Tag Archives: Longridge

THE LONGRIDGE POSTIE WALK.

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  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.

1847
1895

 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. 

*

VISITING THE RELATIVES.

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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. 

*

TO CATCH A MOTH.

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

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

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

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

The big switch on.

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

I think this is a Large Yellow Underwing.

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

And I think this is a Dusky Thorn.

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

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

A Copper Underwing.

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

Canary Shouldered Thorn.  

 

Puss Moth.

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

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

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

Hebrew Character. 

 

Flame Shoulder.

 

Gold Spot. 

 

Rosy Rustic.

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

SHOWERS WITH SUNNY SPELLS.

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A favourite phrase for the TV weather forecaster.

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

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

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

Hidden Bowland fells.

Hidden Longridge Fell.

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

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

At the road entrance, they were erecting new signage.

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

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

SIMPLE PLEASURES.

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

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

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

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

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

Simple pleasures.

ON MY DOORSTEP.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*

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

GARDENING LEAVE.

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

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

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

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

THE GARLIC SOUP THAT NEARLY KILLED ME. Part two.

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The outcome.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Further lessons learnt.

Maybe buy tinned soup.

Check the house for trip hazards.

Consider an external key safe.

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

Oh, for a quiet life.

THE GARLIC SOUP THAT NEARLY KILLED ME. Part One.

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

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

*

It all began very pleasantly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lessons learnt so far.

Don’t pick wild garlic.

Be more careful on wet surfaces.

Have your phone handsets charged up.

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

OUR HOME FELL.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

The lane leading to the fell, seen high above.

 

There is a sheep in there somewhere.

The Newdrop.

 

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

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

The new lord of the manor’s gates…

…and his welcoming signs.

That lethal barbed wire fence.

Picking a way through storm damage.

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

Identifying Wood Sorrel.

***

Our route from the village.

DOUBLE TROUBLE.

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Introducing Dusty and Oscar.

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

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

Friday.

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

Saturday.

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

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

Sunday.

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

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

A busy day for them.

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

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

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

They both are chipped without any fuss.

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

Let’s see what the coming weeks bring.

BIRTHDAY FAMILY FUN.

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A self-indulgent post.

Birthdays come around every year. This year, we decided to celebrate as a family. A quiet getaway for us to meet up without too much fuss; no surprises, balloons or embarrassing kissagrams.

For some time since it reopened, I have enjoyed eating at the Cross Keys Inn at Whitechapel.  I refer to its reincarnation in recent years. There has been a Cross Keys here for over a century; it was known affectionately to locals, tongue in cheek, as the Dorchester. 

The original building was a farm called Lower Oakenhead, dating back to the mid-1700s. Sometime in the first half of the 19th century, the owners expanded into the licensed trade, and the property became a coaching inn, The Cross Keys, that operated alongside the farm. When I used to visit it in the 70s/80s, three Hesketh brothers ran the farm and inn. Often, you couldn’t get a drink until they had finished milking. I remember the pool table, open fireplace and dominoes. The brothers needed to retire to bed early for the morning’s milking but would leave the bar open with an honesty box. As well as beer, they strangely sold Uncle Joe’s Mint Balls.

 

ttps://chorleyinnsandtaverns.blogspot.com/p/goosnargh-whitechapel-cross-keys-inn.html

It closed eventually in 2004 and was bought in 2009 by a local builder, John Holden. He slowly renovated the inn and commenced on converting the stables, cowsaheds and storerooms into holiday lets. Reopening in 2021: The postal address of the holiday properties has been renamed Dorchester Drive in deference to its history. 

It seemed the perfect place for a family gathering, so I reserved two lodges for the weekend, with the original intention that the dogs could accompany us. Booking the meal arrangements was slightly marred by my inability to drive; I like to do things face-to-face, and telephone conversations were vague regarding seating. Eventually, a friend gave me a lift up there, and I made final arrangements but without the dogs for various reasons. At least once we were there, cars wouldn’t be needed for the weekend.

Our small family, eight of us, met up there on the Friday evening; to my relief, the lodges were spacious and luxurious. Across at the inn, we were soon seated at a table adjacent to the bar, which was extremely busy and noisy with Friday night drinkers. I’m glad I’d arranged for us to be in the separate room where we could hear ourselves talk. The evening went well, with everybody enjoying the meal and atmosphere. We retired to one of the lodges for family games.

