Tag Archives: Lancashire

THE START OF ANOTHER PILGRIMAGE?

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Day 1.  Longridge to Ribchester.

A pilgrimage is best started from one’s doorstep.

As you know, I’m not religious, but I enjoy a walk with a purpose. If that purpose links religious or historical sites with a new countryside, I’m ready for the challenge. In the past, I have completed several ‘pilgrimages’. Possibly the most enjoyable was cycling the Camino from Le Puy en Valay in France to Santiago de Compostela in Spain. But I have enjoyed shorter trips in Britain. St. Cuthbert’s Way, St. Hilda’s Way, The Pilgrims Way, Two Saints Way, Lancashire Monastic Way. The list goes on.

I’ve found another one, recreating a route from Whalley Abbey to Manchester Cathedral courtesy of the Greenmount Village Walking Group.  https://www.westpennineway.org/pilgrims-way-2/

But why not walk from home?

There should be a link-up. I am looking for a direct route to Ribchester before another to Whalley to connect with the above-mentioned Pilgrims Way.

There is a break in the weather after all those storms. It’s clear, but winter is still in the air. I leave at lunchtime and am unsure what held me up;  just remembered it was the Big Garden Birdcount. I live just across from the pub. Perhaps a church would have been a better starting point, but there doesn’t seem to be anything of note in Longridge’s selection. *I take a shortcut up one of our stone terraces. There was a farm here before. I usually manage to get lost in the modern housing estate that follows. The climbing for the day is done by the time I reach the old Quarryman’s Inn, which is blue plaqued, but now an infant nursery. Down Tan Yard, through more quarries, houses new and old with views over our reservoirs and on to Lower Lane. Quitisential Longridge. The road is getting more hazardous to cross at the gated entrance to Higher College Farm. Now, a small industrialised site, but with hopes to develop an entire retail park, which is totally out of character for this rural setting. Their plans have been turned down for now. It would help if they would upgrade the stile for a start.

I’m now in open fields overlooking the Ribble Valley. But first, I need to pass through one of those agricultural graveyards where everything has been saved for the day it could be required – i.e. never. Lower College Farm is, thankfully, bypassed. They have some antique farming or milking implement on display. Any guesses as to what it is?

A brief spell on Hothersall Lane. I could have carried onto the bottom and followed the Ribble to Ribchester. But no, I want to try a Bridleway more directly to Ribchester. It is tarmac to Ox Hey and then muddy fields on unmarked paths; my GPX comes in handy on several occasions. The benefit of this higher way was the extensive views over the Ribble Valley, with Pendle Hill always taking the eye with the ever-changing light playing across its flanks. The Ribble winds its way through Ribchester, and from up here, it can be seen snaking into the distance, where the Hodder and the Calder have joined it. As well as Pendle, I can make out the lower hills of Whalley Nab, where this pilgrimage will take me.

I make a beeline to Parsonage Farm, where the land drops away to the Ribble Valley. I’m looking straight down to Ribchester from up here, and the staggered slanting roof lights of Bee Mill stand out.

This reminds me that Ribchester was once a busy mill village. There were two large cotton mills on either side of the road:  Ribblesdale Mill, with 405 looms, now demolished and replaced by a housing estate and the above-mentioned Bee Mill, 320 looms, the remains used by small industrial and retail units. The latter is also known as Bannisters Mill from the family that has owned it for generations.  When I first moved to the area in the early 70s, it was still operative, and we would buy fabrics from their mill shop. Its chimney was demolished in 2003. Here is an aerial photo from 1950, courtesy of Historic England, of Bee Mill in the foreground and Ribblesdale across the road. 

But I’m getting ahead of myself – I haven’t even reached the village.

My path takes me to the site of Bremetennacum, the Roman fort of which much has been written. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bremetennacum Nearby metal detectorists are combing a field, presumably legally? I’m heading to St. Wilfrid’s Church, Grade I listed with abundant historical interest. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/St_Wilfrid%27s_Church,_Ribchester

I go inside for a proper exploration, they have a good printed guide avaiable. There was a church on this site from the C13th, chapels were subsequentally addded and the tower in the C 15th. Unusully ‘dormer windows’ were constructed in the roof to give more light. Victorian restorations took place in 1881.
I find a few curios.

Dormer windows.



C14th font.

Church Wardens’ box pew.

Triple stone sedilia, for seating the clergy during mass.

C13th double bowled Piscina.

Inscribed box pew.

‘Lepers squint’ opening to the outside.


The Dutton Chapel on the north side contains fragments of a wall painting of Saint Christopher from the 14th or 15th century. At one time church walls would be extensively illustrated but most has been lost over the centuries. 

Modern stained glass, Dutton Chapel – can you spot Pendle?      

Fragments of Medieval glass.   

Carved figure on a column to Dutton Chapel. C14th.

 

Victorian glass in the Houghton Chapel.

In a niche inside the church I spottted a Scallop shell, someone else has been on a pilgrimage. The scallop shell was traditionaly associated with Pilgrims, especially en route to Santiago de Compostela. Mine, from 2001, is hanging from my bed.
 
In the churchyard there is a prominent sundial. Its original C14th base was for a cross, crosses were prominent on Pilgrim routes as waymarkers and for prayer. 
The Roman Museum is closed but I wrote about it here – https://bowlandclimber.com/2019/11/28/a-lancashire-monastic-way-6-red-scar-to-ribchester/
 
I wander down to the riverside, a picture of calm, and yet only two weeks ago it rose 10feet or more, flooding the lower part of the village, a frequent occurence. There is evidence of its ferrocity in one of the riverside trees. The fisherman across the way casting his favourite spot.

Today’s Journey really was completed at the Church; I wandered up the narrow lane to catch the bus home.

* After a bit more reading, I find that St. Lawrence’s Church on Chapel Hill in Longridge was built as a chapel of ease for St Wilfrid’s, Ribchester, in the early 16th century, So there is a connection, and perhaps I should have started there rather than at the pub.

***


Continue reading →

AFTER THE STORM.

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I hadn’t meant to write a post today. But out of curiosity, I drove up the fell to have a mooch around Cowley Brook Plantation and see what Storm Eowyn had metered out.

So far this year, we have had floods, arctic snow and hurricane-force winds, and we are not at the end of January. What next, a plague of frogs or locusts in Biblical proportions? The world and its climate are evolving, and disasters are becoming more commonplace.

The day is colder than I had thought, and my hands stay firmly in my pockets. It’s only when I am further up in the old pine plantation that I notice more trees down from when I last visited, which I do often, probably from Eowyn’s blast. My phone comes out for a photo. And there is more further along. I wrote recently about whether the plantation would survive my lifetime. Things are looking bleaker, and it may not survive your lifetime.

