Category Archives: Longridge Fell

VISITING THE RELATIVES.

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.

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.

***

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.

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.

WAYSIDE FLOWERS.

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I wasn’t sure how to title this post; it’s a simple circular road walk out of Longridge onto the lower slopes of the fell. I’ve done it many times and probably written about it here more than once. I need to build up my strength again, and five miles or so is just what I need. I’m sure I will find something of mild interest to enhance the exercise.

It’s the first of June, I was hoping to link in ‘Bustin’ out all over’ but the weather has taken a turn, and it’s cool and windy. I missed much of the good weather back in April and May. Let’s imagine.

Back to the day, I park up at the edge of the village and immediately spot some white valerian growing by the roadside.

Let’s make it a wayside flower walk. In no particular order, I come across lots of species. You will recognise most of them.

Must make some cordial.

I have probably missed many more.

I pass the golf club…

wind up and down the lane…

to enter the plantation through the rapidly growing bracken…

where there has been diverse replanting, all is green and lush…a robin rejoices…

the old trees are rather gloomy…

but somewhere up above there’s a hidden male cuckoo…

“when the cuckoo first cuckoos in the leaves of the oak

and brings joy to mortals on the boundless earth” Hesiod, seventh century BC.

I come out onto the higher fell road with distant views to Pandle…

and even a zoom to Pen-Y-Ghent…I head up to the seat on Jeffrey Hill for a drink and that view over to the Bowland Fells.

But what a mess somebody has left, not to mention the fire risk. What are they thinking? I will try to drive up later to clear the rubbish.

It’s all downhill on the road back to the village. I have time to catch the Great Crested Grebes on and off their nest doing a spot of housekeeping. I can clearly see four eggs this time. Fingers crossed.

It is raining when I reach my car – so much for June.

SIMPLE PLEASURES.

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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.

ON MY DOORSTEP.

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I am fortunate that I can walk on paths and quiet lanes, in pleasant countryside, directly from my house, well, only just as the urban development creeps outwards. I’m frustrated at missing all this good weather, so let’s go a little further today and try a four-mile circuit.

The Chipping Road past the cricket ground leads to the Bowland Hills, but I won’t go that far today.

On past the Derby Arms, looking every bit an English country pub.

I turn off down the chestnut-lined drive to the ‘Ferraris Hotel’, which is being transformed into a more upmarket wedding and events venue. The conversions are taking longer than anticipated, don’t they always? They have named the new venue ‘Longridge House’, which it certainly isn’t. They could have used the original name ‘Black Moss House’, which is still referenced on the OS map. There is much building activity as I walk past on a right-of-way through the grounds.

The woods close to the hotel still have a decent flush of bluebell blue. The garlic is flowering and past its best for picking, not that I am tempted after my recent near-fatal accident involving the humble plant.

Something feels a little different as I reach the fields, where have all these trees been cut down from?

It is a hot day, and I am glad to make use of the memorial bench for a rest and a drink. The bench is in memory of a farmer who once cared for these fields, which I am looking out over. That is Longridge Fell in the background.

The lanes leading back to Gill Bridge are full of white blossoms. The Hawthorn hedges are resplendent with their white flowers, ‘May Blossom’. Their fragrance is not appreciated by all.

Along the verges are more patches of white – Stitchwort, Cow Parsley, and Garlic Mustard.

I take to the open pastures to head cross-country back to the village. The lambs are looking robust and have grown well in the last few weeks of perfect spring weather. These fields are the hares’ habitat, and I see four charging off into the distance, far too quickly for a photograph. Buzzards soar above, and there is a far-off cuckoo.

I march on through the normally boggy bullrush area. When did it last rain?

This shady track brings me onto Inglewhite Road, where a decent footway takes me home.

Another short, simple walk, but with all the ingredients of a nature ramble on my doorstep.

I have a list of modest projects I hoped to complete this year, including the Pilgrimage to Lichfield from Whalley, the Fife Coastal and Pilgrim trails, filling gaps of the Great Chalk Way, and the Trans Pennine cycle trail. My muscles are currently struggling, and I can’t even shoulder a rucksack, so I hope you will bear with me as I try to find enough interest in staying local.

