Tag Archives: Lancashire

A SHORT CITY WALK.

The city is Preston, and whilst visiting the hospital and the Harris, I’m taking the opportunity to ‘Take a City Smell Walk’, one of my 52 Ways to Walk. I’ve found it difficult to squeeze in a walk this last week.

We have an excellent bus service from my home town of Longridge to central Preston. I don’t often visit Preston; it doesn’t have a lot to offer me, except for the newly refurbished Harris Museum and Art Gallery. But I do use this bus regularly on the way to the rail station, unfortunately, on the other side of the city. Preston bus station is widely known as an iconic brutalist building from the 60s. But I’m getting ahead of myself. First, a bus to the hospital for my physio appointment, and then a bus to the centre. A large part of my life at the moment revolves around hospital appointments and bus journeys. The good news is that I can now largely dispose of the sling, but no driving for a few weeks.

I’m making use of my time in the city by revisiting the Harris to catch up on an exhibition I only briefly touched on last time. And while I’m here, do a city smell walk, although a countryside smell walk would be preferable.

Let’s start the ‘smell’ walk at the hospital bus stop. Some beautiful cherry trees are blossoming nearby, and the soft scent hits me as I check the timetable. I walk the few yards to examine the flowers. Preston’s streets are well endowed with cherry trees, and they are a highlight of some districts at this time of year. What a shame they don’t last longer. We all use Cherry Blossom Shoe Polish.

A young girl is waiting at the stop, and I next pick up her perfume, Chanel, Lancome or Giorgio – I wouldn’t know, but a pleasant interlude.

The bus ride has an underlying sweaty smell, or worse, particularly as it fills to standing room only. Sweat from apocrine glands (in the armpits/groin) is odourless, but turns into pungent compounds when broken down by bacteria on your skin. Interestingly, thicker fluid is activated by stress and anxiety, leading to stronger odours. I’m not sure where this post is going. I haven’t started walking yet.

I leave the pervading diesel smell of the busy bus station.

Its surroundings have a distinct sweet odour of cannabis. A lot of people are vaping outside, so perhaps I’m just picking up their herbal flavours. Apparently, it is the various fruit scents that appeal to teenagers; there are bright vape shops on every street.

As I walk into the centre, I find myself actively searching for new smells.

Close to one of the closed, derelict pubs in this part of the city, there is the lingering urine odour typical of a rundown dingy alleyway, best avoided even in daylight.

The leathery aroma as I pass a shoe shop with an outside display, you know the one with all left feet.

That homely smell of freshly baked bread outside a Greggs, do they spray it in the air to attract customers?

The bloody smell of fresh meat from a traditional butcher’s shop in the market. Here, too, are the earthy aromas from the vegetable stall next door. I stop at the cheese shop to choose a well-matured goat’s cheese, sweaty socks come to mind, but it will be delicious later on some sourdough. And of course, the fishmonger’s display reminds one of visits to the seaside.

Leaving the market, I pass one of the street cafes which have become so popular in our towns and cities. The rich, roasted aromas of coffee draw one in; it’s coffee time anyhow.

My short city walk ends in the marketplace, where I head into the Harris. I suppose I cheated somewhat by traversing the market, which I knew would give me rich pickings. But concentrating on olfactory odours has been an interesting exercise, more so than some of the other 52 Ways to Walk.

Photographs are superfluous to an olfactory walk, but here are a few, self-explanatory.

My visit to the Harris was a great success, which I’ll write about later.

DEEPEST FULWOOD – BROTHERS IN ARMS.

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” We’re fools to make war on our brothers in arms”

We find ourselves looking at two soldiers taking aim at each other across a road in a housing estate in deepest Fulwood. I hope we have not walked into some neighbourhood feud.

I had better explain how we come to be here; in fact, we are a little lost in the complexities of the estate’s convoluted roads. I have only just emerged from the hospital, having seen my shoulder surgeon for a follow-up. “It seems OK, I’ll see you again in six weeks” I forget to ask him several queries I have in mind. Outside, the day is sunny and warm, and my chauffeur for the day, M, suggests a walk before we go for lunch. Rather than drive anywhere else, we leave the car where it is parked and set off rather aimlessly.

About three years ago, I had a few exploratory walks in the woodlands in this part of Fulwood. I remember being pleasantly surprised. Housing estates have sprung up on land adjacent to Eastway, but parts of the original woodland have been set aside as green corridors. The numerous streams have, fortunately, formed small steep cloughs unsuitable for housing. The Woodland Trust, a worthwhile charity, has taken over their upkeep, safeguarding their future from any further development.