The next storm, the Spanish Herminia, is on its way, and it’s time to get out of the creaking trees.

SETH.

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Seth has used up the last of his nine lives. He died peacefully a few days ago. As he has been mentioned several times in these pages, I am writing a little tribute.

I remember a previous cat, Arthur ( named long before the eponymous cat food), dying of feline leukaemia. He had not been vaccinated against it. That was back at the end of 2007. I had a few weeks in Egypt that winter, relevance later, and planned to walk the Haute Randonnée Pyrénéenne (HRP) from the Atlantic to the Mediterranean in the summer, having previously cancelled for a hernia operation. Knowing I would be away for long periods, I didn’t look for another cat.

I squeezed in a climbing trip to Valencia early in the year and then had some training for the HRP. The Pyrenees trip was exciting because of the late snowfall in June, but the pieman and I completed it, though not quite as planned; that’s another story.

Halfway across, I received a text telling me of my third grandchild’s arrival. He is a strapping 16 now. Another text arrived from Dor, my cat person. She had been visiting a friend’s farm, and Lily had just produced four delightful kittens. Knowing my catless state, she was excited and convinced I would take one of them on my return. I knew Lily as a beautiful, friendly cat; part Tabby, part Maine Coon, so I had high hopes for her kittens. Yes, I’m interested, was my reply, but I won’t be back for another month or so.

My first visit to the farm was when the kittens were about eight weeks old, but we couldn’t catch them in the woodpile. They did look cute, though, and I pointed out the one I preferred, an absolute ball of fluff. The plan was to return when the farmer had enticed the kittens into her porch. A few days later, I received the phone call and drove up with Dor and a cat basket in readiness.

Two of the kittens had already been taken by a local contractor to be used as ‘ratters’ in his premises. I wonder what sort of life they have had.

I was happy with my choice of kitten. Settled with a cup of tea and cake, the ladies then proceeded to convince me the two female kittens couldn’t be separated. I was ambushed, as was their plan. So, money was donated to a charity, and we drove home with the two kittens—my original choice of the fluffy one and the other wiser-looking one.

Naming the two of them was easy following my recent visit to Egypt, where cats have been given Godlike status.

BASTET is the Ancient Egyptian cat goddess associated with the home,  fertility, and childbirth. Thought also to protect against evil spirits. Probably the most famous of all the cat gods.  Images, in her most common form, depict the head of a cat and the body of a woman with an air of authority and disdain. That will be the fluffy one.

SEKHMET, a lesser-known Egyptian cat goddess. She was the goddess of war and would protect the pharaohs in battle. Like Bastet, she rode with the sun god Ra. Associated also with healing, she was the goddess Egyptians turned to when they needed to cure life’s problems. That will be the fierce one.

Not a bad pedigree for my two.

An appointment was made at the vet for a check-up, vaccination (this time including Leukaemia), and microchipping. The vet thought them both healthy, especially the lively male one. Oh! A quick change of sex and Sekhmet was renamed SETH on the spot. The name stuck.

They were both rendered infertile a few weeks later.

My cats have always had the freedom of the house and garden using a cat flap. I was keen to accustom Seth and B (as we now called her) to the surroundings without them running off. In the family album, I have found a picture of my grandchildren, J and S,  taking them around the garden on makeshift leashes. August 22 2008.
I have looked for earlier photographs, but my filing system is chaotic.

B and Seth became part of the household and tolerated each other rather than being bosom pals. They would spend as much time in the garden as possible in the better weather. But like all cats, they could sleep for hours by the radiator in Winter. They both had bells to warn the garden birds, but from the start, Seth was never interested in hunting; he didn’t have the patience to stay still before pouncing cat-like. It was B who would bring mice and rabbits into the kitchen.

October 2008  B and Seth.

We often visited A’s farm to update her on the kittens’s progress. Lily, their mother, always keen to hear the news. More kittens appeared.  Not long after, the lady farmer, unfortunately, died at a relatively young age. Her funeral was a fitting celebration of a lovely lady.

The farmhouse was left empty; her brother farmed the fields, but cats were low on his priorities. So what of the remaining kittens? Lily, the matriarch, had passed on. Each week, under Dor’s insistence, we would drive up with cat food for the abandoned kittens. They were wild and wouldn’t come to us; they would only take the food once we were back in the car. We left tins for the brother to feed the cats between our visits. As I said, we came weekly. One particular kitten always seemed to be pushed out by the others. We tried to offer her food in a different place, and she became more friendly.

Dor became attached to this kitten, whom we named Lily after her mother. As the weeks went on, the other kittens seemed to disperse. We were solely feeding Lily. She was understandably unkempt and thin. Why not adopt her?  Dor was all for kidnapping her on the spot. I felt it better to speak to the brother first. He was quite happy for us to look after her. Us? I thought Dor would take her, but she didn’t want the responsibility. That left me. Back with a cat box, which Lily happily entered. The next day, I took her to the vet, and they found she had a dislocated jaw, probably from a fight. The bill was rapidly rising.

Anyhow, she was introduced to her cousins, Seth and B, and all got along. I was now a three-cat family. Seth maintained his aloofness but was always the one to be stroked.

Here he is with the youngest grandson, A, in 2012 both aged three and a half. They do, after all, virtually share the same birthday.

Dor came often to interact with Lily. Somewhere, I have a photo of all three cats.

B and Seth 2014.

What went wrong? I can’t remember the year. I blame myself. As I said, they had the freedom of a catflap, but that was their undoing. Road works in Longridge diverted traffic past my house; what was once a quiet lane became a busy rat run. The inevitable happened: first, Lily and then B was run over. Seth, who didn’t venture far, thankfully survived. He becomes the king of the castle.

One day, he was unhappy, wouldn’t eat and seemed in pain. The vet diagnosed a jaw fracture with loss of teeth, possibly a brush with traffic or a fox. He survived but with ongoing eating difficulties—a near escape.

The years passed, they do seem to have merged into one. Seth was always there. He was waiting for me behind the door when he heard my car.  He became a firm favourite with my friends and family, who mostly liked cats. My local cattery welcomed him whenever I travelled abroad. His affectionate personality wooed several ladies who would regularly call in for coffee, not necessarily for my company, but to have the honour of Seth’s attention on their laps for an hour or so. He didn’t just rub up against you he licked you to death. The start of a legend.

 2018.

Around this time, Sept 2021. I am able to be more specific because I wrote a post about it. Seth didn’t return home for a couple of days. He bravely dragged himself back onto my bottom stairs one morning. He had dislocated one of his hips. The vet was brilliant in treating him. How many lives is that now?   Here, he is in his cage for 6 weeks after the operation.

