Tag Archives: Art and architecture.

VIRTUAL WALKING.

14 Replies

  At present, my walks are short and restricted to the village from my house; nothing wrong with that, but certainly not worth writing about. A fellow blogger was recently on a car journey when friends suggested and listened to songs with the theme ‘walking’. This is a good opportunity to expand on her choices and delve into musical walking themes. Virtual Walking.

  The rain keeps falling, so you, fellow walker, may be as housebound as I am. There are hours of music out there to listen to; some of the below may be new to you, and they may be worth an ear.

  First, let’s look at the obvious popular music choices. There are plenty of them – we are always either walking away from or towards love. This is not a top ten; there are eleven, but a selection of those I would consider the more polished tunes from my memory, click to get your feet walking.

  Going back to 50s Rhythm and Blues, early Rock and Roll, Fats Domino sets the scene with  I’m Walkin’

  Probably most people’s choice must be The Proclaimers, a long-distance marching song if ever there was one.    I’m Gonna Be 500 Miles.

  From the sixties, we have Nancy Sinatra’s catchy pop tune. These Boots are Made for Walking.

  Going back to 1957, Patsy Cline sang in her country style  Walkin’ After Midnight.

  And coming from country music in the same era, 1956, plodding along is Johnny Cash’s enduring hit I Walk The Line.

  Dionne Warwick’s version of Burt Bacharach’s tearjerker came out in 1965. Walk On By.

  More up-to-date, 1991, is Marc Cohn’s Walking in Memphis.

  Modern blues singers from around the world treat us to the classic Son House Walking Blues.

  An upbeat tune I’ve often walked along to, Katrina and the Waves. Walking on Sunshine.

  For variety, what about some Rap from Run DMC and Aerosmith?  Walk This Way.

  And finally take a stroll with a twist along to Lou Reed’s  Walk on the Wild Side.

***

  Moving onto Jazz recordings, steady, rhythmic grooves and strong walking basslines are everywhere. I have hundreds of CDs to choose from.

  Back in 1939, Fats Waller sang Hand Me Down My Walking Cane

  The jazz 4/4 walking beat is particularly the hallmark of bassist Paul Chambers, who was an integral member of many of the best hard bop combos throughout the 50s and 60s. Take a brisk walk with him in 1957 on Confessin

  Bassist Percy Heath keeps the beat on Miles Davis’s 1954 Walkin’

  Charles Mingus’ bass lines are famous, as in his 1955  Work Song

  McCoy Tyner with bassist Jooni Booth, live in Montreux, 1957. Walk Spirit. Talk Spirit.

  Bassist Leroy Vinegar struts his walking bass on the 1958  Walk on.

  Straying into the magical world of Thelonious Monk, we have John Ore marching along on bass in the 1962  Monk’s Dream

 

***

 

  In classical music, heavyweights derive inspiration and depict rural scenes – Beethoven’s Pastoral, Mendelssohn’s Fingal’s Cave, Debussy’s Suite Bergamasque, and Chopin’s Raindrop, without directly referencing walking as such. We are all waiting for Spring. in Vivaldi’s Four Seasons.

 

  The internet is awash with classic compositions to listen to in the background, through your headphones, whilst out walking. I’ve never understood walking around with headphones whilst out engaging with nature. But I’m old-fashioned.

  For some stepping out music to listen to at home, what better than Grieg’s instantly recognisable  In the Hall of the Mountain King from Peer Gynt Suite.

  This is often confused with Paul Ducas’s The Sorcerer’s Apprentice, highlighted in Walt Disney’s 1949 animation Fantasia.

  Searching for classical music with walking in the title doesn’t bring up much. But what I find is new to me, Seven Days Walking, by the pianist Ludovico Einaudi. His ambitious plan was to release seven albums in seven months in 2019, inspired by the same walk he repeated in the Alps. Each selection of pieces portrays a different aspect of his wintery wander. Randomly, I have chosen Ascent on Day 1. For relaxing in this rainy weather, one can listen to the full six hours on YouTube.

   Sorry for all the annoying YouTube ads.

  You will be tired out with all this virtual walking.

  I would be interested in your own choices, particularly in Classical Music, where I ran out of steam.

 

 

UNDER THE HOWGILLS.

19 Replies

More of the Lune. 

  November 1981. Day four of our Dales Way walk. We had started in Ilkley as a threesome, but by the time we arrived, via a long day to Grassington, into Kettlewell, we were down to two. An excessive night at the George in Hubberholme, when we couldn’t find the tent, didn’t slow us up. I can’t recall where we camped in Dent. The next afternoon, we diverted into Sedbergh for beer and chips before joining the Lune. I remember well our camp later that day in the meadows just before the Crook of Lune Bridge.  Our sleeping bags weren’t up to the freezing temperatures we experienced that night.

We made it to Windermere. But I don’t remember walking under the Lowgill Viaduct. I’m back here today for a walk down the Lune and beyond.

*

    The journey up the motorway goes well, I am trying to make the most of a rare good January day. The Howgills look even more attractive than usual in the low sunshine as I swish down the road past the ‘Black Horse’ towards Sedbergh. But today I take the lane signed Waterside and Firbank up the Lune Valley. I stop to take photos of the Waterside viaduct, which carried the Ingleton Branch railway line.

I eventually park under the Lowgill Viaduct, which carried the same line. onwards to Tebay, where it merged with what is now the Main West Coast Line.

The Ingleton to Tebay line, the Ingleton Branch, was built in the early 1860s by the North Western Railway as a link for them to Scotland. This never worked, and it remained a quiet branch line linking towns and villages in the Lune Valley.   It finally closed in 1964, but its structures and trackbed are still very visible in the valley today.

