Tag Archives: Lancashire

TO CATCH A MOTH.

When I mentioned to my son I was setting up a moth trap, he thought I meant in my clothes wardrobe upstairs. I did once have my best suit nibbled into holes by moth larvae. No, I’ve borrowed a light trap to use in the garden for a few days. I remember back in lockdown trying to attract moths onto a syrup trap on a tree in the garden – it was a complete failure. Let’s hope for better success this time.

I’m a complete amateur when it comes to Lepidoptera – butterflies and moths. We are used to seeing butterflies in the daytime, and even I am able to identify numerous common species. But moths are more mysterious, being mainly nocturnal and thus going unnoticed by most of us.

The trap is a basic box with two perspex sheets forming a V with a slot at the bottom for the moths to fall through. At the top is a powerful fluorescent tube to attract the moths in the first place. The egg boxes give the moths nooks and crannies to hide in.

The first night, I place the box in my garden at the edge of my uncut lawn.

The big switch on.

Quite a few moths escape when I open the box at 5 am (I’m a poor sleeper) to release the bat that got in there. The bat is not identified. Somewhat later, after coffee, I come out to examine the night’s trappings. The majority of the twenty or so moths hiding in there are Underwings, drab-looking specimens. The flash of the underwing is only visible as they fly off.

I think this is a Large Yellow Underwing.

I may identify another five species, but I realise how difficult it is going to be. Here is a Garden Carpet.

And I think this is a Dusky Thorn.

The identification book I’m using is the Bloomsbury Wildlife – Concise Guide to Moths of Great Britain and Ireland. Very clear pictures, but so many to trawl through when one is not used to the subdivisions.

It is unwise to use the trap on consecutive nights in small gardens as it could interfere with the moths’ feeding habits. They are not getting much nectar or sap at the bottom of one of these traps. A couple of nights later, I reset the trap in a different part of the garden, away from the house, hopefully to avoid catching a bat, which encircle at dusk. The next morning I have a bumper batch of moths, about thirty. I can’t stop some of the larger and possibly more interesting ones from flying off. Again, there are dozens of Underwings.

A Copper Underwing.

I definitely identify a few other species this time. My phone photographs are mostly too blurry as I struggle one-handed, whilst the other hand upturns and inspects the egg boxes.

Canary Shouldered Thorn.

Puss Moth.

This is a steep learning curve. There are over 1600 British micro-moth species, compared to around 800 species of macro-moth and 60 species of butterfly, so species identification is particularly challenging.

I try one more night, again in a different area. The last two nights were warm and calm, whilst this night is cooler with a breeze. I wonder if that will deter the moths. No, this morning, when I examine the trap, there are forty-plus moths inside.

The ubiquitous Underwings and lots of smaller moths, which I try my best to identify. There is a tatty-looking Poplar Hawk Moth, which I hope hasn’t come to grief in the trap.

Hebrew Character.

Flame Shoulder.

Gold Spot.

Rosy Rustic.

So I have probably only identified less than half of the moths that have been attracted into the trap, but it has been great fun. I need to hand it back before I become addicted.

THE WEATHER FOR HEATHER.

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It’s August and the heather is in full bloom. I’m not tramping across some remote Bowland Fell as I’ve been relatively indolent in the high temperatures we have been experiencing. I don’t seem to cope with the heat as I used to. Often, just for a little exercise, I have been coming up to Cowley Brook Plantation to enjoy the shade and any breeze.

And that is where I am today, and the heather is suddenly magnificent. It hits me in the eye as I set off on one of my little paths.

As I brush through it, the aroma is earthy and yet sweetly floral. It is not at the stage when the heather releases clouds of pollen. Bees and butterflies are skimming around. I suddenly feel released into another world. All of this 200 metres from the road.

A family are picnicking with their baby and toddler. The youngster has discovered the joys of blackberry picking and is running around excitedly. That’s how to bring up your children. I steal a few juicy ones.

In the news today were warnings that hedgerow fruit this year was ripening too soon, and there may be a shortage in Autumn when the birds need it. The Rowan trees up here were certainly full of fruit; let’s hope the birds know how to ration it.

Catch it while you can.

FRUSTRATIONS.

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Another walk that didn’t go to plan.

It’s my fault for not reading the map correctly. We are up against barbed wire, no sign of a stile, and unable to progress. What’s worse is that we have a herd of cows pressing their noses at close quarters. Fortunately, they are not as skittish as some. It takes me some time to untwine the fastening of our escape gate back onto the public right-of-way path on the other side, where we should have been in the first place. By then, another herd of inquisitive cows had gathered to welcome us into their field—betwixt and between.

