Tag Archives: Walking.

BOUNDING ALONG.

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You join me halfway round my Longridge walk. I’m on the road heading up to the fell, with the wooded hill of Tootle Heights in the background; this was on the edge of what was once a large stone quarry, now a caravan park.  There are several old photographs from the early 20th century depicting a ‘broad walk’ going up the heights where the people of Longridge would parade in their Sunday finery. I often imagine the scene as I walk up here.

I cut off into the park right next to one of the old tunnels, built in 1839, that goes under the road for 55 yards into the quarry, which is now barred. Stone was extracted and carted through the tunnel. Wagons took stone from here through what is now the park on the railway line leading to Preston. Brake wagons were used down the gradient to Preston and hauled back empty by horses. Steam engines came into use in 1848.

I stroll past the miniature Miyawaki forest, which is showing growth in only its second year. I only hope I’m around in 10 years to see how it has developed.

Several of the dog walkers in the park are acquaintances, so progress is slow.

At the bottom of the park is the line of the old rail track going to Preston. IA branch went off to the right for a few hundred yards to the base of what was Lord’s Quarry. It is now a popular path leading to the top of Lord’s Lane, better known locally as Mile Lane. It winds its way between trees and undergrowth. I have forgotten that the Rotary Club undertook its resurfacing a few days ago. I get to walk on it for the first time. They have thankfully not tarmacked it but used hardcore and sand. It looks a little severe at the moment, but once the edges soften with foliage, all should be well.

Then I’m at the top of Mile Lane and away from people, I can resume my walking with a bounce theme for this week’s 52 ways. The book titles the chapter “Jump Start Your Walk for Super Strong Bones.”  

We are all aware that weight-bearing exercise is essential for strong bones, especially as we age. Women in particular are prone to osteoporosis, but it applies to us males also. Science suggests that regular exercise helps preserve our bones, but to improve bone density, one needs higher-impact exercise. Running, jumping and hopping all provide that high impact. Walking fast with varying changes of direction is better than strolling. The book suggests doing some jumps in the privacy of your home before setting off.

After the said jumping, I left home with thoughts of bounding along the pavement, with a few shimmies thrown in.  But I immediately fell into step with a friend walking her dog, and we ended up strolling through the village. I didn’t mention my original intentions. Going our separate ways, that’s where you joined me.

Back on Mile Lane, I increase my speed and do some jumping over cracks in the concrete. This is all becoming Monty Python-esque. I don’t jump like I used to. I’ve noticed climbing stiles; I gingerly edge down where, in the past, I would have leapt from the top step. The mind is willing, but the body is weak. Fell walking does involve far more ‘stressful’ strutting than walking on the pavements, must get back to it more.

Walking down the main road is no fun; the pavement is narrow, and the cars speed past too close for comfort.  At the corner, I escape and head down Old Clay Lane. This was marked on early 19th-century maps as ‘old ‘, so it must have a long history. Where the house is now was once Thornley Tile Works, working from the latter half of the 19th century until early in the 1900s. There was probably a clay pit there long before. It is now a rather overgrown and often muddy path. Today it seems drier, full of flowers and bird song. I do some leaping over the wet patches. I disturb an owl in the trees.

I’m soon home and repeating a few jumps in the privacy of my house. Must do it more often.

A bit of bounding, a bit of history, some nature and plenty of chatting – all good on a short walk.

My last post was dedicated to my son’s dogs. To redress the balance, here are my two cats waiting for my return this afternoon.

A DOGGY INTERLUDE.

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Not much walking today. The family are visiting for a late Sunday lunch.

Exercising the dogs takes priority. Ticks have become a problem up in Cowley Brook Plantation, on the fell, where we usually go. So it’s the short drive to Brock Bottom, the other side of Beacon Fell. The dogs are excited and, once out of the car, make a dash for the river. Gizmo loves the water, but Phoebe is more restrained. He wades in whilst she sniffs the edges.

A pool here is great for rock skimming. Fun for the adults as well as fun for the dogs chasing the stones.

We wander along the riverbank path as far as the metal bridge over the Brock.

The dogs, well Gizmo, had more time in the river.

 

All too soon, we turn around and head home for a curry whilst the dogs catch up on some sleep.

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.

***

WARTON WANDERINGS.

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Three Brothers, but no Caves. 

I am first showing the map of our wanderings, which will make little sense to you. It makes even less sense to  Sir Hugh and me, and we were there, possibly.

My plan was straightforward, or so I put it across to Sir Hugh the night before. One feels nervous about suggesting an expedition into his home territory. And an expedition it was meant to be. Pouring over maps, there appeared to be three caves noted on the eastern side of Warton Crag. Harry Hest Hole, Fairy Cave and Potts Hole.  All very good, but the internet search revealed little except “they are not easy to find”. But Sir Hugh was up for the challenge, not having visited any of them. As an added incentive, I threw in the Three Brothers, erratic boulders on land north of the Occupation Road, the old drovers’ route, now a prominent bridleway. He has previously visited them after several navigational attempts in years gone by. So they should be easy to find.

Why not make use of this wandering for this week’s 52 Ways to Walk – Walk to get lost. I have a feeling we will. Getting lost stimulates your brain’s spatial awareness.

The day dawns, and I arrive to collect Sir Hugh. He had had a rather disturbed previous evening tending to his elderly neighbour, who had had a fall in her garden and ended up in hospital with a suspected broken wrist. Not a good omen for our off-piste explorations. I forgot to mention that I am now driving again and keen to broaden my horizons.

A short drive and we are parking up in Warton Main Quarry – the big one. In the sunshine, it looks spectacular, but I know from experience that climbing in here is not for the faint-hearted. There is a large amount of loose rock on many of the climbs.

