Category Archives: Lancashire.

A NOSEY AROUND THE VILLAGE.

8 Replies

Is it a village or a town I wonder?

Longridge was once a village centred on stone quarries and cotton mills. But that was long ago, there has been steady development in the last 50 years, until it is now a dormitory town of Preston.

The population in 2000 was about 7,000; it is now estimated at 12,000. So I think it is, in fact, a town even though the established locals still refer to it as a village. Make of that what you wish; it is irrelevant to today’s walk.

Delving into my 52 Ways to Walk book for this week, I have the snazzy title Breathe as you walk. That sounds fairly obvious. But no, there is more to it than that – let’s focus on Nitric Oxide, NO. (not be confused with nitrogen dioxide, NO2, a brown gas and major air pollutant or Nitrous Oxide, N2O, which is laughing gas) When I studied Biology in the sixties, Nitric oxide was established as highly reactive, having a lifetime of a few seconds, and I don’t recall any properties that applied to the human body. But we are in a different century, and it has assumed some importance to our physiology.

Nitric oxide is a vasodilator discovered in our bodies a mere 30 years ago. One source is from the nasal membranes, so nasal breathing delivers it directly to our lungs, helping to improve oxygen uptake. I have double-checked some of the science, and there is relevant and reliable clinical research. Interestingly, if you hum at the same time, more nitric oxide is produced.

Nasal breathing is already known to filter out more airborne pathogens than mouth breathing, and it also slows breathing, having a relaxing effect well known to Yoga followers.

Hence, on my walk today, I will try to breathe through my nose as much as possible. I realise that most of the time, when exercising, I predominantly breathe through my mouth. A gentle walk around the village/town is chosen. On the flat, slow nasal breathing is easy once you concentrate. Going uphill, breathing in through my nose but breathing out through my mouth works best. I don’t notice any extra energy on this limited walk. Of note, I am much more aware of the traffic fumes when breathing through the nose. Urban walking is probably not the healthiest option when it comes to pollution. On the contrary, at other times the scents of the countryside will be more acute with nasal breathing.

On the whole, during my walk, I find that trying to concentrate on the nasal breathing interrupts my enjoyment of the surroundings and my train of thought. More practice is needed.

*

I follow one of my usual circuits. Out past the cricket pitch, up Mile Lane (which is only half a mile), and down the path onto the top park. Here I divert to have a look at the little Miyawaki tree plantation. Most are just sticks at this time of year, but I notice yew trees and gorse in amongst them.

Down Higher Road, I pass the terraced row of stone cottages, said to be the first erected by a mutual building society.

At the top of the main street is a little fast-food outlet advertising burgers and wraps, not the sort of place I would normally use. But through the grapevine, I learned they prepare a daily curry, cooked on site in small batches from natural ingredients. I have started to pop in when passing to see what’s on offer in the curry department. Everything I have tried so far has been authentic and delicious. I go in today and come away with a portion of black bean dhal and some vegetable pakoras. Rabias Kitchen  – my little piece of India in Longridge. As one has to say  –  other outlets are available. In fact, Longridge is saturated with takeaways. 

I cut back through our recreational park with its children’s playgrounds, skate park, and now the brand-new Pump Track. I stand and stare at some of the youngsters pumping their way around the circuit. It looks like great fun. Let’s try to give our children something to prise them off their screens and possibly keep them away from more antisocial behaviour. Our community is not immune to vandalism and drug problems.

As an example of antisocial behaviour – I cpme across flytipping by the roadside next to a new estate.

This is followed by a thorough soaking from a motorist driving over the speed limit through a large puddle. Nose breathing took a dive as I swore at his rapid passing.

I don’t expect to venture far this next couple of weeks, what with the weather and appointments. Local walks will have to do. 

 

 

 

A NEW YEAR. IN BOWLAND MEADOW.

19 Replies

 

  My walking year wasn’t meant to start like this.

*

  I had a busy and costly day yesterday. 

  A dental appointment in the morning – check-up and a difficult molar filling that keeps dropping out and will need some major drilling in the near future. 

  Physiotherapy appointment at lunch time to assess some abdominal muscular problems, which have completely stopped me from venturing out in 2026 so far. Suspect nerve impingement in my thoracic region. Hopefully not a kidney stone, as my GP’s appointment is in two weeks.  

  Afternoon – ultrasound scan of my shoulder, which has suffered from the bar stool episode last year. The charming radiologist tells me I have a complete tear of the supraspinatus. No quick fix there.

  ‘That was the day that was‘, which left me £500 less in my bank account.  Having said that, I don’t begrudge a penny of it if it gets me back on the road. (OK, I know I’m lucky to be able to afford it where others may not.)

*

  Today, my muscle spasms are less, thanks to the physiotherapist’s strong-arm massage on my back yesterday—time to stop the painkillers. I have watched the blue skies on several days this year and been unable to get outside and enjoy them. By lunchtime, the day is set fair, and I decide to go for my first walk of 2026. My choice of route is modest and local. It has only now struck me that the name of the estate I walk around is Bowland Meadows – serendipity.

  I would have been happier in the Bowland Fells, but needs must, and at least the meadows have been granted a local name, although Bowland View would have been more appropriate. The meadows are no more, yet more countryside has been sacrificed for our mad rush to build more houses at whatever cost to nature. Barratt Homes,  as the developers, fall back on giving the streets ‘nature-related’ names, as you will see in my photos. Is this to dupe the house purchasers into thinking they are moving to a rural life? What was wrong with Factory Row, Mill Street and Gas Alley?  As our natural fauna and flora are being destroyed, the popularity for naming streets after birds, animals, trees and flowers has increased exponentially. There is some perverse psychology at play.  Similar to the global companies offering to plant a tree for every pound spent on destroying the planet. It just doesn’t work. 

  Having said all that, my stroll around Bowland Meadows reveals diverse, pleasant housing, open green spaces, play areas, and a connection to the surrounding countryside, for now at least. And of course, those Bowland Fells will dominate forever. 

  Let us hope they appreciate the view and the ‘rural life’ they have signed up for.

  Let’s also hope for some snowdrops, primroses, and bluebells to brighten their Spring. 

A GRAND DAY OUT.

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The Harris Museum, Preston.

  I’ve just spent the last couple of hours re-watching Nick Park’s early Wallace and Gromit films on iPlayer.  (A Grand Day Out, 1989; The Wrong Trousers, 1993; A Close Shave, 1995; A Matter of Loaf and Death, 2008).  I felt I had to after visiting the  Wallace and Gromit: A Case at the Museum exhibition in the newly opened Harris Library, Museum and Gallery in Preston earlier in the day. These four short films were produced at Aardman Studios in Bristol, and originally shown on BBC TV. My memory of them is somewhat vague, but I find them much more enjoyable than his full-length feature films: The Curse of the Were-Rabbit, 2005 and  Vengeance Most Fowl. 2024. That possibly says more about my attention span rather than the films’ qualities. I now think that if  I had refreshed my memory of the films before visiting the exhibition, I would have derived more from it. 

  For anyone wanting to see the Wallace and Gromit exhibition in Preston, it closes on January 4th.

  When I first moved to Preston in the early 1970s, I was a regular visitor to the Harris Library for books. I remember glancing at the museum exhibits and art gallery. One or two objects stayed in my mind from that time: The Lady In the Yellow Dress, the central pendulum, an ancient Elk’s skeleton and pottery remains from Bleasdale Circle. The years go by, and I haven’t visited since I moved to Longridge. The Museum and library closed in 2021 for a major multimillion-pound redevelopment. It reopened to much acclaim at the end of September 2025, with the Wallace and Gromit exhibition a major attraction. I still hadn’t visited, but today my grandson and his partner, both recent art students, came up from Manchester to see the present exhibition before it closes, and I was gladly dragged along.