It all started with a phone call from Mike wanting to do a walk. He belongs to an elderly walking group and soon it will be his turn to lead the monthly walk, the parameters of which are becoming even tighter regarding distance, pub, terrain, stiles and mud. My walks don’t often fit their category, but I come up with a few suggestions. We plump for a Grimsargh itinerary, at least it starts and hopefully finishes at a pub, The Plough.

Straight out of the pub car park, we take a ginnel which is on the line of the Longridge to Preston Railway, until it closed in 1967. Within 50yards we are striding out into the countryside.

The embankment stretches ahead, but we take a footpath to skirt around Grimsargh Reservoirs.

The first of several expensive properties we passed today.

These three redundant reservoirs have found new life as a wetland nature reserve maintained by volunteers. One is a reed bed, the next one is low-lying land and water, and the third is deep water—three habitats in one.

We cross the causeway between the first two, stopping at a hide to peer at the shallow lake. Geese, ducks, and a few waders are all we can make out. We see nothing in the reed beds.

We come out onto the main road….

…and straight across into a new housing estate on land adjacent to what was once the Hermitage Restaurant, now a private house hiding in the woods.

The line of the previous footpath is easy to follow, and we are soon out the other side, where a footpath track bypasses Woodfold Farm and heads towards the church. Another good track has us onto Alston Lane. Everything is going well, all perfect for Mike’s group.

But once we hit the fields, my concentration goes, and we end up in the wrong place. The map with its red dot may explain it.

By the time we extricate ourselves out of the fields and away from the cows, some dodgy stiles weaken our resolve, and we walk into Grimsargh on Elston Lane, with tails, well and truly, between our legs.

There are more new developments to view. My final highlight, showing Mike the deep lake of Grimsargh Wetlands with not a bird in sight, probably came too late.

A suggestion that we could tweak the route a little for his group didn’t go down well.

A BOWLAND STROLL.

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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’.

SHOWERS WITH SUNNY SPELLS.

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A favourite phrase for the TV weather forecaster.

At the tail end of Storm Floris, I didn’t know what to expect for Tuesday’s weather.

It was raining first thing, but it brightened sufficiently for me to venture out locally, hoping the strong wind would blow the showers away. I needed some exercise after a few days of lethargy and inactivity, and I wanted to check on how the building work was progressing at a local country inn. A few miles were soon planned to include the latter.

Walking out of the village past the cricket ground, the skies darkened, and the mist came down on the hills. There was still rain about. I stayed on the country lanes until I could cut back on the track leading to the hotel. The hills stayed hidden, the wind blew, and it continued to rain, though only lightly. A typical day in the north west, though more like April than August.

Hidden Bowland fells.

Hidden Longridge Fell.

As I approached the hotel, it still looked like a building site. Ferrari’s, as it was known, has been bought by a Manchester events group who are hoping to upgrade the place for upmarket weddings and functions. The ‘functions’ area of the hotel looks good, and I believe they have already hosted pre-booked weddings. The guests would have had to look away from the mess in the car park.

The building was originally built as a hunting lodge for Lord Derby on his Black Moss estate. The Ferrari family had been running it as a hotel for thirty years. A name change was needed, and as the nearby pub, marked on the map, is called The Derby Arms, the name Derby couldn’t have been used. What about reverting to the original Black Moss House? But no, they have chosen the rather boring and inaccurate Longridge House. This is Thornley, not Longridge. These things matter; it’s a shame they didn’t consult locals about the name change.

At the road entrance, they were erecting new signage.

Meanwhile, down the road, the Derby Arms continues as a fine country inn. My sunny spell briefly occurred with views to Longridge Fell from the cricket pitch on the way back.

And then it rained, I was like the proverbial drowned rat by the time I reached home. Not all walks are honey and roses. Compare with the last time I walked this way in May.

NATURE IN MY LOUNGE.

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This morning, as I was preparing to write a short post on our peaceful walk with the dogs yesterday, a loud bang was followed by the sound of breaking glass.

Coming downstairs, I found a Collared Dove panicking in a window of my lounge. I managed to hold and then release him or her out the front door. Looking around, I saw a hole smashed through a window at the back and a Sparrow Hawk perched on a ledge outside. There had obviously been a chase which ended up through my window. I hate to think what would have happened if the hawk had followed into the room. Suffice to say, there are no photographs of the birds, only of the hole in the window.

Fortunately, neither bird seemed any the worse for the encounter. I’m still picking up pieces of glass. I feel that my house and I are jinxed this year.

To go back to yesterday, my son and youngest grandson took a short, enjoyable walk from Brock Bottoms car park with the two dogs. We walked as far as the old mill, which is slowly being overtaken by vegetation. While we pottered around the mill ruins, the dogs enjoyed the river.