At the bottom of the hill, on Midgery Lane, we pick up the Guild Wheel, the walking cycle route around Preston, but soon take a path I vaguely remember into Midgery Woods. This goes alongside Savick Brook, which is not at its cleanest here in the semi-urban environment.

Savick Brook.

The young beech trees have those lovely bright green leaves of this time of year, and it’s good to see some quite old trees scattered in the woods.

We rise up towards the motorway, where the noise becomes very obtrusive despite a high fence. We are walking alongside townhouses visible through the trees. I hope they have triple glazing, but that won’t help when sat outside on a summer’s day.

Pleased to get away from the motorway’s edge, we follow an unknown path past a pond into the housing. And that is where we find ourselves in the middle of the gunfight.

Back in 1648, this area was known as Preston Moor, and on Augst 17th it was the site of the start of the Battle of Preston in the Second Civil War. Oliver Cromwell, with his Parliamentary army of Roundheads, had marched in from the east to confront King Charles’ supporters, the Royalist cavaliers under the Duke of Hamilton. The Royalists were pushed back over the Ribble and routed in Walton-le-Dale. The survivors were pursued and finally defeated at the Battle of Winick two days later. A decidedly bloody era. In the aftermath of the war, Charles I was beheaded on 30 January 1649, and an English republic was created on 19 May.

The two soldiers we are looking at are “Brothers In Arms,” a sculpture by sculptor Thompson Dagnall, commissioned in 2005, presumably when the housing was completed. His work is quite distinctive, and many examples of his work can be found across Lancashire. He has crafted from blocks of gritstone two soldiers pointing their guns at each other. One, a Royalist Cavalier and the other a Parliamentarian Roundhead. The only difference is their metal hats. They are each holding a cannon pointing at each other. “The inevitable outcome of their cannons’ aims is a shared fate – the results of political and religious intolerance” We never learn.

The statues are to be found on Ladybank Avenue, at the junction with Williams Lane. Fulwood, PR2 9WB.

We find a path down the delightful Clough Copse, which brings us full circle back to Midgery Lane.

Only a mile or so, but a trip back through history. A piece of Preston’s history that should perhaps be better known.

Of course, I can’t resist the opportunity to play…

OVER THE HILL.

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

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

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

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

Ralffe Radcliffe laid this stone to lye for ever AD 1655

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

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

Spot the Grebe.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

_____

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

AN EASTER DAY.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Green Nook Lane.

The first bridge and galvanised gate.

The dodgy bridge.

The new gate with yellow catch.

Either way, past ponds.

Pinfold Lane.

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

Wooden gate.

Sheep field.

Dodgy stile.

Lower Tan Yard Lane.

Higher Tan Yard Lane.

New gate, yellow latch.

And the next.

Dilworth reservoirs and the Ribble Valley.

Distant Pendle Hill.

Into the caravan site.

Out of the caravan site.

Craig Y Longridge.

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

ON AND ON,,,

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

Three months of my life drifted away.

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

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

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

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

On and on …

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

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

THE HARRIS IN PRESTON. 3. THE ART GALLERIES.

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There is ‘art’ everywhere you look in the newly refurbished Harris, from historical paintings, selected items from their collections and temporary exhibitions. There are over 800 oil paintings and over 6,000 watercolours, drawings and prints at the Harris.

If, on entering the rotunda, you look up, you will see a full-length 20-meter textile sculpture crafted from rayon and paper. Hannah Robson’s ‘Transformation’ sought to explore the industrial history of the local Courtaulds factory through handweaving and rayon.

There are lots of paintings of the good and possibly not-so-good people of Preston. I highlighted benefactor Harris and architect Hibbert in my last post.

A sombre family portrait from the 17th century.

Here are two Lord Mayors from the last century.

Paintings give us a glimpse into the past.

Soon, industry dominated the town—a 20th-century painting by Charles Cundall.

Two portraits are synonymous with the Harris Gallery.

Pauline in the Yellow Dress was painted in 1944 by her husband, H J Gunn.

Dorette was painted in 1933 by G. L. Brockhurst.

Alongside is the bold contemporary A Portrait by Anthony Pilbro from 2000.

In the same space as these portraits is a digital picture frame operated by a camera. You sit in front of it, compose the frame with you in it, choose a background and style, press the button and hey presto – your image is part of the Harris collection. I couldn’t resist a Napoleonic pose.

There are more paintings from the Harris Collection scattered about this floor. I like ‘Untitled and Adam and Eve‘ by Hugh Byars, 1991.

