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THE CLOUGH RIVER.

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“One walk leads to another” 

Back in July – was it really that long ago? – halfway through a walk Sir Hugh and I were sitting at a table drinking tea alongside a gurgling stream at Farfield Mill.  That stream was, in fact, the Clough River, just before it joins the Rawthey and heads off to Sedbergh. Neither of us had really known about it before.  Looking at the map, it arises at Garsdale Head, with a major feeder stream, Grisedale Beck, emerging from somewhere up on Baugh Fell. Why not follow it down the valley?

The bait was taken and a plan hatched.

Sir Hugh had already explored the upper reaches, namely Grisedale Beck. I had some catching up to do and had a wonderful day up there back in July.

So how come nearly three months has passed before we put our plan into action? Well first during the summer heat wave I suspected there would be little water flowing down the river, being on limestone some would have gone underground altogether  – let’s wait until we have had more rain, I may regret that decision when the valley is flooded. Then Sir Hugh discovered that the road, the A684 was closed for various repairs for weeks on end. They have just finished, we hope.

We will be using the two car system to create a linear walk. We originally planned it in two halves with deference to our to our ages, but as Sir Hugh has been pounding out the miles recently I wondered about doing it one push. But sense prevailed, lets enjoy it, we do not know what state the paths may be in.

Sir Hugh has already sourced a parking spot half way along the valley to leave our first car before driving up to Garsdale Head to begin the walk. It’s all downhill from there.

Roughly this will be our route. Lets start whilst the weather is still favourable, come along with us soon.

 

 

 

 

 

 

YORKSHIRE TRILOGY. Day three.

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Otley to Ilkley. Rural rambling.

The sun is shining through my window first thing, and up there is yesterday’s Chevin.  A yoghurt and banana, and I’m away early, for me.

The Wharfe at Otley is very attractive; there appear to be boats for hire. A sculpture representing an original Wharfedale printing press, commissioned to commemorate the Queen’s Diamond Jubilee, is an homage to Wharfedale’s printing history. 

I could happily live here next to the river.

It’s time to get on my way, and I follow Welcome Way roundels on little paths through housing estates to start with. I hesitate to say the waymarks were welcome.

Evidence suggests this was an ancient way.

Once out in the open fields, a sunken lane becomes obvious, at least to me.


 

Of course, as I gain height, I stop to take photos of Otley and its Chevin in the background.

The morning is fresh and vibrant with bird song, mainly from crows hidden in the trees. I try to record a video of the distinctive countryside sounds, but the wind noise always interferes, as usual, on the phone.

I come into Clifton, an unspoilt hamlet of characterful gritstone farms and cottages. If this were in the Cotswolds, it would be inundated with tourists. Today I am the only one.

Back in the fields, I traverse the hillsides, with the bulk of Ilkley Moor always on the horizon above the town. I can even pick out the Cow and Calf rocks, towards the left on the photo below.


The way through the farms is well signed, which helps a lot.

I deviate from the Welcome Way to visit Askwith, thinking it would be on a par with Clifton; it wasn’t quite. But on the way, I have a curious incident when a whole herd of cows crosses the lane, closed off only by a piece of string, with no sign of a farmer. Perhaps they do this every day.

One dwelling in the village is named Sundial House. Along with the sundial, it has one of those round windows common in older houses in this area.

This sign had me baffled…

However, the village has a pub: The Penny Bun. Coffee time beckons. The former Asquith Arms has been reimagined and renamed as a restaurant and boutique inn. It certainly is very smart inside, clean and open.

I walk up a quiet lane to get me back on route. Curiously, there are regular offerings of green dog poo bags, enough to suggest the same person walks their dog or dogs daily and has no respect for the countryside. I looked it up online; here is the information some dog owners need to know.

  • Certified Compostable (Plant-Based): Brands like The Green Poop Bag or maize-starch alternatives are made from renewable plants. They safely break down into natural elements, but only under specific warm, microbial composting conditions (either home or industrial).

  • Oxo-Degradable / Generic “Eco” Plastic: Many cheap green plastic bags use chemical additives to make them snap apart. These do not truly biodegrade; they just shatter into harmful microplastics that linger in the soil. Back on track….

… I come across a local lady collecting crab apples. We pass the time of day, and at some point I mention the green poo bags. Yes, she and others are annoyed about it and are trying to track down the perpetrator!

Further up her farm track, I spy a seat for my lunch break. An ideal spot in the sunshine with views across Wharfedale.

While I’m enjoying the rest and the views, the lady I met harvesting apples comes up to greet me again and explains how happy she is that I am using the seat. It is a memorial to her partner who died last year. You can read it on the bench. I’m humbled.

Moving on, the route weaves through woods and fields; I suspect this is pheasant-killing territory. But it gives good walking on what is probably an ancient way,

Eventually I come out onto a lane leading down to Denton, another small hamlet north of the Wharfe.

What’s this?

The font of all knowledge offers this…
The Denton Village Fountain Stone
This unusual stone structure looks a bit like an organic, oddly shaped pillar or an abstract monument. Historic England records suggest it was originally designed as a Victorian fountain. It sits directly atop an ancient well that once provided water to the village. Because it has weathered significantly over the years and no longer functions as a typical water feature, it frequently puzzles hikers passing through the Wharfe valley.
At the main road, I survey the stepping stones across the Wharfe; some appear to be missing in the middle. In the past, I would have set off across without a thought, But, but now I hesitate; my balance isn’t what it used to be, so I opt for the easy option along the road to the bridge. The blokes in the river were doing an environmental survey.

The iron bridge takes me over into Ilkley’s parks and an easy walk into town.

When I arrived here three days ago, the church was closed; I wanted to see the Saxon crosses inside, and now I have that opportunity. 

The stone crosses from the 9th century were found nearby and placed in the cemetery, but were more recently moved inside to protect them from pollution. 

It is thought they were originally painted for greater effect. How they might have looked….

I come in to look at the Saxon stones but notice an exquisite stained glass window – possibly from Morris. The colours matching those medieval ones.

So my simple Yorkshire trilogy walk is complete. I hope you have enjoyed it.

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A YORKSHIRE TRILOGY. Day two.

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Shipley to Otley, over The Chevin.

I’m on the towpath of the Leeds-Liverpool Canal within seconds from the Travelodge.  It is busy with people heading to work or school. At first, it’s all industrial decay, but then new apartments have sprung up, and soon the countryside comes into view.  At some point, I leave the canal and cross the River Aire by a wrought-iron bridge.

Some squeeze stiles give access to a riverside path.

But it doesn’t feel right, completely overgrown. I escape in time onto the newer path, which comes out into fields heading for Esholt. 

Esholt is a cluster of houses and cottages around a pub. 

Originally called The Commercial Inn, the building was renamed The Woolpack after it was chosen as a filming location for the soap opera, Emmerdale. It served as a location from 1976 until 1997, when production moved to a purpose-built replica set on the Harewood Estate.

I find a little path heading up into the woods. Indicated by a Welcome Way marker, the first I have seen, as yesterday I was doing my own thing. For the rest of the day, these markers were a welcome help in navigating through the woods and fields. 

These beech woods are a delight, with the path meandering through the trees; a hushed silence hangs over the place.

But there are indications that this was once a cobbled carriage way through the estate.

Maybe this is a clue as I navigate my way into Guiseley.

I arrive at St. Oswald’s parish church.

The churchyard has many ornate tombs and two open stone coffins dating back to Medieval times. 

Inside, local ladies are arranging flowers for the harvest festival.

I spot what looks like a decorated Saxon cross.

Round the corner is a little cafe 

Time for a toasted tea cake and a sit-down. I haven’t found anywhere to stay tonight in Otley as yet. The one hotel room is £150, which I’m not prepared to pay. I may catch a bus into Leeds for cheap accommodation. Scrolling on my phone for options, I see the price of the Otley one has more than halved for tonight, so I book it there and then. Hotel prices in Britain have become a joke; see Alan’s comment a couple of days ago.

Where my path leaves the town, there appears to be a series of strip fields enclosed by walls.


The path wanders slowly uphill between horse pastures, with broadening views over Airedale and much of Yorkshire beyond.

A cobbled lane runs straight up the hillside towards The Chevin. I can now pick out the tall transmitter tower on Emley Moor, which I passed on my Dearne walk a couple of years ago. It must be 20 miles away.

I don’t know who planned this walk, but for the second day running I walk straight into a pub’s car park, this time The Royalty, an independent inn high on the road that crosses The Chevin. I have time for a Wharfedale Pale Ale.

A few yards and I’m at Surprise View on the top of The Chevin, now looking back into Wharfedale. This is a popular spot on a clear day, with many benches lined up for views over Otley. I’m pleased to pick out the “Wart of Wharfedale”, the prominent gritstone crag of Almscliffe, where I have had many a bloody battle. Sandy tracks wind down through the woods.

Is my way off the moor into town blocked? I walk on past the offending wall, which is covered in ivy, giving the wasps and bees some late succour. The greenery is alive with the buzzing insects.

Safely into town. Like Ilkley, Otley is stone-built and prosperous. But the traffic is horrendous.

My room at The Horse and Farriers is not ready, so I dump my sack and wander back into town. Just around the corner is a prominent building which turns out to be the birthplace of Thomas Chippendale in 1718. He started woodworking in his family’s Otley business before moving to London and becoming the celebrated cabinetmaker. And there in the grounds is a statue of him.

The shops are all busy; it’s market day. The prominent Jubilee Clock Tower stands in the market square on the site of a market cross. “The inhabitants of the town were exercising their minds to find some suitable and lasting method of marking the Queen’s Jubilee”, 1887. 

I head to All Saints Parish Church, almost hidden in the trees.

Some obvious memorials are on display. 

But I have come to see the carved Anglo/Saxon crosses dating from the  8th- 10th centuries.  The earliest parts of the current church date to the 11th century. The cross remnants are in a glass case and are difficult to photograph.

The same for the Dragon carving.

Parish Church Records.

On the edge of the church grounds is the unusual and unique Navvies Memorial. A miniature replica of the crenellated Gothic-style northern portal of the nearby Bramhope Tunnel: dedicated to the 23 manual labourers who died building the local railways.

That’s just about it for Otley tonight; I buy some food in the supermarket to eat in my room rather than face the noisy bar and rubbish fare. 

Another great day. 

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A YORKSHIRE TRILOGY. Day one.

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Ilkley to Shipley, bah t’at.

What a day. Perfect weather, fabulous views, good conversations, a lunchtime pint, a Hockney exhibition, and a ‘Bradford’ curry at night.

We start in the bustling upmarket town of Ilkley. It is a simple walk uphill from the centre. I stop to buy a pie from an artisan butcher, but I am not tempted by all the coffee shops,  outdoor pursuits outlets, or even bookshops. This is a prosperous place.

Leaving the shops, follow your nose uphill on a wide boulevard flanked by substantial residences. At one point, I enter a path alongside a ghyll in the centre of the road.  How lovely, greenery and water.