I treat them to a meal at the nearby Cross Keys, my grandson was somewhat outphased by the size of his pork ribs…

… but he is a growing lad. The dogs had sausages.

Meanwhile, back at home, my two little kittens were unconcerned about the dogs, and thankfully, the dogs were unconcerned about them. They are slowly taking over my home, as cats do.

Each to their own.

Oscar on plastic bags in the kitchen.

Dusty taking a lounge cushion.

Let us out of here.

Life is never dull.

CONRAD COUNTRY.

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Limestone wanderings.

This is Conrad Country. That sounds like the title of a cowboy film. Do they still make them? I have the temerity to suggest taking Conrad, alias Sir Hugh, on a walk in his own backyard. I do have the backup of Walk 7 from Cicerone’s Short Walks in Arnside and Silverdale in my pocket. I never know whether we are in Lancashire or Cumbria.

We both have busy schedules, mostly consisting of hospital appointments and garage visits, but today we are able to meet up and enjoy the good weather. I give him the option of a short or a longer walk, and unsurprisingly, he opts for the latter, provided I am happy with his slow pace on any hill. I’m more than happy, the slower the better.

Walk 7. Leighton Moss and Cringlebarrow Wood is the title, but that only scratches the surface – we experience much more.

From the outset, at a lay-by in Yealand Storrs, as we enter the woods of Yealand Hall Allotment…… a couple walking a dog, the first of several encounters along the way. When they overtake us, the dog is nowhere to be seen; it is, in fact, taking a lift. I often come across people carrying little dogs or pushing them in a pram. In the high Pyrenees, we were overtaken by a couple of female fellrunners, each with a pooch in a pouch.

We stroll through the woodland, whose floor is a limestone pavement. Rocks are everywhere around here. There are distant views down to Hawes Water, which we bypass by going down Moss Lane to the road at Red Bridge.

We enter Trowbarrow Quarry by a track I have never used before.

This limestone quarry operated for a hundred years, closing in 1959. In addition to lime for building and agriculture, James Ward developed new techniques for producing Tarmacadam, which combines crushed limestone with bitumen. It is now a nature reserve and climbing arena. We observe both today. Look here for an excellent overview of the reserve.

I had forgotten how extensive the quarry is; coming here for climbing, one tends to focus only on the highest walls. On the quarry floor today, a group of naturalists from Liverpool is combing the area with insect nets. The chap we talk to is enthused about a male horse fly, Sir Hugh tries to look interested.

A brief visit to the fierce Red Wall.

But more interesting are two climbers just starting up Assagai Wall, we find some boulders to sit on and follow their progress while eating our lunch.

Finishing Assagai on those magnificent flutings.

We wander into a ‘walled-off area’ with signs asking you to watch your step – the Bee Orchid grows here, but I think we are a little early for it. Above rises the slab of Coral Sea, and that’s exactly how it originated before being tilted at right angles by the Earth’s movements.

Nobody is climbing on the cracked main wall, so I try to find the coal seam that crosses the limestone floor, to no avail. The time I was here with the Rockman, we had no success either. Meanwhile, the insect nets are sweeping all around us. One enthusiast even has a ‘vaccum cleaner’ to suck them up! We, both au fait with the quarry, can not find our way out as described in the guide. Eventually, we discover the ‘carabiner gate’ and the ongoing mini gorge.

The gate is dedicated to John Mabson, of whom I can find nothing. Except for copies of the poem, an Irish funeral song.

May the roads rise up to meet you,

May the wind be always at your back,

May the sun shine warm upon your face,

May the rains fall soft upon fields

And until we meet again

May God hold you in the palm of his hand.

Very appropriate for a mountaineer.

The track has had trees cut down to encourage a more diverse flora.

Crossing the road, we enter RSPB Leighton Moss Nature Reserve and come across another type of nature enthusiast – the ‘twitcher’. Recognised by their camouflage and their loooong lenses. There is a hushed silence in the hide. Again, we feel inadequate, not able to tell a comorant from a crow.

Now for the steep bit, in the grounds of Leighton Hall, Sir Hugh cruises it.

Our next objective is Cringlebarrow Wood. The public footpath passes through it, but ‘Private’ notices abound. There are tracks everywhere, legal or otherwise.

If you look closely at the map, you will see Deepdale Pond clearly marked. It’s in a ‘doline’ (a natural amphitheatre created by the collapse of a cave) and is yet another truly extraordinary place. It’s more of a swamp than a pond now. We follow animal tracks to find it. So far, I’ve been unable to convey this through a photograph and doubt I ever will. A deer makes a rapid getaway.

More woodland tracks bring us back to the car.

