Category Archives: Lancashire.

SPIRE HILL DESPOILMENTS.

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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.

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HOT OFF THE PRESS.

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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.. 

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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.

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  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.

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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. 

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TWO FELLS. EASY EASINGTON AND WINDY WADDINGTON.

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 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.

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VISITING THE RELATIVES.

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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.

TRY AND TRY AGAIN.

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I thought the noise from the A59 was increasing; we had not heard it all morning. And there it was, suddenly in front of us, with cars rushing past. This was not part of the plan; we should have been in quiet fields heading back to Worston. Halted in our tracks, out comes the map, and I realise my mistake. While chatting away on the easy lane, we had walked right past our footpath junction. Backtracking, we added half a mile to our walk. To make matters worse, that was the second time I had made a similar mistake this morning. I will annotate the map with a couple of red blobs, and I must try harder with my navigation.

After our unsuccessful walk a couple of weeks ago when non-existent stiles and cows defeated us, I come up with another idea for Mike’s exploration for his group’s walk. Starting from and finishing at a pub, no awkward stiles, no steep inclines or boggy hollows. I base my walk on one advertised in the Ribble Valley Walks with Taste leaflets. https://www.visitribblevalley.co.uk/things-to-do/walking/walks-with-taste/ 

With a few tweaks, I have a walk of the preferred 3.5 miles. Now, let’s try it out on the ground. I have walked most of these paths before, but that doesn’t always make them suitable for an elderly walking group. 

The quiet village of Worston is just off the busy A59, but it seems in a different world away from the hustle and bustle. It does not attract the tourists like nearby Downham, even on a bank holiday weekend. There is ample parking at the pub, The Calf’s Head.

I know my way through the squeeze stile onto the path alongside Worston Brook.  We are in limestone country at the foot of Pendle, and I search the walls unsuccessfully for crinoid fossils.

There is work afoot in the brook as though they are trying to alter the flow of the water, which sometimes floods the village.

Above us on Crow Hill, horses stand out in silhouette.

Ahead of us are Warren Hill and Worsaw Hill. These are all the remains of reef mounds, where calcium deposits built up on the Carboniferous sea bed. (not quite the same as Coral reefs, but that’s where the geology becomes too complicated for me) The last Ribble Valley ice sheet passed over and around these mounds and eroded weaker rocks, giving the rounded hills we see today. I’ve been up Worsaw Hill once, great views and a Bronze Age burial mound at its southern end. But today we are just concentrating on the path ahead.

We reach Worsaw End Farm without having to climb a stile, bonus points for me. This farm at the very base of Worsaw Hill and its barn are famous for being used as a location in the old black-and-white film Whistle Down the Wind, starring Hayley Mills. I have just spent an hour and a half watching the film on YouTube. I will link it in at the end of this post. Worth an atmospheric watch.  Jesus Christ, he’s only a fella. 

We walk on without any religious encounters. The lanes around here are virtually traffic-free. So quiet that I make my first mistake and wander on further than necessary, involving a retrace up the hill to try again at the field gate we missed. 

Back on track, we are walking on the bridleway connecting the farms below Pendle Hill on this western flank. Easy going past the historic Little Mearley Hall.


This oak could go onto my list of favourite trees. From up here, we have hazy, distant views of our familiar Kemple End and the BowlandFells.

But Pendle always takes prominence.

At Lane Side, we follow a track down the hillside. It has been recently stoned over and is not the most pleasant of surfaces for walking. But we manage to walk all the way down to the A59 without realising. 

Backtracking again.

After our second backtrack, the fields are followed easily back to Worston with only one stile to negotiate.

In my recent posts, I have been highlighting the proliferation of fruit and berries in our hedgerows this season. How’s this for a hawthorn bush?  

A pleasant green way leads to the village green, where there is a curiosity, a ‘bullring’ embedded in a stone. Was it used for bullbaiting? 

‘Bull Baiting’, by Henry Thomas Alken. 1820

We end up sitting in the beer garden of the Calf’s Head, enjoying a pint with Pendle ever present. Our walk has been a success. About 3.5 miles, only one stile, gentle gradients, points of interest and that stunning Ribble Valley scenery. We were not over enthusiastic about the artificial stony track down from Lane Side, and it might be worth exploring the bridleway coming down from Little Mearley Hall alongside Mearley Brook as an alternative. That gives us an excuse to come back to this quiet corner of Lancashire and another visit to the Calf’s Head beer garden. 

*

*

And as promised – 

THE CHANGING FACE OF THE COUNTRYSIDE.

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My morning stroll takes me into Chipping Vale. On a four-mile walk deep in the Lancashire countryside, I don’t see a single cow in the fields.