Life drifts on for Seth and me. And then comes along Covid lockdown. He was so used to attention from visitors that he became visibly restless when none could come. Things slowly returned to normal, and Seth made even more fuss with visitors; he was particularly friendly with my cleaner on a Monday morning. She often brought him treats and didn’t like hoovering to disturb him if he was asleep in a room. He spent most of his time in the house, several favourite resting places picked randomly throughout the day.

One of his best, if the sun was shining, was on the car’s warm soft-top; up here, he also received the attention of passers-by.  He had to be physically removed if I was going out in the car. If the family were visiting, he always got in on the act. That’s those two grandchildren a decade later.

Around this time, one of my sons and his partner adopted two boisterous rescue dogs. When they visited, Seth just sat at the top of the stairs, daring them to come closer; they never did. He would happily trot downstairs the moment their car left the drive, secretly pleased with himself for remaining aloof.

Seth and all my other cats had gone to a trusted cattery for years until lockdown. The people running the cattery have been friends for all that time, and even when I wasn’t away, I kept in contact with them. They always asked after Seth and he received a Christmas card every year from them. I started going away on walking holidays again in 2021. So when I phoned to book him in, they were pleased to have him back, and I’m sure they gave him a lot of attention.  I don’t seem to have travelled far in 2022/23 for health reasons,  so I did not board Seth there. When I resumed last year, I obviously phoned them to book Seth in. They were somewhat embarrassed to say that a recent inspection by DEFRA  found their inner cages a few centimetres on the short side and had not renewed their license. What a daft decision; my cats had never complained. They are still appealing against this decision but couldn’t take Seth. I had to find another cattery. Fortunately, there was a local one with a good reputation, and Seth took to them with no difficulty on the few occasions he holidayed there. The last time I picked him up, the staff were keen for him to return; he had already become a favourite.

As I’ve said, he didn’t go out much as he aged; he was never a hunter. For years, he was the only cat at our end of the road, so he had no competitors. Slowly, housing has spread around us, and other cats have started appearing. One particular one, a fine-looking tom, visits regularly, as I think Seth had lost his territory. They would sit on either side of a window, hissing at each other. Worse, this other cat came into my house through the cat flap once or twice, and there was a proper standoff between them. I locked the catflap and started keeping Seth inside to avoid any stress. But I thought that was unfair to him, and the litter trays in my kitchen were not ideal. The obvious answer was to buy a fancy flap that only responded to Seth’s chip. He didn’t like this new gadget and just stayed in as before, but at least the other cat couldn’t come in. I do wonder how much the stress had affected him.

A week or so ago, he wasn’t eating much, which was not unusual for him. (In recent years, I had started buying him chicken pieces) When I picked him up, he winced with pain, so there was something amiss. He had never attempted to bite or scratch me all his life. He’d not been outside; hence, it was unlikely he was injured. A trip to the vet suggested an internal pathology or infection. Antibiotics made no difference, and he slowly deteriorated. The weekend, he was worse, and I was expecting to take him back to the vets on Monday to be euthanised as they were reluctant to operate. I gave him, rightly or wrongly, small doses of paracetamol to make him comfortable. He died in the night.

A legend indeed.

DAY TWO OF THE CANAL CLOG.

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After the trek to the restaurant, a good breakfast sets us up for the day. The day is dull compared to yesterday; as you will see, it stayed that way all day. Along with the rush hour traffic, we are soon back at the canal bridge. This area is known as Clayton le Moors, famous for its Harriers athletic club,  JD used to run with them in the past.

Enfield Wharf is where we join the canal. There is an old warehouse by the steps, and what used to be stables are on the other side. Both are listed buildings and reminders of past trade and transport on the canal.

Copyright Mat Fascione.

Things are changing along the canal. A housing estate is being built right up to its bank, and already there has been a breach. To our eyes, they don’t seem to have reinforced the bank before the houses were started. Looks like trouble at t’mill. We use the canal towpath for about three miles; there are no locks on this stretch, but there is plenty of other interest. The M65 motorway runs parallel to us, so there is always some traffic noise. Leaving Clayton, we edge past Huncoat, where coal was mined, and bricks were fired; the canal would have been busy with traffic – as is the motorway now.

One of several swing bridges serving farm tracks. 

And another.

We wonder how the chap we met yesterday is progressing on his trek to Leeds. Our canal stretch is over by bridge 119; we take easily missed steps onto a lane leading to Shuttleworth Hall—another world after the gentle canal towpath.

Shuttleworth Hall is a C17th Grade I listed house. It looks impressive, with the arched gateway leading to the towered doorway,1649 date stone, and all those mullioned windows. It is now a farmhouse, and we go around the back to follow the footpath. Dogs are tied up and barking, straining at the leash. It is worrying that the farmhands go to them and hold them down – “they like to bite.” We make a hasty retreat.

Down a track and then into a reedy field. JD thinks he has found the path.   He hasn’t, and we flounder through the reeds before coming out onto a lane by an old cotton mill. Initially, it was water-powered, but at some stage, a boiler and chimney were built to provide steam power.

Crossing the busy road at Altham Bridge, we join the River Calder on its way from Cliviger through Burnley and onto Whalley before joining the Ribble. What an environmental disaster the next mile is. First, an evil little brook comes through the field from an industrial site. We can smell the hydrogen sulphide from some distance away. And then, the water looks like sulphuric acid bleaching the vegetation before discharging into the Calder. (back home, I may well try and report this pollution incident to the Rivers Authority, something I’ve not done before)

Then, what should be a pleasant walk through the meadows alongside the river was blighted by a continuous line of plastic bottles washed up by the last flood. There were thousands of them. Who’s responsibility is it to clean up this mess? I’m sure the farmer doesn’t have the time or resources to tackle it. Today, it is unsightly and probably of some danger to grazing animals. Still, it brings home to us the amount of plastic going down our rivers into the sea and probably ultimately into our food chain. The loutish public, who randomly dispose of their drink containers, are beyond educating. The only answer is for manufacturers and supermarkets to stop using plastic, but no government has the will to impose this. My hazy photos don’t show the full extent of the plastic.

We are relieved to leave the river and climb up towards Read. The old Blackburn to Padiham Loop Line is no more. But the history of it is fascinating to read giving an added insight into the area’s industrial heritage.    http://www.disused-stations.org.uk/features/north_lancs_loop_line/index.shtml

We enter the village alongside an old mill now repurposed. Two large stone blocks, probably from the mill, will provide a lunch spot while we try to digest the plastic problem.

Rather than follow the busy road, we climb up into the posher part of Read, which eventually takes us through the grounds of Read Hall. I’ve often wondered about the domed stone structure in a field; looking up the listed buildings, it turns out to be a C19th icehouse with a square entrance on its north side, not visible from the lane. Beautiful parkland follows a far cry from the industrial centres only a few miles to the south.