A lovely wander through this limestone wonderland. ‘Conrad’s country’ has a wealth of things to explore. I’ll be back.

***

A TRIP TO CHORLEY.

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The Yarrow Valley.

Whilst the Speaker of the House is trying to control today’s PM question time, I pay a visit to his home town of Chorley. Sir Linsay Hoyle has been its popular no-nonsense MP since 1997. He has been the Speaker since 2019 and has not been without controversy during that time. He comes across as passionately proud of his Lancastrian heritage and promotes Chorley and its vicinity at every opportunity. Time to have a look around.

First, an outpatient appointment at Chorley Hospital. I have received excellent health care here over the past few years. Today is no exception. The appointment is handled promptly and professionally. I find myself back at the car before lunch. The day is perfect for a walk, and I weigh up my options. I should have done some advance planning. First that comes to mind is a revisit to Rivington and an ascent through the gardens, but continuing to Rivington Pike, which I’ve not climbed for years. No, I will leave that until I have a meet-up with the Bolton Rockman.

Astley Hall is just around the corner, but I’m not in the mood for indoor galleries today. I need a walk. I have heard about Yarrow Valley but never visited it, so this could be the ideal opportunity to explore.

I drive across town and soon find the car park for the country park.

“Yarrow Valley Country Park covers over 300 hectares and is located between Chorley and Coppull. Created on land previously used for bleaching, dyeing, calico printing and mining, Yarrow Valley Country Park is of local historical importance.
With restored mill lodges and water courses, footpaths, picnic areas and a purpose-built visitor centre, the park provides an ideal setting for a host of recreational activities.”

For a detailed history of the industries previously occupying the valley, look no further than the excellent blog of https://lancashirepast.com/2020/10/17/birkacre-mill-yarrow-valley-country-park-near-coppull-and-chorley/

Of course, I know nothing of this when I arrive today. I don’t really have a plan except to walk as much of the attractive areas of the valley as feasible. Guides are available online for several walks, but being unprepared, I follow my nose most of the time. My phone map will have to do.

I start by climbing up to one of the settlement lodges, and immediately, I’m in a different world of water and ducks. The walk alongside the Big Lodge brings more of the same.

The swan’s cygnets are having a treat.

Then I’m on paths through the woods adjacent to the River Yarrow. The mill race is a popular photographic spot, but from then on, I hardly meet a soul.

The path is quite uneven and awkward in parts. I notice the remnants of a mine shaft, a reminder of the industrial past.

Drybones is a strange name hereabouts; the track bypasses an unseen house of the same name. I’m keeping to the right bank of the Yarrow, but at a bridge, take the right bank of the wrong stream and walk on for perhaps a half mile before realising my mistake, it is easy to rectify. All is green and verdant.

Back at the bridge, I take the more obvious track up the true valley.

Open fields lead me to the next footbridge over the Yarrow, and this is where I hope to follow the water upstream on its right side, even though no path is marked on the map.

A ‘twitcher’ says I can get through, but it is muddy and awkward in places. It turns out to be a delight in the woods with dappled shade alongside the lively stream. There is bird song everywhere.

The footbridge not taken.

I’m aware I’m walking further and further away from my starting point, and I’m pleased to see the footbridge taking me to the other bank for my return journey. This path is much wider and well trodden through the stately beech trees.

There are regular seats overlooking the water, ideal spots to stop and enjoy a snack and a drink – except I didn’t bring any.

Rather than just retrace my steps further alongside the river, I take to the open fields and climb away from the river, only to find myself in a new housing estate and even more ongoing development. I suspect there would have been many objections, patently ignored, to building in this beautiful environment. More fields are earmarked for the bulldozer.

I escape down a little track and then through fields displaying Early Purple Orchids.

I am soon back at the hustle and bustle of the Big Lodge. Baby ducklings were everywhere.

In the car, my bottle of water is too hot to drink, and my chocolate has melted, so I go across to the Treeface cafe for sustenance.

A perfect little walk around this beautiful area. I’m not sure why I’ve never visited before, but I will certainly return. Oh, but there’s also Astley Hall and its gardens, and I notice a round Chorley walk sign…

***

WAYSIDE FLOWERS.

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

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

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

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

Must make some cordial.

I have probably missed many more.

I pass the golf club…

wind up and down the lane…

to enter the plantation through the rapidly growing bracken…

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

the old trees are rather gloomy…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A NEW ERA.

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I’ve been for a cycle ride today.

I’ve owned several cycles over the years, ever since I was a child. I learnt to ride a sit-up and beg bike in a farmer’s field when I was about six. A series of second-hand bone-shaking bikes were used for getting to school. A new Triumph cycle with Sturmey-Archer hub gears was a present for passing the ‘eleven plus’. I started going further out into the countryside of Durham and Yorkshire. Youth hostelling with mates from school became a regular holiday activity.