  We emerge from the brutalistic bus station and make our way through the ageing shopping arcade to emerge alongside the Victorian buildings at the heart of the city. The covered market, the council offices, the old law courts, and the delightful arcade which deposits us into the Flag Market. The old post office, on the far side, was destined to become a hotel, but work has apparently stalled. The Harris, which we have come to visit, dominates the square.  Opened in 1893, the Grade I listed building is owned and managed by Preston City Council. Its origins are from a bequest from Edmund Harris, a wealthy Preston lawyer, in 1877, in that grand age of Victorian educational enlightenment. The building was designed in a Neo-Classical style by local architect James Hibbert.  “To Literature Arts and Sciences” is enblazoned across the portico.

  As an aside, I recently wrote about a bull-baiting ring at Worston and, on further reading, came across an often-overlooked bull ring on the Flag Market in Preston. Bull baiting was banned in 1726. Time to find it. Yes, and there, hiding just behind the falafel stall, in the SW corner, is evidence of it.

  Into the Harris we go – it is free to visit. “The Harris is here to serve as a cultural hub, bringing together communities and promoting creativity and learning”  I realise immediately how vast the interior is. A central rotunda with rooms disappearing on all sides and on four floors. A Foucault Pendulum, displaying the Earth’s rotation, hangs 35m, the longest in the UK. 

  We did a whirlwind tour of the library areas and some of the upper galleries before joining the queue for the Wallace and Gromit display. The queue lasted an hour before we were let into the exhibition. A good chance to chat to the friendly people of Preston. Behind us was a gent wearing a TVR-emblazoned hat.  TVR sports cars were manufactured in Blackpool and once achieved cult status before being bought out by foreign investors. One of my friends still drives one, and the man in the queue once had three in various states of repair. The family in front had an excited young fan of the W and G films, and somehow the conversation turned to visiting Sri Lanka and its tea plantations. I now realise we were passing a display on the history and importance of tea, on the upper gallery. The view down from here was acrophobic.

  At last, we were in…

… which meant nothing to me until rewatching the early films.

  The genius creator behind Wallace and Gromit was Nick Park, a Preston lad born in 1958. He had a keen interest in drawing cartoons from a young age, encouraged by his father. Some of his early attempts are on display.

  His college graduation project, A Grand Day Out, was brought to fruition with the help of Aardman Studios. It was six years in the making. He has worked with them ever since, on far more projects than W and G. 

  The secret behind his Wallace and Gromit stop-motion animations is his use of plasticine for his models. This blends in with the characters, giving them a somewhat homely northern character. His choice of Pater Sallis for Wallace’s voice-over was a master stroke, even if the accent is more white rose than red. A fire at Aardman Studios in 2005 destroyed many original models, but enough survived and are on display here today.

  The exhibition highlights the level of detail that Park put into creating his characters, with many of his original sketches on display.  

  The detail was further carried through to his sets, several of the originals being displayed. If you are a fan, you will recognise them.

  Using the plasticine, Park created a range of expressions for Wallace’s vocabulary. These he preserved and used as and when on his character.

  Throughout the exhibition were models used in the original films, a fascinating collection.

  I can’t convey the amount of material and information in this exhibition. What a shame it’s coming to an end this week. 

  Throughout the display were videos from some of Nick Park’s films, which were much appreciated by all ages.

*

  I will be back soon to immerse myself in the libraries and galleries.  Here is a taster, the enigmatic ‘Pauline in the Yellow Dress’.

LONGRIDGE DOES CHRISTMAS.

9 Replies

 

  I remember in my childhood days at Christmas time, my father would go down to the market on Christmas Eve and purchase a tree, never more than five feet tall,  and carry it back for us to decorate that evening.  I still have some of the tree decorations from that era, hand-painted lanterns. God forbid, but we had little candles in holders on the tree, which we lit for a short time. Think of the fire risk. The tree would barely last till the 12th night, depositing needles all over the hall carpet.   

  Now Xmas starts in the shops in October or earlier. The radio plays festive songs throughout the month. Trees are going up at the end of November. Some of the houses around are garlanded from floor to roof, all flashing lights and blown-up Santas. No doubt they will be setting off fireworks soon. Not far away, ‘German Markets’ are selling cheap plastic Chinese trinkets.  

  But I’m not a complete Scrooge. Even if the festivities have lost their meaning, it is good to see some sparkling cheer in these winter months. 

We are only a small town, once a village even, and don’t have a civic Christmas Tree. But for years, shops on the high street in Berry Lane sprouted Xmas trees from their walls. Health and safety have intervened, and some of the brackets supporting the trees have been judged unsafe. So no trees this year. Someone has stepped in to give the street a festive cheer. A local artist, apricotsulphurdesign, has painted some shop windows with Christmas scenes. Other shops have done their own decorating.

  On a shopping trip, I wander into town. Why not take a photo of the windows as I go? Along the way, giving a nod to our varied independent businesses.

Excuse the glass reflections. 

  Ignore my imaginary header image; this is what it really looks like.

Best wishes for the season to anybody out there.

SIMPLY BLEASDALE.

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  A winter afternoon, and I’m surrounded by familiar fells, Parlick, Faisnape, Hazelhurst and Beacon, far away from the pre-Christmas hustle and bustle. It’s been a while since I was out and about, but one has to take the opportunities of fair weather as they come along at this time of year. A cooler east wind is creeping in, so hopefully that persistent wet weather is behind us for some time. 

    St. Eadmer’s, where I park, sits in this beautiful setting on the Bleasdale Estate. It is the only church in the UK to be dedicated to St Eadmer, an Anglo-Saxon Benedictine monk and scholar. I have written about the church and Bleasdale many times, so let’s just get on with the walk, a circuit on good tracks.

  I wonder if people turned up at Bleasdale Circle for the winter solstice a couple of days ago. It’s rather a bleak spot now that its trees have toppled. 

  Throughout the short afternoon, the fell tops are constantly changing as clouds come and go. The sun makes a weak appearance at times, adding interest. 

  There are several variations to my Bleasdale walks; today, I choose widdershins on a short circuit for no obvious reason. I contemplate the lonely lives of upland farmers as I pass by their isolated properties. I meet one other person, a lady recently retired from Sussex with her two dogs, and now lucky enough to live in Bleasdale. 

  On the return loop, I once more peer at that packhorse bridge over the infant Brock, near Brooks. It is on private property. I’ve read that it was on the original track from Bleadale House and Reformatory School to St. Eadmers. I cross what is obviously a more modern bridge, but then the curiosity gets the better of me, and I enter the woods to backtrack above the river and look down on the older crossing. One day…

  Again, on a whim, I investigate a footpath I have never used before. Leaving the estate road, it cuts across rough fields to Admarsh Barn and the church where I am parked. 

St. Eadmer’s.

The track into the estate.

SIMPLY  A swollen beck.

Lonely Holme House Farm.

Looking up to Fiensdale Head.

Fairsnape and Parlick.

Beacon Fell

Old packhorse bridge.

From above.

Adnarsh Barn.

  While looking online for the origins of Admarsh, I came across an interesting article on Bleasdale that I hadn’t previously seen.  https://e-voice.org.uk/longridge/longridge-history-society/bleasdale/   Well worth a read if you know the area.

  Time to get back to the shops.

*

BAILEY’S LISTED BUILDINGS.

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Aighton, Bailey and Chaigley is a combined parish in the Ribble Valley, centred on Hurst Green. Many of you will have walked hereabouts, Longridge Fell, Stonyhurst College and the Tolkien trail, without realising its parish name. Today I’m exploring the Bailey area, west and south of Hurst Green. Looking at the map this morning for inspiration, I notice Bailey Hall with a moat surrounding it. Checking Historic England, it shows up as a Grade II-listed C17th house on an earlier C14th site, of a Chantry Chapel. A public footpath goes through its grounds.

