Tag Archives: Longridge Fell

ON AND ON,,,

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

  Three months of my life drifted away. 

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

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

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

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

  On and on …

 

 *

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

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

ANOTHER WEEK DAWNS.

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

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

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

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

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

RAIN … careful what you ask for.

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

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

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

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

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

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

LET IT RAIN.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

Maybe tomorrow?

*

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

 *

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

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

*

 

Slowly Sinking, Miami. Isaac Cordal.

MUD, GLORIOUS MUD.

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

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

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

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

A NOSEY AROUND THE VILLAGE.

Is it a village or a town I wonder?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

 

 

A NEW YEAR. IN BOWLAND MEADOW.

 

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

*

  I had a busy and costly day yesterday. 

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

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

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

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

*

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

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

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

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

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

BAILEY’S LISTED BUILDINGS.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The farmer has a sizeable collection of scrap metal.

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

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

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

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

*

National Library of Scotland.

OUT OF THE ROUGH.

Dusty and Dinkley.

  In my last post, some time ago, I was in the rough.

  Well, I seem to have taken some time to escape. Out of nowhere, my throat became encased in sandpaper, and my voice struggled to function. A week of hot drinks, gargling and cough medicines ensured the bug didn’t get onto my chest, the main worry for us oldies. Disturbed sleep was mitigated with whisky. 

  Of course, there was that stormy Friday when one of my mature trees snapped in half, pulling with it a climbing rose I’ve had for 40 years with stems thicker than my arms. The devastation was evident from my kitchen window, but I was in no state to go out and sort it. 

  On the mend, I eventually ventured out with a chainsaw and loppers. But that rose was a nightmare; it would hook me up from all angles, taking lumps out of my jacket and skin. An hour a day was all I could manage—slow progress and still not all cleared. 

   For company, I would bring out my kittens to play in the garden. Oscar is becoming a proficient climber, while Dusty quarters the lawn, honing her skills in pursuit of insects.  I need to keep an eye on them as a tom from across the road is very aggressive towards them. 

  In a second, Oscar is up a tree, but little Dusty is chased out of the garden.

  That was the start of three days of worrying for her safety. I went around neighbours’ gardens and alleys, rattling tins and knocking on doors. I left bedding and a litter tray out to offer her some olfactory guide back. I resorted to a Facebook message. And it rained nonstop.  She was spotted in a garage but ran off, which gave me hope. But it was unlikely she would willingly return to my garden after the scare she had experienced. 

  To my joy, yesterday, after a vain morning search for her, she turned up in my porch. A lovely neighbour found her in their garage and coaxed her out. She was happy to be picked up and brought home. With relish, she tucks into a juicy chicken drumstick. Oscar is thrilled to see her, and we are now all having a cosy purring night together.

  I hope we are all out of the rough.

*

  Which is all a prelude to my walk today. It would have been easy to sink into another coffee and a book, but the sun shine beckons—time to get moving. I have in mind a gentle walk alongside the Ribble at Dinkley. 

  Surprisingly, I am the only car in the usually popular Marles Wood carpark. To vary the day and for an easy start, I just walk along the road to the pub and church at Old Langho. It’s a quiet stretch of road, and I relax into a gentle rhythm, enjoying the crisp air and sunshine. 

  I remember when this house was a pub, The Tanners Arms and then a Chinese Restaurant, Mr Foo’s? Allegedly, he lost the place playing mahjong. 

  I’m not sure when the next bus will come along here.

  I pause at the sandstone bridge over Dinkley Brook.

  My obligatory shot of Pendle, with his head in the clouds. 

  The Black Bull hasn’t opened yet, and there is a burial service at St. Leonards Church, so I move on. You can read more about the church and Brockhall Hospital cemetery here and here.  

  More lodges are being built on the adjacent site. I am soon through and dropping down to cross Dinckley Brook for the second time this morning.

