Category Archives: Lancashire.

WOODLAND GREENERY, GRIZEDALE.

NICKY NOOK.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

A FEW QUIET DAYS.

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By all means, guess the random locations.

I CLIMB A HILL.

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

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

Last night I exchanged emails with Sir Hugh.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lots of water and carbon-retaining Sphagnum Moss.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

MY SHORT WALK.

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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.

BAREFOOT ON THE FELL.

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I vaguely remember, in the mid-60s, going to one of London’s theatres to watch a newly released comedy, Barefoot in the Park. As an impoverished student, I had a secret way of getting last-minute cheap theatre tickets. The production later became a successful movie with Jane Fonda and Robert Redford. Going barefoot in the park was a sign of freedom.

Our earliest ancestors walked everywhere barefoot, as do some tribes even now. But we have been wearing shoes for centuries. The earliest known shoe, over 10,000 years old, was made of sagebrush bark. The development of shoes over the ages has led to cushioning that supports our feet. But it may have created problems – our foot muscles are not as strong as they should be. There is evidence that this may cause us to tread more heavily, creating extra stress on our knee and hip joints. Our feet are not as healthy as our ancestors’, and the rates of knee arthritis have doubled in the last century; obviously, other factors come into play, such as weight, repetitive stress and injuries.

Walking barefoot, we take shorter strides, landing less heavily and with our weight more evenly distributed. Add to this the varied sensations we feel from the different surfaces we encounter.

You may have gathered that this week’s 52 Ways of Walking is “Walk Barefoot”. Will it give me the freedom of the park and Jane Fonda’s heart, or will I end up standing on some glass or, just as bad, dog poo? I will give the parks a miss.

Longridge residents will all remember a local character regularly running around the Longridge Fell road barefoot. He is still running, but the last time I saw him he was wearing trainers. I don’t intend to walk barefoot on the roads but choose the peaty paths on the fell itself instead.

I am on the way down from the forest and once out of the trees off come my trainers. The path looks stony, and I take hesitant steps at first. But it’s not as bad as it looks; there is often some grass one can find to give a more gentle tread. The ground is very dry and compact; sand gets between my toes. Small pebbles are to be avoided. Once I’m in my stride, I start to enjoy the experience; I also feel different textures and temperatures through my soles, which doesn’t happen when wearing shoes. There is only a small patch of mud, but I have to get into it – instant cooling for my feet as well as instant mud between the toes to wash off later. I am disappointed not to leave ‘Man Friday’ footprints for someone to follow. It’s only a half mile back to the car, and I am moving more confidently as I go. Out of the gate onto the road, and I instantly feel the heat of the tarmac.

Yes, I did enjoy that experience, more so than many other 52 Ways to Walk. I will repeat it next time up the fell and may even venture into the forest where I think the ground will be trickier. I think I could walk forever barefoot on the grass. Obviously, I haven’t ventured far enough to test my foot muscles or even strengthen them; that would take a lot of perseverance and time. I did feel less clumsy, was placing my feet more precisely, and I think I was more in balance by spreading out my toes, which is important as you age.

One can purchase ‘shoes’ that provide a more barefoot walking experience. These minimalist shoes allow the foot to move naturally. They give you the feeling of walking barefoot while still protecting your foot from injury and dirt. Something to look into, but maybe I should have done so decades ago.

I don’t intend to show too many photos of my feet. This was the path I was on; you can see how dry it was.

As an aside, here’s what I came across in the forest earlier. Idiotic in this heatwave.

A cosy campfire!!!

A WHITTLE WANDER. There’s more…

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A loop from Whittle-le-Woods.

I find myself back in Withnell Fold, aiming to follow some of the footpaths of the Whittle Wander I had avoided last time. If you remember, I had struggled with overgrown paths, dodgy stiles and less-than-helpful landowners – a typical country walk, you may think. That day, I gave in halfway and used the canal towpath to get me to Whittle-le-Woods. A rerun is called for to dampen those ‘what ifs’ at the back of my mind. My one navigational error of that day also needs to be addressed.

After leaving the bus in W-le-W, I simply reverse my route back up the canal. I say up the canal because the towpath climbs alongside seven locks on the way. It’s a pleasantly cool morning, and most people I meet are dog walkers. A few photos to set the scene.

The air is full of the perfume of Meadowsweet, which grows profusely at the water’s edge.