A short drive and I’m parked in Hurst Green. I take the familiar track alongside Dene Book, which I’ve described many times. Renovation of the two houses along here is underway. Looking down through the bare trees, one can see the spot where a mill race came off the Brook to serve a bobbin mill further down the valley.

I walk on past the quarry to reach Sandy Bridge, a substantial structure for the little valley. Of course, this highway previously served Greengore, a C16th Hunting Lodge for the medieval Stonyhurst Deer Park.

The waterfalls above the bridge are particularly lively today and stand out well through the bare trees.

I don’t go as far as Greemgore, as I want to use some field paths I may not have trodden before. There is a hazy view of Pendle across the valley, header photo. I know I’m going to get muddy. I navigate through the yard of Hill Farm and, on in the fields below the shapely Doe Hill, with its crown of trees.

Bailey House is next, and the way is clear. This is a grade II-listed C17th building, partially hidden from the right-of-way.

I come out onto the main Longridge Road at the site of the now-demolished Punch Bowl Inn. (On old maps, it was named Fenton Arms) There is a lot of local controversy over the fate of this Grade II listed C18th inn. I walk down the lane beside the rubble.

An empty house is passed, and then a concrete drive winds through the fields towards Bailey Hall. I’ve not been down here for decades. Approaching the buildings, I pass barns that I later find out are cruck-framed. The largest barn has been converted to impressive living accommodation.

Bailey Hall stands alone, with the remains of the surrounding moat visible. Some windows have been bricked up, presumably in response to the 1696 Window Tax introduced under King William III. The whole building appears unbalanced to me.

The remains of the Chantry Chapel are difficult to make out, mainly a pile of stones. It had been built and occupied as an outlier to Whalley Abbey. so the local population could pray without difficult travel.

The moat is clearly seen on the east side of the house, where I enter the woods and drop down to a footbridge over Bailey Brook. (interestingly marked as Foot Stick on old OS maps)

The way across the fields to grade II listed Merrick’s Hall (Priest’s House on the old map) is marked by white poles, which are a great help; if only more farmers would do the same. The hall is unoccupied and in a poor state. Through the south side windows, I can just make out an elaborately carved fire surround in one room. At the front of the hall are some interesting mullioned windows, but all a little sad.

The farmer has a sizeable collection of scrap metal.

I have never been in St. John’s parish church, just across the road, so it’s yet another discovery for today. Built in 1838, it has a plain interior. What strikes me immediately is a beautiful stained glass window reminiscent of the Arts and Crafts style of William Morris and Burne-Jones. The box pews were removed in the early 20th century and replaced with pine pews.

The church prides itself on its eco-sustainability; it won a coloured glass award. On the west wall is a charming church clock.

All I have to do is walk down the steep Dene to finish this worthwhile little circuit of Bailey.

The Bayley Arms (note the change in spelling) looks very dilapidated, let’s hope it doesn’t suffer the same fate as the Punchbowl.

*

National Library of Scotland.

OUT OF THE ROUGH.

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Dusty and Dinkley.

  In my last post, some time ago, I was in the rough.

  Well, I seem to have taken some time to escape. Out of nowhere, my throat became encased in sandpaper, and my voice struggled to function. A week of hot drinks, gargling and cough medicines ensured the bug didn’t get onto my chest, the main worry for us oldies. Disturbed sleep was mitigated with whisky. 

  Of course, there was that stormy Friday when one of my mature trees snapped in half, pulling with it a climbing rose I’ve had for 40 years with stems thicker than my arms. The devastation was evident from my kitchen window, but I was in no state to go out and sort it. 

  On the mend, I eventually ventured out with a chainsaw and loppers. But that rose was a nightmare; it would hook me up from all angles, taking lumps out of my jacket and skin. An hour a day was all I could manage—slow progress and still not all cleared. 

   For company, I would bring out my kittens to play in the garden. Oscar is becoming a proficient climber, while Dusty quarters the lawn, honing her skills in pursuit of insects.  I need to keep an eye on them as a tom from across the road is very aggressive towards them. 

  In a second, Oscar is up a tree, but little Dusty is chased out of the garden.

  That was the start of three days of worrying for her safety. I went around neighbours’ gardens and alleys, rattling tins and knocking on doors. I left bedding and a litter tray out to offer her some olfactory guide back. I resorted to a Facebook message. And it rained nonstop.  She was spotted in a garage but ran off, which gave me hope. But it was unlikely she would willingly return to my garden after the scare she had experienced. 

  To my joy, yesterday, after a vain morning search for her, she turned up in my porch. A lovely neighbour found her in their garage and coaxed her out. She was happy to be picked up and brought home. With relish, she tucks into a juicy chicken drumstick. Oscar is thrilled to see her, and we are now all having a cosy purring night together.

  I hope we are all out of the rough.

*

  Which is all a prelude to my walk today. It would have been easy to sink into another coffee and a book, but the sun shine beckons—time to get moving. I have in mind a gentle walk alongside the Ribble at Dinkley. 

  Surprisingly, I am the only car in the usually popular Marles Wood carpark. To vary the day and for an easy start, I just walk along the road to the pub and church at Old Langho. It’s a quiet stretch of road, and I relax into a gentle rhythm, enjoying the crisp air and sunshine. 

  I remember when this house was a pub, The Tanners Arms and then a Chinese Restaurant, Mr Foo’s? Allegedly, he lost the place playing mahjong. 

  I’m not sure when the next bus will come along here.

  I pause at the sandstone bridge over Dinkley Brook.

  My obligatory shot of Pendle, with his head in the clouds. 

  The Black Bull hasn’t opened yet, and there is a burial service at St. Leonards Church, so I move on. You can read more about the church and Brockhall Hospital cemetery here and here.  

  More lodges are being built on the adjacent site. I am soon through and dropping down to cross Dinckley Brook for the second time this morning.

  Once up the slope, I head for the cluster of houses. Dinckley is a scattered community. Rather than continue on the lane, which I’ve walked before, I fancy a footpath going past Cravens, which might give me a view from the hillside over the Ribble. I often feel anxious walking down private drives, but I needn’t have worried; a series of gates takes me through their yard and back out into fields. The views I hoped for don’t materialise due to a belt of woodland above Dinckley Hall, but I do look across to Longridge Fell above Hurst Green.

  And there is this stately oak.

  Wire fencing hems me in; its purpose becomes apparent at a gate. The wigwams are just visible on the skyline before I reach the road going down to the hall. 

  Now on familiar territory, I make my way past that lovely shiny new bridge, replacing a ferry and a previous suspension bridge, whose opening plaque from 1951 is still on display.

  Despite all the rain we have had, the river is running low, with the shingle beaches visible.  

  The flood debris left on the banks, some 10 feet or more above today’s level, is scary.

  The bridge is better viewed from this angle.

  As I say, the river is low and ambling along at a slow pace, which I happily go along with. Entering Marles Wood, the only leaves left are on the young beech trees.  

  The river picks up pace approaching the rapids, but bears no resemblance to when it is in full flow. The Wheel is barely turning.

  I sit on a rock, drinking my coffee, watching the river flow by; at peace with the world.

*

But never mind Dinckley, Dusty is the star of the show.

* 

IN THE ROUGH.

16 Replies

                                                     Looking across to Sabden from Wiswell Moor.

Wiswell Moor.

   I’m intrigued by the name  Jeppe Knave on the map of Wiswell Moor. Looking into it, there are various stories, but basically, he was probably  Jeppe Curteys, a local robber who was beheaded for his crimes in 1327 and buried up here for whatever reason.  