  Once up the slope, I head for the cluster of houses. Dinckley is a scattered community. Rather than continue on the lane, which I’ve walked before, I fancy a footpath going past Cravens, which might give me a view from the hillside over the Ribble. I often feel anxious walking down private drives, but I needn’t have worried; a series of gates takes me through their yard and back out into fields. The views I hoped for don’t materialise due to a belt of woodland above Dinckley Hall, but I do look across to Longridge Fell above Hurst Green.

  And there is this stately oak.

  Wire fencing hems me in; its purpose becomes apparent at a gate. The wigwams are just visible on the skyline before I reach the road going down to the hall. 

  Now on familiar territory, I make my way past that lovely shiny new bridge, replacing a ferry and a previous suspension bridge, whose opening plaque from 1951 is still on display.

  Despite all the rain we have had, the river is running low, with the shingle beaches visible.  

  The flood debris left on the banks, some 10 feet or more above today’s level, is scary.

  The bridge is better viewed from this angle.

  As I say, the river is low and ambling along at a slow pace, which I happily go along with. Entering Marles Wood, the only leaves left are on the young beech trees.  

  The river picks up pace approaching the rapids, but bears no resemblance to when it is in full flow. The Wheel is barely turning.

  I sit on a rock, drinking my coffee, watching the river flow by; at peace with the world.

*

But never mind Dinckley, Dusty is the star of the show.

SPIRE HILL DESPOILMENTS.

I’m not sure what to make of the recent additions next to the trig point on Longridge Fell, Spire Hill. It must have been a few weeks since I’ve been up here. I didn’t intend to come here today.

I was intent on heading for a quiet way across the fells to the Nick of Pendle from Wiswell. But as I sit in the car about to set off, I realise the day is slipping away. Pendle can wait. I need to take advantage of this sunny day, so I quickly change plans and park up on one of the roads on  Longridge Fell.  It looks to be busy.

However, my way up the lane is unfrequented.

The open fell arrives on cue. Wild, rugged, and wet.

Gannow Fell, on open-access land. The local landowner seems to think differently.

At the next stile, I climb past the head-high barbed wire fence – a death trap to the deer that have lived up here for centuries.

Circling the forest, I arrive at the wall, where I join groups coming up from the Jeffrey Hill carpark. More join in, having climbed from the lower road more directly than I. It’s bound to be busy on a sunny Sunday.

Of course, the views to the north are stunning.

It is at the trig point that I am surprised by the recent additions of ‘Fell furniture’. A sturdy wooden bench has been built next to the wall, with a totally incongruous little coffee table attached. Worse is a structure incorporating a locked summit book and information on trig points, which is already disintegrating, that we don’t need. Anyone requiring information on trig points, whether specific or general, can find it on the OS Website.   A waste bin liner is attached – who is going to empty this? Generally, the summit of the fell is relatively litter-free, and I do a litter pick there every few weeks. I fear the bin liner will only attract litter because people will use it rather than take their rubbish home. The structure resembles a payment station found in carparks.

I want to get more photos of the installation, but a large group of ramblers arrives and takes over the summit. I move on.

I have questions to ask about these recent additions.

Who gave permission? Who is the landowner?

What does the Forest of Bowland AONB think? Was it consulted?

Is it appropriate on an open felt top?

What do local walkers who frequent these paths think?

To give the perpetrator due credit, he does leave his name. A Stewart Duxbury, who adopted the trig pillar when the OS were releasing them. But the fact that he has taken responsibility for the trig pillar doesn’t give him the right to interfere with the surrounding fell top. I hope he is reading this article, and I would be very happy to discuss the matter further with him. Why not arrange a meeting up there?

Away from the crowds, I find a new track dropping off the fell used by mountain bikers. Discretely constructed through the trees. Some of the jumps make me shudder.

I find a tree stump for a quiet lunch, hidden away only yards from one of the main forest tracks. 

Then it is down off the fell on the usual paths, yet another brilliant autumn day..

I would value any comments, as usual, particularly on my worries for the fell, especially from people who use Longridge Fell. I have no more right to the open countryside than anybody else, but I do try to respect it.

*

I CAN SEE YOUR HOUSE FROM HERE.

