Tag Archives: Yorkshire Dales.

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.

*

*

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.

ST. GREGORY’S CHURCH. VALE OF LUNE CHAPEL..

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The sublime.

I have driven past this little church so many times in the last few years on my frequent travels to and from Sedbergh. It is just east of Lincoln’s Inn Bridge on the A684 coming from the motorway.

Built in the early 1860s by the Upton family of Ingmire Estate when the LNWR  Ingleton to Lowgill branch was being constructed. The railway company had sent a Mr Foyers as a scripture reader to the navvies. (Some 1,600 navvies were used to build the 18-mile line) His gospel preaching attracted many local farmers as well as the rail workers. On completion of the line in 1861, the farmers pleaded with Miss Upton of Ingmire Hall to have him stay. Hence, the church was founded.

Originally consisting of a chapel and a school room, which were combined at the turn of the century, when most of the stained glass and furnishings were installed, and the porch was added. The original architect is unknown. The church is strangely attached to a cottage on one side.

In 1917 the Upton family transferred the church from their Ingmire estate to the Church Commissioners, and it was consecrated in 1918. It was declared redundant in 1992 and is now under the wing of The Churches Conservation Trust—with a history spanning 160 years or more.

The other day I made time to stop and have a look around the church.

As I said, it is attached to its neighbouring cottage, and a large barn across the way is being renovated. It is not your typical rural church. The roofline has a raised glazed Lantern structure. The porch is not in scale with the rest of the building. All rather odd – perhaps, as is sometimes mentioned, the architect was employed by the railway.

The porch door has a fine knocker.

Churches Conservation Trust.

Once inside, it looks a bit gloomy; perhaps I missed the light switch. All is very plain, with a straight nave to the chancel and altar with no real transept.  The original pews have moulded ends and carvings from the early 20th century.

But then I became aware, or even awed by, the stained-glass windows on the west wall. All showing some Art Nouveau influence, I thought. The subjects were of a natural rather than religious nature. Each window was elaborately framed in wood on the inside, like a picture.

 

Looking back at the north wall were two more similar windows. 

Later research indicates that the four in the west wall and the two in the north wall were certainly the work of Frederick George Smith, the principal designer of windows for the London firm of Campbell, Smith & Co.

Hills, clouds,  rivers, plants, flowers and birds are all colourfully depicted – with the intent of leading people to God through the delights of nature.

The more conventional figures of Fortitude and Justice by Morris & Co., in the chancel wall and another window in the porch, Peace, probably also by Morris, have a more direct moral and religious message,

 

 

But what a selection in such a small church. A real wow factor and totally unexpected.

I have been reading about awe in my 52 Ways to Walk book; I’m over halfway now, you will be glad to know. This week: Seek Out The Sublime. We have all had awe-inspiring moments whilst walking: a spectacular sunset or sunrise, distant blue mountains, a hidden waterfall, glorious cloud formations. Even the smallest things can be marvelled at: lichens, insects, raindrops, a rare flower, the flash of a kingfisher. The outdoors is apt to produce sublime moments you don’t get watching television, one of the joys of walking. The more curious you are, the greater the chance of something inspiring you.  And have you noticed how these moments stay in the memory?

The walk I completed that day was set in spectacular scenery and was full of interest, but nothing awe-inspiring occurred. Until I stepped into this little church.

 

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.

10 Replies

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.

*

 

ON THE OCCY.

19 Replies

A walk from Dent.

I’m glad for the fresh breeze up here on the Occupation Road, high above Dent, as the heat wave continues: with temperatures, even here in the north, in the high 20s. The Occupation Road, the Occy as the locals call it, was originally an old droving route linking Barbondale and Kingsdale. It was rebuilt in 1859 at the time of the Parliamentary Enclosures, when common fell side land was divided up into large allotments for grazing – the ‘occupied’ land. The land was stolen from the commoners. Those fields are spread out below me, with Dent Town hidden;  the other side of the valley rises to Aye Gill Pike. And there down the valley, the Howgills across the horizon. And at the head of the valley, Great Knoutberry. A panorama to savour.

I’m walking alone today, yes, yet another ‘task’ from my 52 Ways To Walk book. It’s not difficult for me, as probably 80% of my walks are alone these days; a lot of my friends have died or become incapacitated. There are, however, many advantages to solitary walking. One can decide on a walk at the last moment and just set off without any possible communication complications. One can go at one’s own speed, stop when one wants, take lots of photos and spend time just observing nature in all its forms. One can divert to visit ruins and churches that any companion might not find interesting.  One can relax and meditate without constant conversation. It is thought that the more one can create and enjoy solitude, the more resilient and contented one becomes, hence the less alone one feels.