Plenty of Duckweed.

Serene family.

Not sure these two should be up there.

Old paper mill, Withnell Fold.

So I leave Withnell Fold now back on the actual Whittle Wander by a footpath signed to the cricket club. (The Whittle Wander doesn’t have its own markers). At the end of the lane, a gate provides access to a field and a good track continuing onto the main road into Higher Wheelton. this is better.

The pavement takes me through the hamlet as far as the Golden Lion. The flags are for England progressing in the World Cup.

Opposite, near the former school, a well-signed public footpath goes up a lane past scattered properties.

Just before entering someone’s private garden, I spot the stile leading into the adjacent field.

The fields are easy to walk in. This lamb is lost but has plenty to eat in the lush pasture.

Everything is going well, and I regret not persisting last time. Stiles and signs lead me easily through well-kept fields; I’m so pleased/excited that I just start taking pictures of stiles.

I cross a road and go down the access lane to several farms and barn conversions, but my way through is clear and signed.

Large fields take me down into a valley. A buzzard wheels overhead and keeps coming close, obviously agitated by my presence. It persists in its close and noisy attention until I’m well out of its territory; perhaps there are young about. I struggle to photograph it, despite its closeness; my right eye, which I use in the viewfinder, is blurred and awaiting laser treatment, so I’m never sure whether it’s in the frame. Usually not.

Going up the other side, a Roe Deer bounds out of the horse paddocks. Its blurred white rump is all that appears in my photo.

At Heapey, across the road, is St. Barnabas Church. It originated in the C16thand was enlarged in 1740 and 1829. It is Grade II listed. There is no access today, but graveyards are a good source of benches, and I find one for my lunch break.

Again, stiles and clear paths take me across fields, through farmyards, and on to the busy Chorley Road, but there is a footway until I reach the turn-off down past a Premier Inn to the canal bridge.

I can see the towpath below where I paced up and down trying to find a way through a dense hedge to the footpath. I know better this time, and I take a little lane parallel to the towpath but on the right side of the hedge, and there is the footpath clearly signed over a stile.

The path climbs a steep field and onwards towards the motorway. The field is heavily rutted from cows and not easy to walk on, but I’m not complaining today. Across the way are the ruins of Moss Lane Farmhouse, Grade II* listed C17th buildings which are slowly falling into ruins by the look of things.

I’m soon across the motorway, just a sneaky shot mainly to show the spire of the Mormon temple, a familiar sight to those using the M61. It is the largest such temple in Europe.

The path marked on my map goes through fields, but now there are houses. A high fence has had to be built to reduce noise from the motorway. How fast is our countryside changing these days?

Green paths lead to another, older development, Lucas Green; here are the remains of a WWII Bofors gun emplacement, for protecting the nearby Royal Ordnance Factory.

A final track brings me back into town, I bypass the Roebuck Inn this time to catch an earlier bus back to Preston.

So I can now say I have completed the modest Whittle Wander, albeit in two halves with this extra add-on. Today’s circuit has been enjoyable with none of the previous difficulties. I’m glad I came back to complete it.

A WHITTLE WANDER. Part Two.

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Hoghton to Whittle-le-Woods.

I enjoyed the first part of this walk last week and was keen to return to complete the circuit. Today was strangely not so good, with overgrown paths, hidden stiles, and unhelpful landowners. Read on.

My bus into Preston arrives seconds after my connection to Hoghton leaves. I have time to visit the bus station cafe, not the best of coffees. The onward bus is modern with visual and audible announcements of the next stop, a great help in areas you don’t know well. I alight at the Royal Oak, as announced, where I finished last time.

I stroll down the road to find the footpath leading down to the canal. It looks like a private drive, no signage, but I persist past the barking dogs onto a choked path, the first of and easier of many. I’m not sure I have seen watercress flowering before.

I suddenly come onto the towpath of the Liverpool-Leeds Canal. Or is it the Leeds-Liverpool Canal? It depends on your perspective. Red rose, White rose. There is a small marina down here.

Life on the water.

I take some ancient steps away from the canal onto a busy road. Thankfully, within a few yards I climb a stile into fields. But where does the path go – no sign of other feet. There is a stile somewhere, and then I’m confronted by this.

Out of the horsey property, there is more trouble; I climb a dodgy stile, only to be confronted by impassable undergrowth.

