Category Archives: Flora and Fauna.

A PICNIC ON GRINDLETON FELL.

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I have been walking uphill continuously for an hour and a half: about three miles and a thousand feet, but I’ve arrived at a flat stone at the edge of the woods for my picnic. I know about this stone from previous visits. Once seated, I can enjoy my sandwich and coffee with the perfect view of Pendle across the Ribble Valley. A kestrel hovers in front of me and a peregrine glides past; I hear jays in the woodland.

I’m halfway through a walk selected from Cicerone’s excellent 15 Short Walks in the Ribble Valley. I think I have covered most of these over the years. Why didn’t I think to write them up, way back when? Well done, Mark Sutcliffe,

https://www.cicerone.co.uk/short-walks

This week, I seem to be short of the mojo for anything more ambitious, so I am only too pleased to follow route No. 13 Grindelton Fell and the Pine Woods, described as challenging. I’ve probably used some of these paths before, but not necessarily in the same order, as Eric Morecambe used to say. In fact, I know I have, previously being hopelessly lost in these very woods. Pinewoods is not entirely accurate, as only a few pines are standing; most are commercial spruces.

The day broke fine, with the possibility of warm sunshine —a bonus as we move into Autumn, time to get stirring and pack a picnic. For a walk of four miles or so I won’t bother with refreshments, but for anything longer I will bring a drink and something to eat. So today it is a picnic, of sorts. I’m linking this into one of my never-ending 52 Ways to Walk series, Walk with a picnic. The author suggests carrying a picnic hamper for a different muscular challenge. Forget the basket and napkins; mine is in the rucksack, an easier option.

I’d parked in the village near the two pubs that used to be The Duke of York and The Buck Inn. The former is now becoming a private residence, and the latter has been reinvented as a gastropub, The Rum Fox.  Grindleton has a main street of stone houses leading out into the fells. Lots of side terraces and little ginnels are included in a trail marked by beehives. Apparently, the village was once renowned for its honey and jams from its orchards.

Steep climb out of the village…

…until Whitehall Lane is reached. After all that climbing, you descend to cross Grindleton Brook, then climb again across the valley.

Time to stop and look across to Pendle…

…and to focus on the insect life in the ivy. The lane leads to White Hall itself with its imposing frontage.

A bridleway continues up the fell.

The views keep opening up over the Ribble Valley.

That last photo reminds me of a bike packing trip with one of my sons; we camped down in that valley below the ruins of Simpshey. Longridge Fell in the background.

I reach the tarmacked road, where I could have easily parked. It seems popular with dog walkers who use this road and the adjacent paths.

The steady gradient continues along the edge of the trees, and the track roughens. 

Before the forest arrived, simple farmsteads stood up here; they are marked on the old maps, and you can still make out the ruins of some.

At last, the trail is heading onto the rough moorland…

…and I can see my picnic stone. Lunch over the second half of the walk takes on another aspect – walking through the dense forest. There are many tracks in the woods, many going nowhere, so I need to find the right one as I enter the trees.  A trod goes through the dying bracken in that rectangular open area between plantations. It leads me straight to the forest gate without difficulty.

Well, that is easy. But the way through the trees isn’t the broad forest track I expected. It is a slippery, stony path weaving down a steep slope. It would be better to ascend than descend – or is that just me not so sure of my balance these days?  I follow it carefully.

A Silver Birch lights up the forest.

At last, my wayward path merges into a wider track between old walls. I can’t get lost now.

Out of the corner of my eye, I spot some ears in the air 30 yards away – I only just manage to get a shot before they disappear.

The watery track leads on through the dense trees with the occasional glimpse of the outside world.

Then I abruptly emerge from the woods back onto that tarmacked road. Looking back up it, I can make out the transmitter tower on neighbouring Waddington Fell.

After a pleasant stroll of about a mile down the quiet road, I am back in Grindleton.

That seemed quite a long short walk, but very enjoyable.

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YORKSHIRE TRILOGY. Day three.

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Otley to Ilkley. Rural rambling.

The sun is shining through my window first thing, and up there is yesterday’s Chevin.  A yoghurt and banana, and I’m away early, for me.

The Wharfe at Otley is very attractive; there appear to be boats for hire. A sculpture representing an original Wharfedale printing press, commissioned to commemorate the Queen’s Diamond Jubilee, is an homage to Wharfedale’s printing history. 

I could happily live here next to the river.

It’s time to get on my way, and I follow Welcome Way roundels on little paths through housing estates to start with. I hesitate to say the waymarks were welcome.

Evidence suggests this was an ancient way.

Once out in the open fields, a sunken lane becomes obvious, at least to me.


 

Of course, as I gain height, I stop to take photos of Otley and its Chevin in the background.

The morning is fresh and vibrant with bird song, mainly from crows hidden in the trees. I try to record a video of the distinctive countryside sounds, but the wind noise always interferes, as usual, on the phone.

I come into Clifton, an unspoilt hamlet of characterful gritstone farms and cottages. If this were in the Cotswolds, it would be inundated with tourists. Today I am the only one.

Back in the fields, I traverse the hillsides, with the bulk of Ilkley Moor always on the horizon above the town. I can even pick out the Cow and Calf rocks, towards the left on the photo below.


The way through the farms is well signed, which helps a lot.

I deviate from the Welcome Way to visit Askwith, thinking it would be on a par with Clifton; it wasn’t quite. But on the way, I have a curious incident when a whole herd of cows crosses the lane, closed off only by a piece of string, with no sign of a farmer. Perhaps they do this every day.

One dwelling in the village is named Sundial House. Along with the sundial, it has one of those round windows common in older houses in this area.

This sign had me baffled…

However, the village has a pub: The Penny Bun. Coffee time beckons. The former Asquith Arms has been reimagined and renamed as a restaurant and boutique inn. It certainly is very smart inside, clean and open.

I walk up a quiet lane to get me back on route. Curiously, there are regular offerings of green dog poo bags, enough to suggest the same person walks their dog or dogs daily and has no respect for the countryside. I looked it up online; here is the information some dog owners need to know.

  • Certified Compostable (Plant-Based): Brands like The Green Poop Bag or maize-starch alternatives are made from renewable plants. They safely break down into natural elements, but only under specific warm, microbial composting conditions (either home or industrial).

  • Oxo-Degradable / Generic “Eco” Plastic: Many cheap green plastic bags use chemical additives to make them snap apart. These do not truly biodegrade; they just shatter into harmful microplastics that linger in the soil. Back on track….

… I come across a local lady collecting crab apples. We pass the time of day, and at some point I mention the green poo bags. Yes, she and others are annoyed about it and are trying to track down the perpetrator!

Further up her farm track, I spy a seat for my lunch break. An ideal spot in the sunshine with views across Wharfedale.

While I’m enjoying the rest and the views, the lady I met harvesting apples comes up to greet me again and explains how happy she is that I am using the seat. It is a memorial to her partner who died last year. You can read it on the bench. I’m humbled.

Moving on, the route weaves through woods and fields; I suspect this is pheasant-killing territory. But it gives good walking on what is probably an ancient way,

Eventually I come out onto a lane leading down to Denton, another small hamlet north of the Wharfe.

What’s this?

The font of all knowledge offers this…
The Denton Village Fountain Stone
This unusual stone structure looks a bit like an organic, oddly shaped pillar or an abstract monument. Historic England records suggest it was originally designed as a Victorian fountain. It sits directly atop an ancient well that once provided water to the village. Because it has weathered significantly over the years and no longer functions as a typical water feature, it frequently puzzles hikers passing through the Wharfe valley.
At the main road, I survey the stepping stones across the Wharfe; some appear to be missing in the middle. In the past, I would have set off across without a thought, But, but now I hesitate; my balance isn’t what it used to be, so I opt for the easy option along the road to the bridge. The blokes in the river were doing an environmental survey.

The iron bridge takes me over into Ilkley’s parks and an easy walk into town.

When I arrived here three days ago, the church was closed; I wanted to see the Saxon crosses inside, and now I have that opportunity. 

The stone crosses from the 9th century were found nearby and placed in the cemetery, but were more recently moved inside to protect them from pollution. 

It is thought they were originally painted for greater effect. How they might have looked….

I come in to look at the Saxon stones but notice an exquisite stained glass window – possibly from Morris. The colours matching those medieval ones.

So my simple Yorkshire trilogy walk is complete. I hope you have enjoyed it.

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A YORKSHIRE TRILOGY. Day two.

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Shipley to Otley, over The Chevin.

I’m on the towpath of the Leeds-Liverpool Canal within seconds from the Travelodge.  It is busy with people heading to work or school. At first, it’s all industrial decay, but then new apartments have sprung up, and soon the countryside comes into view.  At some point, I leave the canal and cross the River Aire by a wrought-iron bridge.