A GENTLE RETURN.

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Out with, but not gone to, the dogs.

My son and partner visit from Manchester with their two dogs.

I keep the kittens locked in their large cage, but the dogs only sniff them in passing. I think it would be different if they were running loose. Anyhow, we are not in for long as we take the dogs for some exercise in the plantation up the fell.

The good weather continues, but I haven’t ventured much further than the garden. An hour’s weeding tires me out. My back is still very sore, so I’m unable to wear a rucksack — a reminder to take it easy. However, the chance to have a walk, no matter how short, is too good to miss.

The dogs know their way around the plantation and once in the open run themselves silly before cooling off in the stream.

We enjoy the dry paths, all the new greenery and the abundant bird song. There is always time for some tree hugging.

Hardly more than a mile, but invigorating for me to be out and about again. It’s good to be alive, a hackneyed phrase, but simple pleasures with the family are precious.

A sociable lunch and the family head home.

I head to bed almost straight away and sleep for 12 hours.

OUR HOME FELL.

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After my glorious day in Bowland yesterday, I was content to potter around the house today. After breakfast, I lost myself in an hour-long video depicting the climbing scene in Llanberis over the last 50 years or so. And what an anarchic scene it was, with lots of interesting characters involved, but that won’t necessarily interest you. If, however, you are curious – https://www.ukclimbing.com/videos/categories/trad_climbing/adra-6479

Another cup of coffee is being enjoyed when the phone rings. It is JD suggesting a walk up to Spire Hill (Longridge Fell to you). “It is less than 10 miles, and we will be back before it rains at 4 o’clock”. I rarely turn down an offer of a walk with good company; I’m just grateful that friends still include me. “I’ll be round to your house in 20 minutes“

My day sack is ever ready, packed with the necessaries. All I need to add is some water and snacks.

JD lives towards the top of Longridge, and it is only a short drive to the edge of the village to start the walk. It is breezy but not as cold as yesterday, so I don’t need any extra layers this time. The lane is familiar territory, and we chat the time away. Before long, we reach the Newdrop Inn crossroads, the inn is now closed and converted into residential units, but it will always be the Newdrop to us.

A little further, we leave the road to walk past a small reservoir and through rough moorland. Our attention is taken by a Roe Deer buck bounding across the land. I doubt whether my phone camera will catch it. And there is another. Their white posteriors are so prominent—magic moments.

Joining the lane, we climb higher onto the fell, now on rough ground. The land owner up here is courting controversy with drainage ditches, tree felling and worst of all, a six-foot boundary fence topped off with two unnecessary barbed wires—just the height for that lovely deer to rip open its belly.

Passing on, we weave through all the fallen trees. There is devastation on this part of the forest caused by recent storms.

Our goal is not far away now. We have a break at the trig point and watch a Peregrine fly past.

More walkers arrive, several with dogs off the lead. Not good news for ground-nesting birds, notices clearly advise the correct etiquette. But I find some dog owners self-endowed.

It’s downhill all the way on the lane past the golf club, and we reach the car as the first drops of rain appear.

A simple walk over familiar territory to that good viewpoint, Spire Hill, 350m. When walking with someone and chatting away, I don’t take many photographs, which may be a good thing. Here are a few.

The lane leading to the fell, seen high above.

There is a sheep in there somewhere.

The Newdrop.

A blurry buck, well camouflaged, except for his white rump.

This stately pine could become one of my favourite trees, I have several.

The new lord of the manor’s gates…

…and his welcoming signs.

That lethal barbed wire fence.

Picking a way through storm damage.

Spire Hill trig,350m, with the Bowland Fells in view.

Identifying Wood Sorrel.

***

Our route from the village.

CAST NOT A CLOUT.