  I set out today, halfheartedly, to see if I could locate the stone. I am really just out for a circular walk from the little village of Wiswell, making the most of another sparkling November day. I have to scrape the ice from my car this morning.

  There appear to be road closures in Wiswell, but I find a quiet street to park on. Cutting across fields, I arrive on Moor Lane. New houses are being constructed up here; they will have views over the Ribble Valley to Longridge Fell and Bowland. I hope for the same as I climb higher.

  At the top of the lane, there is a choice of footpaths, and on a whim, I take the left one, which, according to the map, goes close to Wiswell Quarry. The sheep study my slow progress upwards. Looking back, the view is definitely worth capturing in a panorama shot.

   I have never climbed here. It looks a bit scrappy, but I don’t get up close.

  I drop down the cobbled quarry track to join a lane, Clerk Hill Road, which connects farms along the flank of Wiswell Moor. It goes straight ahead uphill. The last farm has a strange building with an old ‘chimney’ – a man at the farm tells me it was once an abattoir.

The quarry track.

Clerk Hill Road

Old abbatoir at Wiswell Mooor Houses.

  Leaving the tarmac, the bridleway borders open access land on the moor. Yes, that’s the bulk of Pendle ahead.

  Looking at the map, Jeppe Knave’s Grave is in the second field, but there was no way to enter it due to the height of a splendid dry stone wall, with no gateway along its length. 

  Oh well, I can give it a miss. But then a gate brings the bridleway onto the rough, open fell. I now realise I could walk up to the trig point on The Rough, which again I’ve never visited, and could I then possibly find a way back into the grave field?  Off I go. 

 

    There is no track across the reedy ground alongside the wall. It’s also steeper than it looks.

  As I struggle, I start to regret my decision and consider my escape. Rough by name and rough by nature. I’ve started leaving a route map in our family WhatsApp group for my nearest and dearest. But here I am already going off piste on remote moorland. As the ground steepens, it becomes less boggy, so head down and plod on. At last, I reach the watershed. There is a gate ahead, then a high ladder stile into the field I want. I regret not noting the grid reference for Jeppe’s grave. It’s over there somewhere.   

 

  Once over the high ladder stile, there is a faint track going across the moor, and I surmise that it must lead me to the grave. Thankfully, it does.

  There are scattered rocks in a dip. Looking closer, there is an upright inscribed stone, Jeppe Knave.   This seems pretty new, and yes, behind it is an older inscribed stone lying on the ground.  I had not realised that the ‘grave’ was on the site of a Bronze Age burial ground, which, in any case, I wouldn’t have recognised. I can find no reference to the ‘new’ inscribed stone. Was it brought here or created in situ, and was there a need for it?

  Satisfied, I head back to the wall stile where I find an ideal spot for some lunch – the Shepherd’s Cave. The vistas over the Ribble Valley and afar are remarkable.

 

  Why have I never been here before?  Someone I know has been here before with an interesting tale – https://conradwalks.blogspot.com/search?q=trig+Wiswell+moor.

  I ritually touch the trig pillar on The Rough, 315m. Do I retrace my steps back down all that rough moor to the bridleway? But there seems to be a trod heading north-east towards the Nick. Let’s try it, so off I go again. The path improves as I follow it.

  I love walking high on the fells with my destination far off in the distance. Pendle Hill, or more correctly Spence Moor, is on the skyline. Can I see the summit of Pendle?   A gate, with a plaque to a local cyclist, sees me off the moor.

 In no time, I’m at the Nick of Pendle with Sabden down in the valley, and the ski club on the north side. Busy with traffic, I’m brought back to reality. But I only have a  few yards to go before I hop over a wall back onto the moor.  

  Soon, I join an old trackway leading down to Wymondhouses. Ingleborough and PenYghent are just visible at the head of hazy Ribblesdale. In front of me, Longridge Fell and the Bowland Fells

  I recognise the buildings from a walk in the past. There is a sign above the door which I can’t read from this distance, but looking back at previous posts I find this photo explaining it.  

  The higher path I take is very boggy, and I inevitably end up with wet feet. Not many come this way; somewhere I have gone off track.  I rejoin the public footpath at Audley Clough, and fortunately, there is a stile. Climbing out of the clough, I am suddenly back in cultivated fields, and an obvious path leads to Cold Coats farm.

  The grass and puddles have been frozen since this morning.

  All I have to do is stroll back along the lane to Wiswell and find which street I parked my car in.

  A very satisfying day, with the bonus of finding Jeppe Knave’s grave and enjoying an unexpected high moorland ridge walk.

*

SPIRE HILL DESPOILMENTS.

10 Replies

I’m not sure what to make of the recent additions next to the trig point on Longridge Fell, Spire Hill. It must have been a few weeks since I’ve been up here. I didn’t intend to come here today.

I was intent on heading for a quiet way across the fells to the Nick of Pendle from Wiswell. But as I sit in the car about to set off, I realise the day is slipping away. Pendle can wait. I need to take advantage of this sunny day, so I quickly change plans and park up on one of the roads on  Longridge Fell.  It looks to be busy.

However, my way up the lane is unfrequented.

The open fell arrives on cue. Wild, rugged, and wet.

Gannow Fell, on open-access land. The local landowner seems to think differently.

At the next stile, I climb past the head-high barbed wire fence – a death trap to the deer that have lived up here for centuries.

Circling the forest, I arrive at the wall, where I join groups coming up from the Jeffrey Hill carpark. More join in, having climbed from the lower road more directly than I. It’s bound to be busy on a sunny Sunday.

Of course, the views to the north are stunning.

It is at the trig point that I am surprised by the recent additions of ‘Fell furniture’. A sturdy wooden bench has been built next to the wall, with a totally incongruous little coffee table attached. Worse is a structure incorporating a locked summit book and information on trig points, which is already disintegrating, that we don’t need. Anyone requiring information on trig points, whether specific or general, can find it on the OS Website.   A waste bin liner is attached – who is going to empty this? Generally, the summit of the fell is relatively litter-free, and I do a litter pick there every few weeks. I fear the bin liner will only attract litter because people will use it rather than take their rubbish home. The structure resembles a payment station found in carparks.

I want to get more photos of the installation, but a large group of ramblers arrives and takes over the summit. I move on.

I have questions to ask about these recent additions.

Who gave permission? Who is the landowner?

What does the Forest of Bowland AONB think? Was it consulted?

Is it appropriate on an open felt top?

What do local walkers who frequent these paths think?

To give the perpetrator due credit, he does leave his name. A Stewart Duxbury, who adopted the trig pillar when the OS were releasing them. But the fact that he has taken responsibility for the trig pillar doesn’t give him the right to interfere with the surrounding fell top. I hope he is reading this article, and I would be very happy to discuss the matter further with him. Why not arrange a meeting up there?

Away from the crowds, I find a new track dropping off the fell used by mountain bikers. Discretely constructed through the trees. Some of the jumps make me shudder.

I find a tree stump for a quiet lunch, hidden away only yards from one of the main forest tracks. 

Then it is down off the fell on the usual paths, yet another brilliant autumn day..

I would value any comments, as usual, particularly on my worries for the fell, especially from people who use Longridge Fell. I have no more right to the open countryside than anybody else, but I do try to respect it.

*

HOT OFF THE PRESS.

8 Replies

Dean Clough Reservoir.

  I buy far too many books; I’ve a little stash awaiting my attention this winter.  I’m currently reading Alan Cleaver’s ‘The Postal Paths’, a loving look back at the ways our rural postmen used to travel before they were issued with vans. That particular purchase stemmed from my attempt to follow one of our local postie paths under the fell.

  In the past, I have often been inspired and guided by publications from Cicerone Press. Set up way back by two Lancashire lads, Walt Unsworth and Brian Evans, climbers and walkers who had a flair for researching routes and producing damn good guidebooks for the rest of us to follow. I would hazard a guess that you will have one or more on your bookshelf.