Some squeeze stiles give access to a riverside path.

But it doesn’t feel right, completely overgrown. I escape in time onto the newer path, which comes out into fields heading for Esholt. 

Esholt is a cluster of houses and cottages around a pub. 

Originally called The Commercial Inn, the building was renamed The Woolpack after it was chosen as a filming location for the soap opera, Emmerdale. It served as a location from 1976 until 1997, when production moved to a purpose-built replica set on the Harewood Estate.

I find a little path heading up into the woods. Indicated by a Welcome Way marker, the first I have seen, as yesterday I was doing my own thing. For the rest of the day, these markers were a welcome help in navigating through the woods and fields. 

These beech woods are a delight, with the path meandering through the trees; a hushed silence hangs over the place.

But there are indications that this was once a cobbled carriage way through the estate.

Maybe this is a clue as I navigate my way into Guiseley.

I arrive at St. Oswald’s parish church.

The churchyard has many ornate tombs and two open stone coffins dating back to Medieval times. 

Inside, local ladies are arranging flowers for the harvest festival.

I spot what looks like a decorated Saxon cross.

Round the corner is a little cafe 

Time for a toasted tea cake and a sit-down. I haven’t found anywhere to stay tonight in Otley as yet. The one hotel room is £150, which I’m not prepared to pay. I may catch a bus into Leeds for cheap accommodation. Scrolling on my phone for options, I see the price of the Otley one has more than halved for tonight, so I book it there and then. Hotel prices in Britain have become a joke; see Alan’s comment a couple of days ago.

Where my path leaves the town, there appears to be a series of strip fields enclosed by walls.


The path wanders slowly uphill between horse pastures, with broadening views over Airedale and much of Yorkshire beyond.

A cobbled lane runs straight up the hillside towards The Chevin. I can now pick out the tall transmitter tower on Emley Moor, which I passed on my Dearne walk a couple of years ago. It must be 20 miles away.

I don’t know who planned this walk, but for the second day running I walk straight into a pub’s car park, this time The Royalty, an independent inn high on the road that crosses The Chevin. I have time for a Wharfedale Pale Ale.

A few yards and I’m at Surprise View on the top of The Chevin, now looking back into Wharfedale. This is a popular spot on a clear day, with many benches lined up for views over Otley. I’m pleased to pick out the “Wart of Wharfedale”, the prominent gritstone crag of Almscliffe, where I have had many a bloody battle. Sandy tracks wind down through the woods.

Is my way off the moor into town blocked? I walk on past the offending wall, which is covered in ivy, giving the wasps and bees some late succour. The greenery is alive with the buzzing insects.

Safely into town. Like Ilkley, Otley is stone-built and prosperous. But the traffic is horrendous.

My room at The Horse and Farriers is not ready, so I dump my sack and wander back into town. Just around the corner is a prominent building which turns out to be the birthplace of Thomas Chippendale in 1718. He started woodworking in his family’s Otley business before moving to London and becoming the celebrated cabinetmaker. And there in the grounds is a statue of him.

The shops are all busy; it’s market day. The prominent Jubilee Clock Tower stands in the market square on the site of a market cross. “The inhabitants of the town were exercising their minds to find some suitable and lasting method of marking the Queen’s Jubilee”, 1887. 

I head to All Saints Parish Church, almost hidden in the trees.

Some obvious memorials are on display. 

But I have come to see the carved Anglo/Saxon crosses dating from the  8th- 10th centuries.  The earliest parts of the current church date to the 11th century. The cross remnants are in a glass case and are difficult to photograph.

The same for the Dragon carving.

Parish Church Records.

On the edge of the church grounds is the unusual and unique Navvies Memorial. A miniature replica of the crenellated Gothic-style northern portal of the nearby Bramhope Tunnel: dedicated to the 23 manual labourers who died building the local railways.

That’s just about it for Otley tonight; I buy some food in the supermarket to eat in my room rather than face the noisy bar and rubbish fare. 

Another great day. 

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A YORKSHIRE TRILOGY. Day one.

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Ilkley to Shipley, bah t’at.

What a day. Perfect weather, fabulous views, good conversations, a lunchtime pint, a Hockney exhibition, and a ‘Bradford’ curry at night.

We start in the bustling upmarket town of Ilkley. It is a simple matter of walking uphill from the centre. I stop to buy a pie from an artisan butcher, but I am not tempted by all the coffee shops,  outdoor pursuits outlets, or even bookshops. This is a prosperous place.

Leaving the shops, follow your nose uphill on a wide boulevard flanked by substantial residences. At one point, I enter a path alongside a ghyll in the centre of the road.  How lovely, greenery and water.

I reach the edge of town after 300 feet of climbing,  a seat to eat my breakfast pie. Then it is straight onto the moor. The often stepped path offers no let-up. I stop to talk to a lady exercising her dog. She is admiring the view. We exchange pleasantries and move on, only to re-engage at the next viewing (get-your-breath-back) break in the path. We are both revelling in the warmth and clarity of the day.

After several of these stops, our conversation shifts. She is visiting her mother, and I explain my three-day route. Further on, as the views over Ilkley improve, I mention I’m struggling to find accommodation in Otley for Friday night, or rather, I won’t pay £150 for a room. She generously offers to put me in contact with a friend who lives there and would probably be amenable to providing a room for the night. I exchange phone numbers in case that could become necessary.

A little further up is White Well Spring bathing house. Unfortunately, it is not open today until the flag is flying. All very quaint. T’internet comes up with this.

I wonder – is this an old cross base close to the well?

 

My new friend disappears to visit her mother, and I fall in step with a couple from Selby as they do a modest circuit of the moor for the first time. It’s one of those days when everyone is in an ebullient mood.

Distinct paths weave around through the bracken and heather. We seem to choose one of the steeper ones, gaining height above Rocky Valley. I remember traversing this area looking for one of the Stanza Stones curiously located in a stream. I don’t bother to look for it today.

There is more halting to look back.

People are everywhere, strolling, walking dogs, and jogging. I envy the younger runners striding through this expansive landscape.

The path passes a few ancient waymarkers or boundary stones. This must have been an important trading route between valleys.

I arrive at a familiar place, the Twelve Apostles, a stone circle with, you’ve guessed it, 12 outer stones.

Turning my back on Wharfedale, I start my slow and long descent into Airedale. A Red Kite glides overhead, and there are frequent cries of ‘go back, go back’ from the resident grouse.

I come to a road, and opposite is a pub. Dick Hudson’s a famous hostelry, dating back to the 17th century, originally the Fleece,  on the packhorse route from Ilkley to Bingley. One couldn’t walk past it without paying one’s respects to history with a pint of Leeds Pale –  “light, hoppy and deeply refreshing”.

Down through what I call horsey fields, I have been following the Dales Way Link without realising it; this is the first obvious sign. I don’t think I have used the Welcome Way at all.

Reaching the top end of Shipley Glen. I choose the east side, hoping to spot some of the gritstone boulders I have played around on in the past. The sandy track winds through the dying bracken, a little too close to the road. I don’t think there is a track by the stream at the base of the glen. All looks very overgrown below.

I drag myself away from the rocks and enter the woods.

The track brings me out into a housing estate, and I’m soon by the River Aire. A well-used path follows it through fields and a park to the bridge at Salt’s Mill.

 

Fortuitous timing, considering all my dallying, gives me an hour before the Mill exhibitions close. I skip the first two floors and head up to the latest David Hockney installations. ‘New looking fresh pictures of a very beautiful world.’

A six-screen view of his iPad brushstrokes, “10th – 22nd June 2021, Water Lilies in the Pond with Pots of Flowers.”

 

Twenty Flowers for 2025. “This is photographic but is in no way an ordinary photograph”

And a nine-screen video of Woldgate Woods, 2010.

A few more Hockney paintings on display on the ground floor. 

I only have to stroll down the canal towpath to reach my bed for the night at the Travelodge.You know what you are getting: at a fair price.

I go out early in search of a curry. Several restaurants are close by;  I choose the least glamorous one, on the basis that the more they spend on trendy decor, the less attention they pay to the cooking. My plain cafe-style restaurant proves a good choice and is very popular with the locals – they are turning customers away as the evening progresses. There is something very comforting about two bowls, one mixed veg and the other tarka dahl, and chapatis. ‘Bradford’ curries have a different and distinctive flavour to my usual ‘Blackburn’ fare.

I sleep well. 

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A YORKSHIRE TRILOGY.

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Ilkley to Shipley to Otley.

I have been trying to get away for a few days all summer and not succeeded for various reasons. Now is a chance and the forecast is good.  I’ve had a circular walk in Yorkshire in mind for some time.