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I’m sitting at the true summit of Fairsnape Fell, 522m. While I eat my sandwich lunch, I enjoy clear views of the three peaks of Yorkshire. I had prepared that sandwich last night, thinking I might head to Manchester to continue my pilgrimage. I awoke this morning at 6 am, came down to make coffee and feed the kittens. Retiring back to bed and crosswords, I dozed off. The sun was streaming through my window a couple of hours later. It is too late to go to Manchester with all the faffing of buses and trains. But not too late to make the best of the day with a climb up into the Bowland Hills. A sunny forecast tempts me out.

This sign will give a clue to some as to where I’m setting off from. I buy a dozen and pop them in the car before I leave.

A climb up to Saddle End Farm and on to the fell above. Another walker catches me and steams ahead. I plod on. The cold east wind of the last few days has been replaced by an equally cold wind from the west. My hands feel cold, but my steady progress keeps me warm. Although the Gorse and Blackthorn are in bloom below, the May has not flowered yet – hence the rural adage.

It’s wilderness up here. I pass the site of a tragedy long forgotten. The other walker in front of me probably doesn’t know the history.

On the 26th March 1962, three siblings left home and travelled by bus to Chipping and
walked over the fells, maybe to Langden Castle, on their return over Saddle Fell, they were caught in a blizzard, which resulted in the two brothers losing their lives due to hypothermia. Their sister survived to raise the alarm at Saddle End Farm. There was no Mountain Rescue Team in the area at that time, so police and locals searched with BAC loaning a helicopter to help. Shortly after this tragedy, two Mountain Rescue teams were formed in the area, the forerunners of Bowland Pennine MRT.

I mention the above because it is thought that the boys may have sheltered in a small stone hut. I remember early walks on Saddle Fell in the 70s, the hut being by the track I’m on today, its roof was almost intact.

Don’t forget I am the tortoise nowadays. And what worries me more is the story of the lost fellrunner in 2011.
https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-england-lancashire-15191235

The fast walker in front of me bypasses the true summit, probably because he doesn’t know of its existence.

I take that slight diversion to the top. An extra windproof layer is added while I gaze over to Yorkshire..

Our weather is fickle. not often that one can walk in a straight line between the two Fairsnape summits, the peat would swallow you up. But after three weeks of dry weather, the going is ‘good to firm’ and I make progress towards the western summit, with its cairn, shelter, trig point and people. It is a popular destination, and today I meet people from further afield, Easter holidaying. They are all in praise of our Lancashire hills. And all is good with clear views across Morecambe Bay and beyond.

Gliders swoosh past, making the most of the uplift from Bleasdale.

It’s a grand romp along the skyline to outwit Parlick by that rake traversing right.

More and more people are coming up, but I’m soon down out of the wind at Fell Foot. There is a bit of a rough stretch before open fields past secretive Wolfen Hall, with Pendle and Longridge Fell across the way.

I always enjoy the little valley of the infant Chipping Brook. Today in the plantation, Bird Cherries stand out.

I cut across fields with gambling lambs to reach my car – a walk far greater than its parts. Uplifting, wilderness, skylarks and sunshine. I’m ready for the rest of the year now, and I have the eggs for my supper.

***

THAT HILL AGAIN.

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Just another local walk.

A few weeks ago, whilst unable to drive, I caught the bus to Chipping, crossed the fields and climbed straight up onto Jeffrey Hill. I had huffed and puffed my way up, making a mental note that I was getting too old for such steep stuff.

I can’t believe I am climbing the very same hillside today.

I have been a bit lethargic of late, and combined with a plethora of birthday celebration engagements and minor appointments (that must have been my tenth Covid Jab), I have not ventured far in this April’s mini-summer. I was in danger of missing it. But this morning the phone rang, it was Mike suggesting a walk. He is off to Gran Canaria next week and wants a ‘training’ walk with some steep hills. I roused myself, ate some breakfast and packed my sac.

He has been given a map of a walk his neighbour takes her dogs on. Glancing at it, I could see it crisscrossed paths from Thornley over Longridge Fell and looked to be well over eight miles, more than the five or so Mike, suffering from early Parkinsonism, usually is happy with.

We park down the road at Little Town Dairy, a thriving farm, shop, cafe and garden centre. Even though it is just after ten, they are busy. Another look at his map printout, and we try to find a way out of the farm complex.