I reach the edge of town after 300 feet of climbing,  a seat to eat my breakfast pie. Then it is straight onto the moor. The often stepped path offers no let-up. I stop to talk to a lady exercising her dog. She is admiring the view. We exchange pleasantries and move on, only to re-engage at the next viewing (get-your-breath-back) break in the path. We are both revelling in the warmth and clarity of the day.

After several of these stops, our conversation shifts. She is visiting her mother, and I explain my three-day route. Further on, as the views over Ilkley improve, I mention I’m struggling to find accommodation in Otley for Friday night, or rather, I won’t pay £150 for a room. She generously offers to put me in contact with a friend who lives there and would probably be amenable to providing a room for the night. I exchange phone numbers in case that could become necessary.

A little further up is White Well Spring bathing house. Unfortunately, it is not open today until the flag is flying. All very quaint. T’internet comes up with this.

I wonder – is this an old cross base close to the well?

 

My new friend disappears to visit her mother, and I fall in step with a couple from Selby as they do a modest circuit of the moor for the first time. It’s one of those days when everyone is in an ebullient mood.

Distinct paths weave around through the bracken and heather. We seem to choose one of the steeper ones, gaining height above Rocky Valley. I remember traversing this area looking for one of the Stanza Stones curiously located in a stream. I don’t bother to look for it today.

There is more halting to look back.

People are everywhere, strolling, walking dogs, and jogging. I envy the younger runners striding through this expansive landscape.

The path passes a few ancient waymarkers or boundary stones. This must have been an important trading route between valleys.

I arrive at a familiar place, the Twelve Apostles, a stone circle with, you’ve guessed it, 12 outer stones.

Turning my back on Wharfedale, I start my slow and long descent into Airedale. A Red Kite glides overhead, and there are frequent cries of ‘go back, go back’ from the resident grouse.

I come to a road, and opposite is a pub. Dick Hudson’s a famous hostelry, dating back to the 17th century, originally the Fleece,  on the packhorse route from Ilkley to Bingley. One couldn’t walk past it without paying one’s respects to history with a pint of Leeds Pale –  “light, hoppy and deeply refreshing”.

Down through what I call horsey fields, I have been following the Dales Way Link without realising it; this is the first obvious sign. I don’t think I have used the Welcome Way at all.

Reaching the top end of Shipley Glen. I choose the east side, hoping to spot some of the gritstone boulders I have played around on in the past. The sandy track winds through the dying bracken, a little too close to the road. I don’t think there is a track by the stream at the base of the glen. All looks very overgrown below.

I drag myself away from the rocks and enter the woods.

The track brings me out into a housing estate, and I’m soon by the River Aire. A well-used path follows it through fields and a park to the bridge at Salt’s Mill.

 

Fortuitous timing, considering all my dallying, gives me an hour before the Mill exhibitions close. I skip the first two floors and head up to the latest David Hockney installations. ‘New looking fresh pictures of a very beautiful world.’

A six-screen view of his iPad brushstrokes, “10th – 22nd June 2021, Water Lilies in the Pond with Pots of Flowers.”

 

Twenty Flowers for 2025. “This is photographic but is in no way an ordinary photograph”

And a nine-screen video of Woldgate Woods, 2010.

A few more Hockney paintings on display on the ground floor. 

I only have to stroll down the canal towpath to reach my bed for the night at the Travelodge.You know what you are getting: at a fair price.

I go out early in search of a curry. Several restaurants are close by;  I choose the least glamorous one, on the basis that the more they spend on trendy decor, the less attention they pay to the cooking. My plain cafe-style restaurant proves a good choice and is very popular with the locals – they are turning customers away as the evening progresses. There is something very comforting about two bowls, one mixed veg and the other tarka dahl, and chapatis. ‘Bradford’ curries have a different and distinctive flavour to my usual ‘Blackburn’ fare.

I sleep well. 

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CALF TOP – THE LATEST 2000 FOOTER.

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Curiosity nearly killed the cat – but satisfaction brought it back. 

Last week, whilst having a look at Jack’s Fold in Barbondale, we noticed a cairn-like structure high on the slopes of Castle Knott on the north side of the valley. It seemed to have a small chamber in it.  Zooming in with my camera, I pronounced it to be a bush. But upon reviewing the poor photo on the computer screen, it is, in fact, a stone cairn ‘hollowed’ out. How strange, a sentry box on the fell?

I’m not the only one to notice it; Mark of Beating the Bounds had a better photo from a 2018 visit, though he didn’t explore further.

Looking at the map, I wonder if this is it, circled in red.

My interest is aroused; an internet search doesn’t turn up anything. I need to explore on the ground. It would be a steep climb to it directly, but there is a path marked on the OS above the wall that leads to Castle Knot and Calf Top. This path starts from Eskholme and climbs Eskholme Pike first. Along the way, there is a small outcrop called Devil’s Crag that could be interesting to look at. The ridge continues to Calf Top, marked at 610m. That is 2000ft in old money, a ‘mountain ‘ in England.

Now, going back to my relatively youthful years, I ascended all the 2000-ft mountains in England and Wales, then called ‘Bridges’ after George Bridge, who had compiled a book in 1973, listing them all. The book was sparsely illustrated but with photographs by the well-known W A Poucher, FRPS. This book was complemented by an edition by Nick Wright, English Mountain Summits, 1974. These two books became my bibles as I ticked off the summits in the 70s. Finishing in 1980.

I have not looked back on that period of my life for a while!

Anyhow, here we are today. Calf Top was resurveyed in 2016 and has achieved the magical 610m/2000ft mark. Why not complete the list and at the same time search out that strange cairn?

Following my ascent of Winder yesterday, I stayed with friends in the area, so I’m just up the road from Barbon. An opportunity not to be missed. It turns out to be a tough day.

*

As I park up next to the church in Barbon, along come friends who used to live in my lane but have only very recently moved up here, quite a surprise; tea is promised for later. It’s a small, friendly world.

I know the way into the Barbon Park Estate, and today, instead of starting the Barbon Hill Climb (a yearly motorsports event), I wander through the mature trees in a northerly direction, not strictly on the right of way, hoping there will be a gate into the open fellside above Eskholme Farm. There is, and I’ve gained a couple of hundred easy feet of ascent. I’m now in open access and free to roam.

The land is rough with rocky outcrops everywhere. This is Silurian Sedimentary rock, sandstones and shales. Here, separated from the limestone, a younger rock. Adam Sedgwick discovered and explained the Dent fault, which separates the Carboniferous limestone country of the Yorkshire Dales from the older rock of Howgill Fells to the north. Above me is the Devil’s Crag. I make a beeline for it until I realise how steep the slope is and how laboured my breathing has become; I start zigzagging. Once at its base, I seek out in my imagination possible lines up its 25 ft of verticality. The rock is superb for climbing with lots of small but flat holds. There is some interesting folding. My shoulder surgeon has told me not to go near any climbing for up to six months; can you imagine how frustrated I am? There is no record of anyone climbing here. 

Curiosity satisfied for now, I move on. Looking back down at Devil’s Crag, the Lune Valley opens up, with the western Lakeland hills in the background.

High above on the fell is the cairn of Eskholme Pike and I can see a group of walkers just reaching it. I find a path and plod on slowly. It turns out to be a fine viewpoint, and I stop to take panoramic photos of the surrounding area with the whole of the Lakeland Fells stretched across the horizon.

By now, that other group are making slow progress up the open fell towards what must be Castle Knott; it looks a long, featureless way.

On I go, following the green track on the ground rather than any dots on the map. A small cairn is reached, but the summit of Castle Knott is still a way off.

The group ahead can be seen arriving at the cairn on Castle Knott.

I am glad to arrive at that cairn, Castle Knott. The hills surrounding Dentdale come into view.

 

I pause for a rest. The figures are way ahead, and also having a rest, on the far slopes with no sign of the summit of Calf Top. This is becoming a trudge, but I don’t have to think about navigation with the wire fence for company. I do, though, think about the remoteness up here and the fact that I have to return all this way when I haven’t even seen the summit; there is no shortcut to safety. My niggly muscle problems are at the back of my mind. This negativity is unusual for me.

Once again, progress is slow; it’s only a matter of putting one foot in front of the other. But first there is a drop to a col which I will have to climb back up on the return. I pause for another rest and chocolate. The others disappear f vcrom view.

Eventually the fence guides me over a false summit until the Trig point of Calf Top comes into view. I slump onto the ground next to the DofE group of girls I have been following; we all agree it has been a long haul to get here. They are refuelling, and  I do the same. They are a friendly bunch, optimistic about their four-day Gold Award. They hope today, their first, is the toughest. Tonight they will be camping by the River Lune; I wish them well as they shoulder their large packs and move onwards.

I now have time to consider the all-round views from this lonely top. More panorama shots and even a wobbly 360-degree video to celebrate my last 2000-footer.

The lovely Dentdale.

The Howgills, with little Winder, which I climbed yesterday.

 

On the way back, I avoid some of the re-ascent by contouring around Castle Knott. I’m not convinced it helped as the ground was steep and rough.

Having bypassed Castle Knott top, I toss up in my mind whether to go looking for that cairn; have I bitten off more than I can chew? I’ve already climbed 2000ft and don’t fancy much more. But the opportunity of being up here may not come again, so where is that gate in the fence?

The ground drops away quickly, and I can’t see the wall I need to locate. Barbondale is a thousand feet below, and I reckon I need to drop about 400ft. There’s no coming back. I pick my way down carefully, avoiding bracken and scree as much as possible; the cars on the road look minute. At last I spot the corner of the stone wall not so far off to my right and start heading towards it.

Perhaps another map will explain the situation.

Will I be able to get access into that next piece of walled-off fell? This is all access land, but some bits may have little access. As I get closer, I spot a fortuitous gap in the wall. A secured wooden gate blocks the way, and I have to climb over it; it’s a bit wobbly.

Will I be able to see the cairn?  Is that the top of it over there?

I’m on steep ground but manage to traverse across to it. The cairn is indeed tall, some 10ft or so. I come around to its valley side, and there is the chamber I saw from the road. Some 8ft tall with a stone seat at the back. Amazing. Why is it here, and when was it built? I assume it’s on land belonging to The Barbon Estate. Was it for a shepherd to take shelter or even a gamekeeper? So many questions.

I use the seat to eat some chocolate and rehydrate, looking out over Barbondale and the opposite fells. There is some recent graffiti but no historical evidence of its antiquity.

What options do I have for continuing, given that I’m quite tired? Looking down from the cairn, the ground steepens even more with craglets and further down bracken. It would be possible with care, though a trip could cause serious problems. Better not. I couldn’t face the climb back up to the good path coming down from Castle Knott. My best option was to get out of this field and hope there is a path on the topside of the fell wall.  I tackle the wobbly gate once again and trudge slowly up the hill until above the wall. There is no track, so I have no option but to traverse the rough hillside, aiming for the wire fence a third of a mile away.