I’m inspired by the eleven-arched viaduct above me. What a climbing wall could be established on one of those stone arches.

  I walk down the lane, past the attractive Pool House, to the Crook of Lune Bridge. Not be confused with the Crook of Lune bridge painted by Turner further down the river at Caton. The one I cross today is a narrow, arched C16th stone bridge. Oh, and by the way, this Lowgill shouldn’t be confused with the one at the base of the Tatham Fells.

From the bridge, I look upstream towards the shapely Howgills, and downstream with Firbank Fell in the background, I will be up the latter on my return leg. It’s a day of views despite not really climbing anything higher than 1000ft.

That’s a slow start, but I’m soon in the fields bordering the River Lune, where we camped all those years ago. How come I don’t remember the viaduct?

The Dales Way is a popular route, and the path is clear, though rougher than I expected. This may be due to erosion from flooding; there is a section where the narrow trod has been bolstered with wooden boarding.

I’m walking into the low sun, so some of my photos are looking back. In places, the river rushes along, but in others it seems to be at a standstill, which I notice has a very calming effect upon me. One can imagine sitting here quietly for hours.

I arrive at Hole House with its joining arch, which I’ve been through not that long ago. *

Time for the obligatory snowdrop and catkin photos.

Leaving the Dales Way, the river is crossed via a wooden footbridge and begin a steep 700ft climb up the otherside.

Stopping for breath at the abandoned rail track of the Ingleton Branch. I wonder whether one could follow it back to Lowgill. Wouldn’t it make a wonderful cycleway from Sedbergh?

My next rest stop is at Goodies Farmhouse, where I reach the road. The views back to the Howgills are becoming more impressive as height is gained.

There is more height to be climbed along the semi-enclosed bridleway, then onto open moorland.

At last, the top road is reached, and the stile is used as my picnic bench.

Just along the road in the wrong direction is Fox’s Pulpit and a small graveyard. I visited here a couple of years ago. *  Then the Howgills were in cloud, but today are spread out in full Cinemascope.

The lane leads to my highest point of the day, a mere 304m, a smidgem under 1000ft, but exhilarating in the windless blue sky. I walk on, soaking up the views. The M6 motorway and the main railway line can be seen sneaking through the gap to Tebay.

The Lakeland hills are over there somewhere beyond the Tebay Borrowdale. Kidsty Pike is always the prominent one in the East.

 

 

A slanty sign shows the way down the fields. Some awkward stiles to be surmounted. After crossing this one, I slide off the boards into the stream, fortunately staying upright.

The path eventually drops steeply down towards Lowgill, offering a bird’s-eye view of the valley.

I finish on the road alongside those eleven arches.

A grand five mikes.

*

  Several drone videos of the viaduct are available online.

*

*

  I noticed a small turreted church by the roadside as I drove in this morning. I have time to stop and look around on the way home. St John the Evangelist’s Church, Firbank, built in 1842.

It looks as though a spring visit is called for…

 

 

A NOSEY AROUND THE VILLAGE.

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Is it a village or a town I wonder?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

 

 

A NEW YEAR. IN BOWLAND MEADOW.

19 Replies

 

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

*

  I had a busy and costly day yesterday. 

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

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

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

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

*

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

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

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

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

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

A GRAND DAY OUT.

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The Harris Museum, Preston.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  At last, we were in…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*

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

SIMPLY BLEASDALE.

4 Replies

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

St. Eadmer’s.

The track into the estate.

SIMPLY  A swollen beck.

Lonely Holme House Farm.

Looking up to Fiensdale Head.

Fairsnape and Parlick.

Beacon Fell

Old packhorse bridge.

From above.

Adnarsh Barn.

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

  Time to get back to the shops.

*

A BIT OF DENTDALE FROM SEDBERGH.

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I have to thank John Bainbridge from Country Ways for inspiring this walk; he often writes about Sedbergh. However, it seemed to take me so long to get inspired this morning. Lots of faffing involved. Anyhow, I was parked up in Sedbergh close by the cemetery at 11 am. The day was forecast to go downhill in the afternoon. That decided me on a clockwise circuit so that I would get the views from the high ground before a plod along the lane back to town.

Some walks suit a particular direction, either because of the ease of ascent or for the views unfolding. Clockwise or widdershins. I tend to opt for a gentle, gradual ascent and deal with the views by stopping often and looking back – the best of both worlds, and so it is today.

Stepping through the arch into the cemetery, I feel I’m entering a different world, like Alice through the looking glass.

The walk has begun. A stroll down to Birks House and the footpath branching off alongside the River Rawthey. I probably make a mistake here as I keep to the riverside path rather than the PRofW, which would have passed Bruce Loch and the Pepper Pot. I have to scramble up from where my riverside path fades to join the path above—no big problem.  The Loch and the Pepper Pot were part of the Akay estate, which was sold off in 1936, to Sedbergh School and the mansion was demolished. I catch a glimpse of the Pepperpot, restored by the school, as I enter the woods above the river. Some of the trees reflect the lost estate’s glory.

Birks House and Winder.

  Crossing the Rawthey at Millthrop Bridge, I walk down the line of cottages built for the workers of the nearby mill, originally for corn, then cotton, and, lastly, until 1931, wool.

An old cobbled track climbs into the hills.

The steepness gives me an excuse to pause, more than once, and look back over Sedbergh with the Howgills lurking in the background.

The track splits, and I take the higher one, The Dales Way.