Little Town Farmhouse, notice the stone from a Lancashire cheese press.

We are saved by the family’s matriarch, who recognises us and comes out for a chat. She sends us on our way up the fields—the footpath veers to the left to the first awkward stile of the day. We virtually have to rebuild it to make it useful.

Let’s check the map to get our bearings. But the map has somehow disappeared since leaving the car a short while ago. So much for the suggested walk; we are free to make our own route from now on. Out comes my phone with its downloaded OS mapping so we can roughly trace the course of the intended walk.

It is a beautiful day; the cold easterly wind that has bothered me recently has gone, leaving sunshine and warmth. Lambs are playing in the fields. Celandines and primroses are blooming on the banks. Bluebells are just starting to make an appearance in the shady areas.

We reach the road at one of those new metal kissing gates that I’m usually not a fan of, but after the struggle we have already had with broken wooden stiles, it is a pleasure to pass through.

We take to a small country lane, and for some reason, I take a photo of its sign. There is a Forty Acre Lane further up the hill.

The quiet lane gives easy walking through Wheatley along the base of the fell.

Rooks are busy nesting in the tall trees.

At its end, we continue on an old bridleway. This used to be a boggy mess but has, in recent years, been properly drained and resurfaced. The ford at the road has very little water in it today.

A short road stretch past Thornley Hall and we are at the base of that hill again, with a hazy Cardwell House peering down at us from way up on Jeffrey Hill. It feels like climbing in Gran Canaria in today’s heat, but we get there in the end.

A welcome seat is at the top where we rest, snack and rehydrate. A few tears ago, this was part of an art installation with an evocative carved wooden totem by Halima Cassell.

Unfortunately, the statue has gone elsewhere, but its curves are represented in the seats surround. https://bowlandclimber.com/2014/11/15/a-new-kid-on-the-block/

A stroll up the road and we sidle off into the Cowley Brook Plantation, where I think I must know every track. Out comes the Merlin app for the multitude of bird songs up here today.

We stroll on down the switchbacks of the lower fell road. Blackthorn and Gorse are in profusion.

Mike admires his golf course from below. It’s looking good.

It has been a day for spring flowers at their best; I feel lucky to live in a beautiful part of Lancashire.

We finish through fields back to Little Town and a cup of tea. The walk turned out to be 7 miles with 700 ft of ascent, mostly on that steep hill. I’m pleased I caught the last of the good weather, and Mike is ready for his holiday.

***

COVID LOCKDOWN – FIVE YEARS ON.

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In late January 2020, I was staying in a pub in Stainforth, halfway through a Yorkshire Dales walk. It was Chinese New Year, and there was a Chinese Banquet on offer. My comment on my post that day – “There was talk in the bar of a new virulent virus spreading in China“

That virus crept up on us. And by March, we were locked down, a new addition to the dictionary. Perhaps, in hindsight, we should have reacted sooner, but as they say, hindsight is a wonderful thing; foresight is what is needed.

It started slowly.

30 January – The first two cases of COVID-19 in the United Kingdom are confirmed: two Chinese nationals staying in York.

4 March. The total number of confirmed cases 27.

5 March. The first death from COVID-19 in the UK is confirmed,as the number of cases exceeds100.

10 March. HM Government allows the Cheltenham Festival to go ahead.

16 March. PM says, “Now is the time for everyone to stop non-essential contact and travel”

19 March. PM says the UK can “turn tide of coronavirus” in 12 weeks.

20 March. Cafes, pubs and restaurants to close.

23 March, PM announces lockdown in the UK, ordering people to “stay at home”

16 April. Lockdown extended for ‘at least’ three weeks.

30 April. PM says, “We are past the peak” of the pandemic.

Two metres social distancing. Work from Home. Eat out to help out. Rule of six. Face masks. Three Tier System. And so it went on with second and third lockdowns.