Why don’t the property owners maintain the stiles and give adequate signage? A question I’m always asking. Would make life easier for all concerned.

Somehow I find my way to the bridge over the motorway, quite grand for a footpath.

Why do I always take nondescript pictures of motorways?

Getting out the other side is not easy. Does nobody walk these paths? I haven’t gone far, and soon I am lost with no sign of a path. Last week I relied completely on a paper map for navigation; today I am happy to switch on my phone OS app to locate my mistakes. I dodge through a field of cows and climb into a deserted, dilapidated farmstead. With more hope than faith, I stumble down into a deep ravine and thankfully find the footbridge and steep steps back out. I have a rest at the top and plan ahead. A field of maize will be impenetrable in a few weeks if nobody comes this way.

And it is a maze to find my way through the next ‘hamlet ‘, Ollerton Fold. All that is needed is a few discreet arrows to get the walker through, rather than blundering into gardens. One resident helps me to escape but warns of worse to come. I do get a lovely view across the valley towards Brindle with the canal below.

Then it is more of this…

…and this.I

As I approach Withnell Fold, I am debating in my mind whether to drop down to the canal towpath for some easier going. The village is hidden from the world at the bottom of a cobbled cul-de-sac. Once a large paper mill operated here, and the terraced housing was built for the workers. Not a lot has changed, though there is some new housing in what used to be the mill complex. A good history of the village can be found here, and a local walker/historian, Boyd Harris, has even more fascinating history on his website.

Withnell Fold Farm.

Village Stocks.

Reading Room.

Most of the remaining mill buildings are ruinous, but the engine house chimney has been restored and can be seen from miles around, as in my header photograph. So after a mooch around the village, I end up on the canal towpath. The delights of the Witton Wander footpaths to Higher Wheelton and Heapey will have to wait for another time.

A group of volunteers for the Canal Trust are busy Himalayan Balsam bashing; it is very profuse in one area which borders a nature reserve.

A group of cyclists are riding from Liverpool to Leeds in a day.You can do the maths.

There are boats moored up further along, and I can indulge in my usual diversion in finding the corniest name.

There is more action when I reach the ‘Top Lock’, the highest of seven locks raising boats 65 feet. I ignore the inn on the other side.

Further down, two boats pass through a lock together, thereby saving water. Watching boats negotiating locks is a favourite spectator pastime.

I drop down to where a disused branch canal went off to Whittle-le-Woods and go in search of a footpath back on the real Whittle Wander. I paced up and down the towpath, using my GPS to find it, but there was no way through a thick hedge. Only now, looking more closely, do I see it was on a lane from the next bridge and not directly off the towpath (red arrow). An easy mistake to make but annoying nevertheless. I ended up backtracking and following the Whittle-le- Woods canal branch to the nearest road.

The road, which fortunately has a pavement, takes me under the motorway past some neat cottages to the outskirts of the town.

A friendly pub, The Roebuck, beckons from across the road from the small Jubilee garden with its clock.

I sit in their beer garden enjoying a pint and contemplating the day’s walk. The state of the footpaths in the early part was disappointing. They are not well used in what should be a popular area. On the day, I made the right choice to take to the towpath, which turned out to be an interesting stretch. It was my error near the end, not identifying the correct path. I intend to return and do a loop that includes the bits of the Witton Wander I have missed, as I do find the area historically and scenically interesting.

LITTER.

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I do a litter pick-up on Longridge Fell.

Litter drives most people mad. Cans, bottles, food wrappers, dog poo bags. Unfortunately, they are everywhere these days. Our roadsides are a disgrace, and our footpaths often the same. I do a regular ‘litter pick’ on Longridge Fell, as do others, and I think it has helped. But recent episodes of irresponsible wild camping have left a lot of litter. Time to clear it; nobody else will.

This fits in perfectly with my 52 Ways to Walk – Pick Up Litter As You Walk chapter for this week.

Litter is so intrusive visually, especially in rural surroundings; not so great in towns either. It can harm wildlife and pollute our rivers. One wonders what the cost is for local authorities?

So let’s get picking. I wander through the woods; the odd can and dog poo bag are easily dealt with.

Soon I am at one of the sites of an open fire. I collect discarded melted bottles and bits of metal barbecue mesh. Can you understand the mentality of anyone lighting fires in the middle of a forest during a heat wave?

I have a full carrier bag, and when I reach another campfire site, I need to return the next day with a bigger bag.

