Category Archives: Walking.

THE COAL ROAD.

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Dentdale again.

This time I’m parked at Dent Station, the highest mainline station in England, 1150ft. It’s on the famous Settle to Carlisle line. The station building is now a holiday lodge that you can book online—an unusual getaway.

My walk starts by going down the road to Cowgill, a cluster of houses at the head of Dentdale. Crossing the bridge, there is little water in the River Dee as it runs over limestone slabs. The road continues alongside the river with virtually no traffic. The water-worn limestone bedrock of the river is visible throughout. I pass the isolated Sportsman’s Inn. It is serving lunch; I don’t know how it survives out here. I should have gone inside for a quick drink and a look around, but it’s early on my walk, and I have some serious climbing coming up. Going down always means going back up.

Leaving the road, I cross over the Dee and pass Stonehouse Farm. I knew that this route would take me under the Arten Gill Viaduct carrying the Settle – Carlisle line. I wasn’t prepared for the grandeur of it. The arches are high above the gill and built of Dent black marble, actually black limestone; they dominate the valley. Built in the 1870s. 

I follow the track up the side of the gill; this was once an important way for bringing limestone and coal down from the fell. My way is steep; I plod on in the afternoon heat. We are still in a heatwave, but I’m hoping for some cooling breeze as I climb higher.

I keep looking back at the viaduct as I gain height; a train passes over whilst my back is turned. I should have made a note of the timetable.

Mountain bikers shoot past me at breakneck speed going downhill. The solitary cyclist pedalling up is having a far harder time.

The track goes on and on, but the gradient eases. I still keep looking back down at that viaduct. People appear coming downhill; I wonder where from.

At a crossroads of tracks I take the Pennine Bridleway northwards, this is the Coal Road. The map shows nearby coal pits, but I can’t see any evidence on the ground. Until now the tracks have been stony, but along here I am walking on that wonderful sheep-cropped grass of limestone uplands.

The views keep changing as I proceed; that viaduct is still visible for a while, and Ingleborough and Whernside on the skyline vie for my attention. The vista down Dentdale is idyllic, and further on Wild Boar Fell and Mallerstang come into view.

This walk has everything. I find a boulder to rest on, have some lunch and absorb the surroundings. Why have I never been up here before?  I’m walking along the upper slopes of Great Knoutberry Fell, which at 672m I must have ascended years ago when I was completing the 2000ft (609.6m) summits of England and Wales—the joys of youth when one rushed across the fells. And along here I think I find some Knoutberry plants, also known as Cloudberry. Looking back up to Great Knoutberry Fell.

I wind down walking back the quiet road to Dent station, where  I spend time watching the house martins visiting their nests,

What a great day.

Topped off with a drive over to Garsdale, with the roof off, to pick up the main road to Sedbergh.

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ON THE OCCY.

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A walk from Dent.

I’m glad for the fresh breeze up here on the Occupation Road, high above Dent, as the heat wave continues: with temperatures, even here in the north, in the high 20s. The Occupation Road, the Occy as the locals call it, was originally an old droving route linking Barbondale and Kingsdale. It was rebuilt in 1859 at the time of the Parliamentary Enclosures, when common fell side land was divided up into large allotments for grazing – the ‘occupied’ land. The land was stolen from the commoners. Those fields are spread out below me, with Dent Town hidden;  the other side of the valley rises to Aye Gill Pike. And there down the valley, the Howgills across the horizon. And at the head of the valley, Great Knoutberry. A panorama to savour.

I’m walking alone today, yes, yet another ‘task’ from my 52 Ways To Walk book. It’s not difficult for me, as probably 80% of my walks are alone these days; a lot of my friends have died or become incapacitated. There are, however, many advantages to solitary walking. One can decide on a walk at the last moment and just set off without any possible communication complications. One can go at one’s own speed, stop when one wants, take lots of photos and spend time just observing nature in all its forms. One can divert to visit ruins and churches that any companion might not find interesting.  One can relax and meditate without constant conversation. It is thought that the more one can create and enjoy solitude, the more resilient and contented one becomes, hence the less alone one feels.

I will not offend any of my walking companions by the above as they are of a similar ilk. In fact, on those days when one chooses a companion for a walk, one appreciates their company even more; I hope that is reciprocated. My solitary walk today is highlighted by several conversations with complete strangers that I might never have had if I were walking with friends.  Read on.

I knew I needed to be away early to avoid the afternoon heat. This wasn’t helped by oversleeping my alarm, being held up by a serious accident on the A6 and then driving past my intended motorway junction for Kirkby Lonsdale. The latter problem was easily rectified by going on to the Sedbergh junction and coming into Dent from the west. By the time I reached here, I succumbed and paid for a day’s parking, having been warned by Sir Hugh of his experience a while ago.

After all that, I’m ready to start at 10 am, which is still early for me. I know, from Sir Hugh’s post, what to expect from the climb alongside Flintergill. The lane leading to it has some pleasant properties and halfway a Meditation Centre in an old Methodist Chapel. I call in and restore my composure before continuing. The way passes early on the ‘Dancing Flags’ – limestone slabs in the gill where weavers danced on their fabrics to shrink and thicken them.

The track remains steep and rocky but provides good shade from the sun. I just plod along. I’m surprised to see this strange tree with roots growing over the path. I later learn it is the ‘Wishing Tree’ – I should have passed under it or walked round it three times, depending who you consult.

Higher up, a typical Dales barn has been preserved, and one can view the interior, where there is a jumble of old farming implements.  Not very instructive, though I like the stone trough in the wall.

The next diversion is an old lime kiln built into the hillside. 

The track becomes less rocky and shows more greenery from the summer growth. The gill itself is down below, but there is no sound of running water. It is dry from the lack of rain and the heatwave.