I’m on familiar ground now and make a beeline to the cafe at the Garden Centre alongside The Calder. After a welcome coffee, we meet up with the river over Cock Bridge, thankfully, for a litter-free walk. A final climb up to Whalley Banks, an isolated hamlet of stone houses.

From there, we follow the old packhorse trail heading to Whalley Abbey. And there are those six million Accrington bricks of the famous viaduct.

We have no time to look around the town, as soon we are on a little bus speeding back to Longridge. Without venturing far from home, we have completed an interesting circuit: good exercise and a good stopover, all a little tainted by the plastic pollution we encounter.

Time to have another search on the LDWA site.

***

***

And by popular request, well, Sir Hugh and Eunice, at least – a clog song as suggested by Tony Urwin.

DAY ONE OF THE CANAL CLOG.

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JD’s wife drops us off on a frosty Moor Lane up Whalley Nab above the town. I know this is cheating, but it puts us directly onto on the route, saving 400 feet of climbing. And there is our first waymark: for the record, we are not wearing clogs!

A warm-up stroll along the lane brings us to a farm and a conversation with the lady farmer. She bemoans the recent theft of her quad bike, an essential tool on moorland farms. What she would do to the perpetrators is not printable. We can look back across to Longridge Fell and the Bowland Hills behind, but as usual in these parts, Pendle takes pride of place. All the snow from last week has amazingly disappeared. Once we leave the lane into rough fields, the walking becomes taxing for a mile or so. Waterlogged ground with the odd icy patch, undulating in and out of small valleys, awkward stiles, low blinding sunlight, navigational errors, and some thick gorse bushes to negotiate. I’m not complaining; just look at that blue sky.

When we reach the chain of reservoirs, things improve, and we meet other walkers. Some share our joy of the day, and others unhappy about the pending encroachment of urban areas into the scenery.

More awkward climbing brings us to a minor road on a ridge from which a misty Blackburn is seen down to the west and the distant sprawl of modern industrial sites and towns to the south and east in the M65 corridor. Other recognisable features, Darwen Tower and the Winter Hill mast, seem very distant. There are enough green spaces for our route to follow, and we have good views of the Hambleton Hills. Can you spot the canal?

We joined the Leeds-Liverpool Canal, 60 miles from Liverpool and 67 and a bit miles to Leeds, the longest canal in Britain. Starting in 1770, the canal took 50 years to construct, including the 91 locks. In the C19th, it became the main highway for industrial goods across the Pennines. A seat provided a good lunch spot after five miles of walking.

The towpath allowed much more relaxed strolling as we slowly circumvented Rishton, our first major mill town on the route. There was evidence of abandoned mills alongside the canal. Many have been demolished and replaced by modern housing; others are now used for different purposes.  Out of interest, here is an extract from Grace’s Guide to British Industrial History, listing mills once operating in Rishton. Can you imagine the conditions and pollution? And the noise of all those clogs on the flags in the morning.

  • Rishton Victoria Cotton Mill Co, Ltd., Victoria Mill; 50,000 spindles, 208/50° weft, 168/328 twist; 1,100 looms, shirtings, T cloths, domestics, sheetings and heavy bleaching cloth. Pay day 28th of each month, by remittance. William Wilson, manager; R. H. Place, secretary.

As it once was.

There is a cafe on the bridge, but it is closed, so we explore further along the High Street until Cafe 21 appears. This cosy spot is frequented mainly by locals having all-day breakfasts. Two cups of coffee cost £2.50. which may reflect their quality, but we appreciate the sit-down. Off-road cyclists are having problems with their electric bikes.

Back into the countryside for a while before crossing the M65 on the Dunkenhalgh Aqueduct, built in the 80s.

Rude Health. Copyright.

Once over, we leave the canal for now and take an optional bridleway heading towards Church, a district of Accrington. The church is visible from a distance, above the canal at Bridge 112. This is a ‘changeline’ bridge where the towpath moves to the opposite bank, but the horse’s tow rope stays attached to the barge. My camera has gone to sleep along here, so my photos are taken from the Geograph site, with the original credited. A useful source of information – http://www.geograph.org.uk

Peter McDermott. Copyright.

 

Ian Taylor. Copyright.

I now regret that we didn’t follow the canal loop in full.

A family of gorgeous ginger cats inhabit the canal-side farm.

Just over on the other towpath is the halfway point on the canal with a suitable line, milestone and surround. 63 5/8 miles either way.

Mat Fascione. Copyright.

On a nearby bench, a youth tends his feet. Carrying a fifty-pound rucksack and doing twenty-plus miles each day, camping out each night is taking its toll, but he still hopes to reach Leeds in three days, ready for work on Monday.

We clog on slowly. Emerging onto the busy A678 Burnley Road, we have half a mile to walk before turning into the tree-lined avenue leading to the Mercure Dunkenhalgh Hotel. A C19th Tudor-style house built on the site of a C13th hall. Despite our appearance, we are upgraded to an executive double room unfortunately about half a mile away from reception and bar.

It was a bit of a slog this morning, but the canal towpath gave easy walking. A rest up in our luxurious room, a hot soak in the bath, a couple of pints and a bar snack. Perfect. The resident ghosts didn’t disturb my sleep.

***

HYNBURN CANAL CLOG.

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A search for likely walking routes in my area, Lancashire, on the Long Distance Walkers Association site, LDWA, produces an abundance of trails, long and short. To untangle that spaghetti, one can search for paths of a certain length within one’s area of interest. The forecast is suitable for a couple of days at the end of this week, so let’s see what comes up. A twenty-mile walk in the Hynburn district, that hilly industrial area between Blackburn and Burnley, The Canal Clog, would make a good two-day walk for this time of year. The reference to clogs links back to the area’s industrial heritage, cotton mills and canals. When I first moved to Longridge, another cotton town, way back in the early seventies, there was a clog maker trading there. The walk is apparently waymarked by a pair of clogs.

I download the route’s GPX file onto my phone and have a look at the description on the website, from which I print off the relevant parts.  https://ldwa.org.uk/ldp/downloads/HyndburnClog.pdf

The Canal Clog cuts the Hynburn Clog into a northern half and a southern circuit, which we will look at another time.

Dividing the trail into two roughly equal days with an overnight stop halfway takes some planning. A well-known hotel, The Dunkenhalgh, is just off-route but an ideal halfway point if we can begin at a suitable place. I pinpoint Whalley as the starting spot. Approximately 10 miles each day.

I enlist the help and good company of JD for this walk. He is willing and enthusiastic as always, and his wife is happy for him to be away for a couple of days.

Here is the route untangled.

And this is the Borough of Hynburn.

The hotel is booked, so let’s go.