There is a gate in the fence, and it is not too far then, and going downhill at last, to pick up the path back to the cairn on Eskholme Pike. The views to the distant Lakeland Hills seem sharper at this time of day.

In the vicinity of Devil’s Crag on the way up, I had noticed other nearby crags, and coming down, I  made time to explore them. One in particular was over 25ft and had some clean-looking rock just wanting to be climbed. Let’s name it Angel’s Crag.

All I had to do now was follow my footsteps back through Barbon Park to the church in the village. The sheep have hardly moved since this morning. 

The thought of cups of tea at my friends’ new house kept me going. Alas, they weren’t at home. That’s a shame, not just because of the lack of tea, but I was going to give them the task of some local research into the origins of that mystery cairn. Some of the farmers in the Barbon Inn might know something.

For me, it’s been a long day with a lot of ascent, often on rough, steep, and stony ground. At times I could easily have turned around and shortened the day. The trip to find the cairn was on top of it all and quite taxing, but the satisfaction at the end of the day makes it all worthwhile. I hope another 2000ft hill doesn’t suddenly appear.

I’m soon on the motorway and whizzing home for a hot bath. Tomorrow will be another day.

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My 52 Ways to Walk book has a chapter on Walking at Altitude. mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

My cat has just sat on the keyboard; at least she didn’t delete everything, as has happened before. Oh yes, Walking at Altitude goes on about relative anoxia and how athletes train at altitude to stimulate more haemoglobin production. Walking at altitude, and I’m now talking about the Alps or the greater ranges, is exhilarating because of the surroundings but can be debilitating with more severe hypoxia. I’ve experienced all extremes. Those days are over for me, just memories. So instead of 20,000 ft, I will have to be content today with an altitude of 2000ft; even that felt taxing.

At least I survived.

 

WINDER.

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Let me stand again on Winder, in the magic summer breeze,                                                       Feel once more the stones and heather, watch the bracken and the tree ;                                 Let me see again the river, and the fields and walls and farms,                                                    Sedbergh, let me feel you near me, let me take you in my arms.

A poem written in 1954 by  Tim Birdsall, a former pupil at Sedbergh School. I find this poem more resonant than the oft-quoted lines from Sedbergh’s celebrated public school’s song – Winder. Sedbergh School has just celebrated its 500th year.

It is Cautley, Calf and Winder,
That make the Sedbergh man.

Sedbergh and its school are closely bound to Winder, the hill overlooking them. By tradition, all pupils of the school need to climb Winder at least once during their time at the school. I don’t think I have ever climbed Winder from the town; I’ve often come over it returning from a longer excursion in the Howgills. Time moves on, and today I’m happy to wander up and over the not-so-little hill.

There seems to be a lot of activity in the town – it is the annual Sedbergh Hills Race. They have already set off on their 14 mile/6000ft course.

After Lockbank Farm, I plod up above the wall the long way round, before starting the steeper track to the top of Winder. Fortunately, the paths are well trodden through the prolific bracken. From lower down, there appear to be several false tops to Winder; there are. I stop often to watch the town disappear below me, and to take in views of the Lune Valley, and all the other hills that surround Sedbergh.

At the trig point, a gaggle of people man the final checkpoint for the fell race.  There is a trig pillar and a toposcope up here; the views are extensive, but I don’t linger. A little further down here comes the leader of the pack; I cheer him on, whoever he is. He is more than five minutes ahead of the others; of them, I only see a few – the pace must be hot today.

I baulk at the 500 ft ascent to Arant Haw and instead take a green track toward Settlebeck Gill, with Sedbergh way below.

This is exhilarating as it clings to the edge of the deep ravine. My only complaint is that little water flows down there at present in these heatwave times. It must be more impressive in winter after heavy rain.

Now taking a lower track, I drop down into the Gill, here less fierce than above. The route is popular with numerous people ascending and following me down.

I do a little dogleg across the stream, where most people seem to go straight on, and find myself on a path through ancient woodland.

At its end there in front of me is the wooded mound of a Motte and Bailey, c1100, Castlehaw. Not that easy to make out! 

A bunkhouse nearby offers accommodation for families and friends to get together, an increasingly popular way to share time.

The footpath goes through their garden before disappearing into the woodland again and coming out on the edge of Sedbergh through a lovely old iron kissing gate.

Even taking a footpath below Castlehaw, there is little to see in the trees of the Motte and Bailey.

Strolling through the main street, I studiously avoid any of the bookshops.

Instead, I make my way to St. Andrews parish church. A Norman doorway leads me into the tall aisle of the church. The present church dates mainly from about 1500. The Lancaster architects Paley and Austin carried out a major restoration in 1885–86.

Above the altar in the east wall is a distinctive stained-glass window, with the one picture in the five lights. It depicts Christ calling to Andrew and Peter, the fishermen. Thought to have been installed about 1890 by Henry V Miller.

Several other bright windows line the side walls.

 

On the North wall are two large, fairly recent embroideries created by a band of local stitchers, depicting local scenes and architecture. Fantastic detail.

My way back to my car takes me through some of the grounds of Sedbergh School. Lancashire CCC uses their cricket pitch on occasion each season.  

And this is the school’s view of Winder, a tough little hill in the bosom of the Howgills.

*

 

 

 

A DAY OUT WITH ZOLA.

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Or how to take five hours over a four-mile walk and enjoy it. 

I’ve been a fan of Andy Goldsworthy ever since coming across his work high on Clougha Pike.

My greatest regret is not visiting his exhibition in Edinburgh last year. Enough of the links until the end.

For me, there is always more to discover, such as his series of sheepfolds along an old droving lane, Fellfoot Road, above the Lune Valley and Casterton. I find a map on his website.

16 sheepfolds on one lane- what more could you ask for? Now who could I interest in this project? Yes, of course, my friend C, the ‘slate lady’. I’d better make room in the car for her shared dog Zola, a veteran of our escapades.

“There are numerous sheepfolds tucked in the corners of fields along Fellfoot Road, near Casterton. I have never seen such a concentration of folds.  These small, simple enclosures are connected to a walled track, like rooms attached to a corridor. 

I would like to make a work that answers the rhythm of these repeating sheepfolds and is perhaps evocative of the movement and passage of sheep brought down from the fells and driven along the track.

Large boulders sit in the adjoining fields like scattered sheep. I propose to place one large stone in each of the enclosures that I make or rebuild. The gesture will be like an arm gently gathering a stone into one corner, protecting it.”

On arrival, morning coffee is taken from a flask at the back of the parked car; needs must. I  think we are in Cumbria. The start of the drove lane is a few yards from our lay-by. A steep beginning as I pant behind the sprightly C; Zola is way ahead.   

Thankfully, I can call a halt when I spot our first sheepfold. The only clue is a stepped stile in the adjoining stone wall. Zola is immediately keen to explore, jumping into the fold and finding her way through the hog hole. Inside the four stone walls is a rather small boulder.

Apparently, these boulders – there will be more – were retrieved, dug out of the hillside above. It is difficult to believe. They seem to be sandstone, whereas the walls of the folds are limestone, the bedrock at this height. The sheepfold is a reminder of the agricultural past, and the boulder may draw our attention to the sheep within it. One down, fifteen to go.

Turning the corner, the fell lane disappears in a straight line between its stone walls. One to stride out on, but today we have folds to find. The next fold has a much more impressive boulder.

The lane is a regular dog walk for this lady.

The folds come at regular intervals in the fields either side of the lane. Each one is accessible by a stone stile through the wall, some easier to climb than others; though Zola is first through everyone at a pace—obviously a fan of Goldsworthy.

Though the folds are very similar, the boulders in each are of different sizes and have different contours. Some are pockmarked; others are covered in moss; brambles and other vegetation hide a few. We are eager to view each one, a small discovery every time. They are not easy to photograph, and in any case you would soon become bored with sixteen boulders. This is one piece of art that you have to walk through physically, as I’m sure Goldsworthy intended. I wonder how many come this way; it’s cheaper and healthier than visiting any gallery.

We wander on down the verdant lane.

These little white flowers are new to me. Achillea ptarmica – sneezewort. On the rougher upper fields, a few boulders can be seen; on the other side are real sheep.

 

 

One boulder about halfway down is crying out to be sat on; it becomes our luncheon stone.

Look at the lichens…

Refreshed, we move on, crossing the narrow road that leads to Bullpot Farm, a caving centre with access to a network of underground passages. Our fell track changes character here, becoming more open and for some reason less trodden. The bracken and flowers are almost taking over – delightful. It takes a bit more determination to reach the connecting stiles, but we find three more folds.

We come to a gate and ahead are sheep grazing; time to put Zola on her lead. After having mildly mocked me for misplacing my map a way back, C is dismayed to find she has lost the dog’s lead. Oops. She is happy to wait for me to continue to the few remaining folds, but there’s no fun in that; I’ve lost count anyway, so we begin to retrace our steps. Was it left at our lunch stone? No. Was it left further back when she climbed a gate for a better view of one of the boulders? Thankfully, there it was; Whoo, otherwise, I was planning to bring some farmer’s binder twine into an improvised use purely to impress Sir Hugh.

We retrace once again to Bullpot Lane and cut our Goldsworthy quest short. Honours are even, I think. But what is in store down this quiet lane?

Well, first we meet the sheep farmer and his sheepdog on their quad bike at Fell Yeat Farm.  The usual pleasantries over, we quiz him about the sheep folds. He is knowledgeable, but perhaps envious of the thousands-of-pounds grant that Goldsworthy received for the project. A large digger was employed to unearth those giant boulders and move them to their present and forever resting places. Fighting hard to make a living up here, I suspect he took a somewhat jaundiced view of the work. Anyhow, warming to our interest, he talks freely of the life of a sheep farmer in these parts. Next thing, we are in one of his barns, examining fleeces and discussing the profit margin, paying the shearers, and selling the said fleeces. There were two lots of fleeces from different yearlings, but I don’t remember the differences between them. The good news is that prices are on the up. Invest in wool.

He is proud to tell us of his wife’s recent achievement of completing the Three Peaks on a whim, having only set out to climb Pen-Y-Ghent.  Somehow, the talk switches to train journeys to Leeds, direct from not-so-far-off Wennington Station. And did they have a son in Australia or Canada to visit? By now, we have to make our excuses and be on our way.

Throughout this time, his sheepdog sits patiently on the quad bike. I don’t think Zola would have been over-friendly to him; you never know.

Fell Yeat Farm.
Fleeces.

 

We have only walked 100 yards when a sign proclaims Brownthwaite Hardy Plants.

To us keen gardeners, that is like a magnet; we are drawn in. The man is friendly and inviting even though we, as passing walkers, are unlikely to make a purchase. It is a pleasure to explore what is probably called an old-fashioned nursery. Forget your garden centre; there are gems around every unexpected corner. It is difficult to know where the nursery ends and his garden begins. Hydrangeas are a speciality. He has added his own artistic touches wherever we look. Lots of interesting ironworks are incorporated and for sale. I’m surprised we both don’t come marching out with an iron poppy head each.