My walk loosely follows some of The Welcome Way, a route devised to link Otley, Burley, Bingley and Baildon. These towns have declared themselves Walkers Are Welcome communities to promote walking in the area. For some reason, Ilkley was omitted from the route, although it passes very close by. I have adapted the route to create a more logical, rural three-day itinerary for my purposes not actually visiting Bingley or Burley.

I will use other LDWs: the Dales High Way, Dales Way Links, and The Airedale Way on my Ilkley – Shipley – Otley – Ilkley circuit.

Suitable overnight accommodation is booked for the first night along the route, Travel Lodge Shipley. When I see the prices of the second night in Otley, I am not sure how welcome walkers really are, I’m holding back booking, something will turn up.

As  I will be carrying all my needs with me, why not include this in my 52 Ways of Walking challenge? Walk with a pack. Now I know I am not backpacking in the sense of carrying a tent, sleeping bag and cooking  equipment.  I’ve had a lifetime enjoyment from that style of walking, now I prefer to travel lighter and have a room at the end of the day. But I am carrying a pack heavier than my normal load.

My route should be varied with moorland,  countryside, woods, and urban canals.

I plan to catch a bus from Skipton to Ilkley for the start,  see you there.

YET ANOTHER PAIR OF BOOTS.

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Snapshots – two days in September. 

Not many of you will remember the days when you bought expensive, quality leather boots, maybe Robert Lawrie’s or G. T. Hawkins. Heavy boots, with red laces and thick, screwed-on rigid Vibram soles that would take crampons and could be repaired ad infinitum. The downside was they needed ‘breaking in ‘ to let the boot’s stiff leather accommodate to your foot’s peculiarities. The accepted shortcut was to put on the new boots and, at the start of the day, find a stream or deep puddle and fully immerse them with your feet inside, then do 20 miles ignoring the pain and probable blisters. After that, you hoped the leather would match your feet.

Then, in the late 70s, Brasher Boots arrived: innovative, lightweight, waterproof, and comfortable straight out of the box. We realised that for most year-round walking in GB, we didn’t need mountaineering boots. In continental Europe, with drier weather, people had used lightweight boots for years. In contrast, true mountaineering boots evolved into rigid plastic shells that took crampons without cutting off your foot’s circulation.

So, for me, I’ve mostly made do with lightweight boots or even shoes for decades of walking around the world. The last time I used my 12-point crampons was on some steep ice on Helvellyn; wearing leather boots, my feet were frozen for the rest of the day. On non-technical alpine trekking routes, I found that microspikes were just about sufficient for those icy north cols. ‘Just about sufficient’ did lead to some hairy moments, but I’m still alive.

I’ve lost count of the lightweight boots I have worn out. I wore one pair out halfway across our tough trans-Pyrenees trek. Over the years, I’ve tried different brands, sticking with each for a few seasons.  I’ve bought my ever-lighter boots from this online outlet.

I’ve recently been impressed with Helly Hansen’s lightweight boots, and when I see a bargain, I don’t hesitate to buy: £50 rather than £ 100 or more, knowing my size will work without the hassle of returns.

After last week’s walk with the Rockman, I noticed the sole of the right boot coming away at the front. In any case, I’d already worn a lot of the tread off the boots. Time to retire them; I’ve already got plenty of ‘gardening boots’ – so in the bin they went. And time to fish out the pre-purchased identical pair from under my bed.

I’ve been planning a short backpacking trip in Yorkshire for some time. Ilkley to Shipley to Otley to Ilkley. Under ten miles a day, but including some climbing over high moorland. I’ve aborted the trip a couple of times on medical grounds, basically too many hospital appointments. Now this week’s forecast looks good, and I’ve reignited JD’s interest. Nothing is set in stone yet, but I need to do some mileage to make sure I’m fit enough to set off for three days of walking. And now I have the added challenge of new boots.

Day 1.  Longridge Fell Roads. 4.5 miles.

A straightforward walk of about five miles almost exclusively on quiet, familiar roads: I stride out with purpose. The day is nondescript weather-wise, but it suits my moderate training needs. I’m focused on the hedgerow plants and trees when I first notice pain in my left big toe.  Worse going downhill; it’s obvious the boot is rubbing. I don’t have any plasters with me; it’s just a short local walk after all. So I bear the discomfort and inwardly curse myself for being unprepared.  By the time I reach home, I have a sizeable sore; the blister has burst, leaving raw flesh. Great! That’s all I need for my Yorkshire preparation. I am too embarrassed to mention it to JD.

The road up the fell.

Bad cornering – hope they were OK.

Bowland Hills across Chipping Vale.

Day 2.  Bleasdale circuit.  7 miles.

The next day, undeterred, I need to increase my mileage, so I apply a plaster to the injury and set off on this longer walk.  Bleasdale is a gem, surrounded by the Bowland Fells, yet a world of its own, with scattered farms all part of the Bleasdale Estate centred on Bleasdale Towers. I decide on the extended circuit today, following the estate roads over towards Oakenclough at Stang Yule. I meet only one couple out exercising their dogs: a couple of Fox Terriers and a Lakeland Terrier. As time goes on, I start noticing discomfort in that left big toe again.

Reaching the road heading down, I can’t find anywhere to stop for a break, so I keep walking. At last, a stone stile gives me a seat to have some lunch and to apply an extra layer of plaster. That does the trick, and I finish off the road walk past all those lovely beech hedges.

Bleasdale.

This way to Bleasdale.
Good for them.

 

St. Eadmer.  

Start of the road walking. 

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 I daren’t look at my wound, so I have left the plasters on until it has hopefully healed a little before heading to Yorkshire. Some Compeed may be needed. As for the boot, I have stuffed a cricket ball deep into it to try and stretch the uppers.

 

 

 

ON THE STRAIGHT AND NARROW AGAIN.

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Longridge to Bolton.   One. To the Ribble at Alston. 

I’m at it again, joining places with a straight line. In the past, I have walked from my house to Sir Hugh’s in Arnside, from my house to the Pieman’s house in Skipton and a grander straight line from Blackpool to Aldborough on the east coast. I’ve written about these walks on here; if you care to search, I’ll add the links at the end of this post.

The idea came from Nicholas Crane’s Two Degrees West, in which he describes his walk in a straight line from Berwick-upon-Tweed to the Dorset coast, staying as close as physically possible to the 2 degrees west line of longitude. A book worth seeking out.

The challenge on the walks we completed was to stay within a kilometre either side of the drawn straight line. We accomplished this with very few transgressions.

I travelled with the Rockman, an old climbing friend in both senses of the word, to the funeral of a walking pal in Derbyshire the other week. On the way back, in a reflective mood, no doubt, we discussed the need to meet up more regularly for social walks. He lives in Bolton, so why not link our homes with one of those straight lines and try and walk it as closely as possible.

Today we make a start. To avoid backtracking, we need to employ the ‘two-car method’: one car driven to either end, which can involve some complicated logistics. Finding parking places can be challenging. The first important principle is to make sure each driver has their car keys on hand for when they reach the farthest car. A simple mistake is to leave your keys safely back in the other person’s car; think about it.

We rendezvous and drive to the bottom of Alston Lane, where I leave my car. We drive back to the start, my house, in the Rockman’s car and after some faffing with waterproofs, rain is in the air, set off to walk as close as possible to that straight line plotted on the map. We have an advantage today, as the footpaths are all well known to me.  I try to avoid busy roads whenever possible, even if that takes us a little away from the line.

There is a way through the new housing development; Oyster Catcher Drive leads us on a rather convoluted but virtually traffic-free route. Fauna Drive – they have killed all the fauna!  We come out at our local Aldi.

After crossing the main road, we head down the pleasant Green Nook Lane, header photo, and are surrounded by fields. Crossing the Mardale football pitches, a gate leads into fields and a dodgy bridge onto a concrete track. We have almost escaped from Longridge.

Housing estates are creeping into the countryside, but Alston Grange estate has left aside some land for recreation; possibly it wasn’t suitable for development, but that is the cynic in me talking. But it means we can walk along footpaths to cross the busy Preston Road and into Pinfold Lane. Yes, there had been a Pinfold here in the past. But of more interest now is the ancient cross base in the adjoining field. The Rockman points out a small stone with a benchmark which I’d not spotted before.

We don’t waste much time in the bird hides overlooking the redundant reservoir. We pass a few renovated farms, one of them belonging to a friend, but there is no sign of life, so we pass on a possible coffee stop. We need to get a move on anyhow- it’s going to rain by one. Open fields give murky views across to Pendle and ahead over the Ribble Valley to the West Lancs moors.

