Category Archives: Longridge

OVER THE HILL.

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Somewhere on WordPress, someone uses the title “Over the Hill”. You can imagine his or her demographics. Today, I’m over the hill whichever way you take it.

I cancelled a walk over Longridge Fell at Easter because there were no buses, and it rained anyway.

But today the weather is perfect, little wind and full sun with temperatures in the high teens. After lunch** I take the little bus towards Ribchester and alight at Ward Green near Angel’s Restaurant. As I walk up the lane, I realise I am probably overdressed for the conditions; too late now to divest myself of my jacket. I plan to take a traffic and stile free route over the tail of Longridge Fell, maybe avoiding all the noise pollution from the other day.

I pass the Written Stone, on which I have often commented.

Ralffe Radcliffe laid this stone to lye for ever AD 1655

  The enclosed lane above is drier than usual, and I am soon in the fields below the development at Craig Y. The youngsters bouldering there knew nothing of how it used to be open fields.

I’m pleased to see the pair of Great Crested Grebes are back, though no sign of their courting dance today. I miss not carrying my telephoto camera.

Spot the Grebe.

It’s downhill from here, still on a very quiet lane. These houses must have a wonderful view of the Bowland Fells.

Halfway down, I take a farm track back towards Longridge, passing this curious structure built into a wall.

Past the busy working farm is a stone house recently empty.  The man who lived here was always around as you walked through. I remember some of his stories.

  “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 Peter Walken’s 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, which he pointed out”

One wonders how much local history has been lost. The old house will soon be converted.  I don’t go looking for the cheese stone. Here’s a previous photo.

 

To be honest, I’m feeling weary, overheated in my winter jacket, and in pain from a pulled muscle from the recent, persistent cough. I trudge on, my mind drifting to a drink and a sit-down in the farm cafe further on. A friendly dog runs up to me. I recognise her, it’s Zola, an Australian Kelpie. Not far behind is Clare, remember those slate poems, out enjoying the sunshine. In my weary state, I turn down the offer to accompany them, but gallantly, they turn around and head home, where I am very grateful for that drink and sit down.

The last mile past the cricket pitch and via Sainsbury’s drags on. It gives me time to look up at the way I came over the fell.

I’m reduced to a snail’s pace by the time I reach my house. I certainly feel over the hill.

      _____

  ** After lunch.  This week’s ‘way to walk’ topic is ‘Walk after eating,’ which doesn’t motivate me. The blurb says walking aids digestion. I’ll leave it at that.

AN EASTER DAY.

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  A Catching Yellow.    A mundane post mainly about gate catches, oh! and the moon if you get to the end.

   “It’s crazy”, as Manuel would say in Fawlty Towers. It’s Easter and the weather is crazy. A few days ago, I was out in sleet and hailstones, so bad we had to curtail the walk early in one of our excellent hostalries. Then calm and warm. Then along comes Dave, the latest storm. My windows rattled all night, but this morning the sun comes out, even though  I can hardly stand up in the wind. And this evening all is peaceful, and I’m looking forward to a brilliant sunset.

  I have just returned from a six or seven-mile walk around Longridge.  Blown and blasted by the wind, but invigorated by the sunshine. My mission was to investigate changes on the ground of my, or anybody else’s, Round Longridge Walk. I have talked about the origins and development of this route over the years. The problem is that Longridge is bursting at the seams, its wasteline expanding with all that Easter chocolate. Where there were fields, hedges and trees, we now have desirable countryside housing estates, you know the language. Bowland Meadows, Primrose Drive, and Linnet Lane. All imagined in the developers’ world and all destroying what they represented. Sorry, I have gone off on one there. I keep doing that. But as Manuel would also say, “I know nothing”

  I walk down Green Nook Lane. (The term “Nook”  refers to a secluded, “out of the way” place.)  The lane leads to a secluded house, but we are diverted away over a bridge spanning the infant  Savick Brook, which winds its way to Preston and the Ribble. It doesn’t look that clean as it passes. This is not surprising, but not excusable, as we are in the centre of an industrial complex. 