Breakfast was served for us the next morning, and it was excellent. 

The plan for the day was to walk five or six miles from the Inn without having to drive, but on returning to our lodge, the key no longer worked in my hand or all the other family members who thought they had the knack. Back to the bar. Dan, the man, came to investigate but couldn’t do any better. He phoned the property owner’s representative, but she was at the hairdresser’s. Don’t worry; it will all be sorted by the time you return from your walk. But no, all the stuff we need is in the lodge—another call to the building firm that owns the complex. John was around in no time. His key didn’t work either. A call to his friend, the locksmith, was thwarted by his attendance at a football match. He then called brother Chris to help out. By now, there was a crowd outside watching the proceedings and giving advice.

 An increasing arsenal of heavy-duty tools was employed to break through the door’s bottom panel. Burglars look away. J and C managed to remove it, with J flying through the hole created, much to the amusement and applause of the crowd.

We retrieved the gear we needed for the day’s walk and left the scene of devastation.

The planned walk across fields directly from the inn went well.

Soon, we were down to the bridge over the River Brock. There was very little water in the river.

The valley was busy with families and dog walkers. We looked a mottley lot.An earth slide proved popular with children and my not-so-young grandsons.

Leaving the river, we went through fields to come out at the base of Beacon Fell. The fun included grass whistling, a forgotten art… … and impromptu rounders.

Tree hugging is de rigueur with my family. And there were some grand trees to hug.

The trig point had to be visited.
More fun was had on the gymnastic apparatus.

Some of us walked down the snake.

and of course, the cafe for coffee and ice creams. We were lucky to have a sunny day.

The route back down the fell passed through the interesting houses of Crombleholme.

I knew the path direct to the Cross Keys was usually boggy, and so it proved today, but everyone enjoyed the challenge. A few added to the challenge by jumping the streams.

Some of us went to look around the nearby churchyard to seek out a C18th sundial. The church itself was locked.

Back at the lodges, most of us had a snooze before reconvening for pre-dinner drinks.

Another successful meal followed in the much quieter dining room. The food and staff were excellent. Back to the apartment for more fun and games, although we were all tired, so retired at a sensible hour.

Sunday dawned drizzly, we packed up and returned to my house for breakfast/lunch. Cards and presents were opened. By now, it was dry, and so the whole family descended upon Craig Y Longridge, the local bouldering venue. The three grandchildren were performing feats way beyond my ability. But I did manage to cling on with my bad hand long enough for a group photo.

What a successful weekend, thanks to my family. You’re not twenty-one every year.

What’s the secret to growing old gracefully?

Time
Health
A quiet mind
Slow mornings
Ability to travel
Rest without guilt
A good night’s sleep
Calm and boring days
Meaningful conversations
Home cooked meals
People you love
People who love you back

Ah, well, I’ll be back at the hospital tomorrow.

*

For the record, here is our recommended walking circuit of about six miles directly from the inn. 

COVID LOCKDOWN – FIVE YEARS ON.

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In late January 2020, I was staying in a pub in Stainforth, halfway through a Yorkshire Dales walk. It was Chinese New Year, and there was a Chinese Banquet on offer. My comment on my post that day – “There was talk in the bar of a new virulent virus spreading in China“

That virus crept up on us. And by March, we were locked down, a new addition to the dictionary. Perhaps, in hindsight, we should have reacted sooner, but as they say, hindsight is a wonderful thing; foresight is what is needed.

It started slowly.

30 January – The first two cases of COVID-19 in the United Kingdom are confirmed: two Chinese nationals staying in York.

4 March. The total number of confirmed cases 27.

5 March.    The first death from COVID-19 in the UK is confirmed, as the number of cases exceeds100.

10 March. HM Government allows the Cheltenham Festival to go ahead.

16 March. PM says, “Now is the time for everyone to stop non-essential contact and travel”

19 March. PM says the UK can “turn tide of coronavirus” in 12 weeks.

20 March. Cafes, pubs and restaurants to close.

23 March, PM announces lockdown in the UK, ordering people to “stay at home”

16 April. Lockdown extended for ‘at least’ three weeks.

30 April. PM says, “We are past the peak” of the pandemic.

Two metres social distancing. Work from Home. Eat out to help out. Rule of six. Face masks. Three Tier System. And so it went on with second and third lockdowns.