I encounter the first person I’ve seen since leaving Dent. A lady walking down the track with her little dog. We stop for pleasantries; it turns out she lives just the other side of the gill, and this is her daily walk, having left her husband working in their garden. From what she says, the garden is their main occupation. Having lived here twenty years, they have never really been away – “why would you?” The conversation drifts on about the local wildlife, and it transpires they have ‘tamed’ a rescued magpie. For five years he has lived in their garden and reacts closely with them. Despite its domesticity, he has found a mate most years and reared young. She goes on to tell me about the butterflies in the vicinity and to look out for Emerald Butterflies in the shrubs higher up where apparently there is a welcome seat. A pleasant quarter hour passes by.

I notice a cairn high on the right and scramble up to it. I’m glad I do; it turns out to be a toposcope highlighting all the local features of Dentdale.  I take in the views and I try to video the panorama.

The valley opens up; there is even some water in the beck.  I can see the Occupation Road up ahead, but first I take advantage of that seat to rehydrate and take in the solitude. 

I turn left at the top onto the Occy. It stretches out in front, contouring the hillside. In parts it is underwater; God knows what it would be like in winter, Rutted and awkward for walking, perhaps trashed in the past by motorbikes? But it is a joy to be up here. One has time to take in Dentdale’s different perspectives as one proceeds.

Distant Howgills. 

Dentdale fields.

Great Knoutberry.

There are ever-changing trackside flowers and butterflies. I fail to photograph the latter, but here are a few flowers, predominantly Yellow – cue Coldplay.

I stop at the junction with my downward path, Nun House Outrake, and find a boulder to perch on for my lunch. I study the map to follow the Occy onwards to Kingsdale, another time, maybe. The day drifts on.  Looking down the walled track, I spot a walker ascending slowly; you can just see him in the photo.  

I’m halfway across the stile when I involuntarily check my back pocket – no phone. So back to my lunch boulder and there it is. I could have been down in the valley before I had realised.

By now the other walker has almost reached me, striding out – a young man with a mission. But he hesitantly stops to chat. I ask about his route. He uses public transport and arrived at Dent station by rail today from Sheffield. His southern Yorkshire accent reminds me of Jarvis Cocker; in fact, he has the looks and mannerisms of the man himself. Weird. Using the Occy into Kingsdale, he will climb over Whernside to Ribble Head station. An ambitious day. He knows the area quite well but is keen to learn of other ways. I tempt him into Bowland; he has had thoughts already of walking from High Bentham station to Slaidburn or Chipping. I suspect that he doesn’t feel at ease talking to strangers, but our shared love of stravaiging opens him up. I wish him well and wish I still had his fitness. The day goes on.

I’m soon down at the working Nun House Farm.

Lower on the track, I meet a lady trying to open a gate; I fail too, and we both climb over. I give her space, as you do, and notice she is sensibly using an umbrella for shade. Inevitably, I catch up with her whilst she is searching for the path. Her northeastern accent is immediately familiar to me; not all ‘Geordies’ come from Newcastle; her softer twang is from County Durham, Consett, she tells me. Not far from where I was born in Darlington. A common bond is instantly established, and we chatter away. The umbrella is up as we wander through fields, stumbling across stiles from time to time—another enchanting chance meeting.

Where we part company, I realise I’m slightly off track and have to walk back up the road to Mill Bridge to connect with The Dales Way, The Dales High Way, and AW’s Pennine Journey, all running alongside Deepdale Beck. You wouldn’t have thought all these routes come this way judging from the height of the summer vegetation.  Most of the time there is no beck, it having dried up or gone underground in the limestone.

Even when I meet the Dee, Dentdale’s river, there is little water at the stepping stones.

A Dales Way walker comes by and, of course, stops for a chat. A laid-back gent up from Reading to walk this popular way. His wife back home is suffering temperatures into the 30s whilst he is hopefully completing the second half of a LDW in perfect conditions. He is ahead of schedule for today, and my schedule no longer exists. As we linger, I reflect that a day’s parking fee was well spent. Off he goes under that oversized backpack, and I finally achieve a butterfly photo.

Soon I’m on the cobbled streets of Dent past the memorial stone to Adam Sedgwick, the C19th geologist born in Dent. 

A delightful five-mile walk in outstanding scenery, with the benefit of walking alone yet meeting some real characters.

*

*

It’s roof down for a sparkling drive over to Barbondale and home.

 

Passing en route one of Andy Goldsworthy’s sheep folds, which reminds me I have unfinished business above Casterton. 

A WALK TO FARFIELD MILL, SEDBERGH.

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The idea for this walk came after I had read about Farfield Mill, along the river from Sedbergh. “Farfield was a woollen mill until it closed in the early 1990s after 156 years of textile production. Visitors will find heritage displays, working looms, exhibitions, craft demonstrations, art and craft for sale by resident and visiting artists, workshops and events, plus delicious food in the Tea Room”.

After our last rather energetic outing on Warton Crag, I had promised Sir Hugh an easier walk with a coffee stop halfway. I phoned him this week with my idea to be walked before the heatwave strengthened.  He, as always, was happy to go along with the plan. He has walked extensively in the Sedbergh area and wondered if I would find him some new paths.

Having negotiated the winding road from the motorway, Sir Hugh parks up near a bridge over the River Rawthey on that twisting road to Dent. We are in Cumbria, but a roadside marker gives a sense of its former allegiance. More recently, planners have bestowed the title Western Yorkshire Dales on these hills. Confused?

Some time is spent admiring the cottages of Millthrop, which were built to house the workers of the nearby mill on the other side of the river.

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Millthrop Mill was one of Sedbergh’s first mills, set up in 1796, originally a corn mill that was later converted to manufacture cotton cloth. Afterwards it made horse blankets. It was powered by water from the River Rawthey through a long mill race, which was dammed higher upstream. In its heyday, Millthrop rivalled the later Farfield Mill; however, in 1967 the mill burnt down and was lost. 

Sedbergh and District History Society.

Millthrop Mill. c1900

Notice the changes from 1850 to 1910 in the maps, even the name changes.

*

All too soon we are climbing up the steep rough track out of the village, the Dales Way. I had just commented to Sir Hugh that, would you believe, there is a house up here when their Land Rover has us pinned to the wall. There it goes down the track.

It is a steady plod up, with temperatures already in the mid-20s.

Higher up, we take a breather where our track goes off left and admire the views over the valley to the Howgills.