  I walk alongside the touchline of one of the football pitches. It’s heavy going after all the rain, wouldn’t want to be running with the ball. I reach a bridge, followed by a new metal gate with one of those fluorescent yellow catches. Said to be hard-wearing and visually clear to all, they are becoming more common in the countryside. The field edge is better going until a dodgy bridge that will need replacing soon. A concrete track is not much better, often disappearing into mud. Originally, I used to follow this track through the farmyard out onto the main road, but there is now a gap into Alston Grange waste land. Last year, this was obstructed, but I’m pleased to find another one of those new metal gates with a yellow catch leading into the ponded area linking to paths that bring me out directly opposite Pinfold Lane. 

  A familiar route was taken down the lane which leads to a few isolated ‘farms’. It is rare to see a car along this stretch, but here’s one coming towards me – the driver’s window reveals a friend happy to chat. The lane had just reopened after a tree blew down last night, someone has cleared it – a large beech. I  suspect there will be others down in the area. I pass by the observation hides looking over a disused reservoir.  It’s too windy for many birds to be out, though there are swans on the water. The lane leading back up to the village is known locally as Happy Alley, don’t ask me why; there is a graveyard at the top. I don’t follow it that far, but take a wooden gate into the field north of the reservoir. Sheep and lambs are everywhere. I struggle to get over the wobbly stile out of the field and almost turn back, somehow, climbing over the gate was the easiest option. I daren’t risk a fall before seeing the shoulder specialist at the end of the week.

  I stick with the roads until I can turn up Tan Yard lane heading steeply up to the top of the village. There had been a tannery up near the quarries at one time. There has been some minor rerouting of the PRofW recently, an improvement that keeps it in the field rather than through houses. A new metal gate, complete with a yellow catch, leads the way. There is another one up ahead. This elevated path gives great views across Dilworth Reservoirs and across the Ribble Valley to Whalley and Pendle Hill. 

  I skirt the caravan park and come out right next to Craig Y Longridge, our renowned bouldering venue. Three youths are enjoying their first visit and doing their best to avoid the wind. A lot of my local walks seem to end up here at present.

  To follow my Round Longridge walk further would involve several stiles, so I’m happy to walk down Higher Road back home.  I am pleased with the new gates I’ve encountered and can update my description. 

  Being Easter Sunday, the shops are closed. I had been hoping to look around our new bookshop in the old chapel at the top of the main street, exciting news for Longridge. Something for next week.  

Green Nook Lane.

The first bridge and galvanised gate.

The dodgy bridge.

The new gate with yellow catch.

Either way, past ponds.

Pinfold Lane.

Happy Alley, with St. Lawrence’s and the Dog Inn prominent on the skyline.

Wooden gate.
Sheep field.

Dodgy stile.

Lower Tan Yard Lane.
Higher Tan Yard Lane.

 

 

New gate, yellow latch.

And the next.

Dilworth reservoirs and the Ribble Valley.

Distant Pendle Hill.

Into the caravan site. 

Out of the caravan site.

Craig Y Longridge.  

   *

All of a rather mundane walk today, but in view of the ongoing NASA Artemis space mission around the moon, a good excuse for a post in order to play…

 

 

 

 

ON AND ON,,,

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  We have slipped into April. I can’t help but reflect on this passage of time. Three months of 2026 have gone by without me hardly breaking out of the bubble that is Longridge town. I have slowly and reluctantly adapted the word ‘town’ to the ‘village’ that I have known for over fifty years. 

  Three months of my life drifted away. 

  Plodding one-armed around the village every day, I’m one of the lucky ones; friends are falling away with dementia and other terminal illnesses. Today I come home with delicious curries from Rabia. I chat to acquaintances, which does make it feel like a village once more; we all have our grumbles. 

   I am so grateful to friends who have driven me to fresh scenery. But today I’m back to the familiar with a Walk with my Ears, this week’s project. I want to be away from people and noisy streets; I want to be able to close my eyes and focus on the auditory, away from the visible. I will take Merlin with me. I choose a route into what I hope will be open countryside, not far from home. I slip by the farm shop, nursery and cafe; agricultural diversification. Once in the fields, I switch to auditory mode, but I still pick up distant traffic noise. Deeper into the countryside, the sound of agricultural machinery intrudes. This is not what I expected: a sharp dose of reality. 