After a bit of faffing (which will be relevant later), we set off along a narrow path toward the village. Just before the small quarry, we take a well-signed path up the hillside; the area is a nature reserve.

I had tried to obtain grid references for the three caves we hoped to visit beforehand. I was not sure of their accuracy. Heading off the main track on a small trod towards the first, Harry Hest, we penetrated into the thickly wooded hillside. The path, such as it was, led us to a band of rock below, where my grid reference hinted at its location. I think we spent possibly an hour scrambling about on that rocky escarpment to no avail. Pushing through the vegetation only to hit a dead end, and then trying to find a way out again. We admitted defeat and were glad to get back onto our original track to escape. But what is that on the skyline? A black hole resembling the only picture I had found on the Geograph site.  We had difficulty photographing it, just for the record, from this distance. Curiosity got the better of me, and despite all our failed attempts, I struck back up the precarious hillside only to be sorely disappointed when I reached the outcrop to find the black hole we had been trying to photograph was only a deep black slit in the rock, certainly not Harry.

 

A glimmer of hope.  

But only a wide crack.

Tails between our legs, we managed to reconnect with a more prominent path, taking us all the way back down to the main path we had left all that time ago. A good 90% of the paths we have used so far do not appear on the map.

All thoughts of Potts and Fairy Caves evaporated. It seemed like a long slog along the undulating, slippery limestone path to reach Occupation Road. My original plan was to follow the nearby tarmacked lane north and approach the Three Brothers from a rather roundabout direction on a track marked on the map. In view of the day passing quickly and our slow progress, plans were changed to attempt to find the Brothers directly off the drovers’ route. The map above may help, though I doubt it. The drovers’ route was a well-surfaced track between walls, but involved more ascent and descent than we were prepared for.

We were looking for a marked path that went off to the right and, thankfully, found a gate and a stile leading into the area of the Brothers.

Both Sir Hugh and I had a grid reference for the rocks; unfortunately, both differed, but not that far out.  Luckily, we hit upon an area of open ground which gave the first easy walking of the day. I found a large rock near our grid references, but no sign of any others in the increasingly overgrown surrounding woodland.

In the meantime, Sir Hugh’s sharp eye spotted three dots on the OS map, some distance from our original coordinates.

That was so obvious. Why hadn’t we spotted them before? Fortunately, open ground took us towards them, and a bit of bramble bashing had us alongside them.

Three eroded erratic rocks about 5m apart on the escarpment. Each one is resting on the top of the limestone pavement and not easy to photograph. But are they erratics? They are limestone, which is the local bedrock around here. Had a glacier brought them from the north? Another theory is that they were Megaliths erected for some cultural or religious purpose. For a more scientific explanation.

One.

Two.

Three.

Whatever we had found them! Not many people come this way. Was that other boulder I found earlier another brother or a distant cousin?

Somehow, we managed to find a different way out of the plantation. But we arrived back at the gate on the Occupational Road. Only then did we spot the private sign, honest m’lud.

All we had to do now was follow the bridleway until a path headed up toward the Warton Crag summit itself. We thought we had found it, but after a fairly long stretch, we started heading downhill away from the hill. Not for the first time today, we retaced our steps. I began to doubt my ability to read the map, but, again, most of the paths trodden on the ground are not shown on it. We stuck to the sensible option and followed only uphill paths, eventually coming out at the beacon on top of Warton Crag.

It was nearly three o’clock – time for a rest, perched on the summit rocks, and a bite to eat. The view over Morecambe Bay was hazy as the afternoon heated up – we are expecting a heatwave this Spring Bank Holiday weekend. But Jenny Brown’s Point stood out, as did the railways at Carnforth. Name me a better lunch stop than this.

Dropping down, we followed our noses. Still confused by the terrain, we came unexpectedly upon Pinnacle Crag, a friendly little climbing venue of old. 

We seemed to be following cattle tracks and came across the herd of Red Polls, who roam freely grazing invasive shrub and bracken, helping to preserve the limestone grassland. They were wearing electric tags around their necks, which I later read emit audible sounds if the cow reaches a boundary – virtual fences.

The cattle must be doing their job, as there was an ever-changing flora throughout the day, but somehow that took second place to our objectives. Get up there to see the variety of limestone-loving plants.

We somehow ended up back at the road and followed trails and a newly laid track into the main quarry.

A group of bird enthusiasts had their scopes trained on Peregrines nesting on the crag. We were given a view and even offered a cup of tea, which, looking back on, we should have accepted.

It had been a strange day. We had walked less than four miles in six hours. Our explorations have only achieved the Three Brothers. We certainly trampled new paths, getting lost for the better part of the day. My brain just wasn’t in focus, which may explain why, on return to the car, I find I had left my door open all day.

Help yourselves.

Sir Hugh has written his version of the day, which may be truer than mine.

A reminder to anyone exploring this area – Warton Crag is renowned for its ticks. I found a couple today.

 

LOCAL, ONE MORE TIME.

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I’ve contented myself with mainly local walks for the last few months, whilst not allowed to drive post-shoulder operation. Hence, my posts have been more mundane than usual. Another week and I’ll be back driving – for good or bad, the cost of fuel will come as a surprise.

However, today I find myself walking up ‘Mile Lane’ again, my usual three-mile walk to go shopping. I don’t need to walk that far to the shops, but they say exercise is good for you. Besides, I’m testing out this week’s idea from the 52 Ways to Walk book’s entry, Walk Hungry. I’ve already done Walking after Eating, which wasn’t conclusive about whether it aided my digestion or lowered my blood sugar. Not a very scientific approach, I’m afraid.