Looking back at my posts, I started to self-isolate in February 2020. I was in a vulnerable group for various reasons and was thinking ahead of the government. My walking became restricted to my immediate locality, but I still valued daily exercise. I was lucky that on my doorstep was accessible countryside, and I made the best of local footpaths, avoiding most people.

Today, I revisited one of those local walks. What has changed in five years?

Most evidently, there is a significant housing development on this side of town. Inglewhite Meadows is its ironic name.

As I walk away from town, more expensive bungalows are lining Inglewhite Road.

Have a read and compare photos from five years ago.    https://bowlandclimber.com/2020/04/20/a-bitter-taste-in-my-mouth/

 These new stiles have started to appear around the district.

I am glad to get onto the quieter Ashley Lane. Even here, two ‘executive houses’ have been completed and occupied. There is no such thing as a green belt any more; anything goes. Just follow the money.

At last, I’m in the fields, and all is peace and quiet, just as it was in lockdown. Not many people use these paths anymore. I follow my instincts and eventually hit the footbridge across the stream, Mill Brook. There was once a mill further downstream near Goosnargh.  The farmer sees fit to dump his waste in the field.

March Hares are popping up all over the place, and in the trees, the starlings are preparing for a murmuration I only just briefly catch..

Going back on myself, I recross the stream and head up to the waterboard pumphouse. From up here, the hills are reassuringly the same.

The Bowland Hills.

 

Longridge Fell.

Now enclosed by a new fence, I head towards the road. I’m sure these two were here before. https://bowlandclimber.com/2021/01/18/a-quiet-sunday/  

The stile onto the busy road is lethal; you are in danger of stepping straight into the traffic.

I stroll back home, three miles completed and glad of the freedom we now enjoy. But could it all happen again?

I’ve enjoyed reading back through my old posts from that period and how we all managed.

***

THE STEEP SIDE OF LONGRIDGE FELL.

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 Longridge Fell is an example of a cuesta; the ridge has a sharp drop or escarpment on its northern side and a gentler slope on its southern side.

Today, I was tackling that steep northern side.

A tardy start to the day meant I was too late for journying to East Lancs to continue my Manchester ‘pilgrimage’. But the forecast was too good to miss, so a quick change of plan sees me catching the number 5 bus to Chipping; there is a stop on my corner. There are only two of us heading to Chipping.

The bus turnaround is next to St Bartholomew’s Church; I wander into the graveyard to pay my respects to Lizzy Dean, whose tragic story I have mentioned several times in these pages. Her gravestone is under the ancient yew tree. The church was established before 1230 and rebuilt in 1506, so one can only guess the tree’s age.

Lizzie was a maid living in the Sun in the year 1835. She met up with a local lad who claimed the deepest love for her and proposed to her, and she gladly accepted. However, two days before the wedding, James told Lizzie he had fallen in love with her friend Elsie and called off their wedding day. He now planned to marry Elsie in the church opposite.

On the wedding day,  Lizzie went up to the pub attic overlooking the churchyard. She wrote a suicide note, placed a rope around her neck, and died. The note in her fist read, “I want to be buried at the entrance to the church so my lover and my best friend will always have to walk past my grave every time they go to church.”

The story doesn’t end there. For almost 200 years, the ghost of Lizzie has haunted the Sun Inn and the churchyard opposite. Just ask anyone in the village.

A cyclist who had passed me back in Longridge whilst I was waiting for the bus is attending a grave. We exchange pleasantries. It turns out to be his parents’ grave. All his family came from Chipping, and many worked in the nearby Berry chair factory. He points out the adjacent grave where two of his uncles are buried following a car crash in Longridge in 1973. Three chairworkers died in that accident.   http://kirkmill.org.uk/workmates-killed-in-tragic-accident-december-1973/

He is cycling back to Garstang while I am heading for the fell, which I can see plainly across the vale to the south—first, a stroll down historic Windy Street.