The early Triumph bike.

When I was about 15, I became obsessed with a racing cycle in the local bike shop window. It was something special – a hand-built Baines ‘Flying Gate’. It certainly stood out from the crowd with unusual geometry, beautiful paint work, and chrome-plated forks and stays. If I remember correctly, the cost was £20, a princely sum for a schoolboy. The shop owner agreed to keep it for 4 months for me until I had saved enough money. Somehow, I must have scrimped, saved and maybe borrowed, as eventually I walked out of the shop with that bike. I don’t have a photo of that bike, but it looked like this…

It was initially in fixed-wheel mode, and I used it for 10 and 25-mile time trials on the flat roads south of Darlington. Eventually, I upgraded to Campagnola gears, two front chain wheels and five rear sprockets. As well as my daily bike, I toured the country on it in my teens – incredible freedom in those days.

I’m with the Baines, my old mate Mel alongside.

London became home for 6 years whilst I was studying. At the end of my first year, I bought an old bike from a departing student. Heavy duty with the obligatory front basket – it served me well for all those years. I was sad to pass it on to another student when I left. I wouldn’t dare to cycle in London these days.

Professional and family life took over for a few years, but it wasn’t long before I fetched the Baines from my parents’ home and started riding the Lancashire lanes. The years passed, and eventually the bike needed a respray and general upgrade. The firm warned me that there was some corrosion in the tubing, which had me worried with thoughts of a snapped fork whilst going at speed. I used it less and less, preferring a Raleigh road bike my son made up for me, more reliable and with better gearing suited to the local hills. Notice this has my original Brooks saddle and Caradice bag.

About that time, mid to late 80s, I bought a new ‘mountain bike’, a Dawes Wild Cat. It has been a superb workhorse and has travelled the trails of Britain and Europe. You may have seen its bright yellow frame in photographs on my cycling posts of the last few years. It is still going strong.

In a bout of house/garage decluttering and clearance at the beginning of the 2000s, I stripped the Baines Flying Gate down to its frame and forks and offered it for sale on eBay. There was considerable interest in what was a prewar classic. The highest bid went to a gentleman from Bradford (where the original Baines factory was), a collector of Baines cycles. It was going to a good home, and I wish I had kept his details, as it would be interesting to see his collection. My youngest son, a cycle fanatic, has never forgiven me for selling it. An inferior example of a ‘Flying Gate’ can be seen in the Bradford Industrial Museum.

I continued cycling off and on over the years, using the Raleigh for road trips; I managed it through the Trough a couple of times, not so long ago.

https://bowlandclimber.com/2014/07/29/cycling-through-the-trough/ https://bowlandclimber.com/2014/08/07/breaking-the-50-mile-barrier/

On my regular trips to the Lot Valley, I used a variety of rickety bikes to explore the French countryside, often with wine tasting thrown in. A leisurely pace was called for.

Most cycling recently has been on off-road cycle trails using the Dawes. Morecambe Bay and The Fylde are my favourites, though I have often been around the Preston Guild Wheel. I find the local roads scary with boy racers and speeding agricultural juggernauts.

In the past, I have been somewhat dismissive of electric bikes, heavy and cumbersome and not necessary for my mainly flat rides. I vowed not to invest in one until I was well on in years. But at the end of last year, I saw Ribble Cycles, a long-established and respected Lancashire firm, was having a sale. Why wait for those years to creep up on me if there is a bargain to be had?

Their hybrid e-bike was on sale, with a £500 saving on the internet. Not certain of my sizing, etc, I wanted to see the bike first before ordering. Luckily, they have a saleroom in Clitheroe. So I booked an appointment and went across to see what was on offer. The shop is an Aladdin’s cave for cycle enthusiasts with some beautiful bikes on display. The electric Ribble Hybrid ALe was perfect, well featured and not much heavier than my mountain bike. So I arranged to purchase one, which would take about a month to deliver. The good news was that the in-shop price had been reduced by £900. I took delivery before Christmas, just as my cataract operations were scheduled. Bad weather and then my own frailties have meant that it has hardly been touched. Today, I gave it a spin to get used to its handling and motor assistance. Only a short ride to visit a friend in the hills. I have downloaded the app onto my phone, which links to the bike as a form of computer. It didn’t work for me, but I’ll worry about that later. The bike itself was comfortable to ride, well geared, and the electric motor, when needed, was a help on those hills. I will be venturing further in the coming weeks.

SIMPLE PLEASURES.