A SNOWY FORAY.

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Who doesn’t like a snowy scene?

The other day, I drove up to the New Drop Inn from the Hall’s Arms. Both these long-established locals are now closed, one becoming a business centre and the other residential units. The road was just clear of snow, but there was little room for passing other cars. The temperature hadn’t risen above freezing for a few days. I was hoping to walk around Cowley Brook Plantation to complete my year’s archive of photographs. My usual pull-ins looked dicey. I was afraid I would become stuck, so I turned tail and drove home, probably the most sensible option.

The freeze continues. Thankfully, no more snow falling around here, and the sun shines brightly. I can’t resist another attempt to walk the fell in these conditions. This time, I take caution to heart and park easily at the New Drop crossroads. The side road coming directly up from Longridge past the golf course looks treacherous, and I wish I had brought my microspikes as I walk a hundred yards or so down it.

My footprints are the only ones coming through the waterboard gate by Cowley Brook. Lovely crunching sounds as I pass into the plantation: a couple of roe deer run across my path into the trees, too fast for a photo.

Knowing my way up the hillside, I arrive at my four-way photo spot.

 

I have time to admire the frozen minutiae.

Continuing through the trees to reach my other fixed point.

Mission accomplished, I will put together a montage of the year later or perhaps record another year of changes in the young plantation.

While I’m up here, why don’t I go farther up the fell?  It is difficult walking in the snow in the plantation, so I decide to use the road to gain the fell proper. There is very little traffic. Pendle Hill has become a giant in its winter garb.

Through the gate onto the fell, and I trudge up alongside the wall. Only a few have passed this way. I avert my eyes from the scene of the ‘Grim up North’ tree massacre. Time is a little tight, so I don’t go to the trig point but arc around at the Christmas Tree to take the balcony route back to the Jeffrey Hill carpark. The views across Bowland are spectacular, as are the distant ones into Yorkshire.

As I reach the car park, I see a motorist in trouble on the icy roads below. A notorious blackspot where cars have, in the past, slid off the hill into the fields below. I’m not sure why anyone would have driven up here in the first place. A crowd gathers out of nowhere to give advice.  Luckily, the driver, unprepared in his own words, manages to dig himself out, avoid the drop and continue down the slippery road.

I march along the road back to my car, a great four miles in the perfect Winter scenery.

***

DON’T FORGET TO FEED THE BIRDS.

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An overnight dump of snow has transformed the surroundings. My car, which I shall not be moving today, is under four inches of the white stuff.

The back garden looks neat and tidy for the first time in months. I put out the usual ground feed and the select seeds on the bird table. Within minutes the blackbirds are fighting over the oats, and the coal tits are raiding the seeds.

The morning slips away.

I eventually decide on a walk. I am lucky I can reach the countryside directly from my doorstep without using the car. I have no real plan. I walk past the cricket pitch. The road, where cars have passed, is easier to use than the rutted pavement. Up ‘Mile Lane’ is my usual route. I hear the joyful cries of children long before I see them sledging down the field.

Even in the semi-urban landscape, there are sheep struggling for survival.

Someone has been out early in the park and built an igloo. I used to do that and sleep out for the night in the garden.

Everyone is in a chatty mood, so progress is slow. Hence I decide on a short loop around the reservoir rather than the longer fell road, which I did yesterday. From up here, there are views across the valley to Beacon Fell and the Bowland Fells (in cloud).

I peek into Craig Y and share a picture of it on its Facebook page.

As I wander back through the streets, more snow is in the air. It won’t be good if it freezes tonight. Around the corner, a friend, JD, is building a snowman for his grandchildren. All jolly good fun.

PROMENADING THE FYLDE.

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No, I’m not on my cycle today. Mike phoned late last night with a promise of good weather and a desire to walk somewhere fresh. So here we are on the promenade between Fleetwood and Cleveleys on a freezing but bright blue sunny morning.

I have covered this interesting stretch more than once, most fully describing the art installations last January on a similar day.  https://bowlandclimber.com/2024/01/23/sea-swallows-and-shipwrecks/

Apart from dog walkers on the beach, it is quiet at Fleetwood. The Lakeland hills across the way are a little hazy, but Knott End and Morecambe power station seem within touching distance, especially with the zoom lens. There are reminders of rough sleeping in the shelters. We follow the fish whilst watching a ferry heading to Heysham with hundreds of wind turbines in the background. The wind farms have proliferated in this stretch of water.

The Coast Guard Lookout station is always worth a photo from both sides. But after that, with chatting, I don’t take many more.

Around the corner, heading south into the low sun, onto the renewed curving coastal defences is delightful promenading. There is barely a breeze, so we are cosy in our fleecy clothes, Mike more so with a heated gilet, one of his family’s Christmas presents.

More and more people are out from Cleveleys. Dogs and children on new bikes are everywhere. I pause to point out to Mike the ‘Shell’ half-submerged, the Ogre hidden in a groyne is completely submerged.

We planned to walk to Cleveleys and catch a bus back to Fleetwood. They say you can’t become lost walking the coast; just keep the water on one side. Somehow, we walk on towards Bispham, the busy main street of Cleveleys hidden from us on the lower prom. It takes some time to realise my mistake, and then we turn around to head north, to miss our bus stop again.. Only when we actually climb over to the road do we see our whereabouts, but luckily, there is a stop opposite the Vue cinema complex. We don’t have long to wait for the number 24 bus, which takes a convoluted route through bungalow suburbia to the ferry at Fleetwood, where the car was parked. The view across to the Lakes was much clearer, but my camera was stashed away by now.

I recommend a walk down the prom from Fleetwood on any decent day. Go as far as you like, and then bus back. Today the weather made our short walk memorable.

Back to earth—flooded roads defeated us on the lanes around Inskip. The NW region has been badly affected this week.

HOW HIGH’S THE HODDER MOMMA?

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It’s a brand new year, but the same old weather that plagued last year: rain and plenty of it. I awoke to news of flooding in the northwest and looking out my back window, the fields were underwater. Ribchester has suffered again, so I won’t be heading that way, though it would have been good to see the Ribble in full flow at Sale Wheel. https://bowlandclimber.com/2020/02/17/sales-wheel-the-ribble-in-flood/

I decided instead to head over to the River Hodder at Higher Hodder Bridge. I suspected the Chaigley road might be flooded so I drove over the fell to drop down at Kemple End. Even on this higher road, there were one or two spots where I hesitated to drive through.

The road going down Birdy Brow was awash with flood debris and parts of the road itself were eroding.

I parked at the bottom and walked onto the bridge to view the river in full spate.

Taking the little cobbled path through the woods and over normally quiet streamlets, now dashing to meet the roaring river.