Some farm lanes are used to progress until I locate the gate that takes us through what is a private garden to an empty farmhouse. I’m telling the Rockman of the farmers who use the adjacent land when the Wellington-clad woman wanders off into a field to tend her sheep. A scene from the past.

It’s muddy going through the next few fields; it always is, and I have difficulty  finding some of the stiles for onward progress. We find them awkward to cross; our limbs are not as flexible as before, but it gives me some photo opportunities.

The lower end of Alston Lane drops towards the river past some sympathetically restored stone properties, and then there is this – how did they get planning permission? And I’m not jealous.

There is a sign of autumn in the trees.

We walk the final few yards towards the River Ribble, where there is an old ford crossing to Balderstone Hall. Friends have crossed here before, but perhaps when the water was lower.

We are content to look across to where we will continue our adventure next time.

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Today’s map.

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Due to some technical problems and my ineptitude, I may have lost some comments from a previous version of this post. Sorry in advance.

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Links to previous straight line walks are here.

THE WAY OF THE CROW. LONGRIDGE TO ARNSIDE.

SKIPTON TO LONGRIDGE 1 – another straight line.

NORTHING 438. COAST TO COAST.

 

 

WOODLAND GREENERY, GRIZEDALE.

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Why we need trees?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Field paths take me back to the car park.

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

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

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

NICKY NOOK.

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The Nook and Leafy Grizedale.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A short but sweet walk in good company.

St. Peter’s starting time.

Giant Polypore.

New Kid on the Block.

Steep steps.  

Grizedale.

Grizedale Reservoir and lots more trees.     

More Beech trees!    

A mast year.  

Creeping roots.  

I DO LIKE TO BE BESIDE THE SEASIDE.

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The Mythic Coast.

Blackpool has switched on its illuminations, boosting tourism for a few more months. But I’m not here for the lights; I’m here for a bracing walk beside the sea. In the past, I often cycled the Fylde Coast and have written about it here many times. I can’t believe it is two and a half years since my last visit.  Today I’m motivated by yet another chapter in that 52 Ways to Walk book, Walk Beside the Sea. Not that I need much motivation to return to one of my favourite stretches on the Fylde.

The book promises:  “the sound of surf and breaking waves are deeply restorative, while reflections pique and engage our brain, and the fractal patterns of shells and waves soothe our frazzled minds” Sounds good.

I check the tide timetables as I hope to walk out onto the beach, unencumbered by my cycle, to examine some of the artworks described in that last post from here.  High 10:38;  Low 17:13.  Cleveleys. So the afternoon should work out well. Now to check the bus times from Cleveleys back to Fleetwood. The number 5 runs every half hour.

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I park up at about two o’clock, on the front in Fleetwood near the Knott End ferry terminus and RNLI station. It’s obvious, judging from the views across Morecambe Bay,  that the day is going to be crystal clear.

Even though I’ve previously highlighted several memorials and statues to lives lost at sea at this end of the promenade, I find myself revisiting them, as they are so poignant even to a hardened soul like myself. The shoal of fish lead me to the ‘Welcome Home’ statue.

I walk along the soft sands for a while; the sea looks so far away across the sandbanks exposed at low tide, but these are dangerous places when the tide comes in; many people have been cut off and rescued by the RNLI volunteers. They have had some unexpected and adverse critical reactions recently related to asylum seekers, but where would we be without them? The RNLI is the charity that saves lives at sea above all others.

Back on the promenade, I make good progress but keep stopping to photograph Black Combe and the Lake District across the bay.  A cargo ship is heading out from Heysham. 

The stretch to Rossall School seems to go on forever. The concrete panelling, part of the sea defences,  is relieved by panels depicting episodes from The Sea Swallow, a beautiful illustrated book by Gareth Thomson based on a folklore story of the Wyre Mythic Coast, of which more later.

The promenade sweeps onwards. My attention is divided between the panorama out to sea and the graceful seawall with its occasional artworks.

Tall installations represent local flora and the animals that depend on them.

The wavy wall continues; can you spot Blackpool Tower? It ends with another piece from The Sea Swallow.

Rossall School always looks Dickensian to me.

I’ve chosen to come in the afternoon to explore the sand at low tide. I’m starting to worry that I have missed the Shell and the Ogre installations, which I have only seen semi-submerged before. I walk on, taking in the curves of Cleveleys’s sea defences. Dog walkers far out on the sand give my seascapes some scale. I drop down onto the beach for a change and alternate between sandy and stony stretches.

I can’t resist a bit of beachcombing.

And then I spot Mary’s Shell over the next groyne.

How exciting to come up close from all angles and even get inside. The whole massive structure is encrusted by the sea’s twice-daily immersion. Lines from the poem are inscribed on the inside coils, though they’re hard to make out, and I spot a couple of other original decorations. 

 

Another groyne away, I thought I could see the Ogre sculpture, but it was surrounded by more boulders (for sea defences) than I remember before; perhaps some have been added over the years. I walk across the beach, and yes, he is there crouched and looking grumpy, a veritable ogre. He is heavily encrusted, as he becomes completely submerged at most tides.

I scramble back onto the promenade with its futuristic lighting; I must come one night to repeat this walk.

I knew the ‘Ogre’s Paddle’ was along here somewhere; incongruously next to a cinema and gym, most people walk past it without realising its significance.  I did for years, not even noticing it!

One has to seek out the relevant poem’s lines on the paddles back side.

On the promenade opposite the main street of Cleveleys is the 10m-high Sea Swallow statue. Opening like a book, the two swallows fly high. The base features engravings from the poem.

All in all, it’s an elegant structure.

It’s only a short walk to my final art installation, The Fylde Shipwreck Memorial. A memorial to all known ships lost along the Fylde coast, from Fleetwood to Lytham St Annes. It is positioned on the promenade adjacent to the site of the most recently lost ship – The Riverdance. A rusting wall of names of over 200 boats.  Time to catch my bus back to Fleetwood.

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With the tide well out, it’s not been a day of crashing waves, but more of soft sands, silvery seas, and big open skies. My mission to visit the Shell and the Ogre at low tide is accomplished. For a comprehensive history of the Mythic Coast art, you should look here before you go. The ‘children’s’ book The Sea Swallow by Gareth Thompson, which tells the story, is one of my treasured possessions.

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THE OLD PRESTON TRAM ROAD.

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First, a bit of history.

In 1792, a canal was proposed to link the towns of Kendal, Lancaster and Preston with the Leeds to Liverpool Canal. The main traffic was to be coal, from the Wigan coalfields going north to Preston. Additionally, limestone was to be moved south. Hence the local nickname for the canal – the black and white.

The spur from the Leeds Liverpool canal reached what is now Walton Summit. Originally, an aqueduct to cross the Ribble was planned, along with many locks; this would have been overly expensive, so a ‘temporary’ tramway was constructed from the Walton wharf, with a bridge over the Ribble, in the early years of the C19th. So the canal effectively was in two halves. (The Lancaster Canal was finally connected to the rest of the national network with the recent opening of the Millennium Link; that’s another story).

Horses pulled the wagons along the Tram Road, and then there was a steam-driven chain to haul the wagons up an incline to the canal wharf in Preston. Eventually, the railways superseded the canal for commercial use, and the tramway closed in 1864.

 An old map shows the original wharfs in Preston, circled top left, and the route of the tramway down through Avenham to the Bridge over the Ribble.  The route of the tram road is highlighted on this next old map, connecting with the canal at Walton Summit.       

Since then, the canal basin in Preston has been filled in, the canal link from Walton to the Leeds Liverpool has largely disappeared, and much of the tramway line from Bamber Bridge to Walton Summit has been lost to development—the dotted sections on the map below.

Pic: Wikimedia, OS Street Map.

                                              

The original wooden tram bridge over the Ribble was completed in 1802; it needed repairs in 1890 and was severely damaged by floods in 1936. During the Second World War, the timber decking was removed to prevent any potential German tank invasion. In 1964, concrete replaced much of the wood to maintain a valuable walking and cycling route. The bridge deteriorated again, was closed to the public in 2019, and was demolished in 2024.

The Old Tram Bridge.                                                                                                                 Blog Preston.

Its future was in doubt until a government grant from the Levelling Up Fund secured the millions needed for a replacement. The new bridge was opened to much acclaim in May of this year, thus restoring the pedestrian and cycle connection to what remains of the old tram road on the south side of the river.

I’ve drawn on several websites for archived historical information.

https://www.leylandhistoricalsociety.co.uk/bb-02.html

The Old Tramway

Clicking on the photo below links to many superb period photos of the canal and old tram road.

Lancaster Canal at Cottam c1920

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Today’s exploration on foot – I walk the lines. 