Finishing this morning’s crossword mid-morning, I still hadn’t dressed or eaten. An opportunity to rouse myself and walk hungry.  So without further hesitation, I’m out walking. Would it help regulate my fat burning and insulin levels, as some of the book’s science suggests? I would have to walk regularly before breakfast to obtain any benefits, which wouldn’t fit my rather ramshackle lifestyle.

Mile Lane again.

But there are benefits, as I enjoy the ever-changing skies, bright blue one minute and threateningly black the next. We are in a spell of changeable weather; rain is forecast by lunchtime, but it appears to blow over without troubling us. Notice in my photo across the meadows towards the village and St Wilfred’s steeple, the cows are lying down – an old folklore of rain to come. (Late afternoon, we experienced a heavy hail storm!) 

Last week I talked of the Hawthorn blossoming in our hedgerows, and was reminded by Shazza of the abundant Cow Parsley. I’m able to redress that today on Mile Lane, which I have said many times is less than half a mile long.  The Cow Parsley is indeed profuse this year.

Also very prominent in the hedgerow is another white flower, Garlic Mustard. Appropriately named ‘Jack In the Hedge’. The leaves do have a faint garlic smell.

Whilst I’m taking time examining the flora, I notice the flower spikes on the Holly. We are more used to its showy red berries in the autumn and winter, but the flowers are quite complex and often go unnoticed.

Another strong, sweet scent comes along as I pass a Mountain Ash in full flower. The Rowan, also once called the “witch wiggin tree,” was planted outside homes in ancient times as a protection against evil and witchcraft. They are common in Lancashire; we had a lot of witches.

With the Bowland Hills in the background, I move on into the park. Diverting to check on the Miyawaki Forest, planted here last year, it’s good to see the native trees have grown significantly this season and are reaching above the paling fence. It will be interesting to see which varieties do best.

The local council is limiting mowing in parts of the park for environmental reasons, resulting in a colourful splash of Buttercups.  In amongst them is a young Oak, one of several planted by our active local Environmental Group. Things are looking up for nature, and hopefully, the younger generation will take heed.

Did you, as a child, hold a buttercup under your pal’s chin to see if they liked butter?  A glow appeared like magic. Of course, we all liked butter because the flower petals are highly reflective to attract insects.

After shopping, I reach home – my poached egg tasted that little bit better this morning. Maybe walking hungry is a good idea. Do you have a favourite walk to the shops?

 

 

A SUNDAY STROLL.

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What’s that noise?

It’s week 20 of my 52 Ways to Walk crusade. 20 weeks of the year gone just like that. I’m still walking locally and plan to revisit some paths I’ve not used of late. At the same time, I will try out Sing as you Stride. My singing is worse than my dancing, which I attempted a couple of weeks ago, so I’m hoping these paths are little used, and that I don’t meet anybody.

The book states, “Singing whilst walking has been used throughout history – by marching soldiers, hiking schoolchildren, dissenting protestors, and weary families.” Singing helps maintain a good tempo and takes your mind off background stress. I recognise some of that.

Thoughts of tunes from my recent musical Virtual Walking post come to mind. The ones with a marching tempo, unsurprisingly, worked best. However, other thoughts bring out different tunes. The sight of rabbits has me dragging from my memory “Run rabbit, Run rabbit, run, run, run. Don’t let the farmer get his gun, gun, gun”

I am lucky to live on the edge of the countryside. This afternoon, the hawthorne’s aroma fills the air, I am one of those who find it pleasant.  An almost hidden stile leads into the fields. Not many people use these field paths, and in their isolation, I see hares and roe deer when I’m not singing. A cuckoo is heard, as is a woodpecker. Swallows are flying around, and a ‘blue’ butterfly flutters, apparently aimlessly, above the long grass. All very satisfying.

I cross and recross Westfield Brook several times as I wander on. The day is made for singing.

I come out onto a lane and almost immediately take a path I’ve not used for years, and I’m pleasantly surprised by all the young trees planted then and how they have grown in that time.

Around the corner, I was hoping for a brew at friends’, but not unexpectedly, they are out enjoying the weather. I vary the route home by cutting through the small industrial estate at Sandbanks and then, reluctant to follow the busy main road, extend my walk across the other side into fields and then through a wood yard where roof trusses are fabricated. There is a way out at the far end if you look carefully.

Little does one know of this manufacturer on the outskirts of town.

Then you are back in the fields, cut ready for silaging, haymaking is a thing of the past. Green lanes bring me back into Longridge, where I successfully navigate one of the extensive new housing estates to home. The singing has ceased by now!

 

KEEPING IT LOCAL.

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Longridge – some self-indulgence.

A chance conversation with my local taxi driver the other morning set me thinking.

He mentioned that his weekly fuel costs have increased by over £50 this month. We all know why. (Or perhaps you don’t, if reading this in future years. Trump and Netanyahu started an unnecessary Gulf War, which shows no signs of resolution)  I quipped that he may have to increase his prices. His reply – that is not easy when one competes with Uber’s supposedly lower prices. I was surprised by this. Why, in Longridge,  which has a local taxi office and an efficient service, would one use Uber?  OK, if you are on a late night out in Preston, Uber could be your quick choice, but here, surely, you should be supporting your local businesses.

That thought must have stuck in my mind all morning. On the way back, I alighted the bus at the top of the village to do some shopping in our independent businesses.

First stop was the little establishment, Rabia’s Kitchen.  Always a friendly welcome, and the best home-made curries in Longridge, as well as a variety of other tasty offerings. Way better than any national chain.

A few doors down, opposite our library, is a new venture in a converted chapel. The Next Chapter is a book shop. Years ago, we had a bookshop in Longridge that lasted a while. Nowadays, they are up against the likes of Amazon, a corporation I avoid. It is fatal to go into a bookshop to browse – yes, you guessed it, I came out with a gardening book for one of my grandsons. They have created a small, friendly bookshop in there and deserve to succeed. I buy a lot of second-hand books, but have resolved to order any new books from here. 