Again, like his farmer neighbour, he is keen to chat. I suspect not many people come this way. He is passionate about his plants, so he should be, and the environment in general. His little terrier takes a liking to Zola, so all is calm.

Sorry, I have to insert another unexpected link to his nursery.

We stroll back, picking the occasional delicious blackberry and even a juicy plum. It’s one of those days.

This was our route with the backtracking highlighted, and the two interactive episodes arrowed. 

I know from a previous visit of another Andy Goldsworthy sheepfold nearby in Barbondale, so we drive to have a look. Instead of a boulder inside, we find a sheep, temporarily.

*

*

I realise it is a little cheeky, but may I use this post for my 52 Ways to Walk: Walk With a Dog? Zola added to the day’s enjoyment with her enthusiasm. I know I wasn’t in charge, but there was plenty of interaction. The episode, with or without the dog lead, gave the day a different dimension. Walking with a dog anywhere often brings added conversations, as with the lady and her two dogs early in the walk. And of course Zola was a willing photographic model and deserves to be in my headline photo. Looking back through my posts, I’ve had Days Out with Poppy, Pixie and Tilley, all friends’ dogs. My cats stay firmly at home.

THE YORKSHIRE DALES GRISEDALE.

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The dale that nearly died.

Whilst having lunch perched on a boulder, along comes a lady walking her dog. It turns out she lives in one of the restored farms in the dale spread out below. This is Grisedale or Grisdal to the locals – everything gets shortened up here. I’ll describe my route up to here later. But first I find out about the history and more from this chatty lass. She has lived here less than a dozen years so is still a newcomer. In the 19th century, the valley was a marginal farming community of about 15 families. There was some mining and lime burning, probably as an ancillary to the farm work. There was a Quaker Meeting House and a Methodist Chapel. In the C20th, economic events, severe winters, and an ageing population led to most farms being abandoned. She tells me that even the stone walls were destroyed for the stone to be used by builders elsewhere. By 1960, only two farms were populated.

By the early 1970s, only one farmer remained living and working in the valley, and he was featured in a Yorkshire Television documentary by Barry Cockcroft, The Dale that Died.  Cockcroft said that Grisedale was “the most romantic dale in all of Yorkshire…complete in its unspoilt beauty, serenity and vivid history”

I have just managed to watch the whole of this remarkable documentary.                          https://replay.bfi.org.uk/video/410d3845-4c55-5652-91aa-c9e3a8917b03

But the dale didn’t die, and in the latter decade of the 1900s, people bought farms and houses and created new homes. It seems to be a close-knit community now, tucked away from the hustle and bustle.

Grisedale in 1890.

*

What am I doing here today? Well, I’m exploring the upper reaches of Garsdale from where the river Clough flows down the valley to Farfield, where it joins the Rawthey. Sir Hugh and I are planning a walk to follow the Clough. The south-east slopes of Baugh Fell give rise to streams that feed the Clough. A prominent one of these is Grisedale Beck, joining the Clough at Garsdale Head. He has already walked this way; I’m just catching up.

There is ample parking at Garsdale Station, but at the back of my mind I wished I had come by train. (Bus Longridge to Clitheroe: 50 mins. Train Clitheroe to Garsdale: one hour thirty – so up to three hours) Anyhow, I’m here and walking down the lane.  Even though I slowed down, I never saw a Red Squirrel.

I go through a small gate into a reedy field.

There will be many reedy fields today. But there is a clear path which takes me up the hill to a stile in a wall. I’m now in the bowl of lower Grisedale with the river down below. There is no sign of Clough Force as the river is virtually dry this month.

I keep following well-signed paths through the rough reedy fields. Blake Mire house is being renovated but seems to have difficult access. Other farms are disappearing slowly.

I come out onto the minor road at Rowantree. A short stretch on the road to Moor Rigg, before I cross fields alongside the Grisedale Beck towards Reachey; there are some nice names around here – I wonder at their origins.

Reachey looks a grand renovation, making use of a derelict barn wall in the design. But it would be reachy to get here in a hard winter.

The path onwards is a delight alongside the beck, full of flowers and rising butterflies.

Ahead is the copse surrounding the ruins of East and West Scale, accessed by an old packhorse bridge.

The path starts to climb away from the beck and becomes rather sketchy; not many people come this far. A strange, unnatural-looking pile of stones is crossed. (My informant tells me later that they were probably left over from when the walls were being exported elsewhere)

The path ends at the ruins of Round Ing. 

I get a little off track, if there is one, as I climb the rough fields back towards Flust. There is a good view down to the Scales ruins.  Flust is at the end of the valley ‘road’ and is merely a barn. When the valley was depopulated, the farmhouses that were no longer occupied fell into ruin, but the barns still had agricultural value, so many were saved. The land is now farmed from elsewhere, with the stock brought here each year.

I follow the rough track back eastwards until I find that stone to rest on for lunch and view across Grisedale to Ingleborough and Whernside in the background. “the most romantic Dale in the whole of Yorkshire”

It is whilst I’m in this reverie that the lady and dog appear. We walk on together for a while and probably spend about an hour of interesting talk. As well as all the local information, she introduces me to the fell ponies wandering up here. From this vantage point, she looks down on ‘her’ Dale, recognising any cars coming or going; I suspect she doesn’t own one. 

By now I have wandered off course, and have to retrace a little to find the stile getting me into the right bit of Grisedale Common. All is open access, but I don’t want to climb walls. I spot the Dandrymire Viaduct near Garsdale Station, way below; I still have some miles to go.

My way off the common is not clear; I’m heading to Grisedale Crossing on the railway. This is the way school children from Grisedale would walk out of their Dale to school every day. The school building is just over the crossing, as marked on the photo. The viaduct on the right is one I’ve never noticed before – Lunds Viaduct.

There is a footbridge over the crossing. The 1890s map shows a footbridge even then and the school.

 

 

Old School extended.

Lunds Viaduct.

I planned to take the footpath by the infant Ure, draining to the east coast, but with all the dallying, I am happy to walk down the road to the C18th Moorcock Inn, which never seems to be open. 

A bridleway goes alongside the railway, dodging through one of the arches of Dandrymire Viaduct before landing me back at Garsdale Station.  Throughout the day, I saw railcars on the line – wouldn’t it be spectacular to watch a steam locomotive coming over that viaduct?

*

What a great day. Now for the Clough River, but we think we’ll postpone it until there’s been some rain and the water is livelier.

THE COAL ROAD.

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Dentdale again.

This time I’m parked at Dent Station, the highest mainline station in England, 1150ft. It’s on the famous Settle to Carlisle line. The station building is now a holiday lodge that you can book online—an unusual getaway.

My walk starts by going down the road to Cowgill, a cluster of houses at the head of Dentdale. Crossing the bridge, there is little water in the River Dee as it runs over limestone slabs. The road continues alongside the river with virtually no traffic. The water-worn limestone bedrock of the river is visible throughout. I pass the isolated Sportsman’s Inn. It is serving lunch; I don’t know how it survives out here. I should have gone inside for a quick drink and a look around, but it’s early on my walk, and I have some serious climbing coming up. Going down always means going back up.

Leaving the road, I cross over the Dee and pass Stonehouse Farm. I knew that this route would take me under the Arten Gill Viaduct carrying the Settle – Carlisle line. I wasn’t prepared for the grandeur of it. The arches are high above the gill and built of Dent black marble, actually black limestone; they dominate the valley. Built in the 1870s. 

I follow the track up the side of the gill; this was once an important way for bringing limestone and coal down from the fell. My way is steep; I plod on in the afternoon heat. We are still in a heatwave, but I’m hoping for some cooling breeze as I climb higher.

I keep looking back at the viaduct as I gain height; a train passes over whilst my back is turned. I should have made a note of the timetable.

Mountain bikers shoot past me at breakneck speed going downhill. The solitary cyclist pedalling up is having a far harder time.

The track goes on and on, but the gradient eases. I still keep looking back down at that viaduct. People appear coming downhill; I wonder where from.

At a crossroads of tracks I take the Pennine Bridleway northwards, this is the Coal Road. The map shows nearby coal pits, but I can’t see any evidence on the ground. Until now the tracks have been stony, but along here I am walking on that wonderful sheep-cropped grass of limestone uplands.

The views keep changing as I proceed; that viaduct is still visible for a while, and Ingleborough and Whernside on the skyline vie for my attention. The vista down Dentdale is idyllic, and further on Wild Boar Fell and Mallerstang come into view.

This walk has everything. I find a boulder to rest on, have some lunch and absorb the surroundings. Why have I never been up here before?  I’m walking along the upper slopes of Great Knoutberry Fell, which at 672m I must have ascended years ago when I was completing the 2000ft (609.6m) summits of England and Wales—the joys of youth when one rushed across the fells. And along here I think I find some Knoutberry plants, also known as Cloudberry. Looking back up to Great Knoutberry Fell.

I wind down walking back the quiet road to Dent station, where  I spend time watching the house martins visiting their nests,

What a great day.

Topped off with a drive over to Garsdale, with the roof off, to pick up the main road to Sedbergh.

*

 

A WALK TO FARFIELD MILL, SEDBERGH.

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The idea for this walk came after I had read about Farfield Mill, along the river from Sedbergh. “Farfield was a woollen mill until it closed in the early 1990s after 156 years of textile production. Visitors will find heritage displays, working looms, exhibitions, craft demonstrations, art and craft for sale by resident and visiting artists, workshops and events, plus delicious food in the Tea Room”.

After our last rather energetic outing on Warton Crag, I had promised Sir Hugh an easier walk with a coffee stop halfway. I phoned him this week with my idea to be walked before the heatwave strengthened.  He, as always, was happy to go along with the plan. He has walked extensively in the Sedbergh area and wondered if I would find him some new paths.

Having negotiated the winding road from the motorway, Sir Hugh parks up near a bridge over the River Rawthey on that twisting road to Dent. We are in Cumbria, but a roadside marker gives a sense of its former allegiance. More recently, planners have bestowed the title Western Yorkshire Dales on these hills. Confused?

Some time is spent admiring the cottages of Millthrop, which were built to house the workers of the nearby mill on the other side of the river.

*

Millthrop Mill was one of Sedbergh’s first mills, set up in 1796, originally a corn mill that was later converted to manufacture cotton cloth. Afterwards it made horse blankets. It was powered by water from the River Rawthey through a long mill race, which was dammed higher upstream. In its heyday, Millthrop rivalled the later Farfield Mill; however, in 1967 the mill burnt down and was lost. 

Sedbergh and District History Society.

Millthrop Mill. c1900

Notice the changes from 1850 to 1910 in the maps, even the name changes.

*

All too soon we are climbing up the steep rough track out of the village, the Dales Way. I had just commented to Sir Hugh that, would you believe, there is a house up here when their Land Rover has us pinned to the wall. There it goes down the track.

It is a steady plod up, with temperatures already in the mid-20s.

Higher up, we take a breather where our track goes off left and admire the views over the valley to the Howgills.