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I have taken people’s advice and I’m slowly recovering. Muscles ache in the most unusual places. Taking advantage of the remarkable spell of weather, most days I go for a short wander up on the fell or call in at Craigy for a chat with the climbers there. My garden is getting a good weeding, in short bursts.

This is a good opportunity to highlight the trees in the garden, as most mornings, they greet me when I draw the curtains. It’s not quite dawn, but this is an attempt to capture the bird song in the trees. Using ‘Merlin’, I counted 15 species in 10 minutes. I do have fields behind the garden. I only wish I could see most of them! Turn the volume up.

House Sparrow, Robin, Wood Pigeon, Wren, Song Thrush, Mallard, Blue Tit, Blackbird, Greenfinch, Jay, Goldfinch, Dunnock, Pheasant, Jackdaw, Great Tit.

Whilst out and about, I am pleased to see the return of the Great Crested Grebes, a little late this year. They have built a floating nest, and every time I pass by, the male is out fishing or collecting more nest material whilst she sits tight. One day, I had a glimpse of the empty nest, and there was certainly one egg there, perhaps two; time will tell.

Catching a picture of my two lively kittens is becoming much harder.

Simple pleasures.

ON MY DOORSTEP.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A GENTLE RETURN.

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Out with, but not gone to, the dogs.

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

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

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

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

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

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

A sociable lunch and the family head home.

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

GARDENING LEAVE.

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After last week’s drama, my family have put me on ‘gardening leave’, with strict instructions not to go wandering in the hills or climbing at Craig Y. I’m happy to go along with that as I’m still tired, very bruised and stiff following my chair encounter and subsequent hospital stay. I couldn’t shoulder a rucksack at present. And so much is happening in the garden at this time of year.

I’ll try not to step on a rake, put a fork through my foot or chop off any fingers.

Trust me to be laid up when the weather is set fair; ah, well, there will be more days like this, I hope, in summer.

And as a bonus, I have more time to watch the antics of Dusty and Oscar.

THE GARLIC SOUP THAT NEARLY KILLED ME. Part two.

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The outcome.

The fire brigade have done their bit, demolishing my back door to gain entry. (Might have been easier to force the Yale lock on the front door) They cut me out of the chair which had held me tight for eight or nine hours. The ambulance crew assess me, slightly hypothermic with a rapid pulse rate, bruising and swelling to my knees, hands and back. But I can stand gingerly, and I don’t think any bones are broken. A hot cup of tea is heaven.

You may remember I have recently adopted two new kittens. They are just getting used to my house and are loose in the kitchen when I fall. There is no sign of them when the ambulance crew rescue me, perhaps they ran upstairs with all the banging. I ask the firemen to pop them into the cage with some food if they appear later. The firemen stay behind until a security firm makes the house safe. I’m off in the ambulance to Royal Preston Hospital again.

Casaulty is relatively quiet at 6.30 am on Easter Tuesday. I see the triage nurse quickly, and then go back into the waiting room in a wheelchair. An hour later, I’m wheeled into another nurse who takes blood and observations. Another hour in the waiting room before a doctor sees me. It’s difficult to tell who people are in the hospital these days, as they all wear almost standard uniforms. Back in the waiting room before a visit to the X-ray department. And so it goes on, all the essentials covered, but at a slow pace.

At some stage, I’m told I will be admitted to a ward, but at present, there are no beds. In the meantime, I have an intravenous drip set up. I prepare for a long wait in my wheelchair, but suddenly I am taken to a ward, a bed becomes available, and I’m just lucky to be chosen for it. It is mid-afternoon by now.

The ward I am on is the Acute Frailty Unit. A succession of nurses and doctors deal with me. More blood is taken, and another IV infusion set up when the first one leaked in my arm. Their concern is the level of Creatinine Kinase in my blood. High CK levels are an indication of muscle damage, and after my trauma, my muscles are releasing loads of it. If it becomes too high, it can cause kidney damage. All the extra fluids are to speed the progress of its elimination.

This continues for four days until the levels of CK come down a little. My arms are becoming more and more bruised from the frequent blood tests and IV drips. A small price to pay.

The bruises and swelling behind the knees and on my hands and elbows lessen, but the large friction burn down my back, from rubbing against the chair seat, is very sore and oozing. It will take a few weeks to heal. This makes it very difficult to sleep comfortably, especially when connected to a drip. The general noise on the ward I can cope with. ( I will spare you the gory photographs of the injuries) I am in much better shape than the other elderly men in the ward, who are frail.

More doctors visit me, and everyone is incredulous as to the circumstances of my injuries. All the staff are friendly and proficient, and I have nothing but praise for them. Even the meals are OK. But when may I go home?

Eventually, my bloods improve and I am discharged. I walk gingerly to my son’s car and head back to Longridge.