Thankfully, I didn’t need my dentist or optician today, both of which are still independently owned.

I realised I missed out our local cobbler and general fixer, so I went back up to take a picture. There are not many repairers around in today’s throwaway society.

On the downside, we have been without a bank for a decade or so, but another refurbishment is promising a Banking Hub. This should go down well with the over-60s. And when Russia crashes all our ATMs and card payments, we will still be able to fall back on honest cash. Thinking again, the whole system could go down, including bank hubs.

Across the way is our local post office, invaluable for that last-minute first-class stamp or sending a parcel. Again, they have so much competition from online parcel delivery firms.

Just around the corner is the little barbershop I have been going to for 50 years. Phil is a hive of local gossip, and we all come out looking the same. There must now be a half dozen ‘Turkish’ hairdressers in the village; the youngsters must struggle to give them all enough trade. And that’s just the gents, you ladies have an even wider choice. Nail bars and vape shops have a dubious reputation these days. 

I need some batteries for various devices, so I went into the electric shop for some personal attention. A pleasant chat ensues before I leave with my purchase. These are the people I go to when there is an electrical fault at home, or I need a new bulb.

Across the roundabout, which nobody seems to notice, driving too fast down the road. If this were France or Spain, we would have more than one pedestrian crossing along Berry Lane. C’est la vie.

And amongst the charity shops, all excellent and promoting recycling, there is the office of our local taxi service, which prompted this post in the first place. On the same block is the newly refurbished mobile phone shop. It moved to these premises when Subway pulled out. We still haven’t rid our high street of Dominos next door. I have bought all my mobile phones from these people over the years. They offer a fantastic service and a great help to people like me who are struggling to keep abreast of technology.

Opposite is the computer shop, which is invaluable for technical support. Buy from them and get lifetime service.

As a vegetarian, strictly a pescatarian, I don’t have much need of our local butchers. Still, they deserve a mention for the quality of their locally sourced produce compared to supermarkets.

On the corner is the takeaway I go to for fish and chips or Chinese food. Not very often nowadays, when I seem to eat less fat and quantity.

Have you noticed that nearly every shop front is dressed stone, as is much of old Longridge? The stone all came from local quarries.

Worth mentioning is our Thursday market, where you can buy locally produced fruit and vegetables without any plastic packaging. Their bedding plants are of a far superior quality to those of other purveyors. There is a fresh fish van, and Lancashire cheeses and local honey can be bought in the hall.

On the edge of town is Anji’s, which has been trading for decades. Selling just about everything. Since our hardware shop sadly burnt down a few years ago, they provide a fair substitute.

Almost home, and there is our local Sainsbury’s, my go-to supermarket for convenience and choice. But let’s not forget Booths, the Co-op and Aldi, spoilt for choice.

Oh, and by the way, I have a milkman delivering milk in reusable bottles to my doorstep. And what about the local car mechanic and builder?

There are lots of shops in Longridge that I have never set foot in. The aforementioned nail bars and hairdressers come to mind. And I have no desire to buy a handbag. I don’t tend to frequent the pubs or cafes in the village. Going back 50 years, I suspect every shop on the high street was family-run and relevant to the population’s needs.

This has been an enjoyable post to write. We all complain about the traffic and the new housing swamping us, but at the heart of the village, we are lucky to have a decent collection of local businesses.  I have diverged a few times into environmental matters. I don’t need to drive to any of these shops, which is invaluable at the moment, so this is a bonus for shopping locally. This message is not specific to Longridge. How much do you use your local and family businesses?  Support your local shops, save money, live better and help save the world!!

*

This little reminder to shop local has involved only a short walk of three-quarters of a mile, but has served the purpose of ticking off this week’s 52 Ways to Walk, Work as You Walk. which I was never going to do; my working days are long past. OK, there was a little work done uploading this post, but that’s more pleasure than toil.

DANCING IN THE WILD.

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I can now manage stiles, so my options for walks from home multiply. Let’s visit some of our neighbouring field paths, which I usually have to myself. Given this week’s walking topic, Take a walk dance. Solitude would be an advantage. I’m not the best of dancers.

In March 1599, Will Kemp, a comic actor in Shakespeare’s company. Morris danced from London to Norwich and wrote a book about it called “Nine Daies Wonder”. It took him 23 days. His reasons for this escapade are not clear. The reasons for my walk dance are not entirely clear either. Anabelle Streets, in her book, gives us this.

“Dance has been proven to lift mood, improve balance, and boost aerobic fitness. I like to break up my walks with short bursts of dance and wave my arms in the air”  All very plausible, adding some playfulness to the activity and boosting our dopamine.

I’m ready to go, although I haven’t decided on my dance step yet.

It’s amazing what you can find on YouTube.  I’ve no idea who Su Lee is; she is not the best dancer, but it’s a simple, catchy tune to accompany me as I dance through the fields. Yes, I know I’m far too old for this malarkey.

  When I think back on long road treks, I often skipped a few steps to break the rhythm.
As children walking to and from school, we would devise some playful steps to avoid the cracks along the way. And what about kicking a tennis ball or a stone down the pavement? I still do.
  The fields are the driest I’ve seen them for a long time, there are flowers everywhere, and lots of birdsong – it makes you want to dance. I took a few of the usual photos, but thankfully no selfies, by the time I reached the road home, all dancing had stopped to preserve my dignity. My dancing days are over.

 

Out of the village. 

Down a green lane.  

Open fields and the Longridge.  

Bowland View.  

 

Sheep and lambs are bewildered by my antics.  

Sycamore
Oak.

 

Strange.  