Places where I often go down to the riverside for views of the graceful bridge were underwater today, and I kept a healthy distance from the edge. The river was moving past at some pace.  It’s difficult to give an impression of the water’s power in a photo so I tried a video for better effect.

Ambling on along the muddy footpath, I came upon quieter stretches of water before it sped up again, hurtling towards the Ribble, where the confluence would be quite a sight.  Instead of returning the same way I picked up an unmarked track near one of the little footbridges; this took me up the hillside towards Rydding’s Farm, where walkers aren’t exactly welcomed with “dogs running loose” signs. I bypass them and take the farm track leading back to Birdy Brow. Looking back, a rather hazy Pendle Hill dominates as usual around these parts. I hadn’t walked far for my first walk of 2025. I’m pleased to see my car hadn’t been washed away and drove carefully back over the high road, stopping only to view the floods below in Chipping Vale.

Of course, while the mood takes you, it is worth listening to Johnny Cash.

***



 

 

 

 

 

 

 

BEACON FELL AGAIN.

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One last walk in 2024.

The mist has abated, but wind and rain threaten the New Year’s celebrations’. On Monday afternoon, there is time for a brisk walk. I choose Beacon Fell once again for quick access and dry tracks. The car parks are packed, and families, friends and dogs throng the paths. Consulting the site map I opt for the Fellside Trail as the longest and possibly the quietest route.

I am playing with the camera my son lent me –  a 20-year-old Fujifilm S3200. I don’t have the instructions, so have had a brief look at the online manual. It’s not ideal conditions today, as you will seeand hear from the video.

I wander through the trees. It is all rather gloomy, with little to attract my attention.
Even at the pond, nothing much is stirring.

I get bored and strike off on a lesser track which at least takes me past a couple of carvings. Then I’m in amongst the crowds with excited children running along the back of the stone snake, all great fun.

It’s time to get home and hide away for a couple of days—here’s to 2025.

I GET MISTY.

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I write this in front of a roaring log fire after three dull and damp post-Christmas days. Listening to cool jazz on my new CD  Player, I’m old-fashioned, I know. I am also trying to work out the intricacies of my ‘new’ camera, a present from one of my sons who has more cameras than sense.

*

It was a misty Boxing Day walk with the family on Turn Moss, Chorlton. Turn Moss is a recreational area in Stretford, a green gateway to the Mersey Valley: water meadows, woodlands, ponds, brooks and ditches—a great place to explore and walk the dogs.

Chorlton Brook.

 

Turn Moss.

River Mersey.

Yesterday was worse. Misty from the word go. I eventually braved the damp and drove up to the fell. I was surprised at the number of cars parked up on Jeffrey Hill, considering there was no view. The sun just couldn’t break through.

I couldn’t face the mud on those tracks, so I settled for a short circuit of Cowley Brook Plantation lower down the fell. This is my go-to place for some quick exercise, surrounded by nature, for my well-being.  I am the only one in there. I take photos as part of my year’s monthly observations, almost like a time-lapse sequence. I need to get January to complete the cycle.

The spider webs hold water droplets from the air as well as the pine needles..

I love this tree stump on my round.

More pine trees from the plantation are down since the last storms; some uprooted, and some simply snapped. I wonder if the original plantation will slowly dwindle in my lifetime. Today, as the anticyclonic gloom persists, I am happy to walk from home. Up Mile Lane and through the village.

‘Mile Lane’

And from 1969, clinging from a cloud…

A BOWLAND BLAST ON THE BEACON.

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Those strange days before Christmas.

I’ve done my shopping, made the stuffing and wrapped the presents. Time for some fresh air, we are not having a frosty winter, the air is mild but the wind is howling. A short walk would suffice.

One could hardly stand upright next to the trig point on Beacon Fell—a strong, cold wind blasting straight from the northwest. I took a photo of the next rainband coming in off the sea and one of Parlick above the conifers, then retreated to the shelter of the trees. Although I was made aware of the danger of falling trees by the groaning noises coming from them in the gale.

There was a brief break in the winter showers,, but not the wind.  I parked at 2 pm in the Quarry; mine was the only car. Most peopla are crushing the supermarkets.  I know, or think I know, every path on the fell, a country park, but today I halted at the new map board installed just after the pond. Why not follow the red route? The Summit Trail sounds about right. Of course, as the walk progresses, I end up using the Sculpture Trail and then the Fellside Trail and probably others.

My red trail takes me through the trees to the information centre and cafe. I was hoping they would have a bedecked real Christmas tree on display, there are plenty of specimens on the fell, so I could get a seasonal photograph to illustrate this post, mot likely  my last before the big day. No luck.

I poke my nose into the building, a little late for a coffee but I join a family at the window seats to observe the many species using the bird feeders. Good to see youngsters enthusiastic about nature. At one time, this cafe boasted that it was open 364 days a year, but Covid stopped that, and now, if you want a brew or a snack, avoid Mondays or Tuesdays.

I climb up to look at Thomas Dagnall’s Orme View – now, who does that remind me of?

I now find myself on the blue sculpture trail, which I happily follow, rediscovering a series of wooden carvings.

After visiting the summit, I head back on the Fellside Trail – a quick hour’s walk. I was still the only car in the car park before heading home to check the drinks.

BREAKDOWNS AND BOWLAND BLUE.

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I’ve had my fair share of motoring breakdowns in the past.  I’d not been running new cars in later years, more like old crocks. My Mazda Is now 25 years old, but it rarely lets me down. Unfortunately, the last time it did was on a ‘smart’ motorway. The experience has left me traumatised and very wary of venturing onto such motorways. I was fortunate to crawl into one of their scarce emergency refuge areas. “A ‘place of relative safety’ you can pull into if you have an emergency and need to stop driving on an all-lane running motorway”. That was only the start of my problems. Using their roadside emergency phone was almost impossible due to the constant traffic noise. Trying to give details of my AA membership and location took an inordinate time over the phone. I was eventually rescued. The next day, I installed the AA app on my mobile. (Other breakdown services are available) 

‘Cometh the hour cometh the app’  to misquote Churchill and others. The hour came this week after a meet-up lunch with my Skipton cousin in the Spread Eagle at Sawley. Leaving the car park, in the Daccia this time, I heard a crunching sound from my back offside wheel. Going a little farther, it became louder, and smoke appeared from the wheel as it locked up; it was time to stop.

Time to call the AA. Simple this time: open the app, press a button on my mobile, enter a few details, and a man is on his way. He arrives in twenty minutes and diagnoses the problem – seized disc brakes preventing the wheel from rotating. He can’t tow me, and I imagine waiting a long time for a low loader to take me home. But no, this man is resourceful. He can’t free the brakes, but with a magic piece of engineering, which I didn’t understand, he fitted a freewheel to the outside of the hub. Thus, I could drive the car, although minus one brake, as he followed behind with flashing lights.