First of all, I have to report that the kittens didn’t stray and they are sitting in their cage to welcome me. In the intervening days, my son has been visiting them.

But what of the rest of the house? The back door, or where there had been a back door, has been boarded up securely. The surrounding plasterwork has suffered from the ‘break-in’ and there are bits of glass everywhere.

Outside are the remains of the door, showing signs of how difficult it had been to breach.

The offending kitchen bar stool is lying there and sends a shiver down my spine to think back to my imprisonment for over eight hours within it. I just made it out in time.

Getting comfortable with my skin damage is still a big problem, but my general mobility is improving quickly, especially as I now have more freedom to exercise. I’ll be down to the shops tomorrow.

Further lessons learnt.

Maybe buy tinned soup.

Check the house for trip hazards.

Consider an external key safe.

Consider a personal emergency button; there are several to choose from, all connecting to a call centre if needed. Perhaps it would be better to have one of the ‘clever’ watches that can make a call for you, as this could be used whilst on my outdoor activities, giving a greater range of security backup. I will look into the various options; my sons are already doing so.

Oh, for a quiet life.

THE GARLIC SOUP THAT NEARLY KILLED ME. Part One.

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A cathartic post. Self-indulgent, yes, but with lessons to be learnt.

Five am, and the fire brigade are bashing down my back door to gain entry for the ambulance men. I’m carted off to the hospital for the second time in less than three months.

It all began very pleasantly.

It’s that time of year again when the wild garlic proliferates in its shady spots. I know such a spot where dogs are less likely to have been. My two favourite recipes are garlic/potato soup and poached eggs on a bed of sautéed leaves. I spoke about them last year. I am again picking the fresh, young, aromatic leaves on Easter Monday.

Known as Ramsoms by country folk. The Latin name ursinum relates to ‘bear’ and refers to the fondness of the brown bear for the bulbs. Cows love to eat the leaves, hence another vernacular name of Cow’s Leek. Associated with bluebells, they are considered to be an ancient woodland indicator species. Today, the bluebells are just coming into bloom, a patchy blue rather than a carpet.

I enjoy my short walk by the river and come home with a carrier bag full of fresh leaves; they will go to nothing once cooked.

In the evening, I cook some potatoes and start washing the garlic leaves in the kitchen sink before transferring them to the soup pot. Yes, I probably am a little messy, and the kitchen tiles get their fair share of water. Turning around, I slip and try to grab the kitchen bar stool, but between us we crash to the floor. That would have been probably fine with a few bruises, except I somehow land upside down inside the wooden frame below the seat—a freak accident.

It dawns on me that, despite not initially injuring myself, I can’t get out of the frame. My torso is stuck even though I wriggle about and try to push with my arms. I can’t use my legs because they are wrapped around the bottom rung, with my feet unable to touch the ground. A sort of Chinese puzzle, think of a tortoise on its back. It is probably about 7 or 8 pm.

My first thought, obviously, is to phone for help, and that’s when the problems multiply. Where is the house phone? The handset is usually on the charger in the living room. I have to get there. I start pushing the chair frame across the kitchen tiles, with me inside it, using my hands and elbows. The first obstacle is the thick mat, which I somehow push out of the way. I pull on the kitchen table legs to help my slow progress, resulting in the table sliding across my path.

Reaching the door into the lounge, fortunately open, I realise that, going forward, I can’t negotiate the lip of the carpet door bar, mainly because I can’t use my feet to lift the chair legs. After laboriously spinning round and going backwards, my arms give enough lift to get the chair frame over and into the lounge. Spinning again, I push towards the phone socket but come up against the heavy leather settee. Some difficult shoving and pushing, mainly with my elbows, eventually gives me space to go past. I’m now in the dark and pulling the charger down to me, but no handset can be found.

That has taken over an hour and a half of exhausting work. It isn’t easy to relax my legs in their position, around a wooden rung which is biting into the backs of my knees. My spine is rubbing against the side of the seat, and it causes pain whenever I shuffle and try to push.

So I have to reverse the whole process and head back into the kitchen, where I hope the handset will be on the worktop. At least this time, I know how to negotiate the carpet strip. Thankfully, the handset is on the worktop and I struggle to dislodge it with the oven gloves from the cooker door. My relief is short-lived when I realise the phone’s battery is run down and useless.

Back I go, with increasing difficulty as I tire and become cold and dehydrated. My feet have become numb from a lack of blood supply. I can’t give up, as I imagine slowly dying in this position, I’m at the end of my tether, but I manage to get the handset on the charger, and it comes to life. I have no idea what time it is.