As I reach the high point, I’m intrigued by piles of stones in the grass; were they just from clearing the fields for agriculture?

Walking the Dales Way westwards, what a view would greet you, cresting the ridge. It’s been 45 years since I came that way, so my memory is vague, but I’m happy to relive it today.

The good-walled track continues through gorse and woodlands before dropping into the fields of Gap and Hewthwaite farms—traditional vernacular C18th buildings rooted to the landscape.

The steep, rough lane from the farms has a wall on its right with finishing flat coping stones, unusual for a farm track. Two doors offer a further clue that something grander borders the lane. 

The answer is Gate Manor, which I’ve often noticed when driving along the road to Dent. Today, I don’t see it till I’m on the other side of the valley, my photo out of sequence.

I get in a muddle in the fields by the Dairy Cottage converted dwellings. A finger post points vaguely south with the unhelpful ‘Brackensgill via deep ford’, no mention of a bridge, which is rather worrying. Estracating myself from a field, I locate the lane leading down to the ford. The lane itself is like a river, but a footbridge does appear to save the day. In fact, its steps provide a seat for a lunch stop.  I wouldn’t have fancied the ford across the River Dee. A little upstream from here live my friends, and we have bathed in the Dee in the summer months.

I reach the lane, which takes me back towards Birks. Upper Dentdale can wait for another occasion.

For over a mile, not a car is seen, and I have time to admire the old farmsteads along the way. Stepping back into another century.

After the side road over the graceful Rash Bridge, I come across an old abandoned Methodist chapel, Dent Foot, and then the Rash Mill, an undershot mill dating from the C16th when it was used for grinding corn. 

Outflow from the undershot wheel.

Then off the road on footpaths winding through the low hills, giving excellent views back up Dentdale and over to the Howgills, with Wild Boar Fell’s flat top visible through Gardsale. This walk has everything.

Judging by the variety of lichens, the air quality up here is excellent – fill your lungs.

Dropping steeply down through a thicket of hawthorns, which apparently gives a stunning display in May. Today I enjoy all the red haws.

Back alongside the fast-flowing River Dee, a beautiful arched bridge, Abbott Holme, takes me straight into a golf course, which I don’t navigate too well; fortunately, there are no players.

Woodland paths lead me along to a footbridge over the River Rawthey. Around Sedbegh, one is never quite sure which river one is following. The Lune is close by.

The old mill on the opposite bank used to be a water-powered cotton and worsted spinning mill. The lane leads back through the few houses of Birks to the cemetery and back through the arch with Sedbergh’s Winder above, celebrated in song by the school.

Far off from beck and fell,
As boyhood’s days grow dimmer,
The memory will not die
Of Winder’s clear-cut outline
Against an evening sky.

  That’s a lot crammed into 5 miles. Thanks for reading.

*

*

  On a final note, a fitting memorial in that churchyard to a brave Polish airman defending another nation. Let us hope we continue to stand firm with Ukraine.

BAILEY’S LISTED BUILDINGS.

5 Replies

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The farmer has a sizeable collection of scrap metal.

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

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

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

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

*

National Library of Scotland.

IN THE ROUGH.

16 Replies

                                                     Looking across to Sabden from Wiswell Moor.

Wiswell Moor.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The quarry track.

Clerk Hill Road

Old abbatoir at Wiswell Mooor Houses.

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

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

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

 

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

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

 

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  The grass and puddles have been frozen since this morning.

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

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

*

HOT OFF THE PRESS.

8 Replies

Dean Clough Reservoir.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*

GOOD THINGS COME TO THOSE WHO WAIT.

18 Replies

Barbondale. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  It feels much like a Scottish glen to me.

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

  I eschew the ford for the wooden footbridge.

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

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

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

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

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

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

This is above some authentic old sheepfolds.

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

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

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

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

  You can rent parts of the house for family occasions.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*

*

A BUSY DAY AT RIVINGTON.

18 Replies

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

Looking back up to the tower.

Continue reading →

THE LONGRIDGE POSTIE WALK.

12 Replies

  Is it a myth or a fact? 

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

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

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

 The day promises well.

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

  The track has the feel of an old way.

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

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

   This is from a previous post.

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

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

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

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

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

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

  The way is well provided with bridges and stiles.

 Even the odd clapper stone, no longer used.

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

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

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

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

1847
1895

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*

ICKNIELD WAY  13. To the end.

19 Replies

The Mill to Knettishall Heath.

   

Hardly a church in sight today. 

I’m at the end.

I buy a coffee from the friendly mobile man in the car park of Knettinshall Common and talk about the walk and things in general. More regulars come and go. Casually, I wander off to sit down to try and find an Uber taxi. The connection is not good to start with, and then they link me in. But after 10 minutes or so, they ( or it) admit they can’t help.

I phone the pub in Thetford where I’m staying tonight, but all I get is a recorded message from Greene King, which is useless for my enquiry.

Back to Phil, I’m on first-name terms by now, for a second coffee. More regulars, mainly dog walkers, come and go. Some chat longer than others. One, long-haired Steve with his dog, lingers longest and seems interested in my predicament.

“You don’t live in Thetford, do you?” is my direct question. “No, I don’t” is the reply. He stays in the opposite direction, but it was worth a try. The chat continues as the car park starts to empty. “How far is it to Thetford?’ he asks. “About 6 miles or so, I think.” Phil confers. After a bit of thought, he offers to give me a lift using an expression I didn’t recognise, but literally meaning just for the friendship of it. He refuses payment, also, just for the friendship of it.