I normally walk past this seat, but today, after all the exertions, I was glad to sit and stare at the views and blue sky. My phone ran out of juice, so you will just have to believe me. I’m pretty much out of juice myself; I realise what the last four months have taken out of my life.

A SHORT CITY WALK.

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The city is Preston, and whilst visiting the hospital and the Harris, I’m taking the opportunity to ‘Take a City Smell Walk’, one of my 52 Ways to Walk. I’ve found it difficult to squeeze in a walk this last week.

We have an excellent bus service from my home town of Longridge to central Preston.  I don’t often visit Preston; it doesn’t have a lot to offer me, except for the newly refurbished Harris Museum and Art Gallery. But I do use this bus regularly on the way to the rail station, unfortunately, on the other side of the city. Preston bus station is widely known as an iconic brutalist building from the 60s.  But I’m getting ahead of myself. First, a bus to the hospital for my physio appointment, and then a bus to the centre. A large part of my life at the moment revolves around hospital appointments and bus journeys. The good news is that I can now largely dispose of the sling, but no driving for a few weeks.

I’m making use of my time in the city by revisiting the Harris to catch up on an exhibition I  only briefly touched on last time. And while I’m here, do a city smell walk, although a countryside smell walk would be preferable.

Let’s start the ‘smell’ walk at the hospital bus stop. Some beautiful cherry trees are blossoming nearby, and the soft scent hits me as I check the timetable. I walk the few yards to examine the flowers. Preston’s streets are well endowed with cherry trees, and they are a highlight of some districts at this time of year. What a shame they don’t last longer. We all use Cherry Blossom Shoe Polish.

A young girl is waiting at the stop, and I next pick up her perfume, Chanel, Lancome or Giorgio – I wouldn’t know, but a pleasant interlude.

The bus ride has an underlying sweaty smell, or worse, particularly as it fills to standing room only. Sweat from apocrine glands (in the armpits/groin) is odourless, but turns into pungent compounds when broken down by bacteria on your skin. Interestingly, thicker fluid is activated by stress and anxiety, leading to stronger odours.  I’m not sure where this post is going. I haven’t started walking yet.

I leave the pervading diesel smell of the busy bus station.

Its surroundings have a distinct sweet odour of cannabis. A lot of people are vaping outside, so perhaps I’m just picking up their herbal flavours. Apparently, it is the various fruit scents that appeal to teenagers; there are bright vape shops on every street.

As I walk into the centre, I find myself actively searching for new smells.

Close to one of the closed, derelict pubs in this part of the city, there is the lingering urine odour typical of a rundown dingy alleyway, best avoided even in daylight.

The leathery aroma as I pass a shoe shop with an outside display, you know the one with all left feet.

That homely smell of freshly baked bread outside a Greggs, do they spray it in the air to attract customers?

The bloody smell of fresh meat from a traditional butcher’s shop in the market. Here, too, are the earthy aromas from the vegetable stall next door.  I stop at the cheese shop to choose a well-matured goat’s cheese, sweaty socks come to mind, but it will be delicious later on some sourdough. And of course, the fishmonger’s display reminds one of visits to the seaside.

Leaving the market, I pass one of the street cafes which have become so popular in our towns and cities. The rich, roasted aromas of coffee draw one in; it’s coffee time anyhow.

My short city walk ends in the marketplace, where I head into the Harris. I suppose I cheated somewhat by traversing the market, which I knew would give me rich pickings. But concentrating on olfactory odours has been an interesting exercise, more so than some of the other 52 Ways to Walk.

Photographs are superfluous to an olfactory walk, but here are a few, self-explanatory.

My visit to the Harris was a great success, which I’ll write about later.

 

OVER THE HILL.

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Somewhere on WordPress, someone uses the title “Over the Hill”. You can imagine his or her demographics. Today, I’m over the hill whichever way you take it.

I cancelled a walk over Longridge Fell at Easter because there were no buses, and it rained anyway.

But today the weather is perfect, little wind and full sun with temperatures in the high teens. After lunch** I take the little bus towards Ribchester and alight at Ward Green near Angel’s Restaurant. As I walk up the lane, I realise I am probably overdressed for the conditions; too late now to divest myself of my jacket. I plan to take a traffic and stile free route over the tail of Longridge Fell, maybe avoiding all the noise pollution from the other day.

I pass the Written Stone, on which I have often commented.

Ralffe Radcliffe laid this stone to lye for ever AD 1655

  The enclosed lane above is drier than usual, and I am soon in the fields below the development at Craig Y. The youngsters bouldering there knew nothing of how it used to be open fields.

I’m pleased to see the pair of Great Crested Grebes are back, though no sign of their courting dance today. I miss not carrying my telephoto camera.

Spot the Grebe.

It’s downhill from here, still on a very quiet lane. These houses must have a wonderful view of the Bowland Fells.

Halfway down, I take a farm track back towards Longridge, passing this curious structure built into a wall.

Past the busy working farm is a stone house recently empty.  The man who lived here was always around as you walked through. I remember some of his stories.

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

One wonders how much local history has been lost. The old house will soon be converted.  I don’t go looking for the cheese stone. Here’s a previous photo.

 

To be honest, I’m feeling weary, overheated in my winter jacket, and in pain from a pulled muscle from the recent, persistent cough. I trudge on, my mind drifting to a drink and a sit-down in the farm cafe further on. A friendly dog runs up to me. I recognise her, it’s Zola, an Australian Kelpie. Not far behind is C, remember those slate poems, out enjoying the sunshine. In my weary state, I turn down the offer to accompany them, but gallantly, they turn around and head home, where I am very grateful for that drink and sit down.

The last mile past the cricket pitch and via Sainsbury’s drags on. It gives me time to look up at the way I came over the fell.

I’m reduced to a snail’s pace by the time I reach my house. I certainly feel over the hill.