I have a very satisfied feeling for doing some good for the environment and my community. People I meet are interested and give me encouragement in the task at hand. All to the good. So, on your next walk, why don’t you do a little litter-picking? Go on, it’ll give you a boost and help the environment at the same time. It’s not so easy if you don’t go prepared. A litter grabber, gloves and bags are really needed. One tip from the book is to have two separate bags, one for recyclables and one for landfill, as you won’t feel like sorting through the mess later.

CALM RESTORED.

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

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

My frustrations of earlier melt away.

MAD DOGS…

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…and Englishmen.

You won’t get me out in the midday sun this week.

I manage an early-morning walk in the shade up on the fell. There is a slight breeze, but the temperature is already 26°C.

It’s a little cooler down by the stream.

I’m home well before lunch and rehydrating behind drawn curtains; the temperature is up to 31°C.

My wise cats have more sense than those mad dogs.

This Englishman will see you next week.

A WHITTLE WANDER. Part one.

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Whittle-le-Woods to Hoghton.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Under the motorway.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

A GOOD NIGHT’S SLEEP.

9 Replies

Walk in an evergreen forest.

Week 25 of my 52 Ways to Walk Odyssey. I’m still going strong. Will I see out the year?

It’s almost the longest day, and I don’t feel I have achieved much, walking-wise, this year. I still haven’t managed one of my mini long-distance routes with a few hotel or pub overnighters thrown in. There’s time yet.

A retreat of mine for a quick hour is the plantation up on Longridge Fell, which is called Cowley Brook Woodland. I’ve been up there a few times this week and realised it provides me with that evergreen forest walk. Owned by Unite Utilities, originally a commercial pine plantation which was partially cleared a decade or so ago and replanted with deciduous trees. In that time, more evergreens have appeared, presumably from seeds in the ground. Looking back at an old post from 5 years ago, I am amazed to see how the woodland has developed. Compare a photo from February 2021 with today’s view. I wonder whether the planted deciduous trees will survive with all that natural competition?

The evergreens, specifically pines in this case (cedars, larches, firs, pines, and spruces), all have a distinctive resinous smell. Essential oils, phytoncides, are produced by the trees as a defence against insects, fungi and disease. These chemicals are said to have medical benefits, namely boosting immunity, reducing stress and aiding sleep. It is the latter that I am hoping for today. Walking in the forest in the afternoon on a warm, windless day is recommended. There have been a few of those this week,

I wander slowly through the woods, breathing deeply and touching the greenery as I pass. I realise I can’t always identify the coniferous species; there is a mixture in here, but it doesn’t matter for now. Larches, spruces and cypresses seem to be the most prominent in the ‘new’ plantation. I can immerse myself in the new trees, as most are just over head height.

Along the way, a Slippery Jack or a Larch Bolete, I forgot to check the tree, has suddenly appeared in the warm, moist weather.

Higher up the hill, mature pines and the more sterile commercial spruces are still standing, with their foliage many feet above. So here I concentrate on their bark and any resinous sap exuded from damaged areas. This is more pungent than the odour from squeezing the greenery of the low tees. It does stick to your fingers, though, and, without thinking, transfers to my phone’s touchscreen when taking pictures.

It is invigorating up here, and the day is enhanced by a chorus of bird song**. But my joy is blunted by finding the site of a campfire, right in the middle of the forest! and the associated litter, which I will deal with another day. It is difficult to understand some people.

Forest Bathing, the Japanese process of relaxation known as Shinrin Yoku, has become fashionable. I can see its appeal, and I intend to seek out more natural evergreen forests rather than commercial ones, if I can find any nearby. There is a small patch of possible Scots Pines across the way on a piece of fell I’ve never been on. This is where the cuckoos lay their eggs most years. I’m surprised to still hear a male over there at this time of year.

So did I sleep any better – well, no. I am a bad sleeper at the best of times, and this week I have the added distraction of the World Cup. Broadcast from the States, so airing on our TV late at night and in the early hours. I should have brought some of that resin sap back with me. That has suddenly brought back sensory memories of applying resin (rosin) to my bow when I played the cello. How wonderful, maybe I should buy a block to keep under my pillow.

**I have just come across this photographer’s website, which has an article on Cowley Brook.

Better go before the football starts, it could be a late night.

ON THAT TRAIL AGAIN.

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Not all those who wander are lost. Bilbo Baggins.