Looking back at my posts, I started to self-isolate in February 2020. I was in a vulnerable group for various reasons and was thinking ahead of the government. My walking became restricted to my immediate locality, but I still valued daily exercise. I was lucky that on my doorstep was accessible countryside, and I made the best of local footpaths, avoiding most people.

Today, I revisited one of those local walks. What has changed in five years?

Most evidently, there is a significant housing development on this side of town. Inglewhite Meadows is its ironic name.

As I walk away from town, more expensive bungalows are lining Inglewhite Road.

Have a read and compare photos from five years ago. https://bowlandclimber.com/2020/04/20/a-bitter-taste-in-my-mouth/

These new stiles have started to appear around the district.

I am glad to get onto the quieter Ashley Lane. Even here, two ‘executive houses’ have been completed and occupied. There is no such thing as a green belt any more; anything goes. Just follow the money.

At last, I’m in the fields, and all is peace and quiet, just as it was in lockdown. Not many people use these paths anymore. I follow my instincts and eventually hit the footbridge across the stream, Mill Brook. There was once a mill further downstream near Goosnargh. The farmer sees fit to dump his waste in the field.

March Hares are popping up all over the place, and in the trees, the starlings are preparing for a murmuration I only just briefly catch..

Going back on myself, I recross the stream and head up to the waterboard pumphouse. From up here, the hills are reassuringly the same.

The Bowland Hills.

Longridge Fell.

Now enclosed by a new fence, I head towards the road. I’m sure these two were here before. https://bowlandclimber.com/2021/01/18/a-quiet-sunday/

The stile onto the busy road is lethal; you are in danger of stepping straight into the traffic.

I stroll back home, three miles completed and glad of the freedom we now enjoy. But could it all happen again?

I’ve enjoyed reading back through my old posts from that period and how we all managed.

***

THE STEEP SIDE OF LONGRIDGE FELL.

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Longridge Fell is an example of a cuesta; the ridge has a sharp drop or escarpment on its northern side and a gentler slope on its southern side.

Today, I was tackling that steep northern side.

A tardy start to the day meant I was too late for journying to East Lancs to continue my Manchester ‘pilgrimage’. But the forecast was too good to miss, so a quick change of plan sees me catching the number 5 bus to Chipping; there is a stop on my corner. There are only two of us heading to Chipping.

The bus turnaround is next to St Bartholomew’s Church; I wander into the graveyard to pay my respects to Lizzy Dean, whose tragic story I have mentioned several times in these pages. Her gravestone is under the ancient yew tree. The church was established before 1230 and rebuilt in 1506, so one can only guess the tree’s age.

Lizzie was a maid living in the Sun in the year 1835. She met up with a local lad who claimed the deepest love for her and proposed to her, and she gladly accepted. However, two days before the wedding, James told Lizzie he had fallen in love with her friend Elsie and called off their wedding day. He now planned to marry Elsie in the church opposite.

On the wedding day, Lizzie went up to the pub attic overlooking the churchyard. She wrote a suicide note, placed a rope around her neck, and died. The note in her fist read, “I want to be buried at the entrance to the church so my lover and my best friend will always have to walk past my grave every time they go to church.”

The story doesn’t end there. For almost 200 years, the ghost of Lizzie has haunted the Sun Inn and the churchyard opposite. Just ask anyone in the village.

A cyclist who had passed me back in Longridge whilst I was waiting for the bus is attending a grave. We exchange pleasantries. It turns out to be his parents’ grave. All his family came from Chipping, and many worked in the nearby Berry chair factory. He points out the adjacent grave where two of his uncles are buried following a car crash in Longridge in 1973. Three chairworkers died in that accident. http://kirkmill.org.uk/workmates-killed-in-tragic-accident-december-1973/

He is cycling back to Garstang while I am heading for the fell, which I can see plainly across the vale to the south—first, a stroll down historic Windy Street.

Once out of the village, I pick up a field track by the bridge over Chipping Brook. I have never found the paths easy to follow in this area, but today, things have improved by the way marking for the relatively new Ribble Valley Jubilee Trail. https://www.ribblevalley.gov.uk/mayor-1/mayors-walk

Strangely, all the gates and stiles have been dismantled, leaving free passage for animals between the fields leading to Pale Farm, and they have certainly curned up the wet ground. Lapwings are heard but not seen, but March Hares bound out in front of me. Some convoluted ‘diversions’, well signed, lead me past the next habitations.