      _____

  ** After lunch.  This week’s ‘way to walk’ topic is ‘Walk after eating,’ which doesn’t motivate me. The blurb says walking aids digestion. I’ll leave it at that.

AN EASTER DAY.

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  A Catching Yellow.    A mundane post mainly about gate catches, oh! and the moon if you get to the end.

   “It’s crazy”, as Manuel would say in Fawlty Towers. It’s Easter and the weather is crazy. A few days ago, I was out in sleet and hailstones, so bad we had to curtail the walk early in one of our excellent hostalries. Then calm and warm. Then along comes Dave, the latest storm. My windows rattled all night, but this morning the sun comes out, even though  I can hardly stand up in the wind. And this evening all is peaceful, and I’m looking forward to a brilliant sunset.

  I have just returned from a six or seven-mile walk around Longridge.  Blown and blasted by the wind, but invigorated by the sunshine. My mission was to investigate changes on the ground of my, or anybody else’s, Round Longridge Walk. I have talked about the origins and development of this route over the years. The problem is that Longridge is bursting at the seams, its wasteline expanding with all that Easter chocolate. Where there were fields, hedges and trees, we now have desirable countryside housing estates, you know the language. Bowland Meadows, Primrose Drive, and Linnet Lane. All imagined in the developers’ world and all destroying what they represented. Sorry, I have gone off on one there. I keep doing that. But as Manuel would also say, “I know nothing”

  I walk down Green Nook Lane. (The term “Nook”  refers to a secluded, “out of the way” place.)  The lane leads to a secluded house, but we are diverted away over a bridge spanning the infant  Savick Brook, which winds its way to Preston and the Ribble. It doesn’t look that clean as it passes. This is not surprising, but not excusable, as we are in the centre of an industrial complex. 

  I walk alongside the touchline of one of the football pitches. It’s heavy going after all the rain, wouldn’t want to be running with the ball. I reach a bridge, followed by a new metal gate with one of those fluorescent yellow catches. Said to be hard-wearing and visually clear to all, they are becoming more common in the countryside. The field edge is better going until a dodgy bridge that will need replacing soon. A concrete track is not much better, often disappearing into mud. Originally, I used to follow this track through the farmyard out onto the main road, but there is now a gap into Alston Grange waste land. Last year, this was obstructed, but I’m pleased to find another one of those new metal gates with a yellow catch leading into the ponded area linking to paths that bring me out directly opposite Pinfold Lane. 

  A familiar route was taken down the lane which leads to a few isolated ‘farms’. It is rare to see a car along this stretch, but here’s one coming towards me – the driver’s window reveals a friend happy to chat. The lane had just reopened after a tree blew down last night, someone has cleared it – a large beech. I  suspect there will be others down in the area. I pass by the observation hides looking over a disused reservoir.  It’s too windy for many birds to be out, though there are swans on the water. The lane leading back up to the village is known locally as Happy Alley, don’t ask me why; there is a graveyard at the top. I don’t follow it that far, but take a wooden gate into the field north of the reservoir. Sheep and lambs are everywhere. I struggle to get over the wobbly stile out of the field and almost turn back, somehow, climbing over the gate was the easiest option. I daren’t risk a fall before seeing the shoulder specialist at the end of the week.

  I stick with the roads until I can turn up Tan Yard lane heading steeply up to the top of the village. There had been a tannery up near the quarries at one time. There has been some minor rerouting of the PRofW recently, an improvement that keeps it in the field rather than through houses. A new metal gate, complete with a yellow catch, leads the way. There is another one up ahead. This elevated path gives great views across Dilworth Reservoirs and across the Ribble Valley to Whalley and Pendle Hill. 

  I skirt the caravan park and come out right next to Craig Y Longridge, our renowned bouldering venue. Three youths are enjoying their first visit and doing their best to avoid the wind. A lot of my local walks seem to end up here at present.

  To follow my Round Longridge walk further would involve several stiles, so I’m happy to walk down Higher Road back home.  I am pleased with the new gates I’ve encountered and can update my description. 

  Being Easter Sunday, the shops are closed. I had been hoping to look around our new bookshop in the old chapel at the top of the main street, exciting news for Longridge. Something for next week.  

Green Nook Lane.

The first bridge and galvanised gate.

The dodgy bridge.

The new gate with yellow catch.

Either way, past ponds.

Pinfold Lane.

Happy Alley, with St. Lawrence’s and the Dog Inn prominent on the skyline.

Wooden gate.
Sheep field.

Dodgy stile.

Lower Tan Yard Lane.
Higher Tan Yard Lane.

 

 

New gate, yellow latch.

And the next.

Dilworth reservoirs and the Ribble Valley.

Distant Pendle Hill.

Into the caravan site. 

Out of the caravan site.

Craig Y Longridge.  

   *

All of a rather mundane walk today, but in view of the ongoing NASA Artemis space mission around the moon, a good excuse for a post in order to play…

 

 

 

 

ON AND ON,,,

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

  Three months of my life drifted away. 

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

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

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

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

  On and on …

 

 *

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

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

A WEEK TO REMEMBER.

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  My walking task this week – Walk to remember. I was excited, I would recall places, people and events on my daily walks around the village. Then I would return home and search for photos and diary entries to enhance the memories. But it was not to be. Walking to remember was based on flimsy research that suggested that after a short walk, one’s receptive memory is enhanced for a period. As I’m not studying for any exams or learning poetry, perhaps I should, I did not bother to test it out. 

  But I had a week to remember.