Another short murky November walk up onto Longridge Fell, this time after all the rain, I’m keeping to the roads, which fortunately, circuit the lower part of the fell straight out of the village. 

The end comes before the start, looking down from the heights onto the hazy village. I can see your house from here.

Autumn colours are constant companions as I stroll up the road running below the golf course.

I take off into Cowley Brook Plantation for some off-road walking and fungus hunting, don’t eat the Fly Agaric.

I like the contrasting colours of the autumnal Larch with the evergreens. 

When I emerge onto the fell road again, there a 100 yards in front of me is JD. He uses this circuit to keep fit and often tries to average 4mph. What are my chances of catching him? Fortunately, today is one of his leisurely walks, and I am able, with a bit of jogging, to come alongside, to his surprise, at the Jeffrey Hill parking.

The fells across the way disappear into the haze. Can you spot Fairsnape?. 

We amble back down the road, chatting away and hence few photos. 

But I think the top lodge looks idyllic.

And then I can see your house. 

THE LONGRIDGE POSTIE WALK.

  Is it a myth or a fact? 

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

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

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

 The day promises well.

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

  The track has the feel of an old way.

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

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

   This is from a previous post.

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

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

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

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

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

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

  The way is well provided with bridges and stiles.

 Even the odd clapper stone, no longer used.

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*

TWO FELLS. EASY EASINGTON AND WINDY WADDINGTON.

 The above shows Waddinton Fell on the left and Easington Fell on the right.

 The last thing I need when I’m trying to squeeze in an afternoon fell walk is a road closed sign.

 There is no quick way around Waddington, so it is even later, 1 pm, when I park up at the summit of the B6478 road over to Newton. This road doesn’t seem to have its own name, unlike nearby ‘The Trough’ or ‘Birdy Brow’. Long ago, we called it The Moorcock Road. But the Moorcock Inn has been gone for decades, replaced with private houses.

 Anyhow, I am here, the sun is shining, and the air is clear. I’m looking forward to a short fell excursion. Walking down the road from the parking, I pass Walloper Well. The fresh water flows continuously most of the year, passing cyclists often top up if they know about it. In the past, this would have been essential for horse-drawn carriages.

 My footpath leaves the road here, across boggy ground, and I wonder if it is the correct one as I flounder in the mire. Eventually, it becomes clearer and drier. I’ve been here many times, but not often in such brilliant conditions.

 Striding onwards, I don’t go to investigate Old Ned or The Wife, piles of stones on the moor. I’ve checked them out before, and they are just what the map says—piles of stones. I have never found an explanation for their origins.

The Wife?

  Leaving the Right of Way, I follow a quad bike track towards the summit of Easington Fell.  It’s all open access anyhow. The views open up in all directions, but most obviously towards the Yorkshire Three Peaks across the Craven Gap. A few stones mark the summit, a modest 396m.

 Turning around, I head back to the road. Initially, I had planned to extend the walk into Grindleton Forest, but looking at the time, I think better of it. The wind is increasing, and it is feeling quite cold. 

 Over to my left, across the Ribble Valley, Pendle looks as proud as ever.

 There is a clear track back after I get through the fell gate, which seems easier than usual.  A cross stile reminds me that the Lancashire Witches Way comes across here before heading into Bowland.

 All I have to do is follow the obvious track back to the road seen across the way. It is boggy but not too bad. Just wait until we have had some more rain. I’m aiming straight to the quarry at the summit of the road with Waddington Fell and its prominent mast behind. I can see my car clearly —the only one.

 On a whim, I decide to climb up onto Waddington Fell. But I first have to circumnavigate the extensive quarry, which is not in operation on weekends. Dropping down the road for some distance to a gate I know, which gives access onto the fell. It’s all supposed to be Open Access, but gates and walls get in my way. Nonetheless, I arrive at the trig point. Is it 395m or 396m, equalling Easington Fell, which I stood on less than an hour ago? I don’t care, as it is one of the best viewpoints in the area.