Yes, you’ve guessed it, I’m on the Tolkien Trail, for the umpteenth time. I don’t think I progressed from reading The Hobbit to the Ring series, so I don’t understand all of the associations of Tolkien’s fantasy worlds and our Ribble Valley. JRR Tolkien indeed visited the area whilst his eldest son was studying at Stonyhurst College in the 1940s, and no doubt he explored a little, being an advocate of nature, but did he really lean upon the area for inspiration? It would be good to know if the green rolling Ribble Valley, which we so appreciate today, is in the background somewhere.

In these days of Instagram and social media, many places tied to a film, book or TV scene have become must-visit spots for that selfie. The shopkeepers and pubs nearby will be rubbing their hands if their village or street is featured on TV week after week, but what of the local population who have to endure inconsiderate parking and intrusive behaviour? Try going to Haworth on a weekend. The same is happening to previously hidden beauty spots; the litter generated in some corners of the Lakeland is staggering. Internet searching even provides lists of ‘iconic’ locations.

So how does The Tolkien Trail fit into the scheme of things? Many of us have explored and enjoyed the area around Stonyhurst for decades without a thought of Tolkien or Middle-earth. Local enthusiasts and the tourist board seem to have hit upon the idea in the early 2000s, conveniently at the height of the Lord of the Rings film series’ popularity: literary connections were made and leaflets printed, and it has increased in popularity ever since. It has been included in several guidebooks, and YouTube videos are freely available. There are no standout Tolkien locations for the Instagram brigade, aside from perhaps Cromwell’s Bridge, to distract the walker. This trail is all about the natural scenery, which one hopes the visitors appreciate.

I arrive in Hurst Green at lunchtime, the streets are packed with cars, signs implore considerate parking, and there is a small car park at the village hall (voluntary contributions). I know I am adding to the problem. Why didn’t I catch the hourly bus from Longridge or come midweek?

I tend to walk the route widdershins, thus avoiding that long drag back up from the river to the village right at the end of the day. Most of the leaflets and guides go clockwise, and this is reflected in the steady stream of folk coming towards me all afternoon. Without exaggeration, at least a hundred; at one point, I wondered whether there was a sponsored walk underway. But the wide landscape easily swallows them, and as I said, there are no real honey spots. On reflection, I don’t recall seeing any litter.

A wedding reception is in full flow at the Shireburn Arms, a popular venue with stunning views over the Ribble Valley. Through their car park, a gate leads into a field that drops down to the River Ribble.

Towards the bottom, it narrows alongside a steep gorge before crossing the stream.

Alongside the river, the pipeline carrying water to Blackburn is a graceful addition to the scenery. One is uniquely walking on Astroturf. A solution to prevent erosion on this popular stretch. Strips salvaged from an athletic track were laid down a decade ago and seem to be lasting well.

Pendle pops up on the horizon and is with us all day.

Yellow Loosestrife and Geraniums give some colour.

Approaching Jumbles…

…and Tracy’s seat.

The giant hogweed we are warned against. Do not touch!

Hacking Ferryman’s house, Kemple End in the background.

17th-century Hacking Hall.

Site of the Hacking Ferry, which operated until the 1950s, Tolkien’s era. The Calder is joining in.

For more on the ancient ferry – https://bowlandclimber.com/2020/02/23/roads-to-nowhere-part-2-hacking-ferry/

All along this stretch, chattering Sand Martins are swooping over the river. One is just as likely to see a Little Egret as a Heron these days.

The Hodder is joining from the left.

The ancient Winckley Oak.

I learned to drive one of these before I was a teenager.

Stonyhurst College towers come into view.

That iconic bus shelter with a handy seat…

… and a view of Pendle.

C16th packhorse bridge. Cromwell’s army unlikely crossing.

One is now following the Hodder, which is mostly hidden by the summer vegetation. There are some good little bays for paddling along this stretch.

And a lively weir further on.

The trail climbs away from the river to Hodder Place, once a preparatory school for Stonyhurst College, but before that, a cotton mill owner’s property. Was there a mill on the Hodder below? I don’t think so, his must have been elsewhere..

I march through the grounds of Stonyhurst College before taking the footpath back to the village, arriving down Smithy Lane next to the photogenic Shireburn Almshouses.

Gothic Revival style St. Peter’s.

Almshouses.