  Their regular newsletters appear in my digital newsbox. For November, they were tempting me with 20% off all their catalogue. My ambitions are limited these days, so aspiring treks in far-off places I can ignore, but a newish series of Short Walks in various UK destinations caught my eye. A few were promptly ordered. In the bundle that arrived yesterday was one on the Ribble Valley, which was only just published this year and written by Mark Sutcliffe, whom I respect as a trusted guidebook author. Okay, I have probably walked the Ribble Valley to death, but I am always curious about how others approach it.

  Walk No. 5 – Dean Clough Reservoir seems an ideal, fairly local walk for these short days between the showers. Today, the rain isn’t forecast until three this afternoon. Yes, I’ve walked this particular area several times, but Mark gives a new twist to the familiar and maybe paths that I have never explored.  I didn’t know one could walk the south side of the reservoir, and who doesn’t love navigating a golf course? 

  One advantage of Cicerone is that once you have purchased one of their guidebooks, you can download a GPX file of the route onto your phone. Of course, I forgot to do that today, but it is not necessary as the book has good OS mapping and an accurate description of the route. 

  Time to get walking. In fact, it is just before midday when I park up at an abandoned Indian restaurant in Langho. The last time I came this way, I arrived by train, which is a more sensible approach. But needs must. 

  I know the way up a residential road to where the footpath sneaks behind the last house and attempts to follow a stream bed, which is slowly, or perhaps rapidly, eroding away. Today, with the slippery leaves, it becomes a bit of an obstacle course.  The obstruction caused by a fallen tree, which I encountered last time, has been cleared, but the path now seems more precarious. Of course, I emerge onto the lane at York unscathed.

  It’s still all uphill past the cottages. Locals stop to chat, and I struggle to catch my breath.

  The Lord Nelson pub is left behind as I climb another steep lane. More locals join in; this is a popular walk. I stop to look back across the Ribble Valley to Longridge Fell.

  Through a gate, I end up on the open common of the ridge with no name.  Rather than head up to the rocks along with everybody else, my way slants across to the right, passing some tough-looking ponies, before rough ground down to the bridleway above Deans Clough Reservoir. Yes, there is rain in the air.

  I follow this up to the prominent band of trees on the hillside.  Doesn’t gorse brighten your day, whatever the month?

  I’ve traversed this way several times, but as I said, I was unaware that there is a permissive footpath along the south side of the waters. So that’s where I head. A decent path provided by United Utilities skirts the shore all the way to the dam, leaving you to enjoy the views right through to Pendle. One can never get away from Pendle in the Ribble Valley. I’m not sure why the reservoir has a dividing weir, but it appears that you can walk across it.

  Across the main dam, I climb back up onto the ridge, but instead of heading back down to York, I veer right towards Whittle Hall.  From up here, trying to ignore Pendle, there are views back across hidden East Lancashire.  

  The buildings of Whittle Hall are navigated surprisingly easily, and now for the golf course.

  So I just follow the black and white posts; there doesn’t seem to be any golfers out. But what a view they have over to Kemple End. The ground is treacherously wet; crampons or at least golf studs would be of help. Soon, however, I’m in an old byway—Doctots Rake, avoiding all the fairways. I wonder how that name originated.

  Once over the railway, I pass the clubhouse, but don’t seem to find a way in for that promised cup of coffee.

  Not to worry, I’m back at the car in ten minutes and home in twenty. What a good choice for a Short Ribble Valley walk.

  And today, storm Claudia is creeping past, and bits of my roof are falling off.. 

*

GOOD THINGS COME TO THOSE WHO WAIT.

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Barbondale. 

If you look at the church clock, it is 12 noon. I’ve delayed the start of my walk today to let the drizzle and low cloud give way to brighter skies. What a good decision it turns out to be.

  I was initially attracted to this location, Barbon, north of Kirkby Lonsdale, by a piece on The Rivendale Review.

  I liked the look of his photo of the Devil’s Crag on Eskholme Pike. But today was not the day to go wandering up there in the mist. A low-level walk should be more productive. I found a link to a walk up Barbondale itself and returning through some of the estate parklands. Even as you drive up here from Kirkby Lonsdale, the epitome of an affluent market town, you are aware of a lot of imposing gateways leading to imposing mansions—tweed jacket country. In the past, the landed gentry settled here and shaped the landscape to their liking. 

   I park next to the church, just as it chimes twelve. Most of the hills are hiding in low clouds. Before leaving, I take a look around St. Bartholomew’s, which was built in 1892–93, and designed by the noted Lancaster firm of church architects, Paley, Austin and Paley.  Apart from the font, there is nothing of note inside.

  My way goes into the private estate of Barbon Manor, built as a shooting lodge for the Shuttleworths. The manor is situated high on the hillside and well-hidden by extensive woodlands.  As I walk up the access road, I am surprised to see a black and white barrier on one of the corners, but I later read that this road is used for a motor sport hill climb several times a year.

  Entering the woods alongside the river, a good track is used for about a mile up the valley. Autumn is the perfect time to visit here,

  As I progress, the path climbs away from the river, giving views of the surrounding hills. That’s Barbon Low Fell to the south.

  It feels much like a Scottish glen to me.

  Back alongside the river, where a lively stream joins the bedrock is exposed.

  I eschew the ford for the wooden footbridge.

  Several cars are pulled up alongside the road at what is probably a busy spot in the summer. Even today, dog walkers are out for a stroll, the dogs more interested in getting as wet as possible.

  The narrow road winds over to Dentdale, but I turn south and follow it back down the other side of the valley. A little red postie van completes the Scottish likeness. As you can see, the gloom has descended to just above my head. I’m walking down the Dent Fault with Silurian slate to the north and limestone to the south. Glacial erosion has shaped the valley.   I’m keeping my eyes open for a sheepfold by the roadside. Interestingly, the link I looked at for this walk mentions it only as a ‘strange sheepfold’; they obviously didn’t know of Andy Goldsworthy. He is an outdoor artist, and some of his early works were circular stone sheepfolds scattered across the north. This one is very accessible – Jack’s Fold.  The stonework matches the surrounding field walls. Inadvertently, I had captured it earlier in a photo across the valley. 

  I spend some time inside removing tissues and food wrappers stuffed in crevices between the stones.

  There are vast amounts of various lichens growing on the rock.

  I try to get above it for a better photo, but really, a drone would be the answer. Is that going beyond his artistic vision? 
Time to move on.

At the junction, I take the even quieter lane southwards.

This is above some authentic old sheepfolds.

  Looking back, one sees Barbon Manor above the woods I walked through earlier.

  With the day brightening, as forecast, there are extensive views out across the parkland and Lunesdale.  I struggle to place some of the hills seen from an unfamiliar angle—Farleton Fell, etc.

  I can’t resist a little play on these exposed rocks.

  As I approach the grounds of Whelprigg House, more mature plantations dominate.

  You can rent parts of the house for family occasions.

  More modest properties, presumably part of the estate at one time, are passed on the footpath below. The low sunshine, highlighting the autumn colours, particularly prominent today are the slopes of dead bracken on Barbon Low.

  This random stone wall, incorporating large boulders, is probably from the 18th Century or earlier.

  Crossing the driveway to Whelprigg, one enters more fields, complete with intimidating Beware of the Bull signs.

  The OS map here is unusual in that it names trees in the parkland.

  Anyhow, I can’t stop taking pictures of their stunning autumn garb.

  There are some strange groundworks in the park, for which I can find no explanation—presumably an ancient field or boundary marker.