 360 degrees. Down Chipping Vale, The Bowland Fells and beyond, Yorkshire’s Three Peaks, Ribblesdale, and Pendle, obviously. My attempt at a whole-panorama shoot on my phone didn’t work out, so here are a few shots from my camera that don’t do it justice.

 The walk back is along the rim of the massive quarry.

Easington Fell in the background.

 A bonus as I make my way around are views down to the Hodder Valley with the village of Newton nestled in below Beatrix Fell.

 I’m still the only car parked up.

 A short but very satisfying afternoon. I’m relieved to be back in the car. On Waddinton Fell, I was exposed to a vicious wind, and the temperature dropped significantly—time to get the woolly hat and gloves out of the cupboard. And it is the end of British Summer Time for this year.

*

VISITING THE RELATIVES.

Chipping to Longridge.

 I remember visiting relations as a child in the fifties. I had to be on my best behaviour and speak only when spoken to. A lot of the time, I didn’t even know how they were related to me. My grandmother was one of thirteen, so there were so many great aunts to visit.  They always seemed to be great aunts rather than uncles.  Often, ‘Uncles’ and ‘Aunts’ were just close family friends. I survived the ordeals, and now sadly, all those relatives have passed away. I hope I didn’t subject my children to the same; at least family sizes have diminished somewhat.

 What am I waffling on about? You may remember I adopted two wild little kittens earlier in the year. Time moves on, and they are growing into fine young cats, still completely mad but a joy to be with. Their relatives live on the fell, and it is time I paid them a visit. So today I plan a walk which passes their house. I don’t take my kittens with me, I hasten to add.

Dusty and Oscar hanging out.

 I am able to catch a bus virtually from outside my house, which takes me to Chipping, from where I can walk back through the fields. Last time I did something similar, I came back over Longridge Fell, and I found it arduous.  This time I will keep to the foothills and visit the relations. 

 The buses run hourly. I board the 12.15, and I’m in Chipping in less than a quarter of an hour, quicker than I drive these country roads. Only three people use this service today, and yet the road is busy with cars travelling between the two villages. A few years ago, when the bus service was threatened with closure, there was a massive outcry from the local population. They haven’t learnt their lesson. 

 I don’t need to explore Chipping, which has been done many times. But I do call in at the church and pay my respects to Lizzie Dean. Listen to this local raconteur’s story. 

 Ignoring the delights of the Sun Inn, Cobblestone Cafe and the Farm Shop, I march on through the top of the village, past the village community centre and the period Club Row cottages to Three Way Ends.

 

 I pause to look back at the three sisters, Longridge Fell, Pendle and distant Weets Hill, lined up on the horizon. The changing light, particularly on this northern side of Longridge Fell, becomes an ever-present diversion throughout the walk.

 Then I take to the fields. Most of the time, the way is clear, even though it is not walked often. Rambling at its best. 

 Is there some racial segregation going on here?

 I have time to stop at different points to view the fells around me.

 I emerge onto a country lane, one of those around here that really go nowhere.

 Down the lane, there is an awkward stile to climb in the banking before the white house. Notice the iron railings placed on corners around here to improve visibility.

 Back in the fields, I’m heading initially to Crow Trees Farm, on the southern slopes of Elmridge Fell. Through a grove of trees, which I remember being planted.

  An old track skirts the fell, and a C18th milestone gives it some antiquity. Clitheroe is eight miles,  Blackburn and Garstang are etched on the other faces.

 I know I’m approaching my friends’ property when I see some decent Jumar cord replacing the farmers’ usual tatty baler twine.

  And there is the family.

  Tea is served before I move on, and familiar paths take me back to Longridge. 

An afternoon’s rural jaunt in Lancashire’s best and with a purpose. Let’s hope more like it can be squeezed in before winter. 

*

A BREATH OF FRESH AIR.

I’m mooching about back home after my recent enjoyable week’s walk on The Icknield Way, of which I completed about half the distance.  The weather has taken a turn for the worse with hefty rain for the last few days. But I am determined to get out this afternoon once the sun appears. I head up the fell for my favourite short circuit in the plantation.