More chatting with Phil and others whilst I make friends with Steve’s dog, my soon-to-be travelling companion. Then bidding farewell to Phil, we wander across the car park and onto the road where a battered old open-back Land-rover is parked, probably illegally on the verge, to avoid the parking charges. It is unlocked, but Steve pulls a steering wheel from his rucksack, which he then attaches to the stem, his effective anti-theft device. What next? Well, the passenger door doesn’t open easily, so I climb in over the back.

Then we are off, and despite the rattles and the draughts through the missing windows, we sail along happily with the engine purring away. I navigate the few miles to the outskirts of Thetford, where I get him to drop me off without getting caught in complicated traffic. I leave some money in his dashboard for a bottle of wine for his genuine kindness. I have to be helped out of the cab before he can turn round and roar off. A special encounter.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

And what of the walking today? Outside the towns, Suffolk is a patchwork of large fields and woods. Well, it isn’t the best.

A long trudge up the dusty lane from my B&B, A short but very noisy walk on a narrow verge of a hectic road. It takes some time for my senses to settle down once I reach the relative calm of the next byway. One doesn’t always realise how polluting noise is.

The sandy track passes more pig farms and vast harvested fields.

Not a farmhouse in sight. Modern farming just needs storage, heavy machinery and workers, probably living in nearby towns.

I found out where all the mashed-up maize goes before it is permanently stored. A tumulus of mulch. For a time, I drift off and imagine I’m on the beach.

Somewhere along the way, I go off to investigate this hummock – is it an anthill? Sadly not. It gets me thinking, when did I last see a wood ant’s nest?

I see, only just, my first horse rider trotting off down the Duke’s Way, where I’m not allowed.

Another busy road lies ahead at Euston, where maybe I could catch a train home, well, not from this Euston. I cross a bridge over the River Blackbourne. The flint wall around the Euston Estate has some unusual additions.

I sit by the village green, all is part of the estate.

In the hall’s grounds, but a little too far off track, is an interesting church. I think you have had enough interesting churches this week.

Capability Brown was responsible for the design of the estate’s grounds.

Despite signs directing the IW walker off down a public right-of-way outside the walls, the route leads inside the grounds on a permissive footpath between mature oak, beech, and sweet chestnut trees.  I’m bombarded from above by acorns and beech nuts; it must be a mast year. 

Giant puffballs are the size of footballs.

On I go, a trig point appears in the middle of nowhere. 49m, I’m feeling dizzy.

After crossing another road, smaller paths are used through the woods. Finding a tree trunk to sit on for a chocolate break. The trunk is a work of art. 

The path narrowed, and I find myself pushing through the shrubbery. The aroma from the Ivy flowers is quite strong, something I’ve not noticed before. The insects are buzzing around it – a late supply of nectar.

Hidden in the brambles is an Icknield Way Milestone. I’m nearing the end.

Entering Knettishall Common, the scenery changes to a more pleasing vista; gone are those vast agricultural fields. I end up walking on the agar of Peddars Way Roman Road.

The last time I stood at this sign was in 2015 with my old mate Mel, we had just completed the Angles Way from Great Yarmouth. We walked the Peddars Way back in 2003.

It is good to be back.

All I have to do is walk down to the car park, have a coffee, and hail a taxi.

*

The Bell Inn, Thetford.

It seems a long time ago I stood on Ivinghoe Beacon. Now, what about the Wessex part of the Great Chalk Way?

ICKNIELD WAY 12. The King’s Forest.

4 Replies

Icklingham – to New Zealand Cottages, The Mill.

King’s Forest was named to commemorate the Silver Jubilee of King George V and Queen Mary in 1935. The forest was planted in the 1930s and is primarily composed of pines, Scots and Corsican. There are belts of deciduous trees, and the Icknield Way follows one of these. Glacial sandy soil covers the chalk. I have a walk of about 4 miles through the heart of it.

But before we arrive there, I have the pleasure of viewing All Saints’ Church on the edge of Icklingham, A medieval thatched church in the care of The Churches Conservation Trust.  All Saints’  was built largely in the fourteenth century, although it is of Norman origin. Since it has not been used as a parish church for over 100 years, it remains one of the best examples of an unspoilt Suffolk church. Of course, it is built of flint and stone. With all roofs, apart from the tower, thatched, the last time was in 1999. There are some fine gargoyles on the tower roof. Click on any image to enlarge.

The door handle is cleverly crafted. A cross, a heart and an anchor.

It is light and airy upon entry, with lots of plain glass in the windows. Not being in use, it is sparsely furnished. Most of the woodwork dates back to the 17th century. All the windows feature elegant tracery, and there is some medieval stained glass. The thatch can be seen in the roof space, giving the space an agricultural feel.

Traces of paint indicate that the stonework would have originally been decorated.

A highlight of the church is the chancel floor, laid with fourteenth-century tiles. With a variety of colours, shapes, and designs, they form a unique mosaic. They have been here for 700 years!

That was a fascinating hour, but time to get on the way. Fields are traversed behind the church, and then I’m into the King’s Forest for four miles. Sandy and  flinty, the trail gives easy walking. The trees, beech, oak and birch, line either side, but beyond them are the conifer plantations managed by Forest England.  There are the prints of deer, but I never saw any, despite sitting quietly for long periods. Fallow, Roe or Muntjac’s?

What’s out there?

Another diversion was the bird song from the trees. Robins are common, and where there are bushes of broom gone to seed, flocks of Blue, Great and Long-tailed Tits flit about. The occasional Buzzard soars overhead at the margins of the forest.