Alongside these fields, a new wastewater treatment works is being constructed, a significant undertaking in the valley.

I then strike out across ready fields, aiming for a footbridge over the infant Loud with the steep slopes of Longridge Fell looming up above. Cardwell House, my destination, can be clearly seen at the top.
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IT’S A DOG’S LIFE.

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I’m not really a dog person. As you know, I prefer cats. But here is a gentle video for a Sunday morning, courtesy of my daughter-in-law from the woods yesterday. Starring Gizmo and Phoebe.

Nothing happens, I’ve edited out all the human tree-hugging.

These quotations from notables can’t all be wrong.

“The dog lives for the day, the hour, even the moment.” – Robert Falcon Scott

“Every dog must have his day.” – Jonathan Swift

“You think dogs will not be in heaven? I tell you, they will be there long before any of us.” – Robert Louis Stevenson

“The dog is a gentleman; I hope to go to his heaven, not man’s.” – Mark Twain

“In times of joy, all of us wished we possessed a tail we could wag.” W.H. Auden

THREE IN A ROW.

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The weather holds, my hand is no better, but again, for the third day, I am lucky. My son and partner come up to see me. They bring their two boisterous dogs; there is no Seth to keep them under control this time. The answer is to take them for a walk when they arrive. So once again, I have a lift up to the fell and people to keep an eye on me if any problems arise. I hate to be fussed over, as I feel perfectly well. It’s just my hand that hangs uselessly from its wrist.Cowley Brook Plantation on the fell is our usual destination with the dogs.They seem to recognise it now after many visits, and once through the gate, they are off lead, chasing whatever scents they pick up. There are deer up here, possibly foxes and traces of other dogs to explore.Disappointing to see so many dog poo bags discarded in the first hundred yards. Time for a litter pick foray before things deteriorate and the morons think it the norm. I’m not sure when I will be able to get back up here as I can’t drive.It’s a cold, breezy morning with the wind moaning through the trees. Even more have come down since my last visit, and some are precariously lodged against others, not the safest place to be in a gale.Our usual round is giving the dogs a chance for some wild water swimming. Dogs don’t stay still for long for their portraits.

At least we have worn them out. Back home for some pasta and salad before the family heads to Manchester.I do appreciate all the well wishes and help I’ve received these last few days. Being able to walk up the Fell is so beneficial to me.

A LOCAL RAMBLE.

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What a beautiful day again. It was a frosty start but full sun, blue skies and no wind. Perfect for a walk. Again, I’m in luck. I have a phone call from a friend, C, suggesting coffee and maybe a walk. She knows of my predicament.

My ‘pilgrimage’ to Manchester is on hold; I would probably have been there by now, given the settled weather. But I’m delighted to be able to get out; my left hand is still useless, so I feel safer with the company.

After a coffee and a catchup, we set off on some of the lanes in Thornley.

Ferrari’s Country Inn has been in the same family for years but has recently been sold to Elle R Leisure, which owns other hotels and dining venues in the NW. Originally named Blackmoss House, it was built by the Earl of Derby in 1830 and was previously used as a shooting lodge. It was part of the Derby Estates until the late 1970s when it was taken over by the Ferrari family and transformed into a wedding venue. The new owners will name it Longridge House, which I think is a bit tame and has no real connectivity. Why not Blackmoss House or Hotel?

Today, there is much building activity in progress. It looks like an extension into the garden may be planned—lots of rubble, skips full of redundant goods, and burning mattresses. We poke into the skips and find whole dinner sets of white crockery. What a waste when they could have gone to charity. We speak to the friendly foreman who says we can help ourselves to whatever. (I just had a message from C to say that a carload is already on the way to the charity shops)

We walk on away from the acrid smoke. Across the fields, more massive ‘agricultural’ buildings have appeared. There is speculation about their use; a red glow surrounds them at night! The plot thickens.