And the 1942 ‘In for Repairs‘, an oil by Laura Knight, while she was an official war artist.

I am always pleased to come across a Stanley Spencer. Wisteria.

A room is given over to –

Mr Williams researches old photographs of Preton and transforms them digitally with colour, producing some beautiful images.

He has also taken the time to create short animated videos from some of the scenes.

All that art, and I have only just reached the top floor with the promise of more.

As I mentioned, the Harris has a huge collection of paintings. Let’s hope the curators are able to rotate them into the galleries. The first room features paintings selected by different communities, including HMP. ‘The peoples choise’.

Blue Flamingo Cafe, a community dementia outreach organisation, chose ‘In the Beys Garden‘ painted by J F Lewis in 1865. He is described as an Orientalist painter but I think this painting has hints of the Pre-Raphaelite movement.

Every gallery in Lancashire should have a Lowry. Appropriately for Preston – ‘Millworkers’.

This ainting looked interesting.

And for a touch of Edwardian prudery.

There have not been many statues on show, but up here, there is a delightful bronze, Pablo Picasso, Aged 7, by Anthony Padgett, who works in the city.

I’m attracted by the sound of birdsong to a separate area where a two-screen video is playing.

This turns out to be a fascinating look at the ecology of the Chipping area and the Bowland Fells.

Unfortunately, a rowdy group of school children arrived as I was preparing to watch and listen. I gave it up as a bad job and will return as soon as possible to absorb the experience and learn more about the Weld family from Leagram Hall, where I often walk.

All that remains is to visit the galleries hosting The Harris Open, an annual event that highlights local artistic talent. Anyone living or studying in Preston is free to enter.

Here is a selection of the entrants.

Probably my favourite –

Out of the 400 entrants, I forgot to look who had won.

Despite the length of this post, I have only sampled from the vast array on display. More visits are necessary.

A WEEK TO REMEMBER.

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

But I had a week to remember.

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

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

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

THE HARRIS IN PRESTON. 2, THE MUSEUM.

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I’m still here, there is so much to see and take in at the recently refurbished Harris Museum, Library and Art Gallery. Time to look at the museum. Well, it is no longer a museum as you would imagine. Throughout the three floors, there are exhibits mostly focused on Preston’s rich history.

But first, there is information on the establishment of the Harris itself, most of which I detailed in my last post. Edmund Robert Harris not only founded the Harris Museum in 1877, but also the Harris Orphanage and the Harris Institute in Preston.

His architect for the museum was James Hibbert. He wanted visitors to be inspired by classical Greek and Roman scenes.

There are paintings by Edwin Beattie of the marketplace from that time.

But let’s go back further in time to the end of the last ice age. In July 1970, the almost-complete skeleton of an elk was found during building work on a bungalow in the Fylde. The skeleton is around 13,500 years old and is particularly important, as barbs were found embedded in its bones – the earliest evidence of hunters this far north. It’s on display here.

Moving forward to the Bronze Age. I often walk around the Bleasdale Hills north of Preston. I was there this week. In the fields below the fells is the Bleasdale Circle, dated to 1700BC. It consisted of an outer circle and an inner circle within a ditch lined with birch poles. The circles were marked by wooden stakes, the inner ones now replaced with concrete posts. The Harris tells the story of the circles, their discovery in 1899 and excavation, and the burial urns found within them. It is good to see the urns on display once more, along with some of the preserved birch poles from the ditch.

Somewhat later in history. 15 May 1840, workmen repairing the southern embankment of the River Ribble, near Cuerdale Hall, were surprised by the discovery of hidden treasure: a total of 1,000 oz (31 kg) of silver ingots and 7,000 Anglo-Saxon coins in a wooden and lead box. Thought to have been deposited 903–905 AD. At today’s value, £2.600.000. Why they were buried there is a mystery; read Joseph Kenyon’s account here. Most of this hoard, the largest ever Viking discovery, is in the British Museum, but the Harris has a small display of coins, some of the ingots haven’t been returned yet. Not to be missed.

There is mention of the decisive 1648 Battle of Preston during the Second Civil War when Cromwell’s Parliamentarians defeated the Royalists.

Other exhibits, scattered across the floors, focus on Preston’s social and industrial history.

The historical importance of Preston’s trades has been celebrated every 20 years since 1542, with The Preston Guild. King Henry II awarded Preston its first royal charter in 1179, along with the right to have a Guild Merchant. The Guild was an organisation of traders, craftsmen and merchants entitled to trade in the town. Nowadays, schools, businesses, theatres, churches, community groups and more are incorporated into the celebrations. The next Guild is 2032; we have a phrase for rare events: “once in a Preston Guild”.