Once out of the village, I pick up a field track by the bridge over Chipping Brook. I have never found the paths easy to follow in this area, but today, things have improved by the way marking for the relatively new Ribble Valley Jubilee Trail.  https://www.ribblevalley.gov.uk/mayor-1/mayors-walk    

Strangely, all the gates and stiles have been dismantled, leaving free passage for animals between the fields leading to Pale Farm, and they have certainly curned up the wet ground. Lapwings are heard but not seen, but March Hares bound out in front of me. Some convoluted ‘diversions’, well signed, lead me past the next habitations.

Alongside these fields, a new wastewater treatment works is being constructed, a significant undertaking in the valley. 

I then strike out across ready fields, aiming for a footbridge over the infant Loud with the steep slopes of Longridge Fell looming up above. Cardwell House, my destination, can be clearly seen at the top.
Continue reading →

NEWS FROM LONGRIDGE.

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Most of my recent walks have been, out of necessity, around the village. A lot is going on, and there are plenty of people to chat with, both old and new acquaintances. Longridge has virtually doubled in size in the last decade; I would be interested to see the statistics. The traffic has more than doubled, and queues of cars are a regular sight at busy junctions. I wonder where all the lorries come from and are going to. Last week, some roads were at a standstill because of road works and temporary traffic lights.

I am slowly exploring the new estates but keep getting lost and coming out where I went in. I must check online maps to see how quickly these streets make an appearance.

Away from the hustle and bustle, up in John Smith’s Park, there is a new addition I am keen to see. So, after one of our fell road walks, JD and I divert slightly into the park.

Longridge is about to join a small number of pioneering towns and villages across Britain with a micro-wood, or Miyawaki micro forest. Miyawaki forests are named after their creator, Japanese botanist Akira Miyawaki. He developed a method in the 1970s to restore native forests.

These micro-forests use only native species naturally occurring in the local ecosystem. The method typically involves planting closely a diverse mix of native species into prepared and enhanced fertile ground. This woodland will mature in 30 years, compared to the 200 years it usually takes.

Last weekend, volunteers planted over a thousand trees into the enclosure. 

It is difficult to make out all those little saplings, but over half a dozen native species are represented. There has been some rock landscaping created around the site, and it is good to see a new addition to the ‘Slate poems’ propped up amongst them. 

Here is the full version of the C19th American Lucy Larcom’s poem.

He who plants a tree
Plants a hope.
Rootlets up through fibres blindly grope;
Leaves unfold into horizons free.
So man’s life must climb
From the clods of time
Unto heavens sublime.
Canst thou prophesy, thou little tree,
What the glory of thy boughs shall be?

He who plants a tree
Plants a joy;
Plants a comfort that will never cloy;
Every day a fresh reality,
Beautiful and strong,
To whose shelter throng
Creatures blithe wih song.
If thou couldst but know, thou happy tree,
Of the bliss that shall inhabit thee!

He who plants a tree,–
He plants peace.
Under its green curtains jargons cease.
Leaf and zephyr murmur soothingly;
Shadows soft with sleep
Down tired eyelids creep,
Balm of slumber deep.
Never has thou dreamed, thou blessèd tree,
Of the benediction thou shalt be.

He who plants a tree,–
He plants youth;
Vigor won for centuries in sooth;
Life of time, that hints eternity!
Boughs their strength uprear:
New shoots, every year,
On old growths appear;
Thou shalt teach the ages, sturdy tree,
Youth of soul is immortality.

***

Over in another park, ‘The Rec’ a further project is underway. Our brand new Pump Track. 

“A pump track is a circuit of rollers, banked turns and other features designed to be ridden by riders ‘pumping’ their bodies up and down to create momentum.

They are an increasingly popular way to exercise while developing balance and handling skills in a safe environment, away from traffic and other dangers”.

The track aims to provide a fun and exciting place for users of all ages and be a community asset for generations to come. It will be suitable for bicycles, scooters, rollerblades, skateboards and wheelchairs. Grass, wildflowers and native trees will be planted in and around the circuit to help it blend in with its setting, 

Today, they are busy tarmacking.

Now, the Rec has a pump track, a skateboard track, a children’s playground and a fitness apparatus circuit. Very respectable for a small town, I no longer feel it is a village. I look forward to its onward progress.

