. He was so used to attention from visitors that he became visibly restless when none could come. Things slowly returned to normal, and Seth made even more fuss with visitors; he was particularly friendly with my cleaner on a Monday morning. She often brought him treats and didn’t like hoovering to disturb him if he was asleep in a room. He spent most of his time in the house, several favourite resting places picked randomly throughout the day.

One of his best, if the sun was shining, was on the car’s warm soft-top; up here, he also received the attention of passers-by.  He had to be physically removed if I was going out in the car. If the family were visiting, he always got in on the act. That’s those two grandchildren a decade later.

Around this time, one of my sons and his partner adopted two boisterous rescue dogs. When they visited, Seth just sat at the top of the stairs, daring them to come closer; they never did. He would happily trot downstairs the moment their car left the drive, secretly pleased with himself for remaining aloof.

Seth and all my other cats had gone to a trusted cattery for years until lockdown. The people running the cattery have been friends for all that time, and even when I wasn’t away, I kept in contact with them. They always asked after Seth and he received a Christmas card every year from them. I started going away on walking holidays again in 2021. So when I phoned to book him in, they were pleased to have him back, and I’m sure they gave him a lot of attention.  I don’t seem to have travelled far in 2022/23 for health reasons,  so I did not board Seth there. When I resumed last year, I obviously phoned them to book Seth in. They were somewhat embarrassed to say that a recent inspection by DEFRA  found their inner cages a few centimetres on the short side and had not renewed their license. What a daft decision; my cats had never complained. They are still appealing against this decision but couldn’t take Seth. I had to find another cattery. Fortunately, there was a local one with a good reputation, and Seth took to them with no difficulty on the few occasions he holidayed there. The last time I picked him up, the staff were keen for him to return; he had already become a favourite.

As I’ve said, he didn’t go out much as he aged; he was never a hunter. For years, he was the only cat at our end of the road, so he had no competitors. Slowly, housing has spread around us, and other cats have started appearing. One particular one, a fine-looking tom, visits regularly, as I think Seth had lost his territory. They would sit on either side of a window, hissing at each other. Worse, this other cat came into my house through the cat flap once or twice, and there was a proper standoff between them. I locked the catflap and started keeping Seth inside to avoid any stress. But I thought that was unfair to him, and the litter trays in my kitchen were not ideal. The obvious answer was to buy a fancy flap that only responded to Seth’s chip. He didn’t like this new gadget and just stayed in as before, but at least the other cat couldn’t come in. I do wonder how much the stress had affected him.

A week or so ago, he wasn’t eating much, which was not unusual for him. (In recent years, I had started buying him chicken pieces) When I picked him up, he winced with pain, so there was something amiss. He had never attempted to bite or scratch me all his life. He’d not been outside; hence, it was unlikely he was injured. A trip to the vet suggested an internal pathology or infection. Antibiotics made no difference, and he slowly deteriorated. The weekend, he was worse, and I was expecting to take him back to the vets on Monday to be euthanised as they were reluctant to operate. I gave him, rightly or wrongly, small doses of paracetamol to make him comfortable. He died in the night.

A legend indeed.

I GET MISTY.

19 Replies

I write this in front of a roaring log fire after three dull and damp post-Christmas days. Listening to cool jazz on my new CD  Player, I’m old-fashioned, I know. I am also trying to work out the intricacies of my ‘new’ camera, a present from one of my sons who has more cameras than sense.

*

It was a misty Boxing Day walk with the family on Turn Moss, Chorlton. Turn Moss is a recreational area in Stretford, a green gateway to the Mersey Valley: water meadows, woodlands, ponds, brooks and ditches—a great place to explore and walk the dogs.

Chorlton Brook.

 

Turn Moss.

River Mersey.

Yesterday was worse. Misty from the word go. I eventually braved the damp and drove up to the fell. I was surprised at the number of cars parked up on Jeffrey Hill, considering there was no view. The sun just couldn’t break through.

I couldn’t face the mud on those tracks, so I settled for a short circuit of Cowley Brook Plantation lower down the fell. This is my go-to place for some quick exercise, surrounded by nature, for my well-being.  I am the only one in there. I take photos as part of my year’s monthly observations, almost like a time-lapse sequence. I need to get January to complete the cycle.

The spider webs hold water droplets from the air as well as the pine needles..

I love this tree stump on my round.

More pine trees from the plantation are down since the last storms; some uprooted, and some simply snapped. I wonder if the original plantation will slowly dwindle in my lifetime. Today, as the anticyclonic gloom persists, I am happy to walk from home. Up Mile Lane and through the village.

‘Mile Lane’

And from 1969, clinging from a cloud…