The cotton industry was a driving force behind Preston’s growth. Originally a small market town, textiles were produced from the 13th century onward. It was in Preston that Richard Arkwright and John Kay developed their highly important spinning frame.

The progress of cotton spinning and weaving looms from a cottage industry to the large mills drove the population into the cities. There were many mills in the town. By 1850, there were 64 mills in town. Horrocks operated 10 mills by 1865, and many of the displays focus on their production.

A dark episode of Preton’s history involving the Horrox family is the Lune Street massacre of 1842.

In the foyer and stairwells, a video, a freeze, and a carpet installation by Khaled Hafez highlight Preston’s connection to the Egyptian cotton trade and uncover some of the darker sides of our colonial occupation in the early C20th. Art and history brought together.

The YouTube video is worth watching for background information.

And then in 1939, along came Courtaulds, spinning Rayon fibre, mainly used in the tyre industry, but also viscose silk for textiles. As the cotton mills started to close, Courtaulds employed 2000 workers until 1980, when it closed.

I never knew Preston was famous for wired and gold threads or was at the forefront of teatotalism.

Preston Docks grew along with the town, opening in 1892 and providing deep anchorage for large vessels from the Ribble. It is now a marina.

The “P.P.” on the city’s coat of arms officially stands for Princeps Pacis (Latin for “Prince of Peace”), referring to Christ, but is commonly interpreted locally as “Proud Preston”. The emblem features the lamb of St. Wilfrid, the city’s patron saint. The coat of arms is proudly worn on Preston North End football shirts. The team was a founding member of the football league in 1888.

Tom Finney, one of PNE’s famous footballers, is one of the photos featuring well-known personalities. Do you recognise the others?

One is the early feminist and suffragette, Edith Rigby.

There is so much more to explore, but it’s time for another visit to the cafe before exploring the art galleries.

THE HARRIS IN PRESTON. 1. THE LIBRARY.

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‘The mental riches you may here acquire abide with you always’

A suitable Victorian inscription from the building.

In 1877, wealthy local lawyer Edmund Robert Harris left £300,000 to Preston Corporation to fund a library, museum, and art gallery. To start with, the library and collections of the Literary and Philosophical Institution (established in 1810 in the town) were purchased and displayed in the basement of the town hall. Land was obtained on the Market Square, and local architect James Hibbert was contracted to carry out the work; the building opened in 1893.

Hibbert chose a neoclassical design. The Victorians believed that classical art and architecture had an uplifting effect on the public. This resulted in the imposing building we see today with its stately columns and classical sculptured pediment depicting famous Greek figures.

The Harris has been closed since 2021 for a major £19 million restoration project known as “Harris – Your Place“. The Grade I-listed building has had repairs, including asbestos removal, structural improvements, and upgrades to heating and accessibility, reopening in September last year. The reopening was fanfared with the Wallace and Gromit exhibition, which I visited after Christmas, vowing to return to see where all those millions have been spent.

I’m back today. The bus from Longridge lands me at the brutalistic bus station, from where a short walk takes me to the Harris. I hope I can manage my phone camera with my one good hand. After passing through the dated shopping arcade, I can walk past the new cinema complex next to the underused open market; somewhere around here is the much-photographed Wallace and Gromit seat.

Narrow alleyways once surrounded the market square, but over the years, development has cleared them away, including Sir Gilbert Scott’s 1867 ‘gothic’ town hall, built from Longridge stone. It burnt down in 1947 and was demolished in the 60s to make way for modern developments that now look rather shabby. A small 16th-century shop is the only remnant of those early days.

I’ve mentioned the site of the old bull ring before, found in a corner of the flag market.

The Harris dominates the east side of the square.

Despite that formidable collonaded facade, the entrance is achieved up some hidden side steps. The front elevated steps are reserved for more formal gatherings.

There are automated doors into the foyer, with its stairs on either side, leading to the roll of honour of Prestonians killed in the First World War.

The central circular atrium is the hub of the building, with three stories leading to side galleries and an upper Egyptian gallery (only open to guided tours), all lit by the tower and the glass dome 120 feet above. The neo-classical theme continues throughout the interior. The centrepiece here is the famous Foucault pendulum, the longest in the UK, hanging the full height of the atrium. As the pendulum swings in a fixed plane, the Earth rotates beneath it, causing the pendulum’s path to appear to rotate over time. The earth moves for me.