If the weather settles, I will be back out on my Lancashire ‘pilgrimage’ before long.

THREE IN A ROW.

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The weather holds, my hand is no better, but again, for the third day, I am lucky. My son and partner come up to see me. They bring their two boisterous dogs; there is no Seth to keep them under control this time. The answer is to take them for a walk when they arrive. So once again, I have a lift up to the fell and people to keep an eye on me if any problems arise. I hate to be fussed over, as I feel perfectly well. It’s just my hand that hangs uselessly from its wrist.Cowley Brook Plantation on the fell is our usual destination with the dogs.They seem to recognise it now after many visits, and once through the gate, they are off lead, chasing whatever scents they pick up. There are deer up here, possibly foxes and traces of other dogs to explore.Disappointing to see so many dog poo bags discarded in the first hundred yards. Time for a litter pick foray before things deteriorate and the morons think it the norm. I’m not sure when I will be able to get back up here as I can’t drive.It’s a cold, breezy morning with the wind moaning through the trees. Even more have come down since my last visit, and some are precariously lodged against others, not the safest place to be in a gale.Our usual round is giving the dogs a chance for some wild water swimming. Dogs don’t stay still for long for their portraits.

At least we have worn them out. Back home for some pasta and salad before the family heads to Manchester.I do appreciate all the well wishes and help I’ve received these last few days. Being able to walk up the Fell is so beneficial to me.

A LOCAL RAMBLE.

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What a beautiful day again. It was a frosty start but full sun, blue skies and no wind.  Perfect for a walk. Again, I’m in luck. I have a phone call from a friend, C, suggesting coffee and maybe a walk. She knows of my predicament.

My ‘pilgrimage’ to Manchester is on hold; I would probably have been there by now, given the settled weather. But I’m delighted to be able to get out; my left hand is still useless, so I feel safer with the company.

After a coffee and a catchup, we set off on some of the lanes in Thornley.

Ferrari’s Country Inn has been in the same family for years but has recently been sold to Elle R Leisure, which owns other hotels and dining venues in the NW. Originally named Blackmoss House, it was built by the Earl of Derby in 1830 and was previously used as a shooting lodge. It was part of the Derby Estates until the late 1970s when it was taken over by the Ferrari family and transformed into a wedding venue. The new owners will name it Longridge House, which I think is a bit tame and has no real connectivity. Why not Blackmoss House or Hotel?

Today, there is much building activity in progress. It looks like an extension into the garden may be planned—lots of rubble, skips full of redundant goods, and burning mattresses. We poke into the skips and find whole dinner sets of white crockery. What a waste when they could have gone to charity. We speak to the friendly foreman who says we can help ourselves to whatever. (I just had a message from C to say that a carload is already on the way to the charity shops)

We walk on away from the acrid smoke. Across the fields, more massive ‘agricultural’ buildings have appeared. There is speculation about their use; a red glow surrounds them at night! The plot thickens.

Friends live in a cottage on the ridge above; we can see his house from here. I’ll have to ask them for information. I need to visit them sometime, possibly to acquire another couple of kittens. Here is the collection from a week ago.
The fields around Blackmoss are studded with molehills; some look ginormous.

On the road, we cross Gill Bridge over the infant Loud. We discuss the strange watershed hereabouts, which has the Loud flowing eastwards away from the coast to join the Hodder, which loops all the way around Longridge Fell to join the Ribble before reaching the coast. Meanwhile, streams just to the west, Sparling Brook and Westfield Brook, flow directly to the Wyre and out to sea, a much shorter and direct route.

In geological history, the Hodder did not flow eastward around Longridge Fell to join the River Ribble but instead ran westward along the Loud Valley from Doeford Bridge to the Derby Arms north of Longridge, continuing south-westward through Halfpenny Lane on the west side of Longridge to join either Blundell Brook past Broughton church and Woodplumpton to join the River Wyre, or else Savick Brook through Fulwood to join the River Ribble  (Wikishire)

No explanation for this is given. I have read somewhere that glacial deposits blocked the Hodder in a previous ice age, creating the watershed and the present flow of water. The other is that the earth’s crust buckled or tilted to create the division.