  I stop and listen, but the birdsong and rustles of vegetation nearby are diluted by human activity. Frustated, I carry on and come out onto the lane heading up the steep Birks Brow, where at last the background noise is absent. I stop once again and hear robins, blackbirds, carrion crows, bleating lambs and buzzing bees. My attempt to record it is interrupted by a passing car. 

  Time to accept that I now live in a noisy semi-urban environment. Imagine walking with your ears in the middle of Manchester, would you hear their bees? One realises the value of relatively inaccessible places, where I usually find myself. The world is becoming increasingly fragile. I wander home through the noisy streets, reflecting that my desired utopia is out of reach at present. 

  On and on …

 

 *

Tomorrow I have a plan: catch the bus to Knowle Green and walk back over the fell tracks, hopefully with no awkward stiles that would turn me back, or worse. I’m searching for a quieter environment. 

  It didn’t happen, I had forgotten about Easter with a reduced bus service – and it rained. 

A WEEK TO REMEMBER.

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

  But I had a week to remember.

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

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

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

 

TAKE A WINDY WALK.

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My ageing house is like a Beaufort Scale for the wind. Gentle flutters at the windows, 2. Windows start to rattle, 4. Whistling down the stove flue, 6. Cold draughts through any gap, 7. Constant rattling windows, 8. Slates are falling from the roof, 9. I dread to think what a 12, hurricane, would feel like.

Today, a strong breeze is forecast, building this morning with sharp rain showers. There is a yellow wind warning with gusts up to 40mph in exposed places  I stay in watching my holly and yew bending outside the window

By afternoon, the wind is stronger, but the rain has passed. Time to wrap up and get out for one of my 52 Walks. I try the back garden first. Tree branches are waving violently at times, with a ‘whooshing’ rather than ‘rustling’ sound, as there are no leaves on the trees. Quite hypnotic.

On the street, the wind is strong enough to buffet me, and with one arm in a sling, I feel somewhat vulnerable. But striding out confidently with the wind at my back Imake good time to the supermarket. Being Britain, all the talk in the shop is of the wind.

Returning by a longer route, I feel the full force of the wind through my body as well as on my face. Any hat would be in danger of taking flight. Indeed, paper litter is being blown in eddies around the streets. I look up at the fells and imagine how exhilarating it would be up there.

***

  Today is just one of my local walks, but I do feel very refreshed even from this short exposure to the wind. In the past, I have had my fair share of gale-force walks and camps.

As a greenhorn backpacker on the early Pennine Way in the sixties, pre-Wainwright’s Guide of 1968, I had reached the Northern Pennines and was camped high on Knock Fell. The inevitable happened in the night as the notorious Helm Wind did its best to blow me and my tent into oblivion. I remember I was scared, and at first light packed up and braved the roaring gale back down to Dufton. I reached the pub to phone home and arrange a rescue. The locals in the bar were impressed that my tent, a cotton Black’s Tinker, had stood up to the force; it can blow at 100mph.

Still young and foolish, we set off to walk the Kentmere horseshoe one winter when gale-force winds were forecast. I’m sure there was probably a warning to stay off the hills; there certainly would be these days. The fells were covered in ice and snow, but we were equipped with crampons and ice axes. At the top of Garburn Pass, we started on the ridge to Yoke. The wind became fiercer as we gained height. The ridge is very exposed, and we had difficulty keeping on our feet. Any fall onto the icy surface had us being blown along horizontally towards the steep drop into Kentmere. Ice axes were needed to prevent us from disappearing. I have no idea why we didn’t turn back, but I vaguely remember enjoying the challenge. We reached the imposing Thornthwaite Beacon, where there was some shelter from the westerly. At least we could almost hear ourselves discuss our escape plan. There was no possibility of continuing the horseshoe over Kentmere Pike. There are not many easy ways off the ridge at the head of Kentmere in winter, and reading the map was impossible. To add to our problems, we were now in a whiteout. We needed to get down to  Nan Beild pass, where there is a stone shelter and an easy way off the fells. On a compass bearing, we were literally blown down towards it, but a few degrees out, and we found ourselves descending on very steep ground. Fortunately, a break in the clouds revealed Blea Tarn directly below, and we realised our mistake before committing to dangerous territory. With relief, we changed course and reached the shelter at the pass, from which we could slowly descend out of the worst of the wind, battered physically and mentally by the experience. There was no other person to be seen out that day.