Down the lane to Longridge House, their new sign is up. There is a touch of Autumn to the isle of chestnut trees. The renovations to the hotel are coming to a close. 

And then I’m in the fields. Mainly newly cut, looking very green against the backdrop of the Bowland Fells.

But look closely, and there is an Industrial landscape developing on the farms. Large sheds are being built everywhere, presumably, but I may be wrong, for housing cattle.

These industrial-scale sheds are transforming black Moss Farm.

Come back in six months and see the finished product. I walk on, rather mystified by the whole process and let my eyes take in the larger scene, first the Bowland Fells and then Longridge Fell. Nothing changes up there.

I’m heading for Knott Farm, which I have not visited since the farmer, whom I knew,  died a few years ago. There are some of those new gates, but not many people come this way.

The farmhouse has had some work done to it, but overall, the property looks abandoned and unloved. This was a living farm at one time in the same family for generations. The date stone says 1888.

I come out by the hard-working egg farm and cross straight over the main Chipping road and take fields and farm tracks to climb the lower slopes of Longridge Fell.

The Sloes and Rose Hips are ripening fast, a bumper crop this year.

I have time for some blackberry picking.

There is a footpath linking the farms lying halfway up the hill. It will have been used for many decades. The little clapper bridge is worn by the passage of countless feet and hooves.

And what a view from up at this modest elevation. But not an animal insight. I link the footpaths and little lanes past the farms.

I’ve never discovered what this is.

An English country garden.

Just for the record, in case AR is reading this, some farmers hang onto their vintage tractors.

As  I approach Little Town Farm, I realise all the cattle are under cover, hence my header photo. A huge square footage of sheds. The cows must be put out to graze from time to time, but the majority of the fields are cut for silage for winter, if not all year round, feeding. Four robotic machines do the milking of the 190 cows on this dairy farm.This is a progressive farm agriculturally and has also diversified into a farm shop, a cafe, and a garden centre. The needs of modern farming. And they are busy today, so it must be successful.

Things are changing, but I’m still privileged to live on the edge of this glorious countryside and glad to have you along. 

***

TO CATCH A MOTH.

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When I mentioned to my son I was setting up a moth trap, he thought I meant in my clothes wardrobe upstairs. I did once have my best suit nibbled into holes by moth larvae. No, I’ve borrowed a light trap to use in the garden for a few days. I remember back in lockdown trying to attract moths onto a syrup trap on a tree in the garden – it was a complete failure. Let’s hope for better success this time.

I’m a complete amateur when it comes to Lepidoptera – butterflies and moths. We are used to seeing butterflies in the daytime, and even I am able to identify numerous common species. But moths are more mysterious, being mainly nocturnal and thus going unnoticed by most of us.

The trap is a basic box with two perspex sheets forming a V with a slot at the bottom for the moths to fall through. At the top is a powerful fluorescent tube to attract the moths in the first place. The egg boxes give the moths nooks and crannies to hide in.

The first night, I place the box in my garden at the edge of my uncut lawn.

The big switch on.

Quite a few moths escape when I open the box at 5 am (I’m a poor sleeper) to release the bat that got in there. The bat is not identified. Somewhat later, after coffee, I come out to examine the night’s trappings.  The majority of the twenty or so moths hiding in there are Underwings, drab-looking specimens. The flash of the underwing is only visible as they fly off.

I think this is a Large Yellow Underwing.

I may identify another five species, but I realise how difficult it is going to be. Here is a Garden Carpet.

And I think this is a Dusky Thorn.

The identification book I’m using is the Bloomsbury Wildlife  – Concise Guide to Moths of Great Britain and Ireland. Very clear pictures, but so many to trawl through when one is not used to the subdivisions.

It is unwise to use the trap on consecutive nights in small gardens as it could interfere with the moths’ feeding habits. They are not getting much nectar or sap at the bottom of one of these traps. A couple of nights later, I reset the trap in a different part of the garden, away from the house, hopefully to avoid catching a bat, which encircle at dusk.  The next morning I have a bumper batch of moths, about thirty. I can’t stop some of the larger and possibly more interesting ones from flying off. Again, there are dozens of Underwings.

A Copper Underwing.

I definitely identify a few other species this time. My phone photographs are mostly too blurry as I struggle one-handed, whilst the other hand upturns and inspects the egg boxes.

Canary Shouldered Thorn.  

 

Puss Moth.

This is a steep learning curve. There are over 1600 British micro-moth species, compared to around 800 species of macro-moth and 60 species of butterfly, so species identification is particularly challenging. 

I try one more night, again in a different area. The last two nights were warm and calm, whilst this night is cooler with a breeze. I wonder if that will deter the moths. No, this morning, when I examine the trap, there are forty-plus moths inside.