The path is a mere sheep trod, but a delight to follow, heading up the lower slopes of Frostrow, a small hill I’ve never ascended and still haven’t, as we branch off just before it through a garden gate. In the distance, Baugh Fell almost obscures Wild Boar Fell.

Little field paths link Highside with High Hollins Farm. The friendly farmer shows off his vintage working tractor; Sir Hugh shows great interest.

Highside.

The farmer shows us an easier way down his fields; he only has 50 acres, which is hardly viable these days. A modern magical machine is baling his hay.

A pleasant interlude in an old hay meadow and then we are climbing once more to a road.

From up here, we can see the rooftops of the Farfield Mill complex.

Tea beckons and we sit outside the friendly cafe rehydrating and eating cake (Sir Hugh) and an indulgent scone with cream and jam (BC). Below us is the Clough River, which once powered the entire mill.   

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Farfield Mill was built by Joseph Dover in 1837 to spin and weave woollen cloth. The Mill suffered a big fire in 1908 and had to be rebuilt. It was requisitioned for the production of aircraft parts during WWII. After its decline in the 1950s, it was briefly used to make cheese. Finally, it was acquired by a buildings preservation trust and became a successful Arts and Heritage Centre.                             

 Sedbergh and District History Society.

1850 map.
1910 map.

The mill is on a massive scale, with four floors now utilised to present the area’s history, host large exhibitions, and provide a multitude of studio spaces occupied by artists from far and wide; they can’t all be from Sedbergh.

Our tour of the floors is cursory given our time limits, but we do give it a good try, even making time to chat to some of the artists. Weaving in various forms is well presented and appropriate to the surroundings. Still, I am most taken by the imaginative pottery on display: if another friend had been present, I don’t think we would have escaped so easily. If you are interested in local history and have a bent to original and innovative art, a day here would be so worthwhile. I am already planning a return visit, and not just for the home-baked scones.

Nearby is a small terrace built for mill workers. But I suspect that many would have made the daily trek from Sedbergh along the riverside path that we use to walk back to Millthrop.

Our return route along the River Rawthey is a delight and thankfully cooler. Mainly in pastures, with the familiar Winder overlooking us.

 

Any shade is appreciated.

Past New Bridge, the Rawthey dawdles along.

The weir we pass was the original one for Millthrop Mill.

What a splendid outing of just under 4 miles. Full of interest, beautiful Dales scenery and the added bonus of Farfield Mill.

I realise I haven’t chosen this week’s 52 Ways to Walk. It is easy – Walk With Others. I’m not one for large or even small groups; one or two chosen companions is fine. I was hoping for two today, but Sir Hugh by himself is stimulating company. His interests are far-reaching, and I without fail glean some choice information. He is always keen to explore, and his obvious enjoyment of the countryside is infectious. And add to that, he bought me tea and a scone.  There is some benefit from occasionally walking with others. We are now in the middle of a heatwave, and I won’t be venturing far, but today’s outing has sparked ideas for the future. I was not really aware of Clough River before, but I see on the map that it winds all the way down Garsdale from Clough Force on the slopes of East Baugh Fell. Now that would make a good mini expedition for walking with others.

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A WHITTLE WANDER. There’s more…

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A loop from Whittle-le-Woods. 

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

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

 

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

Plenty of Duckweed.
Serene family.

Not sure these two should be up there.

Old paper mill, Withnell Fold.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

 

 

A WHITTLE WANDER. Part Two.

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Hoghton to Whittle-le-Woods.

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

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

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

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

Life on the water.

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

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

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

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

Why do I always take nondescript pictures of motorways?

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

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

Then it is more of this…

…and this.I 

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

Withnell Fold Farm.
Village Stocks.
Reading Room.

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

LITTER.

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I do a litter pick-up on Longridge Fell.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

 

FRUSTRATIONS.

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I’m up early, for me, and setting off for a short walk up the fell at 8 am. Gotta beat the heat.

I don’t often walk up Spire Hill these days. My  ‘It’s grim up north’  Scots Pine has been cut down. They have tried to improve the fell by drainage, which is the opposite of what we should be doing; we need to restore the carbon-holding mosses up here. Trees have been cut down for no reason on the fell alongside the wall. And worst of all, the area around the trig point is desecrated by some egocentric individual who thinks this is the most iconic and desirable trig point to visit and sign his inane ‘summit book’. Shades of social media influencers – well, we don’t need them in an Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty, AONB.  See later in my frustrated rant**

Whilst up here, I wander into a wooded area owned by United Utilities. I am astonished to find motorcyclists camping in its midst. And even more horrified to see signs of open fires. This is a high-fire-risk area, but obviously, some people don’t care.  I take a picture from a distance and log a grid reference and then pass them by, probably sleeping off last night’s indulgences. I know I am being prejudiced as to their presence. But how did they get in here? There is a small gate for walkers, but the main gates are normally padlocked. I realise on the way out that the padlock has gone, and I suspect forced entry. The notice on the gate gives a phone number to report any problems. I make a note of it as my phone turns off.

Back home a little later and with my phone charged up, I try the local United Utilities number advertised at the gate. No longer usable, is the answer I receive. Looking up United Utilities online, they have a 24hr contact number.  One gets the usual ‘your call is important to us’ message as they try to direct you to an online help zone. I’m having none of that and hold through several different phone options, none of which are relevant to my situation. I haven’t had a leak, a flood. or moved home, nor do I want to pay my bill.

At last, a human, or at least I think he is, answers. Name, address, phone number OK Then he asks me for my email address, and I have to stop him and explain, without all the red tape, that I haven’t phoned about a domestic water issue, but that I am concerned about one of United Utilities’ properties. He doesn’t seem to have a list of properties available. What is the postcode? Is there a house nearby? I actually find the postcode whilst talking to him, but it doesn’t help. I know I’m up against it when I offer him the grid reference. Have I what3words? It is becoming obvious that he is unable to locate the property in his system. Amazingly, he asks me once more, is there a leak or a flood?  I reiterate the possible danger of a forest fire, but he doesn’t seem to have a way of dealing with that. There doesn’t seem to be any person in authority to speak to, so I suggest I might be better off phoning the police – he thinks that is a good idea, and I feel he is glad to get me off the phone.