My latest memorable experience of gales was on our high-level traverse of the Pyrenees. Having crossed over from an icy France to sunny Spain, we were enjoying a high camp just off the ridge at about 2,500m, sitting around watching the sunset and distant peaks. We were unaware that a deep low-pressure system was approaching from the west. The lightning strike on the ridge above woke us in the early hours. Deafening thunder, a gale-force wind, and torrential rain followed. We battened down, dressed and packed rucksacks for an emergency exit. We must have been in the eye of the storm, as there was no respite for about two hours. We didn’t expect the tent to survive; it is still torn where we were hanging onto its flaps. Our plan was to escape down the valley to Torla in the morning and lick our wounds. But dawn broke without any further damage, and we headed to the Goriz refuge for sustenance. All in a day’s mountain travel.

So much for taking a windy walk.

 

ANOTHER WEEK DAWNS.

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

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

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

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

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

WALKING WITH PURPOSE.

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It’s week ten of my 52 ways to walk schedule. Ten weeks into 2026 already. The context is Walk With Purpose, though I end up physically rambling.

We all need a ‘purpose’ in life, generally, and motivation on a daily basis. I’m not normally good at it, drifting through life a lot of the time. But unable to drive a car at present, I have resolved to take a daily walk to shop at my nearby supermarket. My purposeful walk. A simple goal with no need to consider the surroundings, navigation or the weather. Just march to the shop on an all-too-familiar path. And march it is – without distractions, I find myself walking at a much faster pace than normal. My eyes are focused on the pavement ahead, instinctively knowing my general whereabouts. I do notice the minutiae; cracks in the pavement between my feet, gutter litter, and a heightened awareness of birdsong from within the hedgerows. Traffic noise is sublimated, and I probably pass friends without a nod.

Apparently, people walking with a purpose, to work or the shop, do so at a quicker-than-normal l pace. I mentally picture the bowler-hatted workforce crossing into the city.

My brisk daily utilitarian walking undoubtedly provides physical benefits, and in my semi-rural environment, possibly reduces stress. Though all those city walkers look somewhat stressed, mindfulness wasn’t invented back then.

These shopping trips are too mundane to describe further, although thinking back, I once did

For the last few sunny days, hopefully heralding spring, I’ve been lengthening my recreational strolls around the village, aware that any fall would not be good for my recently repaired shoulder joint. But the same scenery each time is becoming tiresome after less than a fortnight. I need a change of horizons. I selfishly phone a friend, Sir Hugh, suggesting a meet-up and a short walk. He is, as ever, keen. Time to tell him, “Oh, but I can’t drive”. He still takes the bait and arrives at my house the next morning. My sensible plan is to keep to roads or decent tracks. I have a regular circuit of Leagram in the Bowland foothills. which fits the bill. He is my transport to fresh vistas.

I am still unable to take photos one-handed, the left at that. I can barely type, so it is over to him to fill in the details. https://conradwalks.blogspot.com/2026/03/in-steps-of-mole-chipping-with-bc.html

The least I can do is treat him to a post-ramble coffee and cake at the Cobble Corner Cafe.

I hope my family don’t see the photos. I’m back at the consultant surgeon’s tomorrow

RECOVERING.

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  Thinking I wouldn’t be out walking for a while, I planned to write a post about Virtual Walking. I may still do so. But, no, I’ve just returned from a few miles of real walking around the village. 

  My right shoulder is patched up and in a sling for 4 to 6 weeks. The postoperative pain is easing. In the past, I would have struggled to write with my left hand; these days, I can take to the keyboard, no matter how clumsily. Apparently, the standard of handwriting among schoolchildren is deteriorating due to the use of digital keypads.  No doubt their spelling has taken a nosedive, too. 

  I take a phonecall from JD enquiring about my well-being. I reassure him I’m fine. “In that case, would you like to go for a walk?”  I jump at his offer. Fair enough, he has to tie my shoelaces and help me with a jacket before we set off. Somehow, that reminds me of a line from Bob Dylan’s Tangled Up in Blue song.

  I must admit I felt a little uneasy                                                                                                            When she bent down to tie the laces of my shoe.

  One of the finest songs he has written, so let’s listen to the rest of it. 

  All of which has nothing to do with JD or today’s walk.