The path is a mere sheep trod, but a delight to follow, heading up the lower slopes of Frostrow, a small hill I’ve never ascended and still haven’t, as we branch off just before it through a garden gate. In the distance, Baugh Fell almost obscures Wild Boar Fell.

Little field paths link Highside with High Hollins Farm. The friendly farmer shows off his vintage working tractor; Sir Hugh shows great interest.

Highside.

The farmer shows us an easier way down his fields; he only has 50 acres, which is hardly viable these days. A modern magical machine is baling his hay.

A pleasant interlude in an old hay meadow and then we are climbing once more to a road.

From up here, we can see the rooftops of the Farfield Mill complex.

Tea beckons and we sit outside the friendly cafe rehydrating and eating cake (Sir Hugh) and an indulgent scone with cream and jam (BC). Below us is the Clough River, which once powered the entire mill.   

*

Farfield Mill was built by Joseph Dover in 1837 to spin and weave woollen cloth. The Mill suffered a big fire in 1908 and had to be rebuilt. It was requisitioned for the production of aircraft parts during WWII. After its decline in the 1950s, it was briefly used to make cheese. Finally, it was acquired by a buildings preservation trust and became a successful Arts and Heritage Centre.                             

 Sedbergh and District History Society.

1850 map.
1910 map.

The mill is on a massive scale, with four floors now utilised to present the area’s history, host large exhibitions, and provide a multitude of studio spaces occupied by artists from far and wide; they can’t all be from Sedbergh.

Our tour of the floors is cursory given our time limits, but we do give it a good try, even making time to chat to some of the artists. Weaving in various forms is well presented and appropriate to the surroundings. Still, I am most taken by the imaginative pottery on display: if another friend had been present, I don’t think we would have escaped so easily. If you are interested in local history and have a bent to original and innovative art, a day here would be so worthwhile. I am already planning a return visit, and not just for the home-baked scones.

Nearby is a small terrace built for mill workers. But I suspect that many would have made the daily trek from Sedbergh along the riverside path that we use to walk back to Millthrop.

Our return route along the River Rawthey is a delight and thankfully cooler. Mainly in pastures, with the familiar Winder overlooking us.

 

Any shade is appreciated.

Past New Bridge, the Rawthey dawdles along.

The weir we pass was the original one for Millthrop Mill.

What a splendid outing of just under 4 miles. Full of interest, beautiful Dales scenery and the added bonus of Farfield Mill.

I realise I haven’t chosen this week’s 52 Ways to Walk. It is easy – Walk With Others. I’m not one for large or even small groups; one or two chosen companions is fine. I was hoping for two today, but Sir Hugh by himself is stimulating company. His interests are far-reaching, and I without fail glean some choice information. He is always keen to explore, and his obvious enjoyment of the countryside is infectious. And add to that, he bought me tea and a scone.  There is some benefit from occasionally walking with others. We are now in the middle of a heatwave, and I won’t be venturing far, but today’s outing has sparked ideas for the future. I was not really aware of Clough River before, but I see on the map that it winds all the way down Garsdale from Clough Force on the slopes of East Baugh Fell. Now that would make a good mini expedition for walking with others.

*

 

 

 

A WHITTLE WANDER. There’s more…

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A loop from Whittle-le-Woods. 

I find myself back in Withnell Fold, aiming to follow some of the footpaths of the Whittle Wander I had avoided last time. If you remember, I had struggled with overgrown paths, dodgy stiles and less-than-helpful landowners – a typical country walk, you may think. That day, I gave in halfway and used the canal towpath to get me to Whittle-le-Woods. A rerun is called for to dampen those ‘what ifs’ at the back of my mind. My one navigational error of that day also needs to be addressed.

After leaving the bus in W-le-W, I simply reverse my route back up the canal. I say up the canal because the towpath climbs alongside seven locks on the way. It’s a pleasantly cool morning, and most people I meet are dog walkers. A few photos to set the scene.

 

The air is full of the perfume of Meadowsweet, which grows profusely at the water’s edge.

Plenty of Duckweed.
Serene family.

Not sure these two should be up there.

Old paper mill, Withnell Fold.

So I leave Withnell Fold now back on the actual Whittle Wander by a footpath signed to the cricket club. (The Whittle Wander doesn’t have its own markers). At the end of the lane, a gate provides access to a field and a good track continuing onto the main road into Higher Wheelton. this is better.

The pavement takes me through the hamlet as far as the Golden Lion. The flags are for England progressing in the World Cup.

Opposite, near the former school, a well-signed public footpath goes up a lane past scattered properties.

Just before entering someone’s private garden, I spot the stile leading into the adjacent field.

The fields are easy to walk in. This lamb is lost but has plenty to eat in the lush pasture.

Everything is going well, and I regret not persisting last time. Stiles and signs lead me easily through well-kept fields; I’m so pleased/excited that I just start taking pictures of stiles.

I cross a road and go down the access lane to several farms and barn conversions, but my way through is clear and signed.

Large fields take me down into a valley. A buzzard wheels overhead and keeps coming close, obviously agitated by my presence. It persists in its close and noisy attention until I’m well out of its territory; perhaps there are young about. I struggle to photograph it, despite its closeness; my right eye, which I use in the viewfinder, is blurred and awaiting laser treatment, so I’m never sure whether it’s in the frame. Usually not.

Going up the other side, a Roe Deer bounds out of the horse paddocks. Its blurred white rump is all that appears in my photo.

At Heapey, across the road, is St. Barnabas Church. It originated in the C16thand was enlarged in 1740 and 1829. It is Grade II listed. There is no access today, but graveyards are a good source of benches, and I find one for my lunch break.

Again, stiles and clear paths take me across fields, through farmyards, and on to the busy Chorley Road, but there is a footway until I reach the turn-off down past a Premier Inn to the canal bridge.

I can see the towpath below where I paced up and down trying to find a way through a dense hedge to the footpath. I know better this time, and I take a little lane parallel to the towpath but on the right side of the hedge, and there is the footpath clearly signed over a stile.

The path climbs a steep field and onwards towards the motorway. The field is heavily rutted from cows and not easy to walk on, but I’m not complaining today. Across the way are the ruins of Moss Lane Farmhouse, Grade II* listed C17th buildings which are slowly falling into ruins by the look of things.

I’m soon across the motorway, just a sneaky shot mainly to show the spire of the Mormon temple, a familiar sight to those using the M61. It is the largest such temple in Europe.

The path marked on my map goes through fields, but now there are houses. A high fence has had to be built to reduce noise from the motorway. How fast is our countryside changing these days?

Green paths lead to another, older development, Lucas Green; here are the remains of a WWII Bofors gun emplacement, for protecting the nearby Royal Ordnance Factory.

A final track brings me back into town, I bypass the Roebuck Inn this time to catch an earlier bus back to Preston.

So I can now say I have completed the modest Whittle Wander, albeit in two halves with this extra add-on. Today’s circuit has been enjoyable with none of the previous difficulties. I’m glad I came back to complete it.

 

 

 

A WHITTLE WANDER. Part Two.

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Hoghton to Whittle-le-Woods.

I enjoyed the first part of this walk last week and was keen to return to complete the circuit. Today was strangely not so good, with overgrown paths, hidden stiles, and unhelpful landowners. Read on.

My bus into Preston arrives seconds after my connection to Hoghton leaves. I have time to visit the bus station cafe, not the best of coffees. The onward bus is modern with visual and audible announcements of the next stop, a great help in areas you don’t know well. I alight at the Royal Oak, as announced, where I finished last time.

I stroll down the road to find the footpath leading down to the canal. It looks like a private drive, no signage, but I persist past the barking dogs onto a choked path, the first of and easier of many. I’m not sure I have seen watercress flowering before.

I suddenly come onto the towpath of the Liverpool-Leeds Canal. Or is it the Leeds-Liverpool Canal? It depends on your perspective. Red rose, White rose. There is a small marina down here.

Life on the water.

I take some ancient steps away from the canal onto a busy road. Thankfully, within a few yards I climb a stile into fields. But where does the path go  – no sign of other feet. There is a stile somewhere, and then I’m confronted by this.

Out of the horsey property, there is more trouble; I climb a dodgy stile, only to be confronted by impassable undergrowth.

Why don’t the property owners maintain the stiles and give adequate signage? A question I’m always asking. Would make life easier for all concerned.

Somehow I find my way to the bridge over the motorway, quite grand for a footpath.

Why do I always take nondescript pictures of motorways?

Getting out the other side is not easy. Does nobody walk these paths?  I haven’t gone far, and soon I am lost with no sign of a path. Last week I relied completely on a paper map for navigation; today I am happy to switch on my phone OS app to locate my mistakes. I dodge through a field of cows and climb into a deserted, dilapidated farmstead. With more hope than faith, I stumble down into a deep ravine and thankfully find the footbridge and steep steps back out.  I have a rest at the top and plan ahead. A field of maize will be impenetrable in a few weeks if nobody comes this way.

And it is a maze to find my way through the next ‘hamlet ‘, Ollerton Fold. All that is needed is a few discreet arrows to get the walker through, rather than blundering into gardens. One resident helps me to escape but warns of worse to come. I do get a lovely view across the valley towards Brindle with the canal below.

Then it is more of this…

…and this.I 

As I approach Withnell Fold, I am debating in my mind whether to drop down to the canal towpath for some easier going. The village is hidden from the world at the bottom of a cobbled cul-de-sac. Once a large paper mill operated here, and the terraced housing was built for the workers. Not a lot has changed, though there is some new housing in what used to be the mill complex. A good history of the village can be found here, and a local walker/historian, Boyd Harris, has even more fascinating history on his website.

Withnell Fold Farm.

Village Stocks.
Reading Room.

Most of the remaining mill buildings are ruinous, but the engine house chimney has been restored and can be seen from miles around, as in my header photograph. So after a mooch around the village, I end up on the canal towpath. The delights of the Witton Wander footpaths to Higher Wheelton and Heapey will have to wait for another time.

A group of volunteers for the Canal Trust are busy Himalayan Balsam bashing; it is very profuse in one area which borders a nature reserve.

A group of cyclists are riding from Liverpool to Leeds in a day.You can do the maths.

There are boats moored up further along, and I can indulge in my usual diversion in finding the corniest name.

 

There is more action when I reach the ‘Top Lock’, the highest of seven locks raising boats 65 feet. I ignore the inn on the other side.

Further down, two boats pass through a lock together, thereby saving water. Watching boats negotiating locks is a favourite spectator pastime.

I drop down to where a disused branch canal went off to Whittle-le-Woods and go in search of a footpath back on the real Whittle Wander. I paced up and down the towpath, using my GPS to find it, but there was no way through a thick hedge. Only now, looking more closely, do I see it was on a lane from the next bridge and not directly off the towpath (red arrow). An easy mistake to make but annoying nevertheless. I ended up backtracking and following the Whittle-le- Woods canal branch to the nearest road. 