There were many negatives there, and at the end of the call, United Utilities was unable to satisfactorily address a case of unlawful camping and the potential for a forest fire on their property. I tried my best to explain the problem and the location, but his computer system didn’t have the capacity to process my information. In the past, a handler would have written down all the information on a piece of paper and known who in the operation to speak to.

A call to the police on 101 was more straightforward; I was put through to the appropriate person. She processed my information quickly and identified the problem and its exact location. Somebody would be sent to have a ‘word’ with the campers. I have no idea of the follow-up.

One tries to do one’s best in these situations but become frustrated by the inflexibility of the systems. One hears of the same problems dealing with any of our utilities, banks, medical or other establishments.

As a follow-up, I try to complain to United Utilities. Having had no success on their phone lines, I go straight to their website. This is again a complicated affair, but I persist with the form-filling only to receive a refusal to send at the end of the procedure. A ‘bad gateway’ to blame, I do not know how to fix that problem, so I give up.

One last try: I’ll write an email directly to them, though finding their email address rather than their website is not easy. I doubt they will receive my complaint. I may try phoning them after the weekend when they may be better staffed.

** More frustration with the situation up at Spire Hill, which I visited earlier in the day. Way back, I emailed Bowland AONB, now retitled National Landscapes, and overseen by Natural England, concerning the installation of what I can only call paraphernalia. I will remind you of my photos at the time.

I received no reply from Natural England.

I next contacted the countryside officer at Ribble Valley Council to query whether any planning regulations were being broken. I emailed him photographic evidence, and he promised to look into it. After three weeks, I had heard nothing, so I spoke to him again and was told he had handed the problem to Natural England in Bowland. Nothing has been heard since. These public servants are poor at communicating with their public. Time for another telephone call next week.

To rid myself of the frustrations, this afternoon I’m planning on visiting one of our local gardens open under The National Garden Scheme for charity. Flowers and cake should calm me down.

 

MAD DOGS…

12 Replies

…and Englishmen.

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

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

It’s a little cooler down by the stream.

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

My wise cats have more sense than those mad dogs.

This Englishman will see you next week.

A WHITTLE WANDER. Part one.

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Whittle-le-Woods to Hoghton.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Under the motorway.

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

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

 

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

***

 

 

 

A GOOD NIGHT’S SLEEP.

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Walk in an evergreen forest.

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

 

ON THAT TRAIL AGAIN.

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Not all those who wander are lost. Bilbo Baggins.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yellow Loosestrife and Geraniums give some colour.

Approaching Jumbles…

…and Tracy’s seat. 

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

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

17th-century Hacking Hall. 

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

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

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

 

The Hodder is joining from the left.

The ancient Winckley Oak.

 

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

Stonyhurst College towers come into view. 

That iconic bus shelter with a handy seat…

… and a view of Pendle. 

C16th packhorse bridge. Cromwell’s army unlikely crossing. 

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

And a lively weir further on.  

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

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

Gothic Revival style St. Peter’s.

Almshouses.

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

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

***

BOUNDING ALONG.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A DOGGY INTERLUDE.

6 Replies

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

A RIVER RIBBLE RAMBLE.

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Follow a river. 

Yes, I’m onto my next week of 52 Ways to Walk, all about walking by rivers. The book says “researchers found that a landscape that included running water had a restorative effect. Was it the sound of running water? The light reflecting from its surface? ….  The presence of water makes many of us feel calmer.” 

I have a favourite short walk along the banks of the River Ribble—time to revisit.

Looking back, I have completed several long-distance paths following rivers, so there must be something attractive about them. The Speyside Way, The Wyre Way, The Tees Way, The Severn Way, The Dearne Way, The Thames Way – the list could go on. And of course pertinent to today’s stroll, The Ribble Way.

Does one go upstream from the coast to the source? Or do you start high and follow the river down?  The choice is yours, but I tend to favour source-to-sea aesthetically.  Finding the source is not always easy, as there are often myriad streams up on the fells. It is rare to find the highest legitimate spring giving birth to a great river. I thought I found it on the Bollin Valley Way in the Macclesfield Forest. I might have been mistaken.

Getting back to today’s excursion by the Ribble, which is one of the great northern rivers, arising high in the Pennines and gathering waters on its way to its estuary out past Preston. The proposed ‘Way’ alongside it is flawed by a lack of access to its banks for over half its length. Landed gentry and fishing syndicates intervene. Successive governments have fallen short on this aspect of our freedom to enjoy the countryside. Between Preston and Ribchester is a prime example, from Red Scar to almost Ribchester, the long-distance route is nowhere near the river.

But my Ribble loop is legal and strangely not even used by the official Ribble Way. Here is a map of my extended loop walk. I find a place to park at the bottom of Alston Lane, and to make the route longer and more interesting, walk back partway up the lane, passing the University’s observatories and the gates to Alston Hall.

An almost hidden stile leads into a field. It’s signed for the Ribble Way, but there have been few through recently. Yes, that’s Pendle in the background.

Finding a way down to a hidden stile that collapses as I cross it. I spend time on the Lancashire County Council app photographing the evidence and posting a report. Do they have the time or money to deal with these problems?  The next stile is more substantial. There is even an old Ribble Way sign.

The grass in the field is long, and I almost step on a hare that bounds off. A large bird flies out of a tall tree – it must be a buzzard, but it just doesn’t seem right, an osprey??  They have been seen at Brockholes Nature Reserve just downriver from here. A flowering elderberry in the hedge row reminds me to make some cordial from the pink-flowered one in my garden.

Leaving The Ribble Way, a track takes me down to another hidden series of stiles in a wooden dell. One stile is easier to crawl beneath than to try to climb over. I seem to be having a problem with stiles today, old age?

Reaching the lane, I am only a few yards from where I parked. This has been a pleasant ramble in itself, but I haven’t reached the river yet. I turn left and soon enter a horse paddock. Fortunately, the residents are resting in the heat, so don’t bother me—a field of buttercups.