The ubiquitous Underwings and lots of smaller moths, which I try my best to identify. There is a tatty-looking Poplar Hawk Moth, which I hope hasn’t come to grief in the trap.

Hebrew Character. 

 

Flame Shoulder.

 

Gold Spot. 

 

Rosy Rustic.

So I have probably only identified less than half of the moths that have been attracted into the trap, but it has been great fun. I need to hand it back before I become addicted.

THE WEATHER FOR HEATHER.

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It’s August and the heather is in full bloom. I’m not tramping across some remote Bowland Fell as I’ve been relatively indolent in the high temperatures we have been experiencing. I don’t seem to cope with the heat as I used to. Often, just for a little exercise, I have been coming up to Cowley Brook Plantation to enjoy the shade and any breeze.

And that is where I am today, and the heather is suddenly magnificent. It hits me in the eye as I set off on one of my little paths.

As I brush through it, the aroma is earthy and yet sweetly floral.  It is not at the stage when the heather releases clouds of pollen. Bees and butterflies are skimming around. I suddenly feel released into another world. All of this 200 metres from the road. 

A family are picnicking with their baby and toddler. The youngster has discovered the joys of blackberry picking and is running around excitedly. That’s how to bring up your children. I steal a few juicy ones.

In the news today were warnings that hedgerow fruit this year was ripening too soon, and there may be a shortage in Autumn when the birds need it. The Rowan trees up here were certainly full of fruit; let’s hope the birds know how to ration it.

Catch it while you can. 

FRUSTRATIONS.

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Another walk that didn’t go to plan.

It’s my fault for not reading the map correctly. We are up against barbed wire, no sign of a stile, and unable to progress. What’s worse is that we have a herd of cows pressing their noses at close quarters. Fortunately, they are not as skittish as some. It takes me some time to untwine the fastening of our escape gate back onto the public right-of-way path on the other side, where we should have been in the first place. By then, another herd of inquisitive cows had gathered to welcome us into their field—betwixt and between.

It all started with a phone call from Mike wanting to do a walk. He belongs to an elderly walking group and soon it will be his turn to lead the monthly walk, the parameters of which are becoming even tighter regarding distance, pub, terrain, stiles and mud. My walks don’t often fit their category, but I come up with a few suggestions. We plump for a Grimsargh itinerary, at least it starts and hopefully finishes at a pub, The Plough.

Straight out of the pub car park, we take a ginnel which is on the line of the Longridge to Preston Railway,  until it closed in 1967. Within 50yards we are striding out into the countryside.  

The embankment stretches ahead, but we take a footpath to skirt around Grimsargh Reservoirs.

The first of several expensive properties we passed today.

These three redundant reservoirs have found new life as a wetland nature reserve maintained by volunteers. One is a reed bed, the next one is low-lying land and water, and the third is deep water—three habitats in one.

We cross the causeway between the first two, stopping at a hide to peer at the shallow lake. Geese, ducks, and a few waders are all we can make out. We see nothing in the reed beds.

We come out onto the main road….

…and straight across into a new housing estate on land adjacent to what was once the Hermitage Restaurant, now a private house hiding in the woods.

The line of the previous footpath is easy to follow, and we are soon out the other side, where a footpath track bypasses Woodfold Farm and heads towards the church. Another good track has us onto Alston Lane. Everything is going well, all perfect for Mike’s group.

But once we hit the fields, my concentration goes, and we end up in the wrong place. The map with its red dot may explain it.

By the time we extricate ourselves out of the fields and away from the cows, some dodgy stiles weaken our resolve, and we walk into Grimsargh on Elston Lane, with tails, well and truly, between our legs.

There are more new developments to view. My final highlight, showing Mike the deep lake of Grimsargh Wetlands with not a bird in sight, probably came too late.

A suggestion that we could tweak the route a little for his group didn’t go down well. 

A BOWLAND STROLL.

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A lot of Bowland Fells involve some serious tramping, remote and rough; tough paths, if you can find them. Today, I will show you a gentle* walk into the Bowland heartlands.

JD is always a willing companion for my fantasies. This morning he creates mayhem trying to park outside my house, whilst the lane is being used as a diversion for road works elsewhere. I have been up since 6 am with the noise of the traffic, only another week to bear.

We are on our way to Dunsop Bridge, the gateway to the High Bowland Fells.

You can park for free on the little lane by Puddle Ducks Cafe. We are there before the cafe opens, and already parking spaces are at a premium. Should I take a waterproof or fleece? The forecast is for a dry and sunny day. But this is Bowland, so I pack both.

And then we are on our way into the Dunsop Valley.

It is a long valley, at first open meadows, but then becoming clasped by the fells. A cold wind is blowing up the valley, and we are tempted to don windproofs. When it turns to August drizzle and then rain, we succumb to the inevitable and feel much better for it.