The road, which fortunately has a pavement, takes me under the motorway past some neat cottages to the outskirts of the town.

A friendly pub, The Roebuck, beckons from across the road from the small Jubilee garden with its clock.

I sit in their beer garden enjoying a pint and contemplating the day’s walk. The state of the footpaths in the early part was disappointing. They are not well used in what should be a popular area. On the day, I made the right choice to take to the towpath, which turned out to be an interesting stretch. It was my error near the end, not identifying the correct path. I intend to return and do a loop that includes the bits of the Witton Wander I have missed, as I do find the area historically and scenically interesting.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A WHITTLE WANDER. Part one.

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Whittle-le-Woods to Hoghton.

I came across the Whittle Wander on the LDWA  excellent website. I was looking for a short, long-distance way to get me back into the swing of things. It turns out to be a 16-mile circuit from Whittle-le-Woods “that takes in the canal, the river, and the beautiful countryside of the West Pennine Moors, reaching the Darwen Valley”. The author, Trevor Headley, a specialist in this area, has several publications.  I previously walked his East side of the Ribble Valley. which was well thought out and an enjoyable route. I struggled to get Headley’s contact details to order his guide for the Whittle Wander, so I had to be content with an outline map, which I plotted onto my paper maps.  Awkwardly across three 1:25,000 sheets. Incidentally, the route is not waymarked.

Thus armed, I set off on the bus to Preston, then continued on to Whittle-le -Woods. I alight at the church on the main road, and there, right next to the bus stop, is a signed footpath. The map suggests a path going between houses, so I start confidently.

The path has the impression of antiquity, possibly the route to and from the church. I pass the Parish Club. Originally a Methodist Chapel completed in 1840. Then, in 1897, when the current Methodist Chapel was built on the A6, the building became the Parish Club until 1911, when it became ‘Whittle Pictures’ and subsequently a thriving factory. It is now repurposed once again as a community centre.

Across Chorley Old Road, once the coach route to Preston, the path runs through open countryside. Further on, there are notice boards telling of its history and recent attempts to preserve it, an old way between Leyland and Brindle.

At its end, my map appears to show a footpath that runs right before ducking under the motorway. It doesn’t feel right, little used and overgrown. Himalayan Balsam is taking over. There is no obvious turning towards the motorway, and soon I’m heading in the wrong direction. A quick turnaround, still no sign of a motorway underpass. Is my map reading at fault, or is there really no path?

A closer look at the map later shows there was no way.

I head back to the cottages. at Hill Foot Farm…

…and use the road to Whittle Hills, another character house.

Then, according to my map, a farm track to North Bank Farm. Even here, the signing is confusing. I want the higher of the two motorway underpasses, A on the above map, so, ignoring the signs, I brave the farmyard and walk out at last; it seems to have taken an age to reach the other side of the motorway.

Under the motorway.

You may wonder why I have been so fixated on the map features and Rights of Way on this walk. Well, I’m into week 26 of my 52 Ways to Walk, at the longest day, – Walk with a map. I’ve been walking with a map all my life, only recently using phone OS mapping. So today I am relying completely on my paper copy of the 1:25,000 map, my phone consigned to the interior of my rucksack. I think I have an innate sense of direction, so I don’t need my compass to orientate me, it’s safely in the rucksack too, you never know. One has to constantly maintain a greater awareness of one’s surroundings, near and far, to correlate with the paper map, spotting features and signs to fix one’s position at any one time. I was lost earlier because I had misread the map – there was no continuation under the motorway from the first path.

The footpath now goes through fields, thankfully recently mown, and over some hidden stiles to emerge onto a minor road.

 

Right in front is the track heading up the field towards Denham Hall, now all plain sailing and a joy to be out in the countryside.

More fields take me to Walmsley Fold, busy with modern machinery.’ Fold is a common name on the map in these parts, originally an animal enclosure which grew into a farm or small community.

A quiet road reached Top o’th Lane, a row of cottages originally built around 1800 for quarry and handloom workers. The loom room windows in the basements. They have a fine view across to Great Hill and the western Lancashire Pennines. 

 

It’s good to be up high looking out over Preston, the Bowland Hills and Pendle,

But then I find myself in a large field full of frisky cows paying me too much close attention, not so pleasant. I back off carefully until I can escape via a stile into Brindle village.

I wander into St. James’ church. Its tower is from about 1500, the naive C19th, with many changes over the years; Paley was involved, as usual. I am immediately struck by the amount of stained glass. Every wall has large windows. 

On the edge of the village is the Old Smithy and next to it the Parish Pound. I’m sure there is more to explore in the village, but it is time to get going; the day is heating up. Heading towards Hoghton Tower, which can be seen on its hill in the distance. I navigate through fields and country lanes, possibly using my own variation of the Whittle Wander.

I come out onto the main road at Riley Green, next to the Royal Oak. 

I could finish here, but I want to complete the loop around Hoghton Tower and the River Darwen. I have described this in more detail when I last visited here on a similar walk. I’ll make do with a few pictures today.

 

Whilst I am taking the photo of the Giant Hogweed, a Kingfisher flashes by – wow.

And then I’m back at the Royal Oak for a quick half before catching the bus back to Preston.

The Whittle Wander wanders off back to the start via Wheelton and places, but I’m leaving that half for another day, hopefully it will be as interesting as today’s walk. Won’t be just yet, though, as the heatwave settles in.

***

 

 

 

CLASSIC YORKSHIRE DALES.

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Conistone Dib and PIe.

The sound of Curlews calling and the Skylarks singing is still in my ears. I have just returned from a wonderful little walk over in Yorkshire. It was probably new to me; at least, I have no recollection of being there before. If I had to take a stranger on a Yorkshire Dales walk away from the crowds of Malham, Gordale or Burnsall, I would choose this one that I’m about to try and describe.

I’m not sure how it came into my radar, Conistone Dib rang a bell somewhere.

Parking in Conistone is discouraged, so I park by the bridge over the Wharfe. I’m here fairly early to secure a parking spot, as it’s half-term, and to get a head start before the heat of the day kicks in.  Pony trekkers are coming down the lane from the centre of the village.

The village is a mishmash of stone farms and cottages. I suspect many incomers have done up the properties, as elsewhere. There is a maypole in the central triangle; I’ve no idea whether it is used any more. I’m kicking myself for not visiting St Mary’s Church, built on the site of a medieval predecessor. Modern pews were incorporated in the 50’s, designed by Thompson of Kilburn, the church mouse man. He incorporated discrete mice into his works. Our family had a cheese board from him, a mouse was running up the handle. Now, where has that gone?

A gate leads into the limestone environment above the village. And all of a sudden, you are climbing a few rocky steps into a narrow gorge. There was once a watercourse that created this dramatic place. Its local name is Gurling Trough, reflecting the noise of water going down a drain. I’m already excited.

The walls of the gorge narrow as you thread through it. The path is rocky but not difficult.

At one point, I notice some discreetly placed bolts indicating a climbing route up the blank-looking rock.

White stonecrop plants grow in crevasses.

A lovely water-worn scoop gives a scramble out of the rocky ravine.

All of a sudden, you are in a grassy valley with scree slopes on either side. Ahead is a steep crag high up on the right. The back of my mind tells me I have climbed there years ago, but I have no recollection of having walked through that stunning gorge to get to it—time to check my diaries and climbing guides. Bull Scar.

I ponder this as I walk deeper into the valley. A lady dog walker appears from a gate. She lives in the village and is very proud of the area. So she should be. The way she came from is the easiest way up, but she tells me you can go straight up, which involves some rock climbing. Guess which way I go. T

There she goes down her valley.

My way narrows once more, and yes, there is some rock scrambling to gain the fell rim. A very satisfying end to the climb from the village.  The view back down is impressive.

I meet up with The Dales Way, a long-distance path from Ilkley to Windermere. I walked the route with The Pieman and The Eyeman back in 1981, but don’t remember being up here. I’m almost certain we just followed the Wharfe along the valley from Grassington to Kettlewell. Or is it my memory playing tricks again?

My planned route is to walk back along the Dales Way towards Grassington, but first, I make a short detour north to investigate Conistone Pie. Just off the main track is a ‘pie-shaped’  rocky pinnacle that is calling out to be climbed. I stand on the top, king of the castle, with excellent views up Wharfedale and across to Kilnsey Crag.

I find a sheltered spot below the rocks for an early lunch. A couple walking between Kettlewell and Grassington, come over to investigate and climb up – that’s them on the top.

They are from Sheffield, camping by the river in Kettlewell and enjoying this glorious spring weather. She has a lovely, drawn-out Yorkshire accent, reminiscent of Lucy Beaumont, the comedienne. I would think we chat for half an hour or so; nobody is in a rush up here on a perfect day. We stroll on together for a while, but I’m soon distracted by photographing the local flora.  They wander off towards Grassington.

The cowslips and orchids are past their best, but there are good displays of Bird’s Foot Trefoil, Tormentil, Buttercups, Daisies, Violas, Speedwells, and many more I don’t recognise. “Look how they shine for you”

The warm sunny day has all the skylarks in the area singing away up high, and there is a constant background calling of the curlews. They put a spring in your step as you march along this elevated limestone balcony.

Looking at the map, it is annotated everywhere in that antiquated print: Hut Circles, Cairns, Ancient Settlements, Field Enclosures.   Of course, none of these is easy to identify with an untrained eye. I try hard and perhaps discern some of the paths of some linear walls. A drone would be useful but totally intrusive.

Sheep are pretending to be stones.

But most impressive are the relatively modern stone walls criss-crossing the plateau—a symbol of the Dales.

Few trees survive up here. I like this one.

Dropping down towards Grassington, there is the site of a medieval village marked on the map, but I don’t go that far. Another time, it would be worth carrying on to explore and maybe have some refreshments in the village before returning through Grass Wood, renowned for its Bluebells in season.

I do a U-turn and head back along the escarpment, but lose my intended path and end up on a smaller trail through Bastow Wood. A blessing in disguise, as I enjoy the shade and the variety of broad-leaved trees and a different flora.

I emerge back onto the open limestone ground and pick up my intended track. This turns out to be a spectacular wander back down to Conistone. First, it winds down between blossoming hawthorns.

Then across the head of a deep dry valley, Dib Scar.

I’m rewarded with a bird ‘s-eye view of the crags down its southern bank. There must be climbing on those steep 25m walls. (The guidebook lists lots of  hard routes, some now bolted, but all too difficult for me, which is probably why the whole valley is new to me)

There’s a whole lifetime of climbing down there.

The path goes along the flank of the valley before breaking away through fields straight back into Conistone village. That’s Kilnsey Crag and Great Whernside in the distance.

The curlews are a constant companion, and I have the varied limestone flora at my feet all the way. I’ve just identified this plant, which has been abundant throughout the day. Crosswort.

Those six or seven miles have been a delight. I would recommend this walk to those of you who, misguidedly, read my posts for inspiration. I apologise for all those photos of rock faces. You know where I come from.

***

NO SINGING TODAY.