We were back at my garage before it closed. They have a backlog of work at this time of year, so I didn’t expect to see my car until after Christmas. To my surprise, I had a phone call this morning to say the job was done, new discs fitted, and I could collect it anytime. Thumbs up to the AA and my local garage.

*

Thus, I am now parked up at Chipping for a short walk to make the most of this dry, sunny day. The gritters are out in the village, just managing to squeeze through the narrow streets. It is cold.

Several of you will recognise this walk, one of my winter standbys, but to disguise it somewhat, I’m walking clockwise today. Usually, I go anticlockwise, widdershins, as they say in Scotland. Everywhere is bedecked for the season.

Up past the old mills, Chipping was once an industrial hub. The chair works closed in 2011, https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kirk_Mill The road is surprisingly steep.

Round the corner the lane heads to the fells, enclosed by hedges. Look at that blue sky.

And there is Parlick with its wrinkles highlighted in the low sun. I have climbed some of those gullies in winter’s past when they iced up sufficiently. And there across the valley is Longridge Fell shadowed by its larger neighbour Pendle.

At the end of the lane up to Saddle End farm, I’m pleased to see the hens are still laying, I buy half a dozen.

It’s all downhill from here with time to take in the scenery on the way to the the sheep farm.

This is where you look out over the laund, an ancient deer park. I never tire of this view.

Down through the grounds of Leagram Hall, I stop again to admire some of the ancient oaks. All too soon, I’m back at my car. The day is closing, and the northerly wind is biting deep.

ALL QUIET ON THE FELL.

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I stop at the trig point. My anemometer, a licked finger held above my head, records not even a zephyr. I am well away from roads, so all is complete silence, absolute stillness—a rare occurrence in modern times. I absorb the experience and drift into another world, unaware of how time passes. The Bowland Fells look on impassively, and far away, Pen Y Ghent just nods to the occasion. This is somehow special; my regular walk transformed by the absence of sound.

I nearly didn’t make it. Halfway up after stopping for a drink, I became unsteady and started stumbling. Was this the start of a stroke? I thought, and I turned around to get back before anything worse happened. Nobody ever knows where I am. After a few more faltering steps, I realised one of my spectacle lenses had fallen out, and I was temporarily confused and disorientated. Calming down, I stopped, removed my useless glasses, and then retraced my last few metres. No sign of the missing lens, I had to repeat this course several times before I find it in the peat. No damage was done.

So I continued to the trig point. The going was boggy but nowhere near the Lincolnshire mud I experienced last week. However, I did notice a sign has appeared on the fenced-off private land that warns of sinking mud. I’m not sure who it is aimed at now that barbed wire prevents access. Possibly their workers. I see they are at work with diggers farther down the field; we still don’t know what transpires on that land.

Farther on, I found more trees down, probably Storm Darragh. It certainly wouldn’t have been quiet up here in that wind. It’s eery in the forest. Several of you have battled through the forests on Longridge Fell and realise that not a lot of clearance has occurred. I’m never sure which footpaths up here are rights of way or concessional paths, so don’t always complain to the authorities about blocked ways. In any case, would they have the funds to carry out remedial action during these austere times? So, for now, we can all have our own little adventure.

I passed the ‘Longridge Fell Christmas Tree’. I think it’s in a different position from last year. It looked a bit dishevelled, probably after a thrashing from Storm Darragh at the weekend. As I said all quiet.

BUILT IN STONE.

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Almost as an aside, I was halfway around my Longridge walk when I started noticing the substantial stone-built houses.

Longridge, apart from its agricultural surroundings, was built on the proceeds of cotton mills and quarries. We have a mix of workers’ stone terraces and grander large houses built by the owners and managers.

I have mentioned the stone quarries before, and perhaps I need to enlarge the topic sometime, as well as the mills and spinning rooms. But today just a few photos of the stone houses.

It’s getting dark and the village is lighting up for Christmas shopping. I lived in one of those stone houses in the ’70s.

A VIEW FROM THE ‘RIDGE.

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Up here in Lancashire, we missed most of Storm Bert’s venom. There were a couple of days of icy weather and then lots of rain. I escaped from Chorley Hospital yesterday without any serious problems. Time to get out for a walk.

My morning was taken by awkward ‘joinery’ to enlarge the hole for Seth’s new cat flap. There are intruders on the prowl, one particular cat seems to spend most of his time in my garden and has gained entry into my house on a couple of occasions. Not what I want. With all the new houses in Longridge there are more cats about, not to mention dogs. I took the plunge and ordered an electronic cat flap that would only open to Seth’s chip. It’s arrived, and I try to decipher the instructions for programming and installing. It was easy to program, and Seth duly obliged and walked through it. That was yesterday. Today, I started on the installation, and I’m not finished yet.

The day is disappearing and I need to get out and make the most of the forecast. After all the rain, I think I’ll just opt for a road circuit up the fell. One I have done so many times. I bump into JD on the way, and we join forces for a modest stroll.

Here are a few photos taken on my phone as we progressed.

Craig Y in the strange light.

Looking out over the houses to the Ribble Valley and beyond.  

 

A deserted Golf Course was closed because of flooding.

 

Cowley Brook Plantation.   

 

Distant Pendle.

 

Fairsnape/Totridge group across the valley.

 

Looking out over Longridge reservoirs and the Fylde.  

 

Sainsbury’s sunset.  

A short walk of under five miles, the sun was setting by the time we returned. Nothing dramatic but we put the world to rights, which is a good thing.

I’ll finish off the cat flap tomorrow.

Bleasdale with BC

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Tuesday 12th November 2024 Kemple End has been a fantasy location for a number of years with its quirky name tickling my imagination. Bowland Climber has mentioned it many times during our years of walking together but it has remained a kind of mystery for me, even to my questioning its actual existence, and somehow we…

Click to view

Bleasdale with BC

I didn’t have time to write this one,  so I’m grateful for Sir Hugh’s version.

I have one photo to add. Sir Hugh on the slippery slope. It is more straightforward to climb back up than descend.

GOOD DAY SUNSHINE.

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As a counterpoint to Mike’s recent post, Seven Rooms of Gloom, which was published only a day ago,  https://wordpress.com/read/feeds/147350/posts/5450048239   this will raise your spirits. The gloom has gone.

My spirits are raised this morning as the sun appears for the first time in a fortnight. I have a few jobs to complete before I go away later in the week, but soon after lunch I’m up on the fell. I park up at Crowshaw Quarry, the scene of Probes’ brilliant new boulder problem last week. There is a good view of Pendle from up here, one for another time.