  Another birthday came along. My family turned up trumps and took me out, first for a walk and then for a lovely meal. My daily walks around Longridge, with my arm still in a sling, are, by necessity, becoming tedious—almost a repeat of lockdown. But friends have responded and driven me to ‘new’ venues for exercise and nature. More pub meals ensued. The weather has varied from pleasant springlike to wintry storms. I spent one of those wet days in the Preston Harris Museum and Art Gallery, which gave me something to post about. 

    What will next week bring? I’ll be walking with my ears, the 14th of 52 ways*. Have we really reached the 14 th week of the year already? At least the clocks change this weekend, which usually sees me setting off on some multi-day walk or pilgrimage. I’m already plotting for when I’m released.

  • 52 Ways to Walk. The Surprising Science of Walking for Wellness and Joy. Annabel Streets. Bloomsbury Publishing. 2022.

 

TAKE A WINDY WALK.

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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.

 

ANOTHER WEEK DAWNS.

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

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

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

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

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

WALKING WITH PURPOSE.

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It’s week ten of my 52 ways to walk schedule. Ten weeks into 2026 already. The context is Walk With Purpose, though I end up physically rambling.

We all need a ‘purpose’ in life, generally, and motivation on a daily basis. I’m not normally good at it, drifting through life a lot of the time. But unable to drive a car at present, I have resolved to take a daily walk to shop at my nearby supermarket. My purposeful walk. A simple goal with no need to consider the surroundings, navigation or the weather. Just march to the shop on an all-too-familiar path. And march it is – without distractions, I find myself walking at a much faster pace than normal. My eyes are focused on the pavement ahead, instinctively knowing my general whereabouts. I do notice the minutiae; cracks in the pavement between my feet, gutter litter, and a heightened awareness of birdsong from within the hedgerows. Traffic noise is sublimated, and I probably pass friends without a nod.

Apparently, people walking with a purpose, to work or the shop, do so at a quicker-than-normal l pace. I mentally picture the bowler-hatted workforce crossing into the city.

My brisk daily utilitarian walking undoubtedly provides physical benefits, and in my semi-rural environment, possibly reduces stress. Though all those city walkers look somewhat stressed, mindfulness wasn’t invented back then.

These shopping trips are too mundane to describe further, although thinking back, I once did

For the last few sunny days, hopefully heralding spring, I’ve been lengthening my recreational strolls around the village, aware that any fall would not be good for my recently repaired shoulder joint. But the same scenery each time is becoming tiresome after less than a fortnight. I need a change of horizons. I selfishly phone a friend, Sir Hugh, suggesting a meet-up and a short walk. He is, as ever, keen. Time to tell him, “Oh, but I can’t drive”. He still takes the bait and arrives at my house the next morning. My sensible plan is to keep to roads or decent tracks. I have a regular circuit of Leagram in the Bowland foothills. which fits the bill. He is my transport to fresh vistas.

I am still unable to take photos one-handed, the left at that. I can barely type, so it is over to him to fill in the details. https://conradwalks.blogspot.com/2026/03/in-steps-of-mole-chipping-with-bc.html

The least I can do is treat him to a post-ramble coffee and cake at the Cobble Corner Cafe.

I hope my family don’t see the photos. I’m back at the consultant surgeon’s tomorrow

VIRTUAL WALKING.

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  At present, my walks are short and restricted to the village from my house; nothing wrong with that, but certainly not worth writing about. A fellow blogger was recently on a car journey when friends suggested and listened to songs with the theme ‘walking’. This is a good opportunity to expand on her choices and delve into musical walking themes. Virtual Walking.

  The rain keeps falling, so you, fellow walker, may be as housebound as I am. There are hours of music out there to listen to; some of the below may be new to you, and they may be worth an ear.

  First, let’s look at the obvious popular music choices. There are plenty of them – we are always either walking away from or towards love. This is not a top ten; there are eleven, but a selection of those I would consider the more polished tunes from my memory, click to get your feet walking.

  Going back to 50s Rhythm and Blues, early Rock and Roll, Fats Domino sets the scene with  I’m Walkin’

  Probably most people’s choice must be The Proclaimers, a long-distance marching song if ever there was one.    I’m Gonna Be 500 Miles.

  From the sixties, we have Nancy Sinatra’s catchy pop tune. These Boots are Made for Walking.

  Going back to 1957, Patsy Cline sang in her country style  Walkin’ After Midnight.

  And coming from country music in the same era, 1956, plodding along is Johnny Cash’s enduring hit I Walk The Line.

  Dionne Warwick’s version of Burt Bacharach’s tearjerker came out in 1965. Walk On By.

  More up-to-date, 1991, is Marc Cohn’s Walking in Memphis.

  Modern blues singers from around the world treat us to the classic Son House Walking Blues.

  An upbeat tune I’ve often walked along to, Katrina and the Waves. Walking on Sunshine.

  For variety, what about some Rap from Run DMC and Aerosmith?  Walk This Way.

  And finally take a stroll with a twist along to Lou Reed’s  Walk on the Wild Side.

***

  Moving onto Jazz recordings, steady, rhythmic grooves and strong walking basslines are everywhere. I have hundreds of CDs to choose from.

  Back in 1939, Fats Waller sang Hand Me Down My Walking Cane

  The jazz 4/4 walking beat is particularly the hallmark of bassist Paul Chambers, who was an integral member of many of the best hard bop combos throughout the 50s and 60s. Take a brisk walk with him in 1957 on Confessin

  Bassist Percy Heath keeps the beat on Miles Davis’s 1954 Walkin’

  Charles Mingus’ bass lines are famous, as in his 1955  Work Song

  McCoy Tyner with bassist Jooni Booth, live in Montreux, 1957. Walk Spirit. Talk Spirit.

  Bassist Leroy Vinegar struts his walking bass on the 1958  Walk on.