A fork in the track is my only navigational decision. I choose left, which turns out to be right if you see what I mean. There are still some flowers hanging on into autumn.

At some stage, bored with the track I take to the beechwoods in search of fungi.

Eventually, there ahead is a monument, and I hit the road at Shelterhouse Corner. I can just about make out the inscription celebrating the Jubilee of 1935.

A path through the pine shelter bed is provided to avoid the busy road.

Then it is back into the woods on a byway. All of a sudden, it becomes busy with outsized agricultural vehicles.

A monster of a machine, squirting muck, is raking the field I have to cross.

The watering equipment for these fields is also on the large scale.

I eventually escape the arena…

…back into Breckland forestry.

Now on well used tracks passing massive pig farms, with a choice of housing.

And then in the middle of nowhere, I’m at the very comfortable Mill for the night. An oasis of calm.

I don’t know why the cottages are labelled ‘New Zealand’ on the map, and I forget to ask.

ICKNIELD WAY  10. Hemmed in.

6 Replies

Stretchworth to Kentford. 

Making my own breakfast is a help, as I’m able to get away before nine. I just walk up the road to Stretchworth.

As usual, leaving the villages, I find myself in a narrow corridor. Little do I realise that I will be doing the same for most of the morning.

But first, a few fields to get to cross the Devil’s Ditch, which here is more like an embankment. This was the border country between Mercia and East Anglia.

There are views across the fields to the flat Cambridgeshire countryside- Newmarket must be down there somewhere.

 

A gent walking his dog stops to say hello. Perfectly normal on a lovely sunny morning in the countryside, I always do the same. Twenty minutes later, I manage to get on my way. He never draws breath, informing me of all things medical, sharing findings from his personal research. Advice on diet, posture, tracking poles, walking, etc., etc

 

Feeling shell-shocked, I stagger across the following fields before I regain my composure. I almost walk past Woodditton Church, St. Mary the Virgin,  somewhat hidden in the trees. A simple structure of great age with an outstanding tower. Unfortunately, it is not open. There is medieval graffiti I would have liked to see.

 

And then I’m down the one-way alley: high fences and hedges on either side. I can’t see what’s on the other side, but I can guess—horse paddocks. Not the little ones for Jane’s pony, no, these are large for the thoroughbred horses. We are only a few miles from Newmarket – trainers’ fields and stud stables. Vast acres are utilised for the sport. It would be interesting to see the aerial view.

 

I plod on for miles of this. Easy walking, but with no variety.  And yet I still haven’t seen anyone riding on this trip. Horses are spotted in the occasional clearance, even practice courses, but no riders. 

 

I escape into Cheveley past some stables, looking for a coffee. Unfortunately, the shop is having a major overhaul, and all I end up with is a pint of milk. The bus shelter provides a bench – the lot of a vagabond. Some smart properties line the main street.

 

The church down the high street is massive.

 

St Mary and the Holy Host of Heaven, quite an extraordinary dedication! It is believed to be unique.

  The building was begun in 1260 with major rebuilding taking place in the 14th, 15th and 19th centuries. It comprises a nave, chancel and transepts and may have been inspired by the great cathedral of Ely. A 14th-century oak rood screen separates the nave from the chancel and choir stalls.   

The stained glass window in the chancel dates back to 1873 and is the work of Charles Kempe, a renowned Victorian stained glass artist.

The organ situated to the right of the altar dates back to 1873. The organist has fallen asleep during the service.

I notice some fine Staffordshire tiles.

 

And then I’m back behind the hedges.

 

I don’t escape easily. 

 I wonder where these gates lead?   Buzzards wheel above.

Ashley is a smaller place with even fewer facilities. But it does have a duck pond with a bench for lunch.

Before leaving, I check out the church; every village has one. An ancient one has been replaced in 1845. A simple design, one that lends itself to functions not necessarily of a religious nature. The back half of the nave has had its pews removed, creating an ideal space for families and clubs to hire. A way for churches to survive. The ukulele group practice is later today. 

Road walking is needed across the next stretch of countryside, but the road is quiet. It drops down to the River Kennett, which is running dry.

Now in the woodlands bordering  Dalham Hall estate. The guidebook suggests a diversion on paths around the estate, but I am happy to continue on the quiet road to Gazeley. (Dalham Hall is owned by  Sheikh Muhammed bin Rachid al-Mactoum, the ruler of Dubai, who has a murky past.) 

Gazeley is similar in style to the other villages visited today. There is no pub or shop.

The church is, however, a Medieval masterpiece.

The chancel, which is rendered, is C14th with Decorative Style windows. The aisles and tower are C15th with Perpendicular Style windows. You can see the contrast in the photo above. 

There is so much medieval woodwork inside, pews, pulpit, roof and screen. 

 My phone camera can’t capture the detail in the chancel, but there are photos provided.

There is a good collection of brasses on the floor. 

Even the carved font is C14th.

I spend more time than usual in this church, not just for its treasures, but to shelter from the only rain shower of the trip—time to move on. 

The road passes a converted windmill and its associated cottages. 

And then I’m crossing fields once more with just a narrow path through the sugar beet.

 

The sound of the busy trunk road to Bury St Edmunds becomes irritating. And then I’m hemmed in until the end on the narrow pavement alongside the main road into Kentford. But salvation appears in the form of a transport cafe. I’ve been hankering for a coffee all day. Can you spot the difference?

Yes, the sign was changed as I was yards from the door.  

My pub for the night, The Bell, has unusual hours for a Tuesday night, with the bar and restaurant open from 6 to 7, mainly for the residents, of which there are a few workers, as well as myself. They say they can’t get the staff.  I don’t even ask about breakfast.