I will not offend any of my walking companions by the above as they are of a similar ilk. In fact, on those days when one chooses a companion for a walk, one appreciates their company even more; I hope that is reciprocated. My solitary walk today is highlighted by several conversations with complete strangers that I might never have had if I were walking with friends.  Read on.

I knew I needed to be away early to avoid the afternoon heat. This wasn’t helped by oversleeping my alarm, being held up by a serious accident on the A6 and then driving past my intended motorway junction for Kirkby Lonsdale. The latter problem was easily rectified by going on to the Sedbergh junction and coming into Dent from the west. By the time I reached here, I succumbed and paid for a day’s parking, having been warned by Sir Hugh of his experience a while ago.

After all that, I’m ready to start at 10 am, which is still early for me. I know, from Sir Hugh’s post, what to expect from the climb alongside Flintergill. The lane leading to it has some pleasant properties and halfway a Meditation Centre in an old Methodist Chapel. I call in and restore my composure before continuing. The way passes early on the ‘Dancing Flags’ – limestone slabs in the gill where weavers danced on their fabrics to shrink and thicken them.

The track remains steep and rocky but provides good shade from the sun. I just plod along. I’m surprised to see this strange tree with roots growing over the path. I later learn it is the ‘Wishing Tree’ – I should have passed under it or walked round it three times, depending who you consult.

Higher up, a typical Dales barn has been preserved, and one can view the interior, where there is a jumble of old farming implements.  Not very instructive, though I like the stone trough in the wall.

The next diversion is an old lime kiln built into the hillside. 

The track becomes less rocky and shows more greenery from the summer growth. The gill itself is down below, but there is no sound of running water. It is dry from the lack of rain and the heatwave.

I encounter the first person I’ve seen since leaving Dent. A lady walking down the track with her little dog. We stop for pleasantries; it turns out she lives just the other side of the gill, and this is her daily walk, having left her husband working in their garden. From what she says, the garden is their main occupation. Having lived here twenty years, they have never really been away – “why would you?” The conversation drifts on about the local wildlife, and it transpires they have ‘tamed’ a rescued magpie. For five years he has lived in their garden and reacts closely with them. Despite its domesticity, he has found a mate most years and reared young. She goes on to tell me about the butterflies in the vicinity and to look out for Emerald Butterflies in the shrubs higher up where apparently there is a welcome seat. A pleasant quarter hour passes by.

I notice a cairn high on the right and scramble up to it. I’m glad I do; it turns out to be a toposcope highlighting all the local features of Dentdale.  I take in the views and I try to video the panorama.

The valley opens up; there is even some water in the beck.  I can see the Occupation Road up ahead, but first I take advantage of that seat to rehydrate and take in the solitude. 

I turn left at the top onto the Occy. It stretches out in front, contouring the hillside. In parts it is underwater; God knows what it would be like in winter, Rutted and awkward for walking, perhaps trashed in the past by motorbikes? But it is a joy to be up here. One has time to take in Dentdale’s different perspectives as one proceeds.

Distant Howgills. 

Dentdale fields.

Great Knoutberry.

There are ever-changing trackside flowers and butterflies. I fail to photograph the latter, but here are a few flowers, predominantly Yellow – cue Coldplay.

I stop at the junction with my downward path, Nun House Outrake, and find a boulder to perch on for my lunch. I study the map to follow the Occy onwards to Kingsdale, another time, maybe. The day drifts on.  Looking down the walled track, I spot a walker ascending slowly; you can just see him in the photo.  

I’m halfway across the stile when I involuntarily check my back pocket – no phone. So back to my lunch boulder and there it is. I could have been down in the valley before I had realised.

By now the other walker has almost reached me, striding out – a young man with a mission. But he hesitantly stops to chat. I ask about his route. He uses public transport and arrived at Dent station by rail today from Sheffield. His southern Yorkshire accent reminds me of Jarvis Cocker; in fact, he has the looks and mannerisms of the man himself. Weird. Using the Occy into Kingsdale, he will climb over Whernside to Ribble Head station. An ambitious day. He knows the area quite well but is keen to learn of other ways. I tempt him into Bowland; he has had thoughts already of walking from High Bentham station to Slaidburn or Chipping. I suspect that he doesn’t feel at ease talking to strangers, but our shared love of stravaiging opens him up. I wish him well and wish I still had his fitness. The day goes on.

I’m soon down at the working Nun House Farm.