When I walked the whole of the Lancaster Canal from Preston to Kendal in 2018, I started from the remaining basin north of the city centre. There is not much evidence of the original course of the canal to the wharfs in the centre of town: the odd wall here, the odd bridge there, but nothing continuous. The University, shops, and roads have done it for it. And the start of the tram road from the wharf heading into Avenham Park has suffered the same fate.

Today’s walk nearly ended after ten minutes outside the Harris Museum; I tripped over an elevated tree root in the pavement and flew headfirst  –  grazed hands and a tear in my trousers, but luckily no more. A gentle lady came to my aid, but I reassured her I was fine – even if the pride is dented somewhat. I took a picture later in the day on my return.

I next find myself in the Georgian Winkley Square, a green oasis off Fishergate.

I had read about the state of no 28, the past home of Edith Rigby, a famous suffragette, but am surprised to see it in such a sorry state for one of Preston’s notables.

On the top edge of Avenham Park, I pick up the line of the tramway as it went down towards the steep incline above the new tram bridge. Passing the Belvedere building, approximately on the site of the engine-house that wound the tramway trucks up and down.

The bridge looks impressive from up here, with plenty of pedestrians and cyclists crossing it both ways. I drop down and use the Guild Wheel paths to try to get photographs of the bridge from either side.  It is indeed a graceful bridge serving the area well, and Preston can be proud to see it reinstated. 

From the centre I can look downstream to the old East Lancs Railway bridge I hope to cross later in the day. Beyond it and out of sight is the main line rail bridge into Preston.

Once over, I am now in Lower Penwortham, and the tree-lined old tram road stretches out in front of me. A steady stream of walkers and cyclists passes by. Fields line both sides, so you feel out of the city within minutes—the green lungs of Preston. The resurfaced track goes straight for nearly a mile, rising to Carr Wood, where paths meet. The tram road heads left, but I will be back at this spot later. The lane now goes through housing estates but still feels rural, and there are plenty of pedestrian links for the locals. Occasionally, a quiet road crosses.

Then all of a sudden it comes to an end at Todd Lane, and the tram road disappears into fields and Bamber Bridge. Thankfully, I find paths down a green corridor through the Walton Park Woods. The day has warmed up, and I find a seat near the lake for a drink and snack. I’m surrounded by nature; raised beds have been planted for butterflies and bees, herons rise from the waters, and I add to my bounty of haws. A few dog walkers pass through, but one feels in a world of your own in here.

Here is a little map highlighting the position of Walton Park woods.

I climb up onto the track of an old railway heading back to Preston.   Preston and Blackburn Railway, which opened on 1 June 1846, became part of the East Lancashire Railway two years later, which built its own bridge across the Ribble to Butler Street station and goods yard by 1850. This stretch closed to passengers in 1968 and goods in 1972. (see below *)  I’m soon back where the tram road passed by, but take a left to stay on the ELR track. These resurfaced ways create a network of walking and cycling paths south of the river, most of which I was previously unaware of. Must come with the bike and explore further. Always adding to my list.

Up ahead is a wooden sculpture, the Tree Pod by Rosie Fenwick and Ben Maris, along with pupils from Lostock Hall Secondary School. Carved from oak trunks, it lets you stand inside and peer through the holes. The Tram Road, on reflection, would benefit from some artworks, and some seats – there wasn’t a single one on the stretch I walked.

A little further is ‘Coupling Rods’  by John Packer and Martin Maudsley, paying homage to the railway history and at the same time incorporating insect-eye-like lenses,

The raised rail embankment gives views of the Preston skyline and, at one point, the New Tram Bridge across the fields. 

Now approaching the city, the disused rail bridge, with its original pedestrian walkway, crosses the Ribble.

Trains are rattling across the Main Line bridge downstream (well, not in my photo), and there is yet another view of The New Tram Bridge upstream.

From the balustraded bridge, you look down on Miller and Avenham Parks, both busy on a sunny afternoon at the end of the school holidays.

Then, all of a sudden, you are in the rail station car park, with the shops ahead where the Butler Street station and goods yard used to be until the seventies redevelopment. *

Butler Street Station, to the east of the main station, before demolition.                   Blog Preston.

I’ve enjoyed walking back into history and seeing more possibilities for exploration south of the river.  The mural on the Station Inn also reminds me to seek out Preston’s street art before too long.

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You might not have read this far, but I’m going to sneak in one of my 52 Ways to Walk chapters, Exercise your curiosity muscle – Walk a Ley Line.

Well, I’m always curious when out and about, so that ‘muscle’ must be strong. I didn’t know of any obvious ley lines in this area, so I did an internet search and came across The Lamanche Zodiac from the Journal of Geomancy, joining features in a line from Preston to Cheshire.  “A star-aligned landscape formation that mirrors the constellations of the zodiac using roads, streams, churches, and ancient trackways “,  proposed by Kathryn J. Preston in 1977. Reading further only confused me more.

“The concept of ley lines was created in the early 1920s by English amateur archaeologist Alfred Watkins. While walking through Herefordshire, England, Watkins noticed that ancient sites like churches, standing stones, and burial mounds seemed to fall on continuous straight paths. In his 1925 book The Old Straight Track, he argued these lines were ancient, pre-Roman trade and travel routes used for navigation. Watkins never attached any supernatural meaning to his theory.”    Britannica

In the 1960s,  the idea evolved away from archaeology and natural features into more esoteric beliefs. They were seen as channels for spiritual or magnetic powers, connecting sacred sites or even serving as landing guides for alien visitors.

No scientific evidence shows that Ley Lines exist, so I won’t necessarily be walking the Lamanche Line.

In the past, I have created my own straight-line walks using end-to-end points of personal interest. Most notably from Blackpoll to Aldbrough on the east coast. These have been great fun to plan and walk but of no other value or meaning. To counter this negativity about the possibilities of Ley Lines, I proposed today’s walk as a chance to ‘use my curiosity muscle’ by walking the old rail lines. Simple, effective, and satisfying.

 

THE FRIDAY FORAGE.

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Four fruits.

No, not the supermarket shopping list, but my choice for this week out of that 52 Ways to Walk book, Take a foraging walk. Another one ticked off.

I have another book, The Forager’s Calendar, a month-by-month guide to wild foods. I dip into it from time to time; I should do so more often.

We are on the cusp between August and September, and each month’s entry in the book gives a long list of edible possibilities. The seasons are changing weather-wise, so that things can become a little out of step. A short walk not far from home provides four obvious fruits for picking – blackberries, rowan, hawthorn and bullace. All are relatively easy to gather from a short stretch of hedge, and in a short time I have ample.

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The obvious one at this time of year is the Blackberry. It seems plentiful, yet some fruits are shrivelled, probably from lack of water, but I find a decent patch.

I soon have enough.

I plan to combine them with some apples and cook a crumble. That is the easy one out of the way.

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Along the hedge is a Rowan, the Mountain Ash, bursting with fruit.

I have not picked these before and have to look up a recipe for them. It doesn’t sound promising for these bitter berries; the only one really is rowan and apple jelly. To counteract the bitterness somewhat, it is best to pick the berries after hard frosts. My answer to that will be to place the berries in the freezer for a few days, bletting, before stewing with the apples.

 

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Last year I made some sloe gin for Christmas and intend to repeat the successful treat again this year. The bush in the hedge is actually a Bullace, similar to the sloe, a member of the plum family but without the barbs. 

Again, they are best picked after a hard frost, but they will receive the freezer treatment before being bottled with the gin. 

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The hedge itself is primarily Hawthorn, the most common hedging in Britain. Again this year there is an abundance of red berries, Haws.

The seeds of the hawthorn contain cyanide and should not be eaten. Most recipes for jams and jellies involve tedious straining, so I choose Hawthorn Schnapps instead. The berries just need steeping in vodka for a few weeks. I think I need to pick some more and may freeze them first. 

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Whilst I’m out getting more haws, I could look for crab apples, elderberries, rose hips and juniper; and of course the mushroom season is coming on. Happy foraging.

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.

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CALF TOP – THE LATEST 2000 FOOTER.

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Curiosity nearly killed the cat – but satisfaction brought it back. 

Last week, whilst having a look at Jack’s Fold in Barbondale, we noticed a cairn-like structure high on the slopes of Castle Knott on the north side of the valley. It seemed to have a small chamber in it.  Zooming in with my camera, I pronounced it to be a bush. But upon reviewing the poor photo on the computer screen, it is, in fact, a stone cairn ‘hollowed’ out. How strange, a sentry box on the fell?

I’m not the only one to notice it; Mark of Beating the Bounds had a better photo from a 2018 visit, though he didn’t explore further.

Looking at the map, I wonder if this is it, circled in red.