I can’t complain, they have bright, comfortable rooms in the courtyard, and the food is decent. 

*

 

 

 

 

 

 

ICKNIELD WAY 9. Village churches.

4 Replies

Balsham to Stretchworth.

I’m in no rush. I eat my DIY breakfast in my room. Let the day warm up a little.  There are shops open, but I don’t need anything. When I do, there won’t be any. Sod has something to do with it.

Across the green is a small shelter, the ‘Prince Memorial’ to a local family at the beginning of the C20th, and a stone marker for The Icknield Way,  Ivinghoe Beacon, 63 miles, Peddars Way, 43 miles. So I am more than halfway. 

Thatched cottages are scattered throughout the village; this one, with its ducks and hens, is on the church approach.

Holy Trinity is another large church. The oldest part is the tower, C13th, with some impressive buttresses holding it up. Inside, the nave, supported by massive columns, clerestory and chancel date from the C14th.

The chancel features ancient carved pews, some of which have their original misericords.  Wood that is over 500 years old. 

Large, well-preserved medieval brasses to both  John Sleford and Hugh de Balsham are present in the chancel. 

Alterations were made to the church in the early 20th century, including stained glass windows and an imposing font cover, carved in the late 1920s by the then Rector, Edwin Burrell.

I wind my way through the village recreation grounds; all these little villages seem to have good facilities. The town councils must have their priorities right and the backing of a young, dynamic populace. As I said, they are dormitory towns for Cambridge.   

A sign points the way to Fox Lane, and I know when I reach it. Yet another thatcher’s animal adornment.

The lane that I follow for about three miles is no longer a greenway; attempts have been made to surface it in the past. However, it provides easy walking, with the chalk and flints visible through the surface.

The lane undulates between large fields. Prominent wind turbines are passed as height is gained.

Partridges run ahead of me, and there is an accompanying bird song from the hedges. Buzzards and kites fly overhead. Crabapples, haws, blackberries, and sloes are in profusion as I’ve mentioned many times this Autumn. These diversions keep me occupied on this three-mile plod.

A couple of small roads are crossed on the way, but no habitations. The lane ends abruptly at a dry ford, where I take a right turn on another lane. I soon realise why there were so many partridges about, they are feeding them to shoot them later.

Past Crick’s Farm, which turns out to be just two large sheds. 

 High fields give far-reaching views; those wind turbines don’t look far away.

Horsey fields, as I call them, are navigated until I’m alongside some neat allotments. A member is doing a bit of mowing but is happy to stop and chat. I learn a little about Brinkley, and he points me in the right direction of The Red Lion, which I might have. missed otherwise.

The Red Lion doesn’t look inviting from the outside. Have I become too thatch addicted? However, it turns out to be very friendly and accommodating,  a pint and a sit-down are enjoyed, and I stay for coffee.

Back in the village, I spend some time looking around St Mary’s church. On the gatepost is a stone skull and crossbones carving, intended to ward off evil spirits.  This church underwent many alterations in Victorian times, although the tower dates back to the 13th century, with diagonal buttressing and an unusual chequered flushwork base course. I like the red brick porch, apparently added in Tudor times.

 
 

Inside, most of the space is a Victorian restoration of the old structure. The Ensign hanging in the nave was presented to the church by the company of HMS Brinkley when it was decommissioned in 1962.

The tower arch is very tall and thin. Under the tower, there is an early 17th-century clock mechanism, an interesting survival.

 

 Bits of Medieval glass have been incorporated into the windows. 

I like the simplicity of this wall plaque. 

I read, too late, that the base of an old preaching cross, predating the church, is in the churchyard.

The way to Burrough is straightforward, and I come out onto the village green. A fine circle of field mushrooms is so obvious that I wonder why nobody has picked any.

St. Augustine Church is tucked away down a side lane. The church strikes me as unusual in having three chantries on the south wall. The tower is squat compared to many and remains unchanged from the rest of the C14th church, which has had many alterations over the years. At one time, there were chapels on either side of the chancel. Their presence is still visible in the exterior stonework.

Upon entering, the interior is devoid of pillars, and the chancel arch has been removed, leaving a boxy feel to this end.

The east window is beautiful, and contains some glass from before 1350.. The Puritans, led by William ‘Basher’ Dowsing under the 1643 Parliament Ordinance, destroyed the majority of the stained glass in the church – and what else?.

The three sedilia and double piscinae, seen in the south wall, are the oldest surviving features in the church.  Opposite on the north wall of the chancel are the three ornate niches containing medieval effigies of the local De Burgh family.

Originally, they would have been open on each side, linking the chancel and the lost north chapel. (We saw the outline of one on the outside) 

A further pair of later effigies sits in the north aisle. They show better workmanship, but are also badly weathered.  John Ingoldisthorpe and Elizabeth De Burgh, died 1420 and 1421 respectively.

Leaving the church, the path crosses the green; the old schoolhouse looks interesting.

Around the back of the Bull Inn, the path becomes enclosed for some way between horse paddocks – we are only a few miles from Newmarket.

Briefly, I join the E2 path (also the Stour Valley Path) in some woods.

Open countryside at last, before a sunken track takes me to the front door of my Airbnb.

A wonderful cottage with converted outhouses. Perfect. Another fascinating day in this region so unfamiliar to me. 

*

 

ICKNIED WAY 8. Clear Cambridgeshire Skies.

7 Replies

Great Chesterford – Balsham.