Soon, I am heading down to the river at last. I hear it before I see it. The Ribble speeds along over minor rapids before settling down to a lazy flow. What a contrast to wintery conditions, we hardly had any rain the last couple of weeks. I try to capture the atmosphere in a video.  

The path alongside the river has been strimmed, presumably for the fishermen who access this stretch, so I can walk effortlessly, whilst watching the flow of the water. I must admit it is calming.

There are places where one can access little stony beaches, and the water looks tempting on a hot sunny day. But the river is still cold, a young boy tragically died this week, a few miles upriver at Ribchester.

I’m almost at the bottom of the ‘loop’ and can look inland towards Longridge Fell. Continuing the circuit, there, on the opposite bank, is Balderstone Hall. The river becomes shallow here over rocky shelves, and this was the site of an ancient ford. I was tempted today.

Leaving the river, I pass the new build that was under construction last time I was here. It looks very severe, not at all in keeping with its surroundings.

Walking up the rural lane, I come across this tractor parked up. If I see a vintage tractor, I include a photo for certain readers – well, this one is brand new, straight out of the saleroom; if they have tractor salerooms.

Taking the bridleway towards Old Alston Hall.

I watch a couple of young girls putting their ponies through their paces. A pleasant chat with their father, but I’m not invited in for tea.

https://historicengland.org.uk/listing/the-list/list-entry/1072296?section=comments-and-photos

I walk past their large barn, and around the corner is my car parked in a shady spot.

A walk I’m happy to repeat at any time of the year, hidden rural Lancashire, and especially that invigorating river.

 

CLASSIC YORKSHIRE DALES.

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Conistone Dib and PIe.

The sound of Curlews calling and the Skylarks singing is still in my ears. I have just returned from a wonderful little walk over in Yorkshire. It was probably new to me; at least, I have no recollection of being there before. If I had to take a stranger on a Yorkshire Dales walk away from the crowds of Malham, Gordale or Burnsall, I would choose this one that I’m about to try and describe.

I’m not sure how it came into my radar, Conistone Dib rang a bell somewhere.

Parking in Conistone is discouraged, so I park by the bridge over the Wharfe. I’m here fairly early to secure a parking spot, as it’s half-term, and to get a head start before the heat of the day kicks in.  Pony trekkers are coming down the lane from the centre of the village.

The village is a mishmash of stone farms and cottages. I suspect many incomers have done up the properties, as elsewhere. There is a maypole in the central triangle; I’ve no idea whether it is used any more. I’m kicking myself for not visiting St Mary’s Church, built on the site of a medieval predecessor. Modern pews were incorporated in the 50’s, designed by Thompson of Kilburn, the church mouse man. He incorporated discrete mice into his works. Our family had a cheese board from him, a mouse was running up the handle. Now, where has that gone?

A gate leads into the limestone environment above the village. And all of a sudden, you are climbing a few rocky steps into a narrow gorge. There was once a watercourse that created this dramatic place. Its local name is Gurling Trough, reflecting the noise of water going down a drain. I’m already excited.

The walls of the gorge narrow as you thread through it. The path is rocky but not difficult.

At one point, I notice some discreetly placed bolts indicating a climbing route up the blank-looking rock.

White stonecrop plants grow in crevasses.

A lovely water-worn scoop gives a scramble out of the rocky ravine.

All of a sudden, you are in a grassy valley with scree slopes on either side. Ahead is a steep crag high up on the right. The back of my mind tells me I have climbed there years ago, but I have no recollection of having walked through that stunning gorge to get to it—time to check my diaries and climbing guides. Bull Scar.

I ponder this as I walk deeper into the valley. A lady dog walker appears from a gate. She lives in the village and is very proud of the area. So she should be. The way she came from is the easiest way up, but she tells me you can go straight up, which involves some rock climbing. Guess which way I go. T

There she goes down her valley.

My way narrows once more, and yes, there is some rock scrambling to gain the fell rim. A very satisfying end to the climb from the village.  The view back down is impressive.

I meet up with The Dales Way, a long-distance path from Ilkley to Windermere. I walked the route with The Pieman and The Eyeman back in 1981, but don’t remember being up here. I’m almost certain we just followed the Wharfe along the valley from Grassington to Kettlewell. Or is it my memory playing tricks again?

My planned route is to walk back along the Dales Way towards Grassington, but first, I make a short detour north to investigate Conistone Pie. Just off the main track is a ‘pie-shaped’  rocky pinnacle that is calling out to be climbed. I stand on the top, king of the castle, with excellent views up Wharfedale and across to Kilnsey Crag.

I find a sheltered spot below the rocks for an early lunch. A couple walking between Kettlewell and Grassington, come over to investigate and climb up – that’s them on the top.

They are from Sheffield, camping by the river in Kettlewell and enjoying this glorious spring weather. She has a lovely, drawn-out Yorkshire accent, reminiscent of Lucy Beaumont, the comedienne. I would think we chat for half an hour or so; nobody is in a rush up here on a perfect day. We stroll on together for a while, but I’m soon distracted by photographing the local flora.  They wander off towards Grassington.

The cowslips and orchids are past their best, but there are good displays of Bird’s Foot Trefoil, Tormentil, Buttercups, Daisies, Violas, Speedwells, and many more I don’t recognise. “Look how they shine for you”

The warm sunny day has all the skylarks in the area singing away up high, and there is a constant background calling of the curlews. They put a spring in your step as you march along this elevated limestone balcony.

Looking at the map, it is annotated everywhere in that antiquated print: Hut Circles, Cairns, Ancient Settlements, Field Enclosures.   Of course, none of these is easy to identify with an untrained eye. I try hard and perhaps discern some of the paths of some linear walls. A drone would be useful but totally intrusive.

Sheep are pretending to be stones.

But most impressive are the relatively modern stone walls criss-crossing the plateau—a symbol of the Dales.

Few trees survive up here. I like this one.