My interest is aroused; an internet search doesn’t turn up anything. I need to explore on the ground. It would be a steep climb to it directly, but there is a path marked on the OS above the wall that leads to Castle Knot and Calf Top. This path starts from Eskholme and climbs Eskholme Pike first. Along the way, there is a small outcrop called Devil’s Crag that could be interesting to look at. The ridge continues to Calf Top, marked at 610m. That is 2000ft in old money, a ‘mountain ‘ in England.

Now, going back to my relatively youthful years, I ascended all the 2000-ft mountains in England and Wales, then called ‘Bridges’ after George Bridge, who had compiled a book in 1973, listing them all. The book was sparsely illustrated but with photographs by the well-known W A Poucher, FRPS. This book was complemented by an edition by Nick Wright, English Mountain Summits, 1974. These two books became my bibles as I ticked off the summits in the 70s. Finishing in 1980.

I have not looked back on that period of my life for a while!

Anyhow, here we are today. Calf Top was resurveyed in 2016 and has achieved the magical 610m/2000ft mark. Why not complete the list and at the same time search out that strange cairn?

Following my ascent of Winder yesterday, I stayed with friends in the area, so I’m just up the road from Barbon. An opportunity not to be missed. It turns out to be a tough day.

*

As I park up next to the church in Barbon, along come friends who used to live in my lane but have only very recently moved up here, quite a surprise; tea is promised for later. It’s a small, friendly world.

I know the way into the Barbon Park Estate, and today, instead of starting the Barbon Hill Climb (a yearly motorsports event), I wander through the mature trees in a northerly direction, not strictly on the right of way, hoping there will be a gate into the open fellside above Eskholme Farm. There is, and I’ve gained a couple of hundred easy feet of ascent. I’m now in open access and free to roam.

The land is rough with rocky outcrops everywhere. This is Silurian Sedimentary rock, sandstones and shales. Here, separated from the limestone, a younger rock. Adam Sedgwick discovered and explained the Dent fault, which separates the Carboniferous limestone country of the Yorkshire Dales from the older rock of Howgill Fells to the north. Above me is the Devil’s Crag. I make a beeline for it until I realise how steep the slope is and how laboured my breathing has become; I start zigzagging. Once at its base, I seek out in my imagination possible lines up its 25 ft of verticality. The rock is superb for climbing with lots of small but flat holds. There is some interesting folding. My shoulder surgeon has told me not to go near any climbing for up to six months; can you imagine how frustrated I am? There is no record of anyone climbing here. 

Curiosity satisfied for now, I move on. Looking back down at Devil’s Crag, the Lune Valley opens up, with the western Lakeland hills in the background.

High above on the fell is the cairn of Eskholme Pike and I can see a group of walkers just reaching it. I find a path and plod on slowly. It turns out to be a fine viewpoint, and I stop to take panoramic photos of the surrounding area with the whole of the Lakeland Fells stretched across the horizon.

By now, that other group are making slow progress up the open fell towards what must be Castle Knott; it looks a long, featureless way.

On I go, following the green track on the ground rather than any dots on the map. A small cairn is reached, but the summit of Castle Knott is still a way off.

The group ahead can be seen arriving at the cairn on Castle Knott.

I am glad to arrive at that cairn, Castle Knott. The hills surrounding Dentdale come into view.

 

I pause for a rest. The figures are way ahead, and also having a rest, on the far slopes with no sign of the summit of Calf Top. This is becoming a trudge, but I don’t have to think about navigation with the wire fence for company. I do, though, think about the remoteness up here and the fact that I have to return all this way when I haven’t even seen the summit; there is no shortcut to safety. My niggly muscle problems are at the back of my mind. This negativity is unusual for me.

Once again, progress is slow; it’s only a matter of putting one foot in front of the other. But first there is a drop to a col which I will have to climb back up on the return. I pause for another rest and chocolate. The others disappear f vcrom view.

Eventually the fence guides me over a false summit until the Trig point of Calf Top comes into view. I slump onto the ground next to the DofE group of girls I have been following; we all agree it has been a long haul to get here. They are refuelling, and  I do the same. They are a friendly bunch, optimistic about their four-day Gold Award. They hope today, their first, is the toughest. Tonight they will be camping by the River Lune; I wish them well as they shoulder their large packs and move onwards.

I now have time to consider the all-round views from this lonely top. More panorama shots and even a wobbly 360-degree video to celebrate my last 2000-footer.

The lovely Dentdale.

The Howgills, with little Winder, which I climbed yesterday.

 

On the way back, I avoid some of the re-ascent by contouring around Castle Knott. I’m not convinced it helped as the ground was steep and rough.

Having bypassed Castle Knott top, I toss up in my mind whether to go looking for that cairn; have I bitten off more than I can chew? I’ve already climbed 2000ft and don’t fancy much more. But the opportunity of being up here may not come again, so where is that gate in the fence?

The ground drops away quickly, and I can’t see the wall I need to locate. Barbondale is a thousand feet below, and I reckon I need to drop about 400ft. There’s no coming back. I pick my way down carefully, avoiding bracken and scree as much as possible; the cars on the road look minute. At last I spot the corner of the stone wall not so far off to my right and start heading towards it.

Perhaps another map will explain the situation.

Will I be able to get access into that next piece of walled-off fell? This is all access land, but some bits may have little access. As I get closer, I spot a fortuitous gap in the wall. A secured wooden gate blocks the way, and I have to climb over it; it’s a bit wobbly.

Will I be able to see the cairn?  Is that the top of it over there?

I’m on steep ground but manage to traverse across to it. The cairn is indeed tall, some 10ft or so. I come around to its valley side, and there is the chamber I saw from the road. Some 8ft tall with a stone seat at the back. Amazing. Why is it here, and when was it built? I assume it’s on land belonging to The Barbon Estate. Was it for a shepherd to take shelter or even a gamekeeper? So many questions.

I use the seat to eat some chocolate and rehydrate, looking out over Barbondale and the opposite fells. There is some recent graffiti but no historical evidence of its antiquity.

What options do I have for continuing, given that I’m quite tired? Looking down from the cairn, the ground steepens even more with craglets and further down bracken. It would be possible with care, though a trip could cause serious problems. Better not. I couldn’t face the climb back up to the good path coming down from Castle Knott. My best option was to get out of this field and hope there is a path on the topside of the fell wall.  I tackle the wobbly gate once again and trudge slowly up the hill until above the wall. There is no track, so I have no option but to traverse the rough hillside, aiming for the wire fence a third of a mile away.

There is a gate in the fence, and it is not too far then, and going downhill at last, to pick up the path back to the cairn on Eskholme Pike. The views to the distant Lakeland Hills seem sharper at this time of day.

In the vicinity of Devil’s Crag on the way up, I had noticed other nearby crags, and coming down, I  made time to explore them. One in particular was over 25ft and had some clean-looking rock just wanting to be climbed. Let’s name it Angel’s Crag.

All I had to do now was follow my footsteps back through Barbon Park to the church in the village. The sheep have hardly moved since this morning. 

The thought of cups of tea at my friends’ new house kept me going. Alas, they weren’t at home. That’s a shame, not just because of the lack of tea, but I was going to give them the task of some local research into the origins of that mystery cairn. Some of the farmers in the Barbon Inn might know something.

For me, it’s been a long day with a lot of ascent, often on rough, steep, and stony ground. At times I could easily have turned around and shortened the day. The trip to find the cairn was on top of it all and quite taxing, but the satisfaction at the end of the day makes it all worthwhile. I hope another 2000ft hill doesn’t suddenly appear.

I’m soon on the motorway and whizzing home for a hot bath. Tomorrow will be another day.

*

*

My 52 Ways to Walk book has a chapter on Walking at Altitude. mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

My cat has just sat on the keyboard; at least she didn’t delete everything, as has happened before. Oh yes, Walking at Altitude goes on about relative anoxia and how athletes train at altitude to stimulate more haemoglobin production. Walking at altitude, and I’m now talking about the Alps or the greater ranges, is exhilarating because of the surroundings but can be debilitating with more severe hypoxia. I’ve experienced all extremes. Those days are over for me, just memories. So instead of 20,000 ft, I will have to be content today with an altitude of 2000ft; even that felt taxing.

At least I survived.

 

WINDER.

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Let me stand again on Winder, in the magic summer breeze,                                                       Feel once more the stones and heather, watch the bracken and the tree ;                                 Let me see again the river, and the fields and walls and farms,                                                    Sedbergh, let me feel you near me, let me take you in my arms.

A poem written in 1954 by  Tim Birdsall, a former pupil at Sedbergh School. I find this poem more resonant than the oft-quoted lines from Sedbergh’s celebrated public school’s song – Winder. Sedbergh School has just celebrated its 500th year.