After a few minutes, I dial for help. In the dark, it takes me some time to engage three nines in a row. Ambulance control answer, and I explain my predicament. A crew will be on its way, but there is a delay of up to one and a half hours. I tell them they will have to force entry as I can’t unlock the doors.

Wow, what a relief, I just have to hang on a little longer. I can’t move by now, and I am shivering with cold, so it seems an age before they arrive, though it was probably much less than an hour. Of course, they can’t gain access and have to phone the fire brigade for help. (There was some miscommunication along the way.) Speaking through the door, they tell me it is 05.00 am, no wonder I am cold. Luckily, the local fire brigade arrive within 15 minutes and, after some difficulty, break through the back door.

The ambulance crew try to lift me out of the chair, but I am firmly stuck, so I have to be cut out by the fire brigade. What a relief, I have been on the floor for nine or ten hours.

Lessons learnt so far.

Don’t pick wild garlic.

Be more careful on wet surfaces.

Have your phone handsets charged up.

Don’t leave the key in the lock – preventing a spare key from being used.

OUR HOME FELL.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The lane leading to the fell, seen high above.

There is a sheep in there somewhere.

The Newdrop.

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

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

The new lord of the manor’s gates…

…and his welcoming signs.

That lethal barbed wire fence.

Picking a way through storm damage.

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

Identifying Wood Sorrel.

***

Our route from the village.

CAST NOT A CLOUT.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

DOUBLE TROUBLE.

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Introducing Dusty and Oscar.

You will remember I lost Seth, my 16-year-old cat, earlier this year. My friend Crusher inherited some cats when he moved to a cottage in the hills, and since then, more kittens have arrived. I intended to maybe take a couple of his stock if his children allowed me. Being unable to drive for over two months put that on hold for practical reasons. However, this week, I have been signed off from the hospital. The nerve damage to my hand has improved to the extent that I can resume driving, so I have taxed my car and am ready for the road again.

A while back, I sent my family a picture of the cats, and they were keen to advise me on which ones to choose. In anticipation of the new arrivals, I borrowed a cage to put in my kitchen. I intend to keep them secure for a week or so until they are used to me and the house. They will also need microchipping and immunising.

Friday.

I give Crusher a ring to see if they are at home. Yes, so I collect my cat basket and drive up. The feline population are sat around the yard, all very friendly. The children have developed strong attachments to most of the older cats, so I chose two of the younger ones: a male and a female. I think. Both are short-haired black kittens, the male with a white tuxedo and paws. Crusher’s children receive some money for their ‘piggy banks’, with the promise that they can come and visit anytime.
The two kittens are subdued by their transfer to Longridge but soon relax into their new shared bed, even though I provided one each.. They don’t seem interested in food; I will give them time to settle.

Saturday.

They seem pleased to see me in the morning.
They haven’t eaten much, so I visit Sainsbury’s around the corner for some of that addictive Sheba food. That does the trick, and they are soon tucking in. I phone the vets to arrange for them to be seen next week. The veterinary nurses are sad to hear of Seth’s passing but look forward to meeting the new kittens. I think they are about 9 months old and that the female has been neutered.

What are their names? That puts me on the spot. They did have names from their previous home, but I didn’t register them in my mind. I have already decided to call the female Dusty because she is. And who didn’t like Dusty Springfield? (I visited her grave way back in 2018 whilst walking the Thames Path through Henley.) The male is a ‘tuxedo’ with a white chest and spats. My family had suggested Oscar, because you wear a tuxedo at the ceremony. Let’s go with that for the time being.

Sunday.

I’m around the house most of the day, so the two kittens have the freedom of the kitchen. Chasing balls under cupboards keeps them entertained. They enjoy exploring and, before long, find their way onto the table and worktops. As with all young animals, ‘playfighting’ goes on from time to time, but generally, they tolerate each other well. I’m not sure who is the dominant one. They are a little too fast for my phone camera.

They eat anything and everything now, take to the scratch tower and use the litter tray.

A busy day for them.

Monday. Back into the carrier for a trip to the vets who take to the new arrivals. Going from their weight, Grace thinks they may be a little younger than 9 months or more likely have not had their fair share of food amongst the other cats on the farm.

Dusty has been neutered, but Oscar will need dealing with later.

I had noticed earlier that they had the odd cough from time to time and mentioned this. Their chests are a bit wheezy, so perhaps they have a mild infection – hopefully not cat flu. Their vaccinations are delayed for two weeks until a dose of antibiotics and steroids has had time to work.

They both are chipped without any fuss.

I return home, a little poorer, but with the kittens still in good form, and it’s time for a little telly.

Let’s see what the coming weeks bring.

THAT HILL AGAIN.

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Just another local walk.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rooks are busy nesting in the tall trees.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***