Dropping down towards Grassington, there is the site of a medieval village marked on the map, but I don’t go that far. Another time, it would be worth carrying on to explore and maybe have some refreshments in the village before returning through Grass Wood, renowned for its Bluebells in season.

I do a U-turn and head back along the escarpment, but lose my intended path and end up on a smaller trail through Bastow Wood. A blessing in disguise, as I enjoy the shade and the variety of broad-leaved trees and a different flora.

I emerge back onto the open limestone ground and pick up my intended track. This turns out to be a spectacular wander back down to Conistone. First, it winds down between blossoming hawthorns.

Then across the head of a deep dry valley, Dib Scar.

I’m rewarded with a bird ‘s-eye view of the crags down its southern bank. There must be climbing on those steep 25m walls. (The guidebook lists lots of  hard routes, some now bolted, but all too difficult for me, which is probably why the whole valley is new to me)

There’s a whole lifetime of climbing down there.

The path goes along the flank of the valley before breaking away through fields straight back into Conistone village. That’s Kilnsey Crag and Great Whernside in the distance.

The curlews are a constant companion, and I have the varied limestone flora at my feet all the way. I’ve just identified this plant, which has been abundant throughout the day. Crosswort.

Those six or seven miles have been a delight. I would recommend this walk to those of you who, misguidedly, read my posts for inspiration. I apologise for all those photos of rock faces. You know where I come from.

***

BANK HOLIDAY, BEER AND ICECREAM.

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Beautiful Bowland.

I always stop at the crest of the Roman Road, heading from Cow Ark to the Hodder Valley, for the view of the Bowland Fells, Ingleborough and Pen-Y-Ghent. My photos never seem to portray the scene.

I find the little car park on the edge of Newton-in-Bowland and remember to close my car doors this time. I always enjoy the riverside stretch between Newton and Slaidburn, and today I’m going to incorporate it into a short circular walk. I intend it to be short, as it is the hottest day of the year so far, breaking May records.

Newton is a pleasant hamlet of interesting stone properties, which I explored in 2020. 

I only have a brief wander today as I try to find the start of my footpath out of the northern side of the village. My phone mapping isn’t working, so I’m navigating off the OS paper map. There are no signs, and I seem to be walking up a private drive. I can’t see a way out to the right, but I spot a ladder stile to the left and climb into the field. This is not where I meant to go, but a faint path leads up the hill. Maybe I should have tried harder to find the path I intended.

Anyhow, I am on a public footpath which is rarely used by the look of it. Soon, I’m looking down at the roofs of Newton and across to Easington and Waddington Fells. The faint track continues up the hill,

The fields are full of buttercups, dandelions and daisies.

A farm up ahead is marked on the map as Crawshaw, and in a field adjacent, a basic little campsite. Two couples are sitting out in the sun, enjoying their getaway. This is the back of beyond – an idyllic spot.

Onwards through fields where I come across one of those Peak and Northern signs I so like, I didn’t expect to see one up here.

The next farm is hidden by a substantial shelter belt of trees. This is sheep country. The farmer and his dog are bringing in a ewe and her two lambs. We chat awhile, and he points out where the path goes. He doesn’t see many walkers up here.

Across the way is the bulk of Burn Fell, the site of an aircraft crash in 1945. I last explored up there seven years ago – It feels like yesterday. 

It’s all downhill from here, taking in the spring flora. Strangely, there is very little bird song; this should be lapwing and curlew country. 

I come out onto Woodhouse Lane, which I am familiar with, and stroll down into Slaidburn. The pub and the Youth Hostel have both closed, but the little cafe down by the river is doing a roaring trade. A popular stopping point for bikers and cyclists, and today for picnickers on the green. I can’t resist an ice cream cone.

The River Hodder is followed back to Newton, a track I know well.

The woods at Dunnow are alive with bird song; they look like a fantastic environment.

I try to ignore the pungent smell of wild garlic.

One emerges at the arched bridge over the Hodder.

The Parkers Arms has an open door, so I end up buying a pint of Bowland Bumble Bee, a tasty pale ale, enjoyed in their garden.

A satisfying round of this quiet corner of Bowland. Using the paper map makes you concentrate more on your envronment.

* 

 

 

WARTON WANDERINGS.

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Three Brothers, but no Caves. 

I am first showing the map of our wanderings, which will make little sense to you. It makes even less sense to  Sir Hugh and me, and we were there, possibly.

My plan was straightforward, or so I put it across to Sir Hugh the night before. One feels nervous about suggesting an expedition into his home territory. And an expedition it was meant to be. Pouring over maps, there appeared to be three caves noted on the eastern side of Warton Crag. Harry Hest Hole, Fairy Cave and Potts Hole.  All very good, but the internet search revealed little except “they are not easy to find”. But Sir Hugh was up for the challenge, not having visited any of them. As an added incentive, I threw in the Three Brothers, erratic boulders on land north of the Occupation Road, the old drovers’ route, now a prominent bridleway. He has previously visited them after several navigational attempts in years gone by. So they should be easy to find.

Why not make use of this wandering for this week’s 52 Ways to Walk – Walk to get lost. I have a feeling we will. Getting lost stimulates your brain’s spatial awareness.

The day dawns, and I arrive to collect Sir Hugh. He had had a rather disturbed previous evening tending to his elderly neighbour, who had had a fall in her garden and ended up in hospital with a suspected broken wrist. Not a good omen for our off-piste explorations. I forgot to mention that I am now driving again and keen to broaden my horizons.

A short drive and we are parking up in Warton Main Quarry – the big one. In the sunshine, it looks spectacular, but I know from experience that climbing in here is not for the faint-hearted. There is a large amount of loose rock on many of the climbs.

After a bit of faffing (which will be relevant later), we set off along a narrow path toward the village. Just before the small quarry, we take a well-signed path up the hillside; the area is a nature reserve.