24 Replies

Singing and walking may become a theme this week.

We, the Rockman and I, were on our way back from visiting the Pieman in Yorkshire. He has had a rough time of late, slow recovery from a hip operation, only to be followed by a disastrous fall, which broke his other hip, ending in a prolonged hospitalisation. He is making some progress and was just about up to our company. We go back a long way, climbing and walking, and have shared many an epic. So there was a lot to chat about, and his wife is very patient. Not to over tire him, we leave early afternoon, and that is how we find ourselves parked up for a visit to the Singing, Ringing Tree.

The Singing Ringing Tree is one of a series of four 21st-century landmarks, or Panopticons (structures providing a comprehensive view), in East Lancashire. I have written about it before and have visited several times. The Rockman had expressed a desire to visit the site, and as it wasn’t that far off our planned journey, we made the effort to run the gauntlet of traffic through Colne and round Burnley on the M65. Climbing a thousand feet up minor roads onto the moors, we reach Crown Point with dramatic views over Burnley and the backside of Pendle. The little car park always looks a bit dodgy, made worse by litter and flytipping.

The result of all that climbing is that it is decidedly chilly up here, but the strong breeze bodes well for the singing. The Singing Ringing Tree has been constructed from open-ended metal pipes, which, in the right conditions, i.e. windy ones, produce an eerie whistling sound that I’ve experienced on more than one occasion. Think of blowing across the top of a milk bottle. It can be seen in the distance, tree-like, and it is only a ten-minute walk away.

The statue is quite dramatic on the edge of the moorland, looking down to the industrial Burnley conurbation as well as Pendle and Rossendale. The three peaks are visible on a good day. But never mind the views we had come to hear it singing, and today, for some reason, it wasn’t. Was the wind in the wrong direction?  I blew down a few tubes, but that didn’t impress my companion.

Defeated, we returned to the warmth of the car for our continuing ride home.

Thanks to the Rockman for driving me to see the Pieman, which was a worthwhile visit. I’m only sorry he wasn’t rewarded with a singing tree. So here, to appease him and you, is a YouTube video of the tree in a more melodious mood.

For those of you who haven’t read some of my historic trekking posts, here’s an explanation of the affectionate names I use for my four close friends of many decades. The Pieman – the caterer. The Rockman – the geologist. The Professor – the teacher. The Plastic Bag Man – the purveyor of all things in plastic bags, sadly no longer with us. Heaven forbid what they call me.

No singing today, but let’s see what the week brings.

TAKE A WINDY WALK.

17 Replies

 

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

So much for taking a windy walk.

 

IN THE ROUGH.

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                                                     Looking across to Sabden from Wiswell Moor.

Wiswell Moor.

   I’m intrigued by the name  Jeppe Knave on the map of Wiswell Moor. Looking into it, there are various stories, but basically, he was probably  Jeppe Curteys, a local robber who was beheaded for his crimes in 1327 and buried up here for whatever reason.  

  I set out today, halfheartedly, to see if I could locate the stone. I am really just out for a circular walk from the little village of Wiswell, making the most of another sparkling November day. I have to scrape the ice from my car this morning.

  There appear to be road closures in Wiswell, but I find a quiet street to park on. Cutting across fields, I arrive on Moor Lane. New houses are being constructed up here; they will have views over the Ribble Valley to Longridge Fell and Bowland. I hope for the same as I climb higher.

  At the top of the lane, there is a choice of footpaths, and on a whim, I take the left one, which, according to the map, goes close to Wiswell Quarry. The sheep study my slow progress upwards. Looking back, the view is definitely worth capturing in a panorama shot.

   I have never climbed here. It looks a bit scrappy, but I don’t get up close.

  I drop down the cobbled quarry track to join a lane, Clerk Hill Road, which connects farms along the flank of Wiswell Moor. It goes straight ahead uphill. The last farm has a strange building with an old ‘chimney’ – a man at the farm tells me it was once an abattoir.

The quarry track.

Clerk Hill Road

Old abbatoir at Wiswell Mooor Houses.

  Leaving the tarmac, the bridleway borders open access land on the moor. Yes, that’s the bulk of Pendle ahead.

  Looking at the map, Jeppe Knave’s Grave is in the second field, but there was no way to enter it due to the height of a splendid dry stone wall, with no gateway along its length. 

  Oh well, I can give it a miss. But then a gate brings the bridleway onto the rough, open fell. I now realise I could walk up to the trig point on The Rough, which again I’ve never visited, and could I then possibly find a way back into the grave field?  Off I go. 

 

    There is no track across the reedy ground alongside the wall. It’s also steeper than it looks.

  As I struggle, I start to regret my decision and consider my escape. Rough by name and rough by nature. I’ve started leaving a route map in our family WhatsApp group for my nearest and dearest. But here I am already going off piste on remote moorland. As the ground steepens, it becomes less boggy, so head down and plod on. At last, I reach the watershed. There is a gate ahead, then a high ladder stile into the field I want. I regret not noting the grid reference for Jeppe’s grave. It’s over there somewhere.   

 

  Once over the high ladder stile, there is a faint track going across the moor, and I surmise that it must lead me to the grave. Thankfully, it does.

  There are scattered rocks in a dip. Looking closer, there is an upright inscribed stone, Jeppe Knave.   This seems pretty new, and yes, behind it is an older inscribed stone lying on the ground.  I had not realised that the ‘grave’ was on the site of a Bronze Age burial ground, which, in any case, I wouldn’t have recognised. I can find no reference to the ‘new’ inscribed stone. Was it brought here or created in situ, and was there a need for it?

  Satisfied, I head back to the wall stile where I find an ideal spot for some lunch – the Shepherd’s Cave. The vistas over the Ribble Valley and afar are remarkable.

 

  Why have I never been here before?  Someone I know has been here before with an interesting tale – https://conradwalks.blogspot.com/search?q=trig+Wiswell+moor.

  I ritually touch the trig pillar on The Rough, 315m. Do I retrace my steps back down all that rough moor to the bridleway? But there seems to be a trod heading north-east towards the Nick. Let’s try it, so off I go again. The path improves as I follow it.

  I love walking high on the fells with my destination far off in the distance. Pendle Hill, or more correctly Spence Moor, is on the skyline. Can I see the summit of Pendle?   A gate, with a plaque to a local cyclist, sees me off the moor.

 In no time, I’m at the Nick of Pendle with Sabden down in the valley, and the ski club on the north side. Busy with traffic, I’m brought back to reality. But I only have a  few yards to go before I hop over a wall back onto the moor.  

  Soon, I join an old trackway leading down to Wymondhouses. Ingleborough and PenYghent are just visible at the head of hazy Ribblesdale. In front of me, Longridge Fell and the Bowland Fells

  I recognise the buildings from a walk in the past. There is a sign above the door which I can’t read from this distance, but looking back at previous posts I find this photo explaining it.  

  The higher path I take is very boggy, and I inevitably end up with wet feet. Not many come this way; somewhere I have gone off track.  I rejoin the public footpath at Audley Clough, and fortunately, there is a stile. Climbing out of the clough, I am suddenly back in cultivated fields, and an obvious path leads to Cold Coats farm.

  The grass and puddles have been frozen since this morning.

  All I have to do is stroll back along the lane to Wiswell and find which street I parked my car in.

  A very satisfying day, with the bonus of finding Jeppe Knave’s grave and enjoying an unexpected high moorland ridge walk.

*

A BUSY DAY AT RIVINGTON.

18 Replies

As one drives along the M61 between Chorley and Bolton, one can’t miss that breast-like prominence on the slopes of Winter Hill—Rivington Pike.

That is our objective today, yet another sunny autumn day as we approach November. I meet up with the ‘Rockman’ from Bolton, one of my long-time climbing partners. We don’t get together often enough, so we have a lot of catching up to do, combined with the walk.

Coffee at his house is welcome. Poppy, his Airedale, is getting too old for long walks, so she is left at home. I let the Rockman drive his local lanes to Rivington. The carparks are packed, with cars everywhere along the roadside. Of course, it is half-term. We squeeze in near GoApe, of which the Rockman is a veteran star within his family.

The Lower Cruck Barn is busy feeding the masses. The rockman buys a piece of flapjack, which goes into my rucksack for him later.

Our walk up to the Pike is in the grounds previously owned by Lord Leverhulme, the soap magnate. He, along with T H  Mawson, the landscape architect, developed the hillside into the Terraced Gardens 

I am feeling lazy, and rather than detailing the historical background to the area, I would recommend reading the two links I’ve pasted above. That leaves me free to just describe the walk.

After a short way up the main avenue, we leave most of the crowds to walk a quieter path through the trees southeastwards. Gently gaining height, we chat away as more energetic dog walkers overtake us. Have you noticed that when the sun is shining, people are generally more sociable? Fallen leaves cover the path, creating an eerie atmosphere.

We double back on ourselves several times, always taking the easiest gradient. A half-hidden water trough reminds us that horse-drawn carriages would have used these lanes. 

  As height is gained, the West Lancashire plains are revealed. Rivington reservoir shines out below.

    The summit of the pike comes into view, but we still have a fair bit of climbing to do.

On reaching the top, we realise there is a strong, cold wind blowing from the west. Sheltered spaces in the lee of the tower are all taken, so we opt for a bench in the open.

The current tower was built in 1732. There had been an older, wooden beacon on the same spot.  The tower was made of stone from Liverpool, and the workers were paid in ale. The foundations of the tower are older stones; in the photo below, these stones are now visible due to erosion. The tower was constructed for John Andrews, a solicitor in Bolton and owner of the Rivington estate. It was built as a hunting lodge, featuring a  square room with a fireplace and a cellar.


A passing mountain biker stops for a chat, a youngster who lives at the base of the hill. It is refreshing to find a teenager who obviously enjoys adventures in the outdoors and has the scars to prove it. Maybe because I am engrossed, I virtually forget to take any photos of the scenes around us. The coast is certainly in view.  We move on when our hands begin to freeze in the cold wind. He overtakes us later.

Down the steep steps we go, against the tide of families climbing up them. This is the way most people come; we are glad of our more circuitous, less strenuous and certainly quieter route.

Looking back up to the tower.

Continue reading →

PILGRIM’S PROGRESS.  MORE SAXON CONNECTIONS.

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Day 6.   Hawkshaw to Radcliffe.

Back in Hawkshaw, the bus from Bolton drops me at the Wagon and Horses. It is one of those modern buses with announcements for each stop, a great help in unknown areas. In the past, I have missed my stop or alighted a mile or so too soon.
The village is still asleep as I find Two Brooks Lane heading south. I pass some surprisingly well-kept tennis courts for a place this size. The lane descends into a valley of rough mixed woodland; here and there are remains of buildings and watercourses. At one time, there was a bleech works here employing 200 people. Bleaching was an important part of the cotton industry. The chimney from the works still exists on the hillside, but I couldn’t spot it.