Previously known as the Museum, Library and Art Gallery, the refurbished Harris aims to act as a Community, Cultural and Learning hub for the city and its surroundings. It succeeds on all three levels, so much so that in this post today, I am basically concentrating on the library side of things. There is so much to see, one visit is not enough.

Forget about the hushed, somewhat dingy library I used regularly when I first moved to Preston in the 70s; all is now open, bright, and friendly. The lending library is still operational on the ground floor, although I imagine it is far less used than it was of old. I’m heartened that people want to read a physical book, of course, all for free. Do you still get fined for overdue books?

It’s good to see young children being encouraged to start exploring books.

Right next to the lending library, through the small shop, is the cafe, a busy spot with good coffee and cakes, which I can vouch for. Even here, there are several informal displays of the museum’s collections, mainly ceramics. I am heartened to see a bookcase full of the entire OS 1:50,000 map series, plus many of the recreational 1:25,000 sheets—what more does one need – coffee and maps.

Coffee break over, I explore the library further on the first floor and find a room set aside with computers that is very busy, all surrounded by soothing artworks.

The reference part of the library is full of books and magazines just waiting to be browsed. There is an extensive selection of local interest editions. One could spend a happy day here.

Another space has rarer books in locked cabinets – for serious research. Other rooms are for quiet study.

That’s all for the library, but as you have noticed throughout, other exhibits are intermingled. I will post further on the Museum and the Art Gallery exhibits.

TAKE A WINDY WALK.

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

So much for taking a windy walk.

ANOTHER WEEK DAWNS.

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

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

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

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

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

WALKING WITH PURPOSE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

RECOVERING.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

SCRAPING THE BARREL.

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

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

Yes, a quick walk does get the blood flowing.

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

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

RAIN … careful what you ask for.

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My rain dance backfired. The temperature has plummeted, and we wake up to snow this morning. That is not one of my 52 Walks.

My son and partner are coming up to see me and taking me out for lunch. The two dogs enjoy the journey and know my house well. They are more excited about seeing my kittens again than about the treats I offer. The kittens take it in their stride.

Our usual walk with the dogs is in the plantation on the fell. On the way up, as the snow thickens, I begin to have doubts about the wisdom of driving high, but there is no ice on that nasty corner, and we park safely without incident.

What a difference a dusting of snow makes to the landscape. Everything is brought into focus, distances seem to spread, and the surrounding hills look twice their height. We are the only ones out, so we have the privilege of being the first to leave footprints. Well, not exactly, the dogs rush ahead, so we are left following pawprints as we weave through the trees. The air is bitter, but the tree cover eliminates any windchill.

A good time is had by all, and we retreat to the cosy bar of a local inn. The dogs sprawl out in front of the woodburner, enjoying their doggy sausages.

What a great way to spend a few hours in good company and a brief winter wonderland.

LET IT RAIN.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maybe tomorrow?

This came up a few weeks later. https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/videos/c78rk48lnxro

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

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

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

Slowly Sinking, Miami. Isaac Cordal.

MUD, GLORIOUS MUD.

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My 52 Ways to Walk book, Annabel Streets, has muddy walking as its topic this week. There is no shortage of mud in the fields and paths at the moment. It’s been the wettest January in years.

I can’t quite get my head around some of the science offered for the benefits of walking in mud. There is talk of Geosmin being released by bacterial activity in wet soil. Apparently, we can detect its earthy odour in minute amounts. It is supposed to improve our mood. Certainly, the smell of rain on dry ground, Petrichor, is pleasant and is partially due to Geosmin.

I don’t think mud does anything for me. But out of curiosity, I have to don my boots, Wellingtons would have been better, and walk through it, where normally I would try to avoid it. There is a corner of the fell where mud is ever present. I tramp around in it, gradually getting wetter and wetter. Yes, there is Geosmin or something in the air, but it doesn’t improve my mood. Not a very scientific experiment, I admit. My mood generally improves when I am outdoors: walking, climbing, gardening, birdwatching, or whatever. There must be multiple factors at play – I’m just not sure mud is one of them. The only benefit is for my balance as I try not to nose-dive into all that mud.

As an aside, I find a large carrier bag hidden behind a wall on the fell. It contains half a dozen large canisters of nitrous oxide, so called laughing gas. They seem heavy, but I’m not sure whether used or full. Have they been dumped after a ‘session’, or are they hidden for pick up later? At the end of my muddy walk, I collect the carried bag and its contents and take them to our local waste disposal site. The men there are used to this – “we get loads”. They have a special locked enclosure for them. I do worry about the health of our children in these modern times and the availability of this dangerous substance, along with all the others. What a simpler childhood I enjoyed all those years ago.

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.

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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.