I had tried to obtain grid references for the three caves we hoped to visit beforehand. I was not sure of their accuracy. Heading off the main track on a small trod towards the first, Harry Hest, we penetrated into the thickly wooded hillside. The path, such as it was, led us to a band of rock below, where my grid reference hinted at its location. I think we spent possibly an hour scrambling about on that rocky escarpment to no avail. Pushing through the vegetation only to hit a dead end, and then trying to find a way out again. We admitted defeat and were glad to get back onto our original track to escape. But what is that on the skyline? A black hole resembling the only picture I had found on the Geograph site.  We had difficulty photographing it, just for the record, from this distance. Curiosity got the better of me, and despite all our failed attempts, I struck back up the precarious hillside only to be sorely disappointed when I reached the outcrop to find the black hole we had been trying to photograph was only a deep black slit in the rock, certainly not Harry.

 

A glimmer of hope.  

But only a wide crack.

Tails between our legs, we managed to reconnect with a more prominent path, taking us all the way back down to the main path we had left all that time ago. A good 90% of the paths we have used so far do not appear on the map.

All thoughts of Potts and Fairy Caves evaporated. It seemed like a long slog along the undulating, slippery limestone path to reach Occupation Road. My original plan was to follow the nearby tarmacked lane north and approach the Three Brothers from a rather roundabout direction on a track marked on the map. In view of the day passing quickly and our slow progress, plans were changed to attempt to find the Brothers directly off the drovers’ route. The map above may help, though I doubt it. The drovers’ route was a well-surfaced track between walls, but involved more ascent and descent than we were prepared for.

We were looking for a marked path that went off to the right and, thankfully, found a gate and a stile leading into the area of the Brothers.

Both Sir Hugh and I had a grid reference for the rocks; unfortunately, both differed, but not that far out.  Luckily, we hit upon an area of open ground which gave the first easy walking of the day. I found a large rock near our grid references, but no sign of any others in the increasingly overgrown surrounding woodland.

In the meantime, Sir Hugh’s sharp eye spotted three dots on the OS map, some distance from our original coordinates.

That was so obvious. Why hadn’t we spotted them before? Fortunately, open ground took us towards them, and a bit of bramble bashing had us alongside them.

Three eroded erratic rocks about 5m apart on the escarpment. Each one is resting on the top of the limestone pavement and not easy to photograph. But are they erratics? They are limestone, which is the local bedrock around here. Had a glacier brought them from the north? Another theory is that they were Megaliths erected for some cultural or religious purpose. For a more scientific explanation.

One.

Two.

Three.

Whatever we had found them! Not many people come this way. Was that other boulder I found earlier another brother or a distant cousin?

Somehow, we managed to find a different way out of the plantation. But we arrived back at the gate on the Occupational Road. Only then did we spot the private sign, honest m’lud.

All we had to do now was follow the bridleway until a path headed up toward the Warton Crag summit itself. We thought we had found it, but after a fairly long stretch, we started heading downhill away from the hill. Not for the first time today, we retaced our steps. I began to doubt my ability to read the map, but, again, most of the paths trodden on the ground are not shown on it. We stuck to the sensible option and followed only uphill paths, eventually coming out at the beacon on top of Warton Crag.

It was nearly three o’clock – time for a rest, perched on the summit rocks, and a bite to eat. The view over Morecambe Bay was hazy as the afternoon heated up – we are expecting a heatwave this Spring Bank Holiday weekend. But Jenny Brown’s Point stood out, as did the railways at Carnforth. Name me a better lunch stop than this.

Dropping down, we followed our noses. Still confused by the terrain, we came unexpectedly upon Pinnacle Crag, a friendly little climbing venue of old. 

We seemed to be following cattle tracks and came across the herd of Red Polls, who roam freely grazing invasive shrub and bracken, helping to preserve the limestone grassland. They were wearing electric tags around their necks, which I later read emit audible sounds if the cow reaches a boundary – virtual fences.

The cattle must be doing their job, as there was an ever-changing flora throughout the day, but somehow that took second place to our objectives. Get up there to see the variety of limestone-loving plants.

We somehow ended up back at the road and followed trails and a newly laid track into the main quarry.

A group of bird enthusiasts had their scopes trained on Peregrines nesting on the crag. We were given a view and even offered a cup of tea, which, looking back on, we should have accepted.

It had been a strange day. We had walked less than four miles in six hours. Our explorations have only achieved the Three Brothers. We certainly trampled new paths, getting lost for the better part of the day. My brain just wasn’t in focus, which may explain why, on return to the car, I find I had left my door open all day.

Help yourselves.

Sir Hugh has written his version of the day, which may be truer than mine.

A reminder to anyone exploring this area – Warton Crag is renowned for its ticks. I found a couple today.

 

LOCAL, ONE MORE TIME.

16 Replies

I’ve contented myself with mainly local walks for the last few months, whilst not allowed to drive post-shoulder operation. Hence, my posts have been more mundane than usual. Another week and I’ll be back driving – for good or bad, the cost of fuel will come as a surprise.

However, today I find myself walking up ‘Mile Lane’ again, my usual three-mile walk to go shopping. I don’t need to walk that far to the shops, but they say exercise is good for you. Besides, I’m testing out this week’s idea from the 52 Ways to Walk book’s entry, Walk Hungry. I’ve already done Walking after Eating, which wasn’t conclusive about whether it aided my digestion or lowered my blood sugar. Not a very scientific approach, I’m afraid.

Finishing this morning’s crossword mid-morning, I still hadn’t dressed or eaten. An opportunity to rouse myself and walk hungry.  So without further hesitation, I’m out walking. Would it help regulate my fat burning and insulin levels, as some of the book’s science suggests? I would have to walk regularly before breakfast to obtain any benefits, which wouldn’t fit my rather ramshackle lifestyle.

Mile Lane again.

But there are benefits, as I enjoy the ever-changing skies, bright blue one minute and threateningly black the next. We are in a spell of changeable weather; rain is forecast by lunchtime, but it appears to blow over without troubling us. Notice in my photo across the meadows towards the village and St Wilfred’s steeple, the cows are lying down – an old folklore of rain to come. (Late afternoon, we experienced a heavy hail storm!) 

Last week I talked of the Hawthorn blossoming in our hedgerows, and was reminded by Shazza of the abundant Cow Parsley. I’m able to redress that today on Mile Lane, which I have said many times is less than half a mile long.  The Cow Parsley is indeed profuse this year.

