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.
***
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.
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. 
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.
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. 
No long-distance route is complete without at least one golf course; I only briefly flirt with the manicured Harwood one. 
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.
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.
Somebody has in the past tried to salvage some of the roof stones. but hasn’t succeeded.
Scaitcliffe Mill was built
There is Holland’s Pies in the valley. 
I come across The Griffin Inn, the headquarters for Rossendale Brewery; I can’t go past without sampling their pale ale, appropriately named Halo. 
That’s Haslingden Moor across the way. 
St Bartholomew’s Church has a funeral in progress, so I don’t intrude. The tower of the present building probably dates from the 15th century. Most of the rest of the church is from the 16th century. In 1880, the Lancaster architects Paley and Austin renovated the church with more additions.
When we came this way on the Canal Trod in January, the bridge cafe was closed – or was it? Today, I could see from the towpath that there was no sign of life in the cafe at street level above. I am not fussed about going up into Rishton to the friendly cafe we visited last time. I carry on, but once under the bridge, I think that the cafe may be open canalside. 
I push at an unmarked door and enter a den of iniquity. All heads are turned to the stranger. This is darkest Lancashire. Locals huddled over mugs of tea and scones in front of a roaring wood burner. I just about decipher the owner’s welcome and rather hurriedly order an instant coffee. During the time I spend in this hidden cavern, I glean a fair amount of local gossip from the ladies, possibly some of which would be helpful to the local police. The blokes are of the silent type. I take a furtive photo. 
Soon, after crossing the motorway on the Dunkenhalgh Aqueduct, I am approaching Church, a satellite of Accy. See how I have slipped into the local dialect there. 
I see my first lambs of the year, always a joyous occasion…
… and then I am immersed in industrial squalor along the canal.
We use the canal towpath for about three miles; there are no locks on this stretch, but there is plenty of other interest. The M65 motorway runs parallel to us, so there is always some traffic noise. Leaving Clayton, we edge past Huncoat, where coal was mined, and bricks were fired; the canal would have been busy with traffic – as is the motorway now.
We wonder how the chap we met yesterday is progressing on his trek to Leeds. Our canal stretch is over by bridge 119; we take easily missed steps onto a lane leading to Shuttleworth Hall—another world after the gentle canal towpath.
It is now a farmhouse, and we go around the back to follow the footpath. Dogs are tied up and barking, straining at the leash. It is worrying that the farmhands go to them and hold them down – “they like to bite.” We make a hasty retreat.
He hasn’t, and we flounder through the reeds before coming out onto a lane by an old cotton mill. Initially, it was water-powered, but at some stage, a boiler and chimney were built to provide steam power.
Crossing the busy road at Altham Bridge, we join the River Calder on its way from Cliviger through Burnley and onto Whalley before joining the Ribble. What an environmental disaster the next mile is. First, an evil little brook comes through the field from an industrial site. We can smell the hydrogen sulphide from some distance away. And then, the water looks like sulphuric acid bleaching the vegetation before discharging into the Calder. (back home, I may well try and report this pollution incident to the Rivers Authority, something I’ve not done before)
I’m on familiar ground now and make a beeline to the cafe at the Garden Centre alongside The Calder. After a welcome coffee, we meet up with the river over Cock Bridge, thankfully, for a litter-free walk. 
A final climb up to Whalley Banks, an isolated hamlet of stone houses. 
Once we leave the lane into rough fields, the walking becomes taxing for a mile or so. Waterlogged ground with the odd icy patch, undulating in and out of small valleys, awkward stiles, low blinding sunlight, navigational errors, and some thick gorse bushes to negotiate. I’m not complaining; just look at that blue sky.
When we reach the chain of reservoirs, things improve, and we meet other walkers. Some share our joy of the day, and others unhappy about the pending encroachment of urban areas into the scenery. 
Emerging onto the busy A678 Burnley Road, we have half a mile to walk before turning into the tree-lined avenue leading to the Mercure Dunkenhalgh Hotel. A C19th Tudor-style house built on the site of a C13th hall. Despite our appearance, we are upgraded to an executive double room unfortunately about half a mile away from reception and bar.