  Skirting  Low Bank, I enter the back streets of Barbon through the grounds of the aptly named Underfell. The village is full of little cottages and friendly people, and of course the C17th Barbon Inn, who serve a good pint of Timothy Taylors Landlord. I’m not sure whether I am in Lancashire, Cumbria or Yorkshire.

As I sup my pint, I have time to reflect on a brilliant afternoon’s walk, just under six miles. It was well worth waiting for. I have some ideas for more walks in this special area, and of course, I need to visit the Devil’s Crag.

*

*

I CAN SEE YOUR HOUSE FROM HERE.

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Another short murky November walk up onto Longridge Fell, this time after all the rain, I’m keeping to the roads, which fortunately, circuit the lower part of the fell straight out of the village. 

The end comes before the start, looking down from the heights onto the hazy village. I can see your house from here.

Autumn colours are constant companions as I stroll up the road running below the golf course.

I take off into Cowley Brook Plantation for some off-road walking and fungus hunting, don’t eat the Fly Agaric.

I like the contrasting colours of the autumnal Larch with the evergreens. 

When I emerge onto the fell road again, there a 100 yards in front of me is JD. He uses this circuit to keep fit and often tries to average 4mph. What are my chances of catching him? Fortunately, today is one of his leisurely walks, and I am able, with a bit of jogging, to come alongside, to his surprise, at the Jeffrey Hill parking.

The fells across the way disappear into the haze. Can you spot Fairsnape?. 

We amble back down the road, chatting away and hence few photos. 

But I think the top lodge looks idyllic.

And then I can see your house. 

NOVEMBER ARRIVES.

11 Replies

  Searching hidden wells.

  The clocks have changed.    It’s November, not my favourite month.

  Hopefully, most of the noisy Halloween and Bonfire Night bangs have passed. Recent research has shown that the noisy grenades launched into the sky at this time of year, apart from scaring the hell out of ourselves and our pets, have a significant adverse effect on our bird population, especially the newly arrived migrants—time to switch to silent fireworks.

  General lethargy has already set in; my Circadian clock is now running fast or slow, I don’t know which.  All I know is that I don’t really get going today until after two o’clock. There is a break in the rain, although the clouds suggest more is to come. Yesterday I only managed half an hour in the plantation before the heavens opened. Today I try a longer walk on the fell. I have identified a feature on the map that I would like to investigate.

  Just off the track, two wells are marked, one of which is named Dobson’s. Let’s see what an older map has to show, 1912, before the afforestation.

Yes, they are both marked. Let’s go and have a look. 

There are no cars parked at the usually busy rough layby on the fell road. It’s, as I said, not the best of days.

I walk down the road to join the footpath going up to Brownslow Brook.  This used to be one of my regular runs; I now carefully follow it with my two ski poles for security. We are in the second generation of trees here since I moved to Longridge. Mountain bikers use this path, and I wonder if it is them who have been trying to repair it since I was last here. I cross Brownslow Brook and climb into the area which was cleared a few years ago. 

Higher up is one of my favourite trees, I call it the Brownslow Beech.

  But nearby is a windblown beech which supports a lovely selection of fungi. I’m entranced for a while searching for them. 

Green Thorn, the farm on the fell, is on the market if you fancy a ‘getaway from it’  property. Note this photo; next year, there may be an executive mansion enjoying the view over the Ribble Valley.   I do a little circuit on the main track before heading back.

  However, on the way, I keep an eye on my GPS to locate the wells, which are just off the main track. Strangely, the OS map coming up on my phone differs slightly from the one I viewed this morning.  Dobson’s Well is marked virtually on the track. 

  I later check my paper map – yes, it is. I stop and look at the appropriate point, nothing but trees, but I can hear water. I dive into the vegetation to track it down. I don’t find a well, but I do see an outflow of water.  Was it a spring rather than a well? Only Mr Dobson would know.

  Now, let’s try to find the other well, marked on the map just a short distance away. Exactly where I wanted to leave the main track, there appears to be a path or more likely a mountain bike trail.

  I follow it for a while, watching the little red arrow on my GPS close in on the well. Once again, I have to take to the trees. They are tightly packed, and I push through cautiously. Curiosity killed the cat.  After some time, I admit defeat – there is no water to be found. I wonder if the forestry operations have obliterated all signs of it. Well, I have tried, and perhaps I’ve had a 50% success. 

I continue down the main track with murky Pendle across the valley. A pleasant walk on the fell, making the best of a November afternoon. 

I’m still pulling pine needles out of my hair. 

A BUSY DAY AT RIVINGTON.

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As one drives along the M61 between Chorley and Bolton, one can’t miss that breast-like prominence on the slopes of Winter Hill—Rivington Pike.

That is our objective today, yet another sunny autumn day as we approach November. I meet up with the ‘Rockman’ from Bolton, one of my long-time climbing partners. We don’t get together often enough, so we have a lot of catching up to do, combined with the walk.

Coffee at his house is welcome. Poppy, his Airedale, is getting too old for long walks, so she is left at home. I let the Rockman drive his local lanes to Rivington. The carparks are packed, with cars everywhere along the roadside. Of course, it is half-term. We squeeze in near GoApe, of which the Rockman is a veteran star within his family.

The Lower Cruck Barn is busy feeding the masses. The rockman buys a piece of flapjack, which goes into my rucksack for him later.

Our walk up to the Pike is in the grounds previously owned by Lord Leverhulme, the soap magnate. He, along with T H  Mawson, the landscape architect, developed the hillside into the Terraced Gardens 

I am feeling lazy, and rather than detailing the historical background to the area, I would recommend reading the two links I’ve pasted above. That leaves me free to just describe the walk.

After a short way up the main avenue, we leave most of the crowds to walk a quieter path through the trees southeastwards. Gently gaining height, we chat away as more energetic dog walkers overtake us. Have you noticed that when the sun is shining, people are generally more sociable? Fallen leaves cover the path, creating an eerie atmosphere.

We double back on ourselves several times, always taking the easiest gradient. A half-hidden water trough reminds us that horse-drawn carriages would have used these lanes. 

  As height is gained, the West Lancashire plains are revealed. Rivington reservoir shines out below.

    The summit of the pike comes into view, but we still have a fair bit of climbing to do.

On reaching the top, we realise there is a strong, cold wind blowing from the west. Sheltered spaces in the lee of the tower are all taken, so we opt for a bench in the open.

The current tower was built in 1732. There had been an older, wooden beacon on the same spot.  The tower was made of stone from Liverpool, and the workers were paid in ale. The foundations of the tower are older stones; in the photo below, these stones are now visible due to erosion. The tower was constructed for John Andrews, a solicitor in Bolton and owner of the Rivington estate. It was built as a hunting lodge, featuring a  square room with a fireplace and a cellar.


A passing mountain biker stops for a chat, a youngster who lives at the base of the hill. It is refreshing to find a teenager who obviously enjoys adventures in the outdoors and has the scars to prove it. Maybe because I am engrossed, I virtually forget to take any photos of the scenes around us. The coast is certainly in view.  We move on when our hands begin to freeze in the cold wind. He overtakes us later.

Down the steep steps we go, against the tide of families climbing up them. This is the way most people come; we are glad of our more circuitous, less strenuous and certainly quieter route.

Looking back up to the tower.

Continue reading →

THE LONGRIDGE POSTIE WALK.

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  Is it a myth or a fact? 

  Friends, who have lived in Longridge all their lives, tell me that a route out of Longridge to the Thornley farms, clustered roughly along the 150m contour line on the north side of the fell, was the one postmen of old walked. No amount of historical searching, well, Google, if I am honest, has found any specific reference to this route.  Maybe someone will know. 

  Looking at the map, there is indeed a series of farms along that side of the fell. Was it that they were established where springs issued from the fellside?  Whatever they are there, and it would have been logical for the footpostmen of bygone times to link them together on the contour rather than to follow each farm’s individual access track up and down the hillside.  There are paths on the ground that link up these farms, and it is these I will follow for the first part of today’s walk.