It is Cautley, Calf and Winder,
That make the Sedbergh man.

Sedbergh and its school are closely bound to Winder, the hill overlooking them. By tradition, all pupils of the school need to climb Winder at least once during their time at the school. I don’t think I have ever climbed Winder from the town; I’ve often come over it returning from a longer excursion in the Howgills. Time moves on, and today I’m happy to wander up and over the not-so-little hill.

There seems to be a lot of activity in the town – it is the annual Sedbergh Hills Race. They have already set off on their 14 mile/6000ft course.

After Lockbank Farm, I plod up above the wall the long way round, before starting the steeper track to the top of Winder. Fortunately, the paths are well trodden through the prolific bracken. From lower down, there appear to be several false tops to Winder; there are. I stop often to watch the town disappear below me, and to take in views of the Lune Valley, and all the other hills that surround Sedbergh.

At the trig point, a gaggle of people man the final checkpoint for the fell race.  There is a trig pillar and a toposcope up here; the views are extensive, but I don’t linger. A little further down here comes the leader of the pack; I cheer him on, whoever he is. He is more than five minutes ahead of the others; of them, I only see a few – the pace must be hot today.

I baulk at the 500 ft ascent to Arant Haw and instead take a green track toward Settlebeck Gill, with Sedbergh way below.

This is exhilarating as it clings to the edge of the deep ravine. My only complaint is that little water flows down there at present in these heatwave times. It must be more impressive in winter after heavy rain.

Now taking a lower track, I drop down into the Gill, here less fierce than above. The route is popular with numerous people ascending and following me down.

I do a little dogleg across the stream, where most people seem to go straight on, and find myself on a path through ancient woodland.

At its end there in front of me is the wooded mound of a Motte and Bailey, c1100, Castlehaw. Not that easy to make out! 

A bunkhouse nearby offers accommodation for families and friends to get together, an increasingly popular way to share time.

The footpath goes through their garden before disappearing into the woodland again and coming out on the edge of Sedbergh through a lovely old iron kissing gate.

Even taking a footpath below Castlehaw, there is little to see in the trees of the Motte and Bailey.

Strolling through the main street, I studiously avoid any of the bookshops.

Instead, I make my way to St. Andrews parish church. A Norman doorway leads me into the tall aisle of the church. The present church dates mainly from about 1500. The Lancaster architects Paley and Austin carried out a major restoration in 1885–86.

Above the altar in the east wall is a distinctive stained-glass window, with the one picture in the five lights. It depicts Christ calling to Andrew and Peter, the fishermen. Thought to have been installed about 1890 by Henry V Miller.

Several other bright windows line the side walls.

 

On the North wall are two large, fairly recent embroideries created by a band of local stitchers, depicting local scenes and architecture. Fantastic detail.

My way back to my car takes me through some of the grounds of Sedbergh School. Lancashire CCC uses their cricket pitch on occasion each season.  

And this is the school’s view of Winder, a tough little hill in the bosom of the Howgills.

*

 

 

 

A DAY OUT WITH ZOLA.

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Or how to take five hours over a four-mile walk and enjoy it. 

I’ve been a fan of Andy Goldsworthy ever since coming across his work high on Clougha Pike.

My greatest regret is not visiting his exhibition in Edinburgh last year. Enough of the links until the end.

For me, there is always more to discover, such as his series of sheepfolds along an old droving lane, Fellfoot Road, above the Lune Valley and Casterton. I find a map on his website.

16 sheepfolds on one lane- what more could you ask for? Now who could I interest in this project? Yes, of course, my friend C, the ‘slate lady’. I’d better make room in the car for her shared dog Zola, a veteran of our escapades.

“There are numerous sheepfolds tucked in the corners of fields along Fellfoot Road, near Casterton. I have never seen such a concentration of folds.  These small, simple enclosures are connected to a walled track, like rooms attached to a corridor. 

I would like to make a work that answers the rhythm of these repeating sheepfolds and is perhaps evocative of the movement and passage of sheep brought down from the fells and driven along the track.

Large boulders sit in the adjoining fields like scattered sheep. I propose to place one large stone in each of the enclosures that I make or rebuild. The gesture will be like an arm gently gathering a stone into one corner, protecting it.”

On arrival, morning coffee is taken from a flask at the back of the parked car; needs must. I  think we are in Cumbria. The start of the drove lane is a few yards from our lay-by. A steep beginning as I pant behind the sprightly C; Zola is way ahead.   

Thankfully, I can call a halt when I spot our first sheepfold. The only clue is a stepped stile in the adjoining stone wall. Zola is immediately keen to explore, jumping into the fold and finding her way through the hog hole. Inside the four stone walls is a rather small boulder.

Apparently, these boulders – there will be more – were retrieved, dug out of the hillside above. It is difficult to believe. They seem to be sandstone, whereas the walls of the folds are limestone, the bedrock at this height. The sheepfold is a reminder of the agricultural past, and the boulder may draw our attention to the sheep within it. One down, fifteen to go.

Turning the corner, the fell lane disappears in a straight line between its stone walls. One to stride out on, but today we have folds to find. The next fold has a much more impressive boulder.

The lane is a regular dog walk for this lady.

The folds come at regular intervals in the fields either side of the lane. Each one is accessible by a stone stile through the wall, some easier to climb than others; though Zola is first through everyone at a pace—obviously a fan of Goldsworthy.

Though the folds are very similar, the boulders in each are of different sizes and have different contours. Some are pockmarked; others are covered in moss; brambles and other vegetation hide a few. We are eager to view each one, a small discovery every time. They are not easy to photograph, and in any case you would soon become bored with sixteen boulders. This is one piece of art that you have to walk through physically, as I’m sure Goldsworthy intended. I wonder how many come this way; it’s cheaper and healthier than visiting any gallery.

We wander on down the verdant lane.

These little white flowers are new to me. Achillea ptarmica – sneezewort. On the rougher upper fields, a few boulders can be seen; on the other side are real sheep.

 

 

One boulder about halfway down is crying out to be sat on; it becomes our luncheon stone.

Look at the lichens…

Refreshed, we move on, crossing the narrow road that leads to Bullpot Farm, a caving centre with access to a network of underground passages. Our fell track changes character here, becoming more open and for some reason less trodden. The bracken and flowers are almost taking over – delightful. It takes a bit more determination to reach the connecting stiles, but we find three more folds.

We come to a gate and ahead are sheep grazing; time to put Zola on her lead. After having mildly mocked me for misplacing my map a way back, C is dismayed to find she has lost the dog’s lead. Oops. She is happy to wait for me to continue to the few remaining folds, but there’s no fun in that; I’ve lost count anyway, so we begin to retrace our steps. Was it left at our lunch stone? No. Was it left further back when she climbed a gate for a better view of one of the boulders? Thankfully, there it was; Whoo, otherwise, I was planning to bring some farmer’s binder twine into an improvised use purely to impress Sir Hugh.

We retrace once again to Bullpot Lane and cut our Goldsworthy quest short. Honours are even, I think. But what is in store down this quiet lane?

Well, first we meet the sheep farmer and his sheepdog on their quad bike at Fell Yeat Farm.  The usual pleasantries over, we quiz him about the sheep folds. He is knowledgeable, but perhaps envious of the thousands-of-pounds grant that Goldsworthy received for the project. A large digger was employed to unearth those giant boulders and move them to their present and forever resting places. Fighting hard to make a living up here, I suspect he took a somewhat jaundiced view of the work. Anyhow, warming to our interest, he talks freely of the life of a sheep farmer in these parts. Next thing, we are in one of his barns, examining fleeces and discussing the profit margin, paying the shearers, and selling the said fleeces. There were two lots of fleeces from different yearlings, but I don’t remember the differences between them. The good news is that prices are on the up. Invest in wool.

He is proud to tell us of his wife’s recent achievement of completing the Three Peaks on a whim, having only set out to climb Pen-Y-Ghent.  Somehow, the talk switches to train journeys to Leeds, direct from not-so-far-off Wennington Station. And did they have a son in Australia or Canada to visit? By now, we have to make our excuses and be on our way.

Throughout this time, his sheepdog sits patiently on the quad bike. I don’t think Zola would have been over-friendly to him; you never know.

Fell Yeat Farm.
Fleeces.

 

We have only walked 100 yards when a sign proclaims Brownthwaite Hardy Plants.

To us keen gardeners, that is like a magnet; we are drawn in. The man is friendly and inviting even though we, as passing walkers, are unlikely to make a purchase. It is a pleasure to explore what is probably called an old-fashioned nursery. Forget your garden centre; there are gems around every unexpected corner. It is difficult to know where the nursery ends and his garden begins. Hydrangeas are a speciality. He has added his own artistic touches wherever we look. Lots of interesting ironworks are incorporated and for sale. I’m surprised we both don’t come marching out with an iron poppy head each.