  Straying into the magical world of Thelonious Monk, we have John Ore marching along on bass in the 1962  Monk’s Dream

 

***

 

  In classical music, heavyweights derive inspiration and depict rural scenes – Beethoven’s Pastoral, Mendelssohn’s Fingal’s Cave, Debussy’s Suite Bergamasque, and Chopin’s Raindrop, without directly referencing walking as such. We are all waiting for Spring. in Vivaldi’s Four Seasons.

 

  The internet is awash with classic compositions to listen to in the background, through your headphones, whilst out walking. I’ve never understood walking around with headphones whilst out engaging with nature. But I’m old-fashioned.

  For some stepping out music to listen to at home, what better than Grieg’s instantly recognisable  In the Hall of the Mountain King from Peer Gynt Suite.

  This is often confused with Paul Ducas’s The Sorcerer’s Apprentice, highlighted in Walt Disney’s 1949 animation Fantasia.

  Searching for classical music with walking in the title doesn’t bring up much. But what I find is new to me, Seven Days Walking, by the pianist Ludovico Einaudi. His ambitious plan was to release seven albums in seven months in 2019, inspired by the same walk he repeated in the Alps. Each selection of pieces portrays a different aspect of his wintery wander. Randomly, I have chosen Ascent on Day 1. For relaxing in this rainy weather, one can listen to the full six hours on YouTube.

   Sorry for all the annoying YouTube ads.

  You will be tired out with all this virtual walking.

  I would be interested in your own choices, particularly in Classical Music, where I ran out of steam.

 

 

RECOVERING.

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  Thinking I wouldn’t be out walking for a while, I planned to write a post about Virtual Walking. I may still do so. But, no, I’ve just returned from a few miles of real walking around the village. 

  My right shoulder is patched up and in a sling for 4 to 6 weeks. The postoperative pain is easing. In the past, I would have struggled to write with my left hand; these days, I can take to the keyboard, no matter how clumsily. Apparently, the standard of handwriting among schoolchildren is deteriorating due to the use of digital keypads.  No doubt their spelling has taken a nosedive, too. 

  I take a phonecall from JD enquiring about my well-being. I reassure him I’m fine. “In that case, would you like to go for a walk?”  I jump at his offer. Fair enough, he has to tie my shoelaces and help me with a jacket before we set off. Somehow, that reminds me of a line from Bob Dylan’s Tangled Up in Blue song.

  I must admit I felt a little uneasy                                                                                                            When she bent down to tie the laces of my shoe.

  One of the finest songs he has written, so let’s listen to the rest of it. 

  All of which has nothing to do with JD or today’s walk.

  We take to the new estate and weave our way, complaining about the blandness of the housing and the hedgehog-unfriendly, all-encompassing wooden fences. When they were being built, I wrote to Barretts about this environmental faux pas – they obviously took no notice of me. We escape alongside a well-known budget supermarket and head down a once green lane. Industrial estates are bypassed to emerge on a much older housing estate, which has fared well over the decades. 

  I was wondering how to incorporate this walk into my 52 Ways to Walk series. Walk Alone or Walk Barefoot don’t fit; you will have to wait for them. It so happens we chose one of the sunniest afternoons of this up to now dismal year. The temperature must have been in the teens, and one could feel the sunon your cheeks. So let’s choose ‘Walk in Sunshine’. 

  We all now know about the link between sunshine, UV rays, vitamin D production, and the benefits it brings to our immune system. It is now thought that sunshine itself acts on our immune systems, independent of vitamin D. For us living in the northern hemisphere, where sunlight is in short supply, SAD (Seasonal Affective Disorder) is a well-known affliction in the winter months. Sunlight plays an important role in setting our circadian rhythms. So a walk in the sunshine does make us feel good, and it certainly does today. I used to spend a good deal of the winter months climbing and walking in sunnier climes, and I’m sure it contributed to my ongoing long-term general fitness. Time will tell. Of course, one must be aware of the dangers of excessive UV light and take precautions to prevent skin damage. Tangled up in Sun. 

  We walk on and take a newly constructed path along the edge of another housing estate, which offers splendid views over the Alston reservoirs. I can’t take photos with one hand, so I will have to return here soon to illustrate the views that some of the luckier houses enjoy. 

  As we pass through the centre of the village, our pace is interrupted by the acquaintances we meet and greet. Between us, we seem to know a lot of people, the advantage of village life as it once was. But now, with all those extra hundreds of houses in the estates I’ve mentioned, there are far more ‘strangers’ in town. 

  An unexpected Walk in the Sunshine thanks to JD. A bonus in February and a definite boost to my recovery. I can start planning some of those British Pilgrimage walks I have in store for this year.

SCRAPING THE BARREL.

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I have little to write about, unless you are interested in my never-ending visits to doctors, dentists, and hospitals. Walking is in short supply. But to keep on schedule with my 52 Ways to Walk book, I need to Take a Twelve-Minute Walk. Despite her previous assertion that long, slow walks are mind-enhancing, I am now being encouraged to walk quickly for a short time to improve my metabolism.  That is ideal as it fits in with my busy schedule and the changeable weather. In fact, I repeat it daily most of this week.

There is a good flat pavement out of the village past the cricket pitch. Timing myself from the pub, without visiting it, I walk quickly and cover over three quarters of a mile, that works out at four miles an hour. I enjoy the physicality without beoming breathless and look forward to the challenge each day. Before you know it, I could be back to running. When I was working nights, each morning at seven, I would run the same footpath to the next pub and back, two and a half miles, before going to bed.

Yes, a quick walk does get the blood flowing.

I’ve also had the odd visit to the fell whilst I can still drive. I walk up to the old tree stump and back through the plantation.

A shoulder operation on Friday will curtail me for some time. Normal service will resume as soon as possible.

 

 

RAIN … careful what you ask for.

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

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

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

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

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

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