Climbing out of the valley, I pass through a small hamlet of tastefully renovated farms and cottages.
Above them are the lodges that provided water for the mill. It is a steep climb up to them but rewarded by excellent views back to the moors above Holcombe, which I passed over last time when visiting the ‘Pilgrim Cross’.

Onward and upward past Tom Nook Farm, the ancient cobbled track, Black Lane, runs straight to the ridge of Affetside. The medieval mule track from Manchester to Whalley? I notice I’m following part of the Greater Manchester Ringway LDW.

I arrive directly at the door of the Packhorse Inn; it is just opening, so I grab a morning coffee as diners start to arrive.

The Pack Horse was a flourishing inn over 600 years ago, when it was on the main pack horse road to the north, the Roman road Watling Street, where Black Lane crossed. Affetside was a market village and later developed as a mining community – the row of cottages next to the inn was built for miners working narrow drift mines nearby. At the back of my mind as I leave was some story of an old skull kept behind the bar. It is too late when I do recall that it was possibly that of a local man from the 17th century.

Across the road from the inn is The Affetside Cross, which has a puzzling history. Dating the cross is difficult. At one time, it was thought to be a Roman cross. The metal plaque next to the cross shaft suggests it was a Saxon cross. English Heritage states that it is an early Georgian market cross on the site of a medieval cross serving the Manchester to Whalley route. The cross has been incorporated into a pleasant Millenium Green area, and I chat with the gentleman responsible for its upkeep.

Leaving Affetside on the straight Roman road,  the high moors are behind me, and I’m walking through enclosed farmland. As a part of Greater Manchester, or though the locals still call themselves Lancastrians, as they should, many properties have been or are being renovated in not neccessarily the Pennine vernacular style. Equine stabling and enclosures have become a common site. There is more exotic wildlife at one farm. The skyline of Manchester can just be made out as the day turns hazy.

No long-distance route is complete without at least one golf course; I only briefly flirt with the manicured Harwood one. More money is being spent on property renovations.

As I approach Ainsworth, I begin to recognise some of the paths. Around here, I would meet up with my late friend Al, the plastic bag man, for an evening stroll and a pint in the pub.

By serendipity, I arrive in Ainsworth alongside the Methodist Church and the Britannia Inn. I am compelled to enjoy a pint in memory of Al sitting outside in the sunshine with all those recent memories.

Tearing myself away, I cross the road to Ainsworth Church. Understated, but with the best display of crocuses, between the tombstones, I have ever seen.  A church existed on this site from before the 15th century. It was part of the Lichfield Diocese at the time of St. Chad, C7th in Saxon times; I came across St. Chad when I walked from Chester Cathedral to Lichfield Cathedral, where he is buried. I seem to be heading that way again.

If they were the best crocuses I have ever seen, this must be one of the worst paths I have ever walked. Enclosed by fencng, trampled by beasts and seriously waterlogged. With no alternative, it took me ages to negotiate 300 m clutching onto the fence.

Things improved on the cobbled Pit Lane. There is history everywhere.
How is this for a perfect winter oak?

But what is happening here? I have a long chat with Dave, whose wife says he bores people, about the history of the area where he has lived for nigh on 80 years. Canals, pits, mills and railways all play a part. Cromwell and the Royalists come into play when I mention skirmishes around Preston. The fields around here, previously mined, have been allocated for housing. He hopes subsidence may destroy the sheme,  a sentiment I share considering the houses built near me on shifting sands. There is so much urban waste ground for building affordable housing, but nobody seems interested in that. Meanwhile, a buzzard soars overhead.

I’m channeled by more horse premises into the outskirts of Radcliffe.

Over canal and rail, now the metro tram line.

Again, on track of medieval ways here is the Old Cross Inn. Apparently, a fragment of Radcliffe’s Medieval  Cross can be seen in Radcliffe Library.

I have no idea what this collection of stones is. Art or archaeology?
It is World Book Day, and children leaving the nearby school are dressed in all manner of costumes. I keep my phone camera tightly in my pocket. Following signs to the church, I find myself distracted by a stunning sculpture in the park.

Eunice has been here before me.  https://mousehouselife.wordpress.com/2018/10/29/radcliffe-tower-and-close-park/

The church of St. Mary across the way is locked, as all have been today – is that a sign of increased urbanisation?

A church existed on this site since Saxon times—the present one dates from the C13th. I wander around the graveyard, as in many other churches, grave stones have been used as stone slabs on the ground. An interesting one here is the old stone dial from a clock with the Roman numerals just visible. 

A creaky gate leads into a compound where the C15th Pele Tower is displayed, seemingly seldom visited. Eunice gives a comprehensive history. 

I’m becoming tired and can’t find a way out of the field. I have to backtrack through the churchyard and down cobbled streets, passing the C17th Tithe Barn – now an MOT centre.

For a short distance, I follow a track past the cricket pitch but then find myself on the streets. Continue reading →

PILGRIM’S PROGRESS. A LOST MOORLAND CROSS.

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Day 5.  Haslingden to Hawkshaw.

It is too complicated to relate the bus journeys involved in getting to the start and returning from the end of this section. I am now following the route described by the Holcombe Moor Heritage Group. The moors rise above the urban sprawl of Bolton, Balckburn, Bury and Burnley.

Returning to Haslingden’s St James Church, I seek out the Anglo-Saxon double cross base, which I overlooked when here before. It is next to the tower. It’s strange to have two crosses so close together. Was it a plague stone?  I’m in luck; the church is open for a service at 10 am so that I can look inside. Built to house a large congregation, its galleries once had tiered pews.

From up here,  the valley still looks Victorian, apart from the dual carriageway.

From a different time, cribbed from ms6282 somewhere.

Some dingy sets lead down to the valley where the A56 thunders through. Litter is a big problem everywhere – we are becoming a throwaway society, not in the admittedly problem of mass consumerism, but in the dumping in the street or layby of trash. I could easily get grumpy in this post,

Eventually, I find a way under the highway into an industrial complex. Where once there were ‘dark Satanic mills’, there are modern brick and metallic units, possibly Satanic. Large car parks suggest a large workforce. Outside one office was a solitary cycle, cable locked. Our obesity rates have doubled in the last 20 years but nobody wants to ditch the car for a few mile’s journey. I told you I am getting grumpy.

Across Grane Road, I pick up Cycleway 6 on the old Accrington-Bury train line. I last used it out of Accrington. Here, the surface has been relaid with a friendly walking surface. It proves popular with dog and baby walkers escaping the urban sprawl. It is accompanied by the culverted River Ogden, once the water source for the valley’s industries.

Ahead is the Helmshore Textile Museum, which is unfortunately not open today. Its chimney was sited high on the valley sides. 

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Helmshore_Mills_Textile_Museum

The distinctive Musbury Heights is always in the background.

Looking at the old maps, one notices, as well as all the mills, there are fields set aside for tenter frames to stretch the wet cloth.

Onwards by the river until the bridge at Hollin Bank, the renamed Cotton House Inn.

A stroll up Sunny Bank, where once there had been mills, which is now an upmarket housing estate.

After an hour or so of walking, I take an iron gate into a steep field and out again..

I’m now onto the steep Stake Lane and swap the tarmac for cobbles.

At the fell gate is Robin Hood’s Well. Thought to have been a welcome place, after the desolate moors, for pilgrims to rest and take a drink on their way to Whalley Abbey.

All the while, if looking back, there are tremendous views of the Rossendale Valley. Too good for my phone to capture.

Now I’m on the moor proper, and what a day. Blue sky, bitter cold, but no wind. Unfortunately, I’m looking straight into the low sun, so photography is difficult, compounded by my not being able to operate my camera easily one-handed, so I’m relying on my cheap phone.  The way borders on a MOD firing range, but there are no red flags flying.

It doesn’t take long to reach the cairn and memorial stone to Ellen Strange, murdered here in 1761. It was thought that her husband, John Broadley, killed her on Holcombe Moor. He was arrested and sent for trial; however, he was later acquitted due to lack of evidence. The cairn has been there for years, but the memorial stone is a recent addition in the 70s by a local historian and theatre director, Bob Frith. It depicts a slight falling figure and the letters of E S, which can just be made out today against the low light.

Ellen was buried in Holcombe Churchyard. Over the years, various folk laws have given different versions of her death, which are examined here – https://markwrite.co.uk/wp-content/uploads/2018/10/ellen-strange-booklet.pdf

It has become a place for an annual pilgrimage to remember victims of domestic violence still prevalent today.

There are yellow-topped marker posts leading across the moor on the edge of the firing zone. Today, the going is firm, with the surface partially frozen.

Pilgrims Cross is an iconic monument sitting high up on Holcombe Moor. The four sides tell the story and history of the cross, its significance and its destruction. The ancient Pilgrims Cross was standing in A.D. 1176, and probably much earlier than that. Although nothing is known about the removal of the ancient cross, the socket was destroyed by unknown vandals in 1901, and by 1902 the present stone was put in place.

From Lancashire Past blog.

Crosses such as these would have been invaluable in guiding medieval travellers in knowing how far they had travelled and navigating in poor weather, especially crucial on moorland such as here. This area would have been forested until medieval times.

There’s an error in the first inscription above, which names Whalley Abbey. This was not founded until 1296, which was after the cross was in position. However, near Whalley is its rival, Sawley Abbey, which had been in existence since 1149.

The last face, which is in poor light, reads –

IN A.D. 1176 AND IN A.D. 1225, THE PILGRIMS CROSS IS NAMED IN CHARTERS OF GIFTS OF LAND IN HOLCOMBE FOREST. IN A.D. 1662, KING CHARLES II GAVE THIS MANOR TO GENERAL MONK, DUKE OF ALBERMARLE, THROUGH WHOM IT HAS DESCENDED TO THE PRESENT LORD OF THE MANOR.

In the hazy distance can be seen Peel Tower, which I visited from the Ramsbottom side in November 2022. The way is mainly stone-flagged. But today, I decide on another summit, Bull Hill, 418m. I don’t think I have ever ascended it before, but today, I’m here; the way is clear, and there are no red flags flying. A path leads directly to the trig point which is out of view for most of the way. Well, what did you expect, it’s in the middle of nowhere.

Rather than backtrack, I took a beeline to intersect the ongoing route at Red Brook. This gives some dramatic scenery. Peel Tower over to the east, with the steep-sided Red Brook valley dropping away, like a Lancastrian High Cup Nick. My path kept high on the west flank, all new scenery to be enjoyed. The low light was becoming worse, unfortunately.

At the end of the fell, the path drops down to the ruins of Lark Hill. This C17th farm survived until the coming of the firing range at the start of the First World War. Many farms were demolished within the range.

Somebody has in the past tried to salvage some of the roof stones. but hasn’t succeeded.

By now, my phone is running out of battery, but it is easy to follow Hawkshaw Lane down to the main road, where I just miss my bus by about five minutes. Fortunately, the Red Lion is nearby to rest with a pint until hopefully the next bus in an hour.

A fine stretch of Pilgrimage with those Saxon crosses; I hope you have enjoyed it.

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