I take the small track, leaving the road just down from the parking. Years ago, this was the start of one of my regular fell runs. In fact, so many years ago, that the mature plantations hereabouts were cut down, and a new one planted, which is itself coming slowly to maturity. Forestry coming full cycle.

I haven’t been up this way for a few months, and I notice the increased erosion caused by mountain bikes with fatter wheels and, in many cases,  electric assistance. I commented about this recently, so will let it drop today – after all the sun is shining.

Onwards through the trees towards the infant Brownslow Brook, where I brought my children and then my grandchildren to learn the art of dam building. As I said, I haven’t been this way for a while, and there ahead of me is another recently harvested area of forest, it does look unsightly. As you climb the hill away from the bridge, the track everybody uses goes through mature beech and pine trees. But now, one of those metal gates has appeared, suggesting the path goes up to the right of the fence towards Green Thorn farm. Looking at the map, the original PRofW does go that way. Let’s see what the ‘path’ is like. For a start, the gate, which must only have been up a few weeks, isn’t shutting correctly because one of the uprights isn’t vertical and is wobbling in the soft ground. The contractors have strimmed a corridor through the reeds, but the ground is boggy and will deteriorate quickly with much footfall. I suspect most regulars will use the well-worn path through the trees.  The PRofW, which was long abandoned, went up to the farmhouse, but now another metal gate brings one out of their land, bypassing the farm, back onto the forest path. What a waste of money.  Red dots on this map show the gates and the alternative paths. Time will tell.

I soon reach one of the main forestry roads but continue straight across and up on a smaller path through a felled area. Strange birds fly overhead. Yesterday, I managed to mangle my camera’s zoom lens, which I suspect is beyond repair, so now relying on my phone. 


 I have thoughts of continuing to the trig point but can’t face the struggle through the fallen trees and all the mud. I’m content to stroll back along the forest road; just look at that blue sky.
Confusion creeps in at another recent area of felling. It is surprising how different things look when the trees I’ve walked past for countless years are gone. But Pendle is always there…

…as is my favourite beech.

***

I can’t believe it, but people are coming out of Sainsbury’s with Christmas Trees.

NEW ROUTES GALORE.

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I’m catching up on some news while recovering from my second cataract operation. I am full of admiration for the surgeon’s skill. Please excuse any typos; I still haven’t regained full stereoscopic vision.

In the last few years, I have mentioned climbing with my mate Mark on a ‘secret’ crag high in Mallerstang in the upper Eden Valley. I showed the odd photo but never gave away the location.

I played only a small supporting role in developing this lovely crag, but I enjoyed the exploratory nature of the climbing very much. The epic walk up to the crag. The peace and isolation of the fell. The views down into Mallerstang and, in the distance, to many Pennine and Howgill Peaks. The occasional train trundling down the valley, even a low-flying Dakota or microlight passing by. We had a hidden cave where we could store gear and ropes to lessen the load on our walk-up.  Hammering in those belay stakes and then abseiling to clean those soaring cracks. On one occasion, when a large block came careening towards me, I dodged at the last moment—freezing and baking in the same month—the best company with Mark, Jude, and other friends.

The Neb, Wild Boar Fell.

Our stash.

Main Wall area.

First ascent of
Flakey HVS 5a

Narrow Buttress. E1 5b

Upper Malerstang.

Well, he has now published his exploits on UKC under the title ‘Wild Boar Fell’. There is also a new Fell and Rock mini-guide to the Eden Valley, due to be published, which will include the routes on Wild Boar Fell. In the meantime, here is Mark’s interim guide https://bowlandclimber.com/wp-content/uploads/2024/10/Wild-Boar-Fell-Both-sections-8.pdf

Just look at the opening photo. You would enjoy a day’s climbing up there.

*

On a different scale, up on Longridge Fell above Craig Y is a secluded quarry, Crowshaw, which is much more accessible.

We have been climbing in there for a few years now. Robin Mueller started the ball rolling with exciting boulder problems on the curiously shaped right wall.

There is a video of his exploits. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f2M1Oc3G-JQ&    https://youtu.be/f2M1Oc3G-JQ

I returned and cleaned up the slab right of his passages, then the lower walls to the left, which offered some easier boulder problems.

I had my eye on a 15-foot rock tower, but there was a nasty, pointed boulder below it. This was duly displaced with crowbars. Yes, I know we are mad. I played around bouldering out the start, but committing to more complex moves was getting me too far off the ground. I enlisted the help of Mark, of Wild Boar fame above, and he came over to belay me in September 2015. I was glad of the rope and protection on what turned out to be a decent climb – Tweeter And the Monkey Man, about VS 5a. We noticed the imposing blank wall to its right.  My musical post describes the evening.

Tweeter, with that steep wall to its right.

My attention drifted back to the left walls again. That night, both Mark and I had attempted a high-level right-to-left traverse along the lip without success. Where the footholds ran out, it became technical and strenuous. I seem to remember I was going to France the next day, so I didn’t want to end up with a broken ankle.

I couldn’t let it rest, so I was back in August 2016 with Dor as my spotter and protagonist. I needed that to progress and eventually complete the End of the Line. V2.    https://bowlandclimber.com/2016/08/27/its-the-end-of-the-line/

That steep wall still attracted me, but after putting a rope down it, I realised it was way too hard. I did give the ‘Friend’ slots a clean, thinking somebody may lead it. That’s how it stayed for years; not many knew of the quarry or visited it. Local climber Paul of  https://crusherholds.co.uk/ has done everything at CraigY, so I thought I would show him my wall. He was impressed, but we never got around to trying it until this year, when, with a new bouldering guide coming out, he bit the bullet.

Days of rain came and went; there was a short window in the weather for one afternoon. We met up, and I rigged a top rope for him to look at the problem. Tenous moves off layback creases and minuscule footholds had him off the ground. The following moves past slopers were obviously the crux; he struggled with the sequence. Eventually, opting for a slap through past the worst hold. It all looked very insecure, and his success rate was only average. Once at the slot, he said it was OK to the top. I suggested a roped lead with some gear at half height, but as he explained, that was past the difficulties, and he was confident of the upper section.

We moved the ropes, and I got set to spot him on the first difficult section.  That is when we realise that if he fell, we would both probably disappear down the steep, bramble slope below us. So I tied into the ropes and hung above the drop. The pads covered the base adequately. On came the tight edging shoes to cope with the ripples masquerading as footholds. The finger laybacks somehow kept him on until poised below the crux slaps. This time, his right hand didn’t connect well, and I could see his tendons straining to keep contact before the next slap. Only just made it. But then it was a triumphant romp to the top.    Probing the Proud Line 7a+

It rained for the rest of the month.

There remains a sneaky little line to the left, if anybody fancies it before Probes has another look.