After passing the confluence of the Brennand and the Whitendale, we take the left fork towards the Brennand Valley. But first, there is a seat at the junction for elevenses, with a view.  I have water, but JD has coffee, which he is willing to share.

We contemplate the harsh life that farmers have in these upland valleys as their tractors pass by. The bench we are sitting on, as well as an adjacent flowerbed, is a memorial to Jack and Sylvia Walker, recent tenants of Brennand Farm. I always marvel at the view up Brennand Valley from here, with its green meadows, lonely farms and fells disappearing into the background. Timeless. But all a bit murky today.

A zoom to Brennand Farm in the murk.

Leaving the road we take to an old byway high above the river, traversing below the fell, Middle Knoll. The last time we came this way, we climbed to its unfrequented summit, just for the sake of it. Today, we just follow the waterlogged path. At some point we meet up wth the track coming up from Brennand.


By now, the skies are clearing and we can make out the upper reaches of the seldom explored Brennad Water. The purple blush of the heather on the fell tops shows up in some of the photos. Looking at the map, it’s time I had another trip up there.

I think we chose the wrong side of the wall for the continuation up boggy ground. There is a plentiful supply of Spagnum Moss and reeds up here. Oh, and the mist has come down again.

But eventually, all vague paths meet near the watershed. It is then downhill, gently at first and then steep and more awkward than I remember. There has been a lot of tree planting on this slope, and it all feels different from the last time I was here. But the Whitendale farmstead is there below. A bumper crop of berries this year on the Rowan.

A footbridge crosses the river, and there ahead of us is a bench for lunch by the Shepherds Cottage. The properties are empty, the farm tenanted from United Utilities, is run by Brennand Farm. The Crown owns Dunsop village, and the tenants pay their rent to the King.

I become distracted by house martins flying in and out of their mud nests under the eaves.

Time to get going, rather than follow the road back down the valley, we know of the rough path on the east side of the river. At times difficult to follow, boggy in parts, it improves as it follows a pipeline now high above the river.


The track crosses Costy Clough, which looks like a wild place, before we reach the water board road for the stroll back to the village.

We stop only to identify a probable clump of Larch Boletus underneath a larch tree with which it is ectomycorrhizal. Look that one up and read if you can, Entangled Life by Merlin Sheldrake, for a whole new perspective on the fungal world.

We fail to identify this pink flower growing in the bog, mainly due to the fear of falling in.  So, a good introduction to the delights of Bowland in all its guises. Don’t forget your waterproof. 

* Let’s rephrase that as ‘relatively gentle’.

 

SHOWERS WITH SUNNY SPELLS.

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A favourite phrase for the TV weather forecaster.

At the tail end of Storm Floris, I didn’t know what to expect for Tuesday’s weather. 

It was raining first thing, but it brightened sufficiently for me to venture out locally, hoping the strong wind would blow the showers away. I needed some exercise after a few days of lethargy and inactivity, and I wanted to check on how the building work was progressing at a local country inn. A few miles were soon planned to include the latter.

Walking out of the village past the cricket ground, the skies darkened, and the mist came down on the hills. There was still rain about. I stayed on the country lanes until I could cut back on the track leading to the hotel. The hills stayed hidden, the wind blew, and it continued to rain, though only lightly. A typical day in the north west, though more like April than August.

Hidden Bowland fells.

Hidden Longridge Fell.

As I approached the hotel, it still looked like a building site. Ferrari’s, as it was known, has been bought by a Manchester events group who are hoping to upgrade the place for upmarket weddings and functions. The ‘functions’ area of the hotel looks good, and I believe they have already hosted pre-booked weddings. The guests would have had to look away from the mess in the car park.

The building was originally built as a hunting lodge for Lord Derby on his Black Moss estate. The Ferrari family had been running it as a hotel for thirty years. A name change was needed, and as the nearby pub, marked on the map, is called The Derby Arms, the name Derby couldn’t have been used. What about reverting to the original Black Moss House? But no, they have chosen the rather boring and inaccurate Longridge House. This is Thornley, not Longridge. These things matter; it’s a shame they didn’t consult locals about the name change.

At the road entrance, they were erecting new signage.

Meanwhile, down the road, the Derby Arms continues as a fine country inn. My sunny spell briefly occurred with views to Longridge Fell from the cricket pitch on the way back.

And then it rained, I was like the proverbial drowned rat by the time I reached home. Not all walks are honey and roses. Compare with the last time I  walked this way in May.

NATURE IN MY LOUNGE.

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

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

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

*

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

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

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

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

Each to their own.

Oscar on plastic bags in the kitchen.

Dusty taking a lounge cushion.

Let us out of here.

Life is never dull.