I enjoyed my slow wander through our beautiful countryside and, like Bilbo Baggins, didn’t get lost once.

For a shorter version of this walk – https://bowlandclimber.com/2025/03/01/tolkien-in-the-mists-of-time/

***

BOUNDING ALONG.

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You join me halfway round my Longridge walk. I’m on the road heading up to the fell, with the wooded hill of Tootle Heights in the background; this was on the edge of what was once a large stone quarry, now a caravan park. There are several old photographs from the early 20th century depicting a ‘broad walk’ going up the heights where the people of Longridge would parade in their Sunday finery. I often imagine the scene as I walk up here.

I cut off into the park right next to one of the old tunnels, built in 1839, that goes under the road for 55 yards into the quarry, which is now barred. Stone was extracted and carted through the tunnel. Wagons took stone from here through what is now the park on the railway line leading to Preston. Brake wagons were used down the gradient to Preston and hauled back empty by horses. Steam engines came into use in 1848.

I stroll past the miniature Miyawaki forest, which is showing growth in only its second year. I only hope I’m around in 10 years to see how it has developed.

Several of the dog walkers in the park are acquaintances, so progress is slow.

At the bottom of the park is the line of the old rail track going to Preston. IA branch went off to the right for a few hundred yards to the base of what was Lord’s Quarry. It is now a popular path leading to the top of Lord’s Lane, better known locally as Mile Lane. It winds its way between trees and undergrowth. I have forgotten that the Rotary Club undertook its resurfacing a few days ago. I get to walk on it for the first time. They have thankfully not tarmacked it but used hardcore and sand. It looks a little severe at the moment, but once the edges soften with foliage, all should be well.

Then I’m at the top of Mile Lane and away from people, I can resume my walking with a bounce theme for this week’s 52 ways. The book titles the chapter “Jump Start Your Walk for Super Strong Bones.”

We are all aware that weight-bearing exercise is essential for strong bones, especially as we age. Women in particular are prone to osteoporosis, but it applies to us males also. Science suggests that regular exercise helps preserve our bones, but to improve bone density, one needs higher-impact exercise. Running, jumping and hopping all provide that high impact. Walking fast with varying changes of direction is better than strolling. The book suggests doing some jumps in the privacy of your home before setting off.

After the said jumping, I left home with thoughts of bounding along the pavement, with a few shimmies thrown in. But I immediately fell into step with a friend walking her dog, and we ended up strolling through the village. I didn’t mention my original intentions. Going our separate ways, that’s where you joined me.

Back on Mile Lane, I increase my speed and do some jumping over cracks in the concrete. This is all becoming Monty Python-esque. I don’t jump like I used to. I’ve noticed climbing stiles; I gingerly edge down where, in the past, I would have leapt from the top step. The mind is willing, but the body is weak. Fell walking does involve far more ‘stressful’ strutting than walking on the pavements, must get back to it more.

Walking down the main road is no fun; the pavement is narrow, and the cars speed past too close for comfort. At the corner, I escape and head down Old Clay Lane. This was marked on early 19th-century maps as ‘old ‘, so it must have a long history. Where the house is now was once Thornley Tile Works, working from the latter half of the 19th century until early in the 1900s. There was probably a clay pit there long before. It is now a rather overgrown and often muddy path. Today it seems drier, full of flowers and bird song. I do some leaping over the wet patches. I disturb an owl in the trees.

I’m soon home and repeating a few jumps in the privacy of my house. Must do it more often.

A bit of bounding, a bit of history, some nature and plenty of chatting – all good on a short walk.

My last post was dedicated to my son’s dogs. To redress the balance, here are my two cats waiting for my return this afternoon.

A DOGGY INTERLUDE.

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Not much walking today. The family are visiting for a late Sunday lunch.

Exercising the dogs takes priority. Ticks have become a problem up in Cowley Brook Plantation, on the fell, where we usually go. So it’s the short drive to Brock Bottom, the other side of Beacon Fell. The dogs are excited and, once out of the car, make a dash for the river. Gizmo loves the water, but Phoebe is more restrained. He wades in whilst she sniffs the edges.

A pool here is great for rock skimming. Fun for the adults as well as fun for the dogs chasing the stones.

We wander along the riverbank path as far as the metal bridge over the Brock.

The dogs, well Gizmo, had more time in the river.

All too soon, we turn around and head home for a curry whilst the dogs catch up on some sleep.