Lower on the track, I meet a lady trying to open a gate; I fail too, and we both climb over. I give her space, as you do, and notice she is sensibly using an umbrella for shade. Inevitably, I catch up with her whilst she is searching for the path. Her northeastern accent is immediately familiar to me; not all ‘Geordies’ come from Newcastle; her softer twang is from County Durham, Consett, she tells me. Not far from where I was born in Darlington. A common bond is instantly established, and we chatter away. The umbrella is up as we wander through fields, stumbling across stiles from time to time—another enchanting chance meeting.

Where we part company, I realise I’m slightly off track and have to walk back up the road to Mill Bridge to connect with The Dales Way, The Dales High Way, and AW’s Pennine Journey, all running alongside Deepdale Beck. You wouldn’t have thought all these routes come this way judging from the height of the summer vegetation.  Most of the time there is no beck, it having dried up or gone underground in the limestone.

Even when I meet the Dee, Dentdale’s river, there is little water at the stepping stones.

A Dales Way walker comes by and, of course, stops for a chat. A laid-back gent up from Reading to walk this popular way. His wife back home is suffering temperatures into the 30s whilst he is hopefully completing the second half of a LDW in perfect conditions. He is ahead of schedule for today, and my schedule no longer exists. As we linger, I reflect that a day’s parking fee was well spent. Off he goes under that oversized backpack, and I finally achieve a butterfly photo.

Soon I’m on the cobbled streets of Dent past the memorial stone to Adam Sedgwick, the C19th geologist born in Dent. 

A delightful five-mile walk in outstanding scenery, with the benefit of walking alone yet meeting some real characters.

*

*

It’s roof down for a sparkling drive over to Barbondale and home.

 

Passing en route one of Andy Goldsworthy’s sheep folds, which reminds me I have unfinished business above Casterton. 

A WALK TO FARFIELD MILL, SEDBERGH.

23 Replies

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.

*

 

 

 

CLASSIC YORKSHIRE DALES.

17 Replies

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.

***

A NEW YEAR – A NEW WALK AT LAST.

16 Replies

Slow walking in Uldale.

  Driving up the M6 from Preston is always busy and often an accident blackspot, but suddenly, after junction 36, the road empties and all is peaceful with fewer lorries. I’m heading for junction 37, the one with an abrupt stop up the hill and no roundabout. This junction gives access to the Western part of the Lakes, as well as to the Howgills and the hills around Dent, now called the Western Yorkshire Dales National Park, even though they are now mainly in Cumbria. Historically, both Sedbergh and Dent were in the West Riding of Yorkshire until 1974, so maybe there is some logic in the naming. Dent certainly feels like a Yorkshire Dales village. The road winds down to Sedbergh and gives an intimate view into the heart of the Howgills, which sets the pulse going.

  Since some friends of mine moved into Dentdale a few years ago, this has been a regular trip for me, particularly in the last three years when we were busy developing a climbing area, Blackbed Scar, on Wild Boar Fell. Today I have a gentler walk in mind, the first of the year, really, due to other circumstances. I’ve read about the waterfalls on the River Rawthey in hidden Uldale, but never explored them. A good enough reason to travel north to the hills, but stay low on a dry day with cold winds. I find that Metcheck often gives the more accurate local forecast. *

  I’ve taken a book off my shelves for another appraisal—52 WAYS TO WALK, by Annabel Streets.

  Each week, it suggests, one week at a time, different themes and ideas to keep your walks varied. There is a lot of dubious science incorporated, which is probably why it was relegated to my shelves. But we all recognise the physical and mental benefits of walking, so there is no harm in varying our routines. Time to start a new year with a weekly chapter from the book. We are already into the 4th week of 2026, so I can skip the first three chapters: Walk in the Cold, Improve Your Gait. and Walk, Smile, Greet. I feel I have covered those in my daily walk around the corner to the shops. So this week’s chapter comes up with Just One Slow Walk. She controversially suggests that long, slow walks are more beneficial than short, high-intensity periods. Soon to be contradicted in her week 7 chapter – Take a Twelve-Minute Walk. Whatever, I am happy to go along with the slow theme today, having been out hardly at all this year. The main reason, anyhow, is always to reduce your time sitting. 

*

  So I find myself parked up at Rawthey Bridge, just north of Cautley, where the river branches off into Uldale. That forecast is partially correct: the air temperature is about 7, but with stronger winds than expected, it feels freezing,  hat and gloves from the set off. 

  There is no path up the initial section of the gorge, so I pick up an unmarked bridleway into the low hills, Bluecaster, to the south west of the river.

  The map shows several fords along the way; I’m expecting wet feet. That doesn’t take long in the waterlogged ground.

  Of course, one tends to visit waterfalls for their full effect after rain, so I can’t complain. Height is gained, and then the valley traversed high above the river, hidden in the wooded depths. All around are familiar fells, Cautley Spout cradled by the Howgills, the back of Wild Boar and distant Nine Standards.