Also very prominent in the hedgerow is another white flower, Garlic Mustard. Appropriately named ‘Jack In the Hedge’. The leaves do have a faint garlic smell.

Whilst I’m taking time examining the flora, I notice the flower spikes on the Holly. We are more used to its showy red berries in the autumn and winter, but the flowers are quite complex and often go unnoticed.

Another strong, sweet scent comes along as I pass a Mountain Ash in full flower. The Rowan, also once called the “witch wiggin tree,” was planted outside homes in ancient times as a protection against evil and witchcraft. They are common in Lancashire; we had a lot of witches.

With the Bowland Hills in the background, I move on into the park. Diverting to check on the Miyawaki Forest, planted here last year, it’s good to see the native trees have grown significantly this season and are reaching above the paling fence. It will be interesting to see which varieties do best.

The local council is limiting mowing in parts of the park for environmental reasons, resulting in a colourful splash of Buttercups.  In amongst them is a young Oak, one of several planted by our active local Environmental Group. Things are looking up for nature, and hopefully, the younger generation will take heed.

Did you, as a child, hold a buttercup under your pal’s chin to see if they liked butter?  A glow appeared like magic. Of course, we all liked butter because the flower petals are highly reflective to attract insects.

After shopping, I reach home – my poached egg tasted that little bit better this morning. Maybe walking hungry is a good idea. Do you have a favourite walk to the shops?

 

 

A SUNDAY STROLL.

6 Replies

What’s that noise?

It’s week 20 of my 52 Ways to Walk crusade. 20 weeks of the year gone just like that. I’m still walking locally and plan to revisit some paths I’ve not used of late. At the same time, I will try out Sing as you Stride. My singing is worse than my dancing, which I attempted a couple of weeks ago, so I’m hoping these paths are little used, and that I don’t meet anybody.

The book states, “Singing whilst walking has been used throughout history – by marching soldiers, hiking schoolchildren, dissenting protestors, and weary families.” Singing helps maintain a good tempo and takes your mind off background stress. I recognise some of that.

Thoughts of tunes from my recent musical Virtual Walking post come to mind. The ones with a marching tempo, unsurprisingly, worked best. However, other thoughts bring out different tunes. The sight of rabbits has me dragging from my memory “Run rabbit, Run rabbit, run, run, run. Don’t let the farmer get his gun, gun, gun”

I am lucky to live on the edge of the countryside. This afternoon, the hawthorne’s aroma fills the air, I am one of those who find it pleasant.  An almost hidden stile leads into the fields. Not many people use these field paths, and in their isolation, I see hares and roe deer when I’m not singing. A cuckoo is heard, as is a woodpecker. Swallows are flying around, and a ‘blue’ butterfly flutters, apparently aimlessly, above the long grass. All very satisfying.

I cross and recross Westfield Brook several times as I wander on. The day is made for singing.

I come out onto a lane and almost immediately take a path I’ve not used for years, and I’m pleasantly surprised by all the young trees planted then and how they have grown in that time.

Around the corner, I was hoping for a brew at friends’, but not unexpectedly, they are out enjoying the weather. I vary the route home by cutting through the small industrial estate at Sandbanks and then, reluctant to follow the busy main road, extend my walk across the other side into fields and then through a wood yard where roof trusses are fabricated. There is a way out at the far end if you look carefully.

Little does one know of this manufacturer on the outskirts of town.

Then you are back in the fields, cut ready for silaging, haymaking is a thing of the past. Green lanes bring me back into Longridge, where I successfully navigate one of the extensive new housing estates to home. The singing has ceased by now!

 

NO SINGING TODAY.

24 Replies

Singing and walking may become a theme this week.

We, the Rockman and I, were on our way back from visiting the Pieman in Yorkshire. He has had a rough time of late, slow recovery from a hip operation, only to be followed by a disastrous fall, which broke his other hip, ending in a prolonged hospitalisation. He is making some progress and was just about up to our company. We go back a long way, climbing and walking, and have shared many an epic. So there was a lot to chat about, and his wife is very patient. Not to over tire him, we leave early afternoon, and that is how we find ourselves parked up for a visit to the Singing, Ringing Tree.

The Singing Ringing Tree is one of a series of four 21st-century landmarks, or Panopticons (structures providing a comprehensive view), in East Lancashire. I have written about it before and have visited several times. The Rockman had expressed a desire to visit the site, and as it wasn’t that far off our planned journey, we made the effort to run the gauntlet of traffic through Colne and round Burnley on the M65. Climbing a thousand feet up minor roads onto the moors, we reach Crown Point with dramatic views over Burnley and the backside of Pendle. The little car park always looks a bit dodgy, made worse by litter and flytipping.

The result of all that climbing is that it is decidedly chilly up here, but the strong breeze bodes well for the singing. The Singing Ringing Tree has been constructed from open-ended metal pipes, which, in the right conditions, i.e. windy ones, produce an eerie whistling sound that I’ve experienced on more than one occasion. Think of blowing across the top of a milk bottle. It can be seen in the distance, tree-like, and it is only a ten-minute walk away.

The statue is quite dramatic on the edge of the moorland, looking down to the industrial Burnley conurbation as well as Pendle and Rossendale. The three peaks are visible on a good day. But never mind the views we had come to hear it singing, and today, for some reason, it wasn’t. Was the wind in the wrong direction?  I blew down a few tubes, but that didn’t impress my companion.

Defeated, we returned to the warmth of the car for our continuing ride home.

Thanks to the Rockman for driving me to see the Pieman, which was a worthwhile visit. I’m only sorry he wasn’t rewarded with a singing tree. So here, to appease him and you, is a YouTube video of the tree in a more melodious mood.

For those of you who haven’t read some of my historic trekking posts, here’s an explanation of the affectionate names I use for my four close friends of many decades. The Pieman – the caterer. The Rockman – the geologist. The Professor – the teacher. The Plastic Bag Man – the purveyor of all things in plastic bags, sadly no longer with us. Heaven forbid what they call me.

No singing today, but let’s see what the week brings.