A good sign – sun shining bright through the window at 8 am. Breakfast is enjoyed whilst trying to get used to the waitress’s languid local accent. Am I in Cambridgeshire or Essex?

Somehow I’ve picked up a head cold, but fortunately, the little shop around the corner sells Paracetamol, along with everything else. A pleasant village with some old houses, I’m back in flint country.

Over to the flint church where a Sunday morning service is taking place. I don’t intrude, but I am intrigued to see the congregation watching a video screening, possibly from another church. Perhaps a joining of forces for these isolated churches with small congregations. I was hoping to see some of the medieval graffiti inside the church.

I’m reunited with the Icknield Way waymarks on the edge of the village.

The usual slow climb back up onto the flinty chalk hills. There is a Trig point at 114m I probably won’t reach any higher in the next few days; this is not mountain walking.

The views are clear in the polar air which is pushing down the country.  The calmness of the day up here blots out the turmoil of the world below. Alongside ploughed fields and down a drove road.

As the village of Liton drew closer, I could see ahead, above the treeline on Rivey Hill, a prominent water tower, a landmark for miles. First stop was the Crown Hotel, in the pretty High Street, for a coffee before they started Sunday lunch. They were busy mopping out a flood in the bar area.

The centre of the village was a delight for a Northener.

Across a ford on the River Granta is St Mary’s Church. A large church that reflects the wealth of Linton as a historical market town.The church dates, as most around here, from the C12th.

The tower from the 14th Century has four unusual inlaid black flint crosses.

Also on the tower is a small exterior doorway; maybe a priest lived in the tower when it was built.

Is that a ‘lepers’ window around the side of the chancel?

The morning service has just finished, and the remaining friendly parishioners are all too pleased to chat. In comes a chap with one of those sticks that take pictures from above and then magically disappear. He had come in to film a 360-degree vision of the church interior. Whilst we are talking, he produces one with us in the centre. I don’t know how to show you the 360-degree moving one he sent me.

The arched nave is supported on solid stone piers with a clerestory above. On the southern side are three c.1200 unusual circular clerestory windows,

On either side of the chancel are two small chapels. The northern one, mostly filled with the organ, contains a fascinating marble monument to Sir John Millicent, who died in 1577. In the middle, Sir John and his second wife rest their hands on a skull. Above and below are shallow carvings of their children and of Sir John’s first wife,

Back outside, I find a seat for a spot of lunch. The attractive village appears to be popular with day visitors. A thatched pub along the way has the dog and duck displayed, as is the custom, in straw on the roof ridge.

My guide mentions the Linton Clapper stile. A listed monument and one of only four in the country. I crossed the busy recreational field to where it was supposed to be. No sign of it. I ask a passing local, and he points out I’m standing right next to it, so underwhelming it is. I prevailed upon him to demonstrate it in action. This is a recent reconstruction, so I’m unsure why it is still listed. I leave the park with my tail between my legs.

Suddenly, out of the village, a familiar white track leads up the fields. At the top, a seat offers a place to catch my breath with a view over the Granta valley. Built of sturdy metal by an engineer in 1981, but unfortunately suffering from timber decay.

Onwards, the water tower I saw across the valley this morning comes into sight, and I’m surprised to find some houses up here also. I walk down their gravel access lane.

Escaping a short stretch of road, my path crosses several harvested fields.

Arriving at a Roman Road running from Colchester to Cambridge. The ancient Icknield Way is possibly 3000 years older. I follow the Roman road eastwards for some distance.

A byway heads off towards Balsham.

I’m getting into a slower stride for the last mile. Balsham is one of the highest villages in Cambridgeshire, and once again, there are those extensive views. I enter the village by the Old Butcher’s Shop, with the dog running away with the sausages.

Time to find my inn for the night. Somehow, I have ‘The Bell’ in my head, but upon entering, I’m informed they don’t have rooms. Am I in the right village? Have I cocked up my forward planning? They suggest trying the Black Bull down the road. Checking my booking, that is where I should be. Another tail between my legs moment.

Once at the correct pub, I book in, knowing that they are closing early tonight for their staff party in Cambridge. As arranged, they provide an evening meal to take to my room and a self-service breakfast for the morning. This suits me fine. Second night in a row for a long soak in a spacious bath and an early night with my paracetamol.

*

ICKNIELD WAY. Continuation.

4 Replies

                                                                  Kentford. A L Collins.

I started planning this next section of the Icknield Way Path as soon as I arrived home from finishing the first half to Great Chesterford in Essex. If I complete it, I will link up with the Peddars Way, which I walked with Mel way back in 2003. All part of the Great Chalkway, though I didn’t know it at the time.

My walk from Ivinghoe Beacon through Buckinghamshire, Hertfordshire, Cambridgeshire, and Essex was a success, with well-maintained paths, diverse wildlife, a selection of pubs, and interesting churches and towns. I’m heading into a different scenery, after Kentford, the chalk is overlaid with sand. This is the Breckland – open sandy heath with Scots Pines. 80% of Breckland heathland was lost between 1934 and 1980. Huge areas have been planted with conifer plantations, and many heaths have been ploughed for arable crops.

I won’t be passing any large towns. Sorting out accommodation in the small villages along the way hasn’t been easy. But for a change, I’ve been able to find somewhere each night virtually on the route, so no faffing with bus timetables. Perhaps restocking with food might be difficult. The weather will take care of itself. I have a day’s journey down by train to Cambridge and on to start in Great Chesterford.

If you want to make God laugh, tell him your plans, an old Yiddish saying.