I start in the park at the top of Longridge. I am waylaid by dog walkers wanting to chat, and dogs wanting treats. The way is actually the old quarry railway, which came this far —a popular walk with locals using Mile Lane or heading to the cafe at Little Town Dairy.

 The day promises well.

The rails went as far as Billington’s Farm below Lord’s Delph Quarry. An old gritstone stile leads onwards into the fields.

  The track has the feel of an old way.

A cluster of properties is passed before the track, as it is, takes a gate by Old Rhodes/Martin’s Croft. A cobbled courtyard serves two or three properties.

  A bit of a dog leg, and I’m walking past Sharples House, which has a hidden history.

   This is from a previous post.

“There was one more encounter at Sharples House. The farmer there had previously talked of having the largest cheese press in Lancashire; I believed him. In the past, many farms in the area made their own tasty Lancashire cheese.. Today, he seemed in a good mood, so I enquired further, and he took me to see the stone, which was indeed large and must have weighed a ton. He explained that the house was from the late 17th century. A former occupant, Peter Walken (1684-1769), had been a nonconformist minister as well as a farmer. Uniquely, he kept a series of diaries, most of which have been lost, but two from 1733-34 have been found and published by a researcher from Preston museum. The present farmer was contacted and was able to see the journals, but described them as boring, though they must have given an insight into farming life in the first half of the 18th century. He also told me about a mystery from the last century: two thieves broke into the house, killing the farmer, but the daughter escaped by hiding in an adjacent barn. One wonders how much local history has been lost.”

  The next property is very much a working farm. The right of way onwards is clear..

  I’m approaching Higher Birks. I’ve always been fascinated by this structure in its wall. I still don’t know the answer. 

  These are obviously mounting stones and are, in fact, grade II listed. C19th.

  Birks Brow Lane heads up to the fell, all very rural.

 But my way takes a stile and heads further into the countryside, with the Bowland Fells looking on.

  The way is well provided with bridges and stiles.

 Even the odd clapper stone, no longer used.

C18th White Fold. The lady at Bradley’s Farm is happy to chat and is proud to point out Blackpool Tower visible way across the Fylde. Her view of Bowland from the doorstep is far more impressive.

  The next house and barn conversion are immaculate, shame about the gate on the footpath. I have gone astray here before, but today I notice a tiny footpath sign on the fence. So I go over the gate with difficulty;  obviously, it would not open. 

  But this gets me on track through the plantation, where a great deal of felling has taken place in recent months. It’s a mess from the heavy vehicles, but should recover. Dale House across the fields looks as though it has been a row of cottages at one time.

  This reminds me to take a look at the old OS maps, courtesy of the National Library of Scotland. Superficially, nothing much has changed along here. The same properties existed in 1847. Now, some are still farms, but others have been gentrified, and their barns have converted. One, Sowerbutts, has disappeared.

1847
1895

 Looking down into Thornley, one can see how modern farming has changed, with those massive sheds sprouting up everywhere.

 I’m now on the edge of the rough land with the fellside above, Jeffrey Hill. From up here, the views across Chipping Vale to the Fairsnape fells are stunning.

 

  The path weaves through Giles Farm, and the views into Bowland become even better.

  There is even a distant view of Waddington Fell, one of my hilltopsfrom the other day. You can just make out its mast.

 That’s the limit of my ‘Postie’ route, I wonder if it ever was?

  Dropping down the hillside, I join an equally historic bridleway which runs through Wheatley to Thornley Hall and beyond. I remember this as a virtually impassible boggy trench, but drainage work and resurfacing a while back have given it a new lease of life—a delightful stretch. 

  Finding a stone wall to sit on.  I stop for some lunch in the sunshine and contemplate the changing face of the countryside. There’s that farm complex I saw from above. In dairy farming, to be economical, one needs to be milking 100s of cows, which probably hardly see a blade of grass. My grandfather’s farm, on which I grew up, had no more than twenty.

  There is another problem in the countryside – illegal dumping of rubbish. We have a lot more these days, and it doesn’t biodegrade. Just off the lane I’ve now reached is an old quarry, Blue Stone. I’m amazed to find it filling with waste materials. This looks like ‘organised’ dumping – I doubt its legality. One reads of unscrupulous individuals advertising rubbish clearance, only for them to subsequently illegally dispose of it. Is this happening here, or is the quarry’s owner responsible? 

  What an eyesore, and I suspect toxic waste. Moving on, what’s that taste in my mouth?, I continue along the little lane…

   …I come into Wheatley, which consists of a few converted properties based around a farm. The date stone is inscribed 1774. They always used to keep a bull in the end barn.

  Out of interest, as I traverse the lower lane, I pass the start of the access tracks to all the properties I walked by higher up.

Surprisingly, one of those new gates gives access back onto a little-used path in the fields.

Soon, I am faced with this virtually impassable barbed wire ‘stile’. Luckily, no clothes were torn, surmounting it. The next stile was rotten wood and wobbly. Why spend all that money on a new gate without repairing subsequent stiles?

  Back at Matin’s Croft, I don’t come through the fields; instead, I use the lane up to Billingtons and then the park, wth plenty of daylight left. An interesting walk without the postbag.

Let’s hope we may enjoy a few more autumn days like this. 

*

TWO FELLS. EASY EASINGTON AND WINDY WADDINGTON.

12 Replies

 The above shows Waddinton Fell on the left and Easington Fell on the right.

 The last thing I need when I’m trying to squeeze in an afternoon fell walk is a road closed sign.

 There is no quick way around Waddington, so it is even later, 1 pm, when I park up at the summit of the B6478 road over to Newton. This road doesn’t seem to have its own name, unlike nearby ‘The Trough’ or ‘Birdy Brow’. Long ago, we called it The Moorcock Road. But the Moorcock Inn has been gone for decades, replaced with private houses.

 Anyhow, I am here, the sun is shining, and the air is clear. I’m looking forward to a short fell excursion. Walking down the road from the parking, I pass Walloper Well. The fresh water flows continuously most of the year, passing cyclists often top up if they know about it. In the past, this would have been essential for horse-drawn carriages.

 My footpath leaves the road here, across boggy ground, and I wonder if it is the correct one as I flounder in the mire. Eventually, it becomes clearer and drier. I’ve been here many times, but not often in such brilliant conditions.

 Striding onwards, I don’t go to investigate Old Ned or The Wife, piles of stones on the moor. I’ve checked them out before, and they are just what the map says—piles of stones. I have never found an explanation for their origins.

The Wife?

  Leaving the Right of Way, I follow a quad bike track towards the summit of Easington Fell.  It’s all open access anyhow. The views open up in all directions, but most obviously towards the Yorkshire Three Peaks across the Craven Gap. A few stones mark the summit, a modest 396m.

 Turning around, I head back to the road. Initially, I had planned to extend the walk into Grindleton Forest, but looking at the time, I think better of it. The wind is increasing, and it is feeling quite cold. 

 Over to my left, across the Ribble Valley, Pendle looks as proud as ever.

 There is a clear track back after I get through the fell gate, which seems easier than usual.  A cross stile reminds me that the Lancashire Witches Way comes across here before heading into Bowland.

 All I have to do is follow the obvious track back to the road seen across the way. It is boggy but not too bad. Just wait until we have had some more rain. I’m aiming straight to the quarry at the summit of the road with Waddington Fell and its prominent mast behind. I can see my car clearly —the only one.

 On a whim, I decide to climb up onto Waddington Fell. But I first have to circumnavigate the extensive quarry, which is not in operation on weekends. Dropping down the road for some distance to a gate I know, which gives access onto the fell. It’s all supposed to be Open Access, but gates and walls get in my way. Nonetheless, I arrive at the trig point. Is it 395m or 396m, equalling Easington Fell, which I stood on less than an hour ago? I don’t care, as it is one of the best viewpoints in the area.