Friends live in a cottage on the ridge above; we can see his house from here. I’ll have to ask them for information. I need to visit them sometime, possibly to acquire another couple of kittens. Here is the collection from a week ago.
The fields around Blackmoss are studded with molehills; some look ginormous.

On the road, we cross Gill Bridge over the infant Loud. We discuss the strange watershed hereabouts, which has the Loud flowing eastwards away from the coast to join the Hodder, which loops all the way around Longridge Fell to join the Ribble before reaching the coast. Meanwhile, streams just to the west, Sparling Brook and Westfield Brook, flow directly to the Wyre and out to sea, a much shorter and direct route.

In geological history, the Hodder did not flow eastward around Longridge Fell to join the River Ribble but instead ran westward along the Loud Valley from Doeford Bridge to the Derby Arms north of Longridge, continuing south-westward through Halfpenny Lane on the west side of Longridge to join either Blundell Brook past Broughton church and Woodplumpton to join the River Wyre, or else Savick Brook through Fulwood to join the River Ribble (Wikishire)

No explanation for this is given. I have read somewhere that glacial deposits blocked the Hodder in a previous ice age, creating the watershed and the present flow of water. The other is that the earth’s crust buckled or tilted to create the division.

Taking to the fields, we head back. Going in the opposite direction to my usual sorties, my navigation is not up to scratch. Along here somewhere, we lose contact with C’s dog, causing some consternation for a while. Of course, she comes bounding back as though nothing had happened. Safely on the lead now through the farm, along Clay Lane and onto the roadside pavement.

Longridge Fell, looming above.

We part company at Mile Lane, which I follow up into the park.

I want to see a new tree planting here. Here is the idea.

Longridge Environment Group

We are delighted to share that Longridge is about to join a small number of pioneering towns and villages across Britain with a micro-wood, or Miyawaki micro forest, at John Smith’s Playing Field. Led by Lancashire County Council’s Treescapes initiative, experts in this approach to ecology, and supported by Longridge Environment Group.

A miniature woodland, about the size of a tennis court, which is planted with native trees at ultra-high density on a specially prepared plot. To protect the tiny young trees from damage by deer and other browsing animals, the plot is ringfenced by chestnut paling.

Woodland soils have a fundamentally different character from those in grasslands. When trees are planted directly into grassland soils, they often have a higher failure (death) rate than those planted in woodlands. While most survive, they’re vulnerable to disease and drought stress and grow very slowly, as they expend so much energy on simply staying alive and healthy.

In a micro-wood, the trees are planted into a specially prepared plot, where the ground has been modified to create conditions much better suited to young trees. First, the turf is inverted, burying the vigorous grass and competing for nutrients with the trees. Then, the ground is cultivated to loosen the soil. This opens up air pockets, allowing water to percolate through the root zone, trapping warmth and allowing the roots to grow without forcing their way through cold, compacted soil. We then add about ten tonnes of organic matter, usually spent mushroom compost or well-rotted manure, topped off with about the same quantity of bark mulch. As well as fertilising the trees, this provides an instant home to the fungi, microbes and invertebrates that form the rich ecosystem supporting the trees. The mulch will also seal in water, be invaluable in hot, dry spells, and suppress competitive weeds, replicating the effect of leaf litter on a woodland floor.

When we plant the trees, we first dip them in a gloop infused with mycorrhizal fungi, enabling them to tap into soil nutrients more efficiently. The soil now resembles that of a woodland rather than a field. Conventional tree planting is carried out at a much lower density. However, when woodlands form naturally, the trees often grow at very high density. The trees that thrive initially aren’t usually the ones that create the mature woodland canopy. Species such as rowan, birch and hawthorn often grow much more vigorously than oaks in the first few years. These “pioneer” species act as a nurse crop for the trees that will later form the “climax” canopy of the mature woodland. The species mix for Longridge’s microwood includes pioneer and climax species and the small trees and shrubs forming the underwood of trees growing below the canopy.