Taking to the fields, we head back. Going in the opposite direction to my usual sorties, my navigation is not up to scratch. Along here somewhere, we lose contact with C’s dog, causing some consternation for a while. Of course, she comes bounding back as though nothing had happened. Safely on the lead now through the farm, along Clay Lane and onto the roadside pavement.

Longridge Fell, looming above.

We part company at Mile Lane, which I follow up into the park.

I want to see a new tree planting here. Here is the idea.

Longridge Environment Group

We are delighted to share that Longridge is about to join a small number of pioneering towns and villages across Britain with a micro-wood, or Miyawaki micro forest, at John Smith’s Playing Field. Led by Lancashire County Council’s Treescapes initiative, experts in this approach to ecology, and supported by Longridge Environment Group.

 A miniature woodland, about the size of a tennis court, which is planted with native trees at ultra-high density on a specially prepared plot. To protect the tiny young trees from damage by deer and other browsing animals, the plot is ringfenced by chestnut paling.
Woodland soils have a fundamentally different character from those in grasslands. When trees are planted directly into grassland soils, they often have a higher failure (death) rate than those planted in woodlands. While most survive, they’re vulnerable to disease and drought stress and grow very slowly, as they expend so much energy on simply staying alive and healthy.
In a micro-wood, the trees are planted into a specially prepared plot, where the ground has been modified to create conditions much better suited to young trees. First, the turf is inverted, burying the vigorous grass and competing for nutrients with the trees. Then, the ground is cultivated to loosen the soil. This opens up air pockets, allowing water to percolate through the root zone, trapping warmth and allowing the roots to grow without forcing their way through cold, compacted soil. We then add about ten tonnes of organic matter, usually spent mushroom compost or well-rotted manure, topped off with about the same quantity of bark mulch. As well as fertilising the trees, this provides an instant home to the fungi, microbes and invertebrates that form the rich ecosystem supporting the trees. The mulch will also seal in water, be invaluable in hot, dry spells, and suppress competitive weeds, replicating the effect of leaf litter on a woodland floor.
When we plant the trees, we first dip them in a gloop infused with mycorrhizal fungi, enabling them to tap into soil nutrients more efficiently. The soil now resembles that of a woodland rather than a field. Conventional tree planting is carried out at a much lower density. However, when woodlands form naturally, the trees often grow at very high density. The trees that thrive initially aren’t usually the ones that create the mature woodland canopy. Species such as rowan, birch and hawthorn often grow much more vigorously than oaks in the first few years. These “pioneer” species act as a nurse crop for the trees that will later form the “climax” canopy of the mature woodland. The species mix for Longridge’s microwood includes pioneer and climax species and the small trees and shrubs forming the underwood of trees growing below the canopy.
 We follow the theory of potential natural vegetation, devised by Prof Akira Miyawaki, who advised this woodland creation technique in Japan in the 1970s. In a nutshell, we plant the assemblage of trees in the correct proportions that we think would grow on a site, with a few compromises if natural processes were allowed to take hold. We don’t plant sycamore because it will get there anyway, and we don’t plant ash or elm because of the diseases they’re suffering from.
Once the roots have become acclimatised, the trees will proliferate from late spring. Expect rowan, elder and other pioneer species to get going first. The odd one may put on over 1.5m in the first growing season. Some trees may even produce flowers and fruit in year one. The trees will form a dense thicket within two or three years. This will provide a home to vast numbers of insects and other invertebrates. These animals are the larder newly hatched songbirds, bats, hedgehogs, frogs, toads and newts. In time, a pair or two of breeding songbirds may nest there, and amphibians will find it a safe and sheltered place to hibernate.
 
They haven’t planted any trees yet, but the site looks tidy and prepared with mulch and bark. I’m not sure the fence is high enough to keep out deer. it will be interesting to see how this project develops.
 
My next port of call is JD’s house. Again, more coffee and catchup.
He accompanies me back, taking me through the new housing estate, which is far more extensive than seen from the road. Parts of it are quite attractive, with great views across to the Bowland Hills – for now. There seems to be an adequate number of ‘affordable’ properties, some of them bungalows suitable for the elderly.

We part company at Sainsbury’s, and I return home after a decent and interesting ramble. It’s not been easy taking pictures on my phone one-handed.
 
I dine on soup from the freezer for the third night running. convenient and wholesome.

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.

***


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