 360 degrees. Down Chipping Vale, The Bowland Fells and beyond, Yorkshire’s Three Peaks, Ribblesdale, and Pendle, obviously. My attempt at a whole-panorama shoot on my phone didn’t work out, so here are a few shots from my camera that don’t do it justice.

 The walk back is along the rim of the massive quarry.

Easington Fell in the background.

 A bonus as I make my way around are views down to the Hodder Valley with the village of Newton nestled in below Beatrix Fell.

 I’m still the only car parked up.

 A short but very satisfying afternoon. I’m relieved to be back in the car. On Waddinton Fell, I was exposed to a vicious wind, and the temperature dropped significantly—time to get the woolly hat and gloves out of the cupboard. And it is the end of British Summer Time for this year.

*

VISITING THE RELATIVES.

12 Replies

Chipping to Longridge.

 I remember visiting relations as a child in the fifties. I had to be on my best behaviour and speak only when spoken to. A lot of the time, I didn’t even know how they were related to me. My grandmother was one of thirteen, so there were so many great aunts to visit.  They always seemed to be great aunts rather than uncles.  Often, ‘Uncles’ and ‘Aunts’ were just close family friends. I survived the ordeals, and now sadly, all those relatives have passed away. I hope I didn’t subject my children to the same; at least family sizes have diminished somewhat.

 What am I waffling on about? You may remember I adopted two wild little kittens earlier in the year. Time moves on, and they are growing into fine young cats, still completely mad but a joy to be with. Their relatives live on the fell, and it is time I paid them a visit. So today I plan a walk which passes their house. I don’t take my kittens with me, I hasten to add.

Dusty and Oscar hanging out.

 I am able to catch a bus virtually from outside my house, which takes me to Chipping, from where I can walk back through the fields. Last time I did something similar, I came back over Longridge Fell, and I found it arduous.  This time I will keep to the foothills and visit the relations. 

 The buses run hourly. I board the 12.15, and I’m in Chipping in less than a quarter of an hour, quicker than I drive these country roads. Only three people use this service today, and yet the road is busy with cars travelling between the two villages. A few years ago, when the bus service was threatened with closure, there was a massive outcry from the local population. They haven’t learnt their lesson. 

 I don’t need to explore Chipping, which has been done many times. But I do call in at the church and pay my respects to Lizzie Dean. Listen to this local raconteur’s story. 

 Ignoring the delights of the Sun Inn, Cobblestone Cafe and the Farm Shop, I march on through the top of the village, past the village community centre and the period Club Row cottages to Three Way Ends.

 

 I pause to look back at the three sisters, Longridge Fell, Pendle and distant Weets Hill, lined up on the horizon. The changing light, particularly on this northern side of Longridge Fell, becomes an ever-present diversion throughout the walk.

 Then I take to the fields. Most of the time, the way is clear, even though it is not walked often. Rambling at its best. 

 Is there some racial segregation going on here?

 I have time to stop at different points to view the fells around me.

 I emerge onto a country lane, one of those around here that really go nowhere.

 Down the lane, there is an awkward stile to climb in the banking before the white house. Notice the iron railings placed on corners around here to improve visibility.

 Back in the fields, I’m heading initially to Crow Trees Farm, on the southern slopes of Elmridge Fell. Through a grove of trees, which I remember being planted.

  An old track skirts the fell, and a C18th milestone gives it some antiquity. Clitheroe is eight miles,  Blackburn and Garstang are etched on the other faces.

 I know I’m approaching my friends’ property when I see some decent Jumar cord replacing the farmers’ usual tatty baler twine.

  And there is the family.

  Tea is served before I move on, and familiar paths take me back to Longridge. 

An afternoon’s rural jaunt in Lancashire’s best and with a purpose. Let’s hope more like it can be squeezed in before winter. 

*

BOWLAND NAVIGATION – NUL POINTS.

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A Croasdale Diversion.

I’ve written before about ‘the path not taken’, from Robert Frost’s poem. Perhaps a biblical quotation would be more apt, ‘Seek, and you shall find’. Well, today we didn’t find. The path I chose to explore up into Croasdale from Slaiburn remained elusive.

The day starts well with a surprise visit to a relatively new curiosity shop in the old school in Slaidburn, where we are parked. Bits of old furniture, paintings and knick-knacks divert us for a while. A coffee grinding machine from the 1920s takes my fancy. Clare is attracted to a globe-like metal sculpture.  “We are going for a walk”, but “What time do you close?” we innocently enquire for our return.  “About three”, is his reply. 

Time to get moving, the morning is drifting on. Late starts are becoming my norm; all will have to change when the clocks go back at the end of the month. From the stunning war memorial…

…we take the lane past Townhead House. Slaidburn village and its surroundings are all part of one estate; perhaps the owner lives up there. Whatever, the village has maintained its ‘olde worlde’ atmosphere with 50 of its buildings listed. I hardly think there is a single new house in or around the area, which is unique these days.  

We hop across a limestone wall and follow what looks like some sort of earthworks up the hillside. Was this a deer park? We are innocents abroad, which becomes more obvious as we progress, or not.  From up here, one can survey the village environs. The murky high pressure weather continues.

No obvious imprints in the grass; does anybody walk these fields?  Constant reference to the OS app on my phone keeps us on track, most of the time. Upon reaching Croasdale House, I take a photo for the first occasion in ages, which shows how focused on not getting lost I have become. 

Now heading into the wilder valley of Croadsale, we cross a convenient footbridge, despite the right-of-way going up the east side of the river. Is this the right decision? There is a waymark, and I presume the path this side is to avoid crossing at a ford further upstream. But where is the path? We are faced with boggy, reedy, trackless ground.

An hour or so later, we are still probing the marshy ground. Tracks come and go, but not what we need. 

Going.

 

Gone.

Salvation comes in a quadbike track heading straight up the hillside, possibly from the ford we could have taken. Not our line, but we gladly use it to gain height and avoid the morass. Halfway up a nearby wall offers an island of dry stone, which we utilise for a long overdue lunch. One has to admit the surroundings are special.  

All thoughts of getting to the ruins of the House of Croasdale and the higher Croasdale valley evaporate. Let’s get out of here.  We agree and just continue up the tracks to reach the Salter Fell road wherever. That last half mile took us hours. We both have very wet feet by now. 

Soon, we are marching down the Roman road, wondering if some of the exposed bed stones were laid by the Roman Soldiers.

Profuse fungi take our attention. It’s an unbelievable year for them.

Rather than risk some dubious field paths, I stick to the road for some time. We pass the agricultural graveyard, I described it elsewhere as ‘a herd of dinosaurs’. I’m including my poor photos by special request, will try harder next time.

But now on safer ground, we take the lane to Myttons, a lovely cluster of stone properties. The craft centre is no longer operating. We are on firm ground into Slaidburn, finishing alongside Croasdale Brook once more. 

With The Hark to Bouny closed and looking unkempt, the village has lost some of its heart. Let’s hope they find a new tenant. The Youth Hostel has also gone. 

The curiosity shop would be shut by now.

I don’t know why we didn’t find the correct path; it should be there somewhere, despite all the reed-covered ground. I will return at some stage and use the Salter Fell Road, then drop down to The House of Croasdale ruins and see if I’m able to pick up the path in reverse from there.  

The rest of the way was lovely. 

*

BACK TO BOWLAND.

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Croasdale nostalgia.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A BREATH OF FRESH AIR.

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

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

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

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

The views over the Ribble Valley are hazy.

More fungi appear under the conifers.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thats enough fresh air for today.