*

Since my last walk, I have sourced a copy of a book, The Icknield Way, written by Edward Thomas in 1913, with illustrations by A L Collins. Thomas had walked the route in 1911. He talks of byways and paths and gives a vivid, if lengthy, description of the chalk highways. I realise, upon reading bits of it, how much has changed over a century. Lanes that he used are now dual carriageways; hence, the current guidebook seeks out the most interesting way as close as possible to the historical road.

Thomas (1878 -1917) gained a second-class degree in History at Oxford. He then decided to pursue a career as a writer, encouraged to publish essays based on the detailed notes he took on his walks. His first book, The Woodland Life, was published in 1897. He endured years of poorly paid writing but became one of the foremost critics of the day. He developed a close friendship with the American poet Robert Frost, and it was he who encouraged Thomas to write poetry. (Frost’s most famous poem, “The Road Not Taken”, was inspired by walks with Thomas and Thomas’s indecisiveness about which route to take.) In the last years of his life, Thomas wrote over 140 poems. He was killed in battle in France in April 1917. The poems that made his name were published after his death.

Cambridge here I come.

*

I leave a dull and rainy NW. The Preston Station waiting room had this message—an apt start to my journey.

I didn’t realise I’ve booked a first-class seat to Birmingham, all for £30.

The ongoing cross-country train wasn’t as comfy. Nuneaton, Leicester, Melton Mowbray, Oakham, Grantham, Stamford, Peterborough, March, Ely, all pass by in a blur.

 

The sun comes out as I reach Peterborough. Cambridge is somewhat chaotic, with no trains going further south. Eventually, I find a bus taking me back to Great Chesterford, where I finished last time. The bus takes forever to negotiate Addenbrooke’s Hospital, what a place.

My hotel is an old English Grade II listed house with lots of character inside; ie somewhat dated and jaded but perfect for my tastes. It dates back to the 18th and 19th centuries and was once a coaching inn on the London to Newmarket road. Somewhere below it are Roman remains.

The name Chesterford is of Roman origin, but little remains as more recent builders plundered the stone over the centuries.

The room upgrade was a bonus: a bath and a four-poster.

I’ve become accustomed to a bit of luxury at the start of my trips.

An early night is called for after a journey of nearly 10 hours.

ICKNIELD WAY 7. Halfway, and home.

8 Replies

Chrishall to Great Chesterford.

My Uber taxi drops me off back in Chrishall. Large fields are crossed before a lane brings me to the next village, Elmdon.

 The house in front of me was previously The Carrier Inn, one of five pubs in the village at one time. Beer was safer than water. These agricultural settlements reached a peak population at the end of the 19th century before mechanisation made much of the labour force redundant and drove people to the towns. And now they are probably inhabited by workers from the city.

The Church of St. Nicholas is prominent above the village. 

The tower is C15th, but the rest of the church was rebuilt in the 19th century. I don’t find much of interest inside except for a C16th marble altar tomb and an embossed coffin lid. 

I stroll around King’s Lane …. some delightful buildings.

Once out of the village, little byways pass through the fields. I seem to be on the local dog walkers’ route. Everyone is happy on this glorious morning.

I wind my way up to the isolated church at Strethall, its tower just visible.

Small compared to others, it is plain inside with a splendid arched chancel. Much is C12th. The stained glass is Victorian, and the east window is so large that the structure of that wall has been compromised. An iron cross bar was inserted, but more recently, oak beams have been installed across the chancel for extra strength. Some of the pews are over 600 years old. I have been meaning to mention the tiles I’ve seen in the churches this week. Many have been encaustic tiles. Encaustic tiles were traditionally created using different colours of ceramic clay, with the pattern inlaid into the body of the tile. The different coloured clays can extend into the base tile by up to 6 millimetres. This means the patterns remain visible even after centuries of wear. I spent time in a tile museum in Ironbridge last year learning about this process. I wonder if these tiles originated in Coalbrookdale, Shropshire?

There is a hall and its farm nearby, and that is Strethall – all is peace and quiet. Even the narrow lanes have no traffic apart from a couple of cyclists out from London for the day.

The following field of beet is massive; my narrow path takes over 10 minutes to traverse, about half a mile. Sign of things to come?

Ahead is an equally massive and newly ploughed field, and I’m dreading crossing it. Thankfully, a narrow hedged strip has been preserved and what a wildlife corridor it proves. Full of birdsong and berries galore, as is the norm this year. Covies of partridges fly out as I progress—Roe deer disappear across the fields. This is what rambling is all about, but then the distant rumbling of the M11 slowly impinges on the senses.

You hear it long before you see it.

They have gone to a lot of expense to bridge over all the lanes and slip roads. A Flag of St. George decorates the railings – I wonder about the motive of placing it there. In the interests of safety for the motorists below, I remove it.

Over the bridge, a lane takes me into Great Chesterford. Sounds as though there is a Roman connection there. I don’t think that when this house was built, they would have expected a motorway to go past their back door.

The train to Cambridge is just down the road. Getting home is more tiring than the few miles I’ve done today.    My kittens are pleased to see me. I’m surprised they recognise me, as my hair is a tangle, having forgotten to take a comb on my travels.

*

*

I think I am about halfway on the Icknield Way Path, Ivinghoe Beacon to Knettishall Heath, 106 miles. Thanks for sticking with me so far. I have probably followed some of the Icknield Way, but lots of it is lost in the mists of time. I certainly felt I was on an ancient way much of the time; there was that mystical atmosphere around. Whatever, it has made for an excellent LDW so far. It’s time to go home for a while, but I hope to be back before the end of September to finish it and join the Peddars Way on Knettishall Heath.