Again, like his farmer neighbour, he is keen to chat. I suspect not many people come this way. He is passionate about his plants, so he should be, and the environment in general. His little terrier takes a liking to Zola, so all is calm.

Sorry, I have to insert another unexpected link to his nursery.

We stroll back, picking the occasional delicious blackberry and even a juicy plum. It’s one of those days.

This was our route with the backtracking highlighted, and the two interactive episodes arrowed. 

I know from a previous visit of another Andy Goldsworthy sheepfold nearby in Barbondale, so we drive to have a look. Instead of a boulder inside, we find a sheep, temporarily.

*

*

I realise it is a little cheeky, but may I use this post for my 52 Ways to Walk: Walk With a Dog? Zola added to the day’s enjoyment with her enthusiasm. I know I wasn’t in charge, but there was plenty of interaction. The episode, with or without the dog lead, gave the day a different dimension. Walking with a dog anywhere often brings added conversations, as with the lady and her two dogs early in the walk. And of course Zola was a willing photographic model and deserves to be in my headline photo. Looking back through my posts, I’ve had Days Out with Poppy, Pixie and Tilley, all friends’ dogs. My cats stay firmly at home.

I CLIMB A HILL.

18 Replies

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

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

Last night I exchanged emails with Sir Hugh.

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lots of water and carbon-retaining Sphagnum Moss.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*

 

MY SHORT WALK.

11 Replies

Any time of day, I often pop up the fell for a quick walk; I’m able to squeeze it in no matter what else I am doing. Today was no different. After faffing about all morning, where does the time go? I don’t feel up to a longer walk, so I park up at the usual place.

By chance, a United Utilities worker is repairing the wooden gate. You may remember my frustration with United Utilities’ response to my call to their ‘help’ line the other week regarding illegal camping in this same wood. It is good to have the opportunity to speak with one of their employees.

He had been alerted to the problem via the police at the time. Already, he has replaced the padlock on the double metal gate, and today he has come for minor repairs and to post another notice about the fire risk. He has had a walk around checking for any problems. His area covers from Slaidburn to Preston, and he explains the various pipelines UU is responsible for. We have a complicated system with water coming from several sources and being pumped around to supply our towns. Longridge has a concentration of reservoirs. At present, there is anxiety about fires on their properties, but trespass and damage are ongoing problems, particularly in urban areas.

The new notice will be vandalised within weeks, is his depressing comment.

 

 

I leave him to his repairs, and I wander into the woods, noticing changes as the summer progresses. There are patches of Bell Heather flowering, and the Ling Heather is only just starting to bloom.

I love these little cones on the Cypress trees. 

Bilberries are very scarce for some reason, not enough for a pie; but the Rowan is putting on a good show. Birds are flitting around the trees; I spot Willow Warblers, Chiffchaff, and Redpolls, but not the Siskins, probably hiding in the taller pines.

The higher, less-used paths are now tangled in bracken and difficult to follow, but I persist.

I go down to the water; it is not as bubbly as normal. We have had no significant rainfall for weeks.

Across the brook, the new plantation is coming on; in a few more years, we will have a pleasant mixed woodland.

Back alongside the main path is a patch of Knapweed. It is alive with insects: bees, hoverflies, and butterflies.

I try a video of the butterflies busy over the Knapweed.

My short walk always enriches.

THE YORKSHIRE DALES GRISEDALE.

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The dale that nearly died.

Whilst having lunch perched on a boulder, along comes a lady walking her dog. It turns out she lives in one of the restored farms in the dale spread out below. This is Grisedale or Grisdal to the locals – everything gets shortened up here. I’ll describe my route up to here later. But first I find out about the history and more from this chatty lass. She has lived here less than a dozen years so is still a newcomer. In the 19th century, the valley was a marginal farming community of about 15 families. There was some mining and lime burning, probably as an ancillary to the farm work. There was a Quaker Meeting House and a Methodist Chapel. In the C20th, economic events, severe winters, and an ageing population led to most farms being abandoned. She tells me that even the stone walls were destroyed for the stone to be used by builders elsewhere. By 1960, only two farms were populated.

By the early 1970s, only one farmer remained living and working in the valley, and he was featured in a Yorkshire Television documentary by Barry Cockcroft, The Dale that Died.  Cockcroft said that Grisedale was “the most romantic dale in all of Yorkshire…complete in its unspoilt beauty, serenity and vivid history”

I have just managed to watch the whole of this remarkable documentary.                          https://replay.bfi.org.uk/video/410d3845-4c55-5652-91aa-c9e3a8917b03

But the dale didn’t die, and in the latter decade of the 1900s, people bought farms and houses and created new homes. It seems to be a close-knit community now, tucked away from the hustle and bustle.

Grisedale in 1890.

*

What am I doing here today? Well, I’m exploring the upper reaches of Garsdale from where the river Clough flows down the valley to Farfield, where it joins the Rawthey. Sir Hugh and I are planning a walk to follow the Clough. The south-east slopes of Baugh Fell give rise to streams that feed the Clough. A prominent one of these is Grisedale Beck, joining the Clough at Garsdale Head. He has already walked this way; I’m just catching up.

There is ample parking at Garsdale Station, but at the back of my mind I wished I had come by train. (Bus Longridge to Clitheroe: 50 mins. Train Clitheroe to Garsdale: one hour thirty – so up to three hours) Anyhow, I’m here and walking down the lane.  Even though I slowed down, I never saw a Red Squirrel.

I go through a small gate into a reedy field.

There will be many reedy fields today. But there is a clear path which takes me up the hill to a stile in a wall. I’m now in the bowl of lower Grisedale with the river down below. There is no sign of Clough Force as the river is virtually dry this month.

I keep following well-signed paths through the rough reedy fields. Blake Mire house is being renovated but seems to have difficult access. Other farms are disappearing slowly.

I come out onto the minor road at Rowantree. A short stretch on the road to Moor Rigg, before I cross fields alongside the Grisedale Beck towards Reachey; there are some nice names around here – I wonder at their origins.

Reachey looks a grand renovation, making use of a derelict barn wall in the design. But it would be reachy to get here in a hard winter.

The path onwards is a delight alongside the beck, full of flowers and rising butterflies.

Ahead is the copse surrounding the ruins of East and West Scale, accessed by an old packhorse bridge.

The path starts to climb away from the beck and becomes rather sketchy; not many people come this far. A strange, unnatural-looking pile of stones is crossed. (My informant tells me later that they were probably left over from when the walls were being exported elsewhere)

The path ends at the ruins of Round Ing. 

I get a little off track, if there is one, as I climb the rough fields back towards Flust. There is a good view down to the Scales ruins.  Flust is at the end of the valley ‘road’ and is merely a barn. When the valley was depopulated, the farmhouses that were no longer occupied fell into ruin, but the barns still had agricultural value, so many were saved. The land is now farmed from elsewhere, with the stock brought here each year.

I follow the rough track back eastwards until I find that stone to rest on for lunch and view across Grisedale to Ingleborough and Whernside in the background. “the most romantic Dale in the whole of Yorkshire”

It is whilst I’m in this reverie that the lady and dog appear. We walk on together for a while and probably spend about an hour of interesting talk. As well as all the local information, she introduces me to the fell ponies wandering up here. From this vantage point, she looks down on ‘her’ Dale, recognising any cars coming or going; I suspect she doesn’t own one. 

By now I have wandered off course, and have to retrace a little to find the stile getting me into the right bit of Grisedale Common. All is open access, but I don’t want to climb walls. I spot the Dandrymire Viaduct near Garsdale Station, way below; I still have some miles to go.

My way off the common is not clear; I’m heading to Grisedale Crossing on the railway. This is the way school children from Grisedale would walk out of their Dale to school every day. The school building is just over the crossing, as marked on the photo. The viaduct on the right is one I’ve never noticed before – Lunds Viaduct.

There is a footbridge over the crossing. The 1890s map shows a footbridge even then and the school.

 

 

Old School extended.

Lunds Viaduct.

I planned to take the footpath by the infant Ure, draining to the east coast, but with all the dallying, I am happy to walk down the road to the C18th Moorcock Inn, which never seems to be open. 

A bridleway goes alongside the railway, dodging through one of the arches of Dandrymire Viaduct before landing me back at Garsdale Station.  Throughout the day, I saw railcars on the line – wouldn’t it be spectacular to watch a steam locomotive coming over that viaduct?

*

What a great day. Now for the Clough River, but we think we’ll postpone it until there’s been some rain and the water is livelier.