  We take to the new estate and weave our way, complaining about the blandness of the housing and the hedgehog-unfriendly, all-encompassing wooden fences. When they were being built, I wrote to Barretts about this environmental faux pas – they obviously took no notice of me. We escape alongside a well-known budget supermarket and head down a once green lane. Industrial estates are bypassed to emerge on a much older housing estate, which has fared well over the decades. 

  I was wondering how to incorporate this walk into my 52 Ways to Walk series. Walk Alone or Walk Barefoot don’t fit; you will have to wait for them. It so happens we chose one of the sunniest afternoons of this up to now dismal year. The temperature must have been in the teens, and one could feel the sunon your cheeks. So let’s choose ‘Walk in Sunshine’. 

  We all now know about the link between sunshine, UV rays, vitamin D production, and the benefits it brings to our immune system. It is now thought that sunshine itself acts on our immune systems, independent of vitamin D. For us living in the northern hemisphere, where sunlight is in short supply, SAD (Seasonal Affective Disorder) is a well-known affliction in the winter months. Sunlight plays an important role in setting our circadian rhythms. So a walk in the sunshine does make us feel good, and it certainly does today. I used to spend a good deal of the winter months climbing and walking in sunnier climes, and I’m sure it contributed to my ongoing long-term general fitness. Time will tell. Of course, one must be aware of the dangers of excessive UV light and take precautions to prevent skin damage. Tangled up in Sun. 

  We walk on and take a newly constructed path along the edge of another housing estate, which offers splendid views over the Alston reservoirs. I can’t take photos with one hand, so I will have to return here soon to illustrate the views that some of the luckier houses enjoy. 

  As we pass through the centre of the village, our pace is interrupted by the acquaintances we meet and greet. Between us, we seem to know a lot of people, the advantage of village life as it once was. But now, with all those extra hundreds of houses in the estates I’ve mentioned, there are far more ‘strangers’ in town. 

  An unexpected Walk in the Sunshine thanks to JD. A bonus in February and a definite boost to my recovery. I can start planning some of those British Pilgrimage walks I have in store for this year.

SCRAPING THE BARREL.

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I have little to write about, unless you are interested in my never-ending visits to doctors, dentists, and hospitals. Walking is in short supply. But to keep on schedule with my 52 Ways to Walk book, I need to Take a Twelve-Minute Walk. Despite her previous assertion that long, slow walks are mind-enhancing, I am now being encouraged to walk quickly for a short time to improve my metabolism.  That is ideal as it fits in with my busy schedule and the changeable weather. In fact, I repeat it daily most of this week.

There is a good flat pavement out of the village past the cricket pitch. Timing myself from the pub, without visiting it, I walk quickly and cover over three quarters of a mile, that works out at four miles an hour. I enjoy the physicality without beoming breathless and look forward to the challenge each day. Before you know it, I could be back to running. When I was working nights, each morning at seven, I would run the same footpath to the next pub and back, two and a half miles, before going to bed.

Yes, a quick walk does get the blood flowing.

I’ve also had the odd visit to the fell whilst I can still drive. I walk up to the old tree stump and back through the plantation.

A shoulder operation on Friday will curtail me for some time. Normal service will resume as soon as possible.

 

 

LET IT RAIN.

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I recall a walk last year when I was passing through trees in a sudden downpour, the air cleared, and a freshness filled my nostrils. A combination of petrichor and scent from the leaves. It was a very vivid change. still clear in my mind, though I can’t remember where or when, so I can’t find a reference to it in my posts.

The forecast for this week is rain every day, as if we hadn’t had enough.

Not having much free time, I am limited to local short walks. So I bring the week’s topic, Walk in the Rain, into action, slightly out of sync with my 52 Ways to Walk book. No one need ever know.

I have several choices: walking from my house on good surfaces or a short drive up the Fell. Despite waking most mornings to rain, by the time I set off to the shops or around the estates, the air has cleared, and hardly a drop of rain falls. The only evidence of the downpours is puddles everywhere and waterdroplets hanging from the branches. I feel overdressed in full waterproofs.

As the week progresses, I need to plan more carefully if I want to get wet. Driving up the fell should get me into the low cloud and hopefully rain. On two occasions, this bodes well, the windscreen being well splattered as I park up.

