A Croasdale Diversion.

I’ve written before about ‘the path not taken’, from Robert Frost’s poem. Perhaps a biblical quotation would be more apt, ‘Seek, and you shall find’. Well, today we didn’t find. The path I chose to explore up into Croasdale from Slaiburn remained elusive.

The day starts well with a surprise visit to a relatively new curiosity shop in the old school in Slaidburn, where we are parked. Bits of old furniture, paintings and knick-knacks divert us for a while. A coffee grinding machine from the 1920s takes my fancy. Clare is attracted to a globe-like metal sculpture.  “We are going for a walk”, but “What time do you close?” we innocently enquire for our return.  “About three”, is his reply. 

Time to get moving, the morning is drifting on. Late starts are becoming my norm; all will have to change when the clocks go back at the end of the month. From the stunning war memorial…

…we take the lane past Townhead House. Slaidburn village and its surroundings are all part of one estate; perhaps the owner lives up there. Whatever, the village has maintained its ‘olde worlde’ atmosphere with 50 of its buildings listed. I hardly think there is a single new house in or around the area, which is unique these days.  

We hop across a limestone wall and follow what looks like some sort of earthworks up the hillside. Was this a deer park? We are innocents abroad, which becomes more obvious as we progress, or not.  From up here, one can survey the village environs. The murky high pressure weather continues.

No obvious imprints in the grass; does anybody walk these fields?  Constant reference to the OS app on my phone keeps us on track, most of the time. Upon reaching Croasdale House, I take a photo for the first occasion in ages, which shows how focused on not getting lost I have become. 

Now heading into the wilder valley of Croadsale, we cross a convenient footbridge, despite the right-of-way going up the east side of the river. Is this the right decision? There is a waymark, and I presume the path this side is to avoid crossing at a ford further upstream. But where is the path? We are faced with boggy, reedy, trackless ground.

An hour or so later, we are still probing the marshy ground. Tracks come and go, but not what we need. 

Going.

Gone.

Salvation comes in a quadbike track heading straight up the hillside, possibly from the ford we could have taken. Not our line, but we gladly use it to gain height and avoid the morass. Halfway up a nearby wall offers an island of dry stone, which we utilise for a long overdue lunch. One has to admit the surroundings are special.  

All thoughts of getting to the ruins of the House of Croasdale and the higher Croasdale valley evaporate. Let’s get out of here.  We agree and just continue up the tracks to reach the Salter Fell road wherever. That last half mile took us hours. We both have very wet feet by now. 

Soon, we are marching down the Roman road, wondering if some of the exposed bed stones were laid by the Roman Soldiers.

Profuse fungi take our attention. It’s an unbelievable year for them.

Rather than risk some dubious field paths, I stick to the road for some time. We pass the agricultural graveyard, I described it elsewhere as ‘a herd of dinosaurs’. I’m including my poor photos by special request, will try harder next time.

But now on safer ground, we take the lane to Myttons, a lovely cluster of stone properties. The craft centre is no longer operating. We are on firm ground into Slaidburn, finishing alongside Croasdale Brook once more. 

With The Hark to Bouny closed and looking unkempt, the village has lost some of its heart. Let’s hope they find a new tenant. The Youth Hostel has also gone. 

The curiosity shop would be shut by now.

I don’t know why we didn’t find the correct path; it should be there somewhere, despite all the reed-covered ground. I will return at some stage and use the Salter Fell Road, then drop down to The House of Croasdale ruins and see if I’m able to pick up the path in reverse from there.  

The rest of the way was lovely. 

*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A zoom to Brennand Farm in the murk.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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