Driving up, I couldn’t help but notice the floodwater on the Loud in the Chipping Vale below. That’s Beacon Fell in the background. The heather has lost its colour for this year, but it is still wet enough to soak my trainers and trousers as I push through it.

I start to notice all around fungi that have appeared with all the moisture of the week. I think these are Slippery Jack, but I won’t be taking any home for tea. 

I make my way through the trees; the bracken is beginning to die off, but you need to know where the path leads. By the time I get to the top, I’m virtually in the clouds. A silence has descended on the fell. I enjoy the solitude.

The views over the Ribble Valley are hazy.

More fungi appear under the conifers.

Reaching the main track, I bump into another Lonridge resident walking his dogs and searching for fungi. As we chat, we realise that at our feet are some baby puff balls.

I recommend to him and to you This Entangled Life, a book about “how fungi make our worlds, change our lives and shape our futures”. 

As I said, it was late in the day and not the best time to discover fungi; the slugs have discovered them already.

I persist and find some lovely Sulphur Tufts growing on a log.

This upright fellow, I think, is a Grisette which I’ve not come across before. 

Whilst I’m on my hands and knees below the trees, I come across this Reindeer Lichen growing on a branch. How beautiful is that?

And this rock appears to be painted white, but no, there is a lichen spreading over it.

I’m heading back down through the trees towards the brook, which is in a lively mode after all thec rain..

I get wet feet at my usual stepping stone crossing point. Driving back down the fell road, I see a glimmer of brightness over the Lancashire plain against the mug on the fell. 

Thats enough fresh air for today.

TRY AND TRY AGAIN.

I thought the noise from the A59 was increasing; we had not heard it all morning. And there it was, suddenly in front of us, with cars rushing past. This was not part of the plan; we should have been in quiet fields heading back to Worston. Halted in our tracks, out comes the map, and I realise my mistake. While chatting away on the easy lane, we had walked right past our footpath junction. Backtracking, we added half a mile to our walk. To make matters worse, that was the second time I had made a similar mistake this morning. I will annotate the map with a couple of red blobs, and I must try harder with my navigation.

After our unsuccessful walk a couple of weeks ago when non-existent stiles and cows defeated us, I come up with another idea for Mike’s exploration for his group’s walk. Starting from and finishing at a pub, no awkward stiles, no steep inclines or boggy hollows. I base my walk on one advertised in the Ribble Valley Walks with Taste leaflets. https://www.visitribblevalley.co.uk/things-to-do/walking/walks-with-taste/ 

With a few tweaks, I have a walk of the preferred 3.5 miles. Now, let’s try it out on the ground. I have walked most of these paths before, but that doesn’t always make them suitable for an elderly walking group. 

The quiet village of Worston is just off the busy A59, but it seems in a different world away from the hustle and bustle. It does not attract the tourists like nearby Downham, even on a bank holiday weekend. There is ample parking at the pub, The Calf’s Head.

I know my way through the squeeze stile onto the path alongside Worston Brook.  We are in limestone country at the foot of Pendle, and I search the walls unsuccessfully for crinoid fossils.

There is work afoot in the brook as though they are trying to alter the flow of the water, which sometimes floods the village.

Above us on Crow Hill, horses stand out in silhouette.

Ahead of us are Warren Hill and Worsaw Hill. These are all the remains of reef mounds, where calcium deposits built up on the Carboniferous sea bed. (not quite the same as Coral reefs, but that’s where the geology becomes too complicated for me) The last Ribble Valley ice sheet passed over and around these mounds and eroded weaker rocks, giving the rounded hills we see today. I’ve been up Worsaw Hill once, great views and a Bronze Age burial mound at its southern end. But today we are just concentrating on the path ahead.

We reach Worsaw End Farm without having to climb a stile, bonus points for me. This farm at the very base of Worsaw Hill and its barn are famous for being used as a location in the old black-and-white film Whistle Down the Wind, starring Hayley Mills. I have just spent an hour and a half watching the film on YouTube. I will link it in at the end of this post. Worth an atmospheric watch.  Jesus Christ, he’s only a fella. 