We follow the theory of potential natural vegetation, devised by Prof Akira Miyawaki, who advised this woodland creation technique in Japan in the 1970s. In a nutshell, we plant the assemblage of trees in the correct proportions that we think would grow on a site, with a few compromises if natural processes were allowed to take hold. We don’t plant sycamore because it will get there anyway, and we don’t plant ash or elm because of the diseases they’re suffering from.

Once the roots have become acclimatised, the trees will proliferate from late spring. Expect rowan, elder and other pioneer species to get going first. The odd one may put on over 1.5m in the first growing season. Some trees may even produce flowers and fruit in year one. The trees will form a dense thicket within two or three years. This will provide a home to vast numbers of insects and other invertebrates. These animals are the larder newly hatched songbirds, bats, hedgehogs, frogs, toads and newts. In time, a pair or two of breeding songbirds may nest there, and amphibians will find it a safe and sheltered place to hibernate.

They haven’t planted any trees yet, but the site looks tidy and prepared with mulch and bark. I’m not sure the fence is high enough to keep out deer. it will be interesting to see how this project develops.

My next port of call is JD’s house. Again, more coffee and catchup.

He accompanies me back, taking me through the new housing estate, which is far more extensive than seen from the road. Parts of it are quite attractive, with great views across to the Bowland Hills – for now. There seems to be an adequate number of ‘affordable’ properties, some of them bungalows suitable for the elderly.

We part company at Sainsbury’s, and I return home after a decent and interesting ramble. It’s not been easy taking pictures on my phone one-handed.

I dine on soup from the freezer for the third night running. convenient and wholesome.

YOU DON’T NEED YOUR HAND TO WALK.

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It’s not as simple as that. You have to tie laces, do zips and put on gloves. Even while in the hospital, I was planning ways to complete my ‘pilgrimage’ to Manchester while we have this good spell of weather. I was being over-optimistic, my sons warned me. I countered with examples of how paraplegics, far worse than me, compete in the Olympic Games. However, I could see that problems could arise if I was alone and needed to carry out some of the above actions quickly.

A chance phone call to a colleague, who had also, by chance, been trying to get hold of me to arrange a walk with friends. When I explained that I had just come out of hospital with a nonfunctioning hand, he suggested maybe some other time. But this was the chance I was looking for – a walk with people who could help in the unlikely scenario of me needing assistance.

“Pick me up in the morning.” was my response.

This morning, I spent half an hour lacing up my boots in readiness. There were four of us taking a simple walk on Longridge Fell tracks. I was in my element, being out and about again. As I said, I felt like a fraud being in the hospital, and now I could pace out as well as the next man.

We have known each other for 50 years, and the banter between us was of the ‘Last of the Summer Wine’ variety.

Our loop of the fell roads was non-eventful until we tried to connect with a path down to the road, which I had previously used in the opposite direction less than a month ago. I confidently directed us down a likely looking narrow path. It turned out to be the wrong one—mea culpa.

So we had a longer walk along the road than necessary, but no problem.

I didn’t take my camera out with me because I couldn’t operate it. I struggled to get these two photos on my phone.

The day ended pleasantly in I’s kitchen with soup, delicious homemade bread and a selection of cheeses. That’s what friends are for.

AFTER THE STORM.

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I hadn’t meant to write a post today. But out of curiosity, I drove up the fell to have a mooch around Cowley Brook Plantation and see what Storm Eowyn had metered out.

So far this year, we have had floods, arctic snow and hurricane-force winds, and we are not at the end of January. What next, a plague of frogs or locusts in Biblical proportions? The world and its climate are evolving, and disasters are becoming more commonplace.

The day is colder than I had thought, and my hands stay firmly in my pockets. It’s only when I am further up in the old pine plantation that I notice more trees down from when I last visited, which I do often, probably from Eowyn’s blast. My phone comes out for a photo. And there is more further along. I wrote recently about whether the plantation would survive my lifetime. Things are looking bleaker, and it may not survive your lifetime.

The next storm, the Spanish Herminia, is on its way, and it’s time to get out of the creaking trees.