But within seconds of putting a foot outside, there is complete calm. The day is still dull, but there is no rain in the air. Normally, I would say I am blessed, but I now feel cursed for my rain walk.

The walking is still pleasant in the cool, unpolluted air and with the wet foliage, but I’m not getting the full tactile experience of rain falling. Nor do I notice all those scents supposedly released from the foliage. I can’t be too disappointed, as I’m sure there will be many days in the year when I’m drenched.

 

Maybe tomorrow?

*

  Whilst on the subject of weather, I hope the early appearance of one of ‘my’ hedgehogs isn’t brought about by climate change, when his food may be in short supply, and when we may see plummeting temperatures this weekend. 

 *

  And on the subject of Climate Change, today, President Trump has revoked laws established to reduce our dependence on fossil fuels and limit greenhouse gas emissions. A dangerous and ill-founded decision made partly to appease his pals in the oil industry. This is how the BBC reports it.

https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/articles/cn0zdd7yl4vo

*

 

Slowly Sinking, Miami. Isaac Cordal.

A NOSEY AROUND THE VILLAGE.

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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 NEW YEAR – A NEW DIARY.

26 Replies

I have been keeping a diary of sorts from my walks and climbs since my late teens. I now have 10 volumes spanning all those years. Only brief entries are needed to bring each day back to life. Companions, route, weather, and incidents all paint a vivid picture in my mind—some years a thousand climbs, many years a thousand miles.

My first entry –  1967. September 5th. Pennine Way. Mel. Alston to Hadrian’s Wall. 22 miles. Camped in Milecastle 44. Wet and windy. Good beer in Greenhead. 

A few years ago, I partially digitalised the record, allowing me to quickly assess the information stowed there. And since 2012, I have been posting some of my adventures here on WP. I was a little late to the digital age.

New Year’s Eve will pass me by with an odd firework in my dreams. Elsewhere…

  On Facebook this evening from Ribble Valley police – A Section 34 Dispersal Order, under the Anti-Social Behaviour, Crime and Policing Act 2014, has been issued in Longridge due to anti-social behaviour and criminal offences in the Longridge area this evening.
The order will run from 6.40 pm until 1 am on Thursday, 1st January 2026. This dispersal power gives police officers the power to request people to leave the area, which is outlined on the attached map.
This will not impact on regular people enjoying the New Year festivities but we ask parents, in particular, to check where there (sic)  children are this evening. We will deal with any criminal offences or breaches.

When I was a child, all we had was a tall, dark stranger, the bloke next door, coming across the threshold for good luck and a glass of whisky.

Well, a new year has almost dawned, 2026, and I have a new notebook for my entries—a somewhat irreverent one from one of my sons.

Tomorrow will be my first foray, and a happy New Year to you all out there.

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.

I CAN SEE YOUR HOUSE FROM HERE.

4 Replies

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. 

THE LONGRIDGE POSTIE WALK.

12 Replies

  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. 

*

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. 

*

TO CATCH A MOTH.

10 Replies

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.

SHOWERS WITH SUNNY SPELLS.

7 Replies

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.

SIMPLE PLEASURES.

9 Replies

I have taken people’s advice and I’m slowly recovering. Muscles ache in the most unusual places. Taking advantage of the remarkable spell of weather, most days I go for a short wander up on the fell or call in at Craigy for a chat with the climbers there. My garden is getting a good weeding, in short bursts.

This is a good opportunity to highlight the trees in the garden, as most mornings, they greet me when I draw the curtains. It’s not quite dawn, but this is an attempt to capture the bird song in the trees. Using ‘Merlin’, I counted 15 species in 10 minutes. I do have fields behind the garden. I only wish I could see most of them! Turn the volume up. 

House Sparrow, Robin, Wood Pigeon, Wren, Song Thrush, Mallard, Blue Tit, Blackbird, Greenfinch, Jay, Goldfinch, Dunnock, Pheasant, Jackdaw, Great Tit.

Whilst out and about, I am pleased to see the return of the Great Crested Grebes, a little late this year. They have built a floating nest, and every time I pass by, the male is out fishing or collecting more nest material whilst she sits tight. One day, I had a glimpse of the empty nest, and there was certainly one egg there, perhaps two; time will tell.

Catching a picture of my two lively kittens is becoming much harder.

Simple pleasures.