We walk on without any religious encounters. The lanes around here are virtually traffic-free. So quiet that I make my first mistake and wander on further than necessary, involving a retrace up the hill to try again at the field gate we missed. 

Back on track, we are walking on the bridleway connecting the farms below Pendle Hill on this western flank. Easy going past the historic Little Mearley Hall.


This oak could go onto my list of favourite trees. From up here, we have hazy, distant views of our familiar Kemple End and the BowlandFells.

But Pendle always takes prominence.

At Lane Side, we follow a track down the hillside. It has been recently stoned over and is not the most pleasant of surfaces for walking. But we manage to walk all the way down to the A59 without realising. 

Backtracking again.

After our second backtrack, the fields are followed easily back to Worston with only one stile to negotiate.

In my recent posts, I have been highlighting the proliferation of fruit and berries in our hedgerows this season. How’s this for a hawthorn bush?  

A pleasant green way leads to the village green, where there is a curiosity, a ‘bullring’ embedded in a stone. Was it used for bullbaiting? 

‘Bull Baiting’, by Henry Thomas Alken. 1820

We end up sitting in the beer garden of the Calf’s Head, enjoying a pint with Pendle ever present. Our walk has been a success. About 3.5 miles, only one stile, gentle gradients, points of interest and that stunning Ribble Valley scenery. We were not over enthusiastic about the artificial stony track down from Lane Side, and it might be worth exploring the bridleway coming down from Little Mearley Hall alongside Mearley Brook as an alternative. That gives us an excuse to come back to this quiet corner of Lancashire and another visit to the Calf’s Head beer garden. 

*

*

And as promised – 

THE CHANGING FACE OF THE COUNTRYSIDE.

My morning stroll takes me into Chipping Vale. On a four-mile walk deep in the Lancashire countryside, I don’t see a single cow in the fields.

Down the lane to Longridge House, their new sign is up. There is a touch of Autumn to the isle of chestnut trees. The renovations to the hotel are coming to a close. 

And then I’m in the fields. Mainly newly cut, looking very green against the backdrop of the Bowland Fells.

But look closely, and there is an Industrial landscape developing on the farms. Large sheds are being built everywhere, presumably, but I may be wrong, for housing cattle.

These industrial-scale sheds are transforming black Moss Farm.

Come back in six months and see the finished product. I walk on, rather mystified by the whole process and let my eyes take in the larger scene, first the Bowland Fells and then Longridge Fell. Nothing changes up there.

I’m heading for Knott Farm, which I have not visited since the farmer, whom I knew,  died a few years ago. There are some of those new gates, but not many people come this way.

The farmhouse has had some work done to it, but overall, the property looks abandoned and unloved. This was a living farm at one time in the same family for generations. The date stone says 1888.

I come out by the hard-working egg farm and cross straight over the main Chipping road and take fields and farm tracks to climb the lower slopes of Longridge Fell.

The Sloes and Rose Hips are ripening fast, a bumper crop this year.

I have time for some blackberry picking.

There is a footpath linking the farms lying halfway up the hill. It will have been used for many decades. The little clapper bridge is worn by the passage of countless feet and hooves.

And what a view from up at this modest elevation. But not an animal insight. I link the footpaths and little lanes past the farms.

I’ve never discovered what this is.

An English country garden.

Just for the record, in case AR is reading this, some farmers hang onto their vintage tractors.

As  I approach Little Town Farm, I realise all the cattle are under cover, hence my header photo. A huge square footage of sheds. The cows must be put out to graze from time to time, but the majority of the fields are cut for silage for winter, if not all year round, feeding. Four robotic machines do the milking of the 190 cows on this dairy farm.This is a progressive farm agriculturally and has also diversified into a farm shop, a cafe, and a garden centre. The needs of modern farming. And they are busy today, so it must be successful.

Things are changing, but I’m still privileged to live on the edge of this glorious countryside and glad to have you along. 

***

THE WEATHER FOR HEATHER.

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. 

SHOWERS WITH SUNNY SPELLS.

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.

WAYSIDE FLOWERS.

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.