  The sun is in my eyes, ensuring that I manage to step onto as many unseen deep bogs as possible. The theme of Slow is easily followed. 

  In parts, there are signs of stone culverts and banking, suggesting packhorse use long ago. 

  Shake holes remind me I am in Limestone country.

 

  At last, the now vague path levels alongside the rushing river at a footbridge, which gives good views of the first falls upstream. I do wonder what the length of water downstream in the wooded gorge that I have bypassed would have revealed. I am sure someone will have canyoned the whole length. I could cross the bridge and complete my modest circular walk back down the opposite side of the valley, but a faint path continues on this side. The map shows a path that extends another half mile or so to an abandoned quarry, which was no doubt its raison d’être.

  Treading carefully on the slippery limestone, I follow the river past a series of falls over tilted strata. There seem to be some good deep swimming pools along the way.

  My video aims to give a sense of the sounds and sights of the falls. All very dramatic in this lonely valley.

  Reaching the quarry area, the eroded path is forced onto a lip directly above the water. It looks tricky, so I make my excuses and decide, probably sensibly, to turn around and retreat. Further on, the river levels out and then disappears around the corner to more unseen falls. In drier weather and with companions, I would have gone on.

  Later, YouTube shows the gorge becoming inaccessible and drones being used to view the taller falls, so today I made the right decision. But the thought of a summer’s direct exploration up the waters is at the back of my mind.  Of course, Mark Richards has been there more than once.

  Back at the bridge.

I cross over, climb up, bypass Uldale House and wander slowly back along the deserted lanes. 

   The only traffic is the red postie’s van.

  There are some lonely sheep farms up here; at one time, their lives probably didn’t stretch much further than Sedbergh every few weeks.

   This was previously a school, which closed in 1940.

  Dropping back down to Rawthey Bridge, I can trace the boggy start of the walk on the low hillside opposite with Cautley Crag in the background.

  I finish the afternoon warming up and chatting over a pot of tea at my friends’ Dentdale house. Here’s to more slow walking. 

*

A BIT OF DENTDALE FROM SEDBERGH.

8 Replies

I have to thank John Bainbridge from Country Ways for inspiring this walk; he often writes about Sedbergh. However, it seemed to take me so long to get inspired this morning. Lots of faffing involved. Anyhow, I was parked up in Sedbergh close by the cemetery at 11 am. The day was forecast to go downhill in the afternoon. That decided me on a clockwise circuit so that I would get the views from the high ground before a plod along the lane back to town.

Some walks suit a particular direction, either because of the ease of ascent or for the views unfolding. Clockwise or widdershins. I tend to opt for a gentle, gradual ascent and deal with the views by stopping often and looking back – the best of both worlds, and so it is today.

Stepping through the arch into the cemetery, I feel I’m entering a different world, like Alice through the looking glass.

The walk has begun. A stroll down to Birks House and the footpath branching off alongside the River Rawthey. I probably make a mistake here as I keep to the riverside path rather than the PRofW, which would have passed Bruce Loch and the Pepper Pot. I have to scramble up from where my riverside path fades to join the path above—no big problem.  The Loch and the Pepper Pot were part of the Akay estate, which was sold off in 1936, to Sedbergh School and the mansion was demolished. I catch a glimpse of the Pepperpot, restored by the school, as I enter the woods above the river. Some of the trees reflect the lost estate’s glory.

Birks House and Winder.

  Crossing the Rawthey at Millthrop Bridge, I walk down the line of cottages built for the workers of the nearby mill, originally for corn, then cotton, and, lastly, until 1931, wool.

An old cobbled track climbs into the hills.

The steepness gives me an excuse to pause, more than once, and look back over Sedbergh with the Howgills lurking in the background.

The track splits, and I take the higher one, The Dales Way.

As I reach the high point, I’m intrigued by piles of stones in the grass; were they just from clearing the fields for agriculture?

Walking the Dales Way westwards, what a view would greet you, cresting the ridge. It’s been 45 years since I came that way, so my memory is vague, but I’m happy to relive it today.

The good-walled track continues through gorse and woodlands before dropping into the fields of Gap and Hewthwaite farms—traditional vernacular C18th buildings rooted to the landscape.

The steep, rough lane from the farms has a wall on its right with finishing flat coping stones, unusual for a farm track. Two doors offer a further clue that something grander borders the lane. 

The answer is Gate Manor, which I’ve often noticed when driving along the road to Dent. Today, I don’t see it till I’m on the other side of the valley, my photo out of sequence.

I get in a muddle in the fields by the Dairy Cottage converted dwellings. A finger post points vaguely south with the unhelpful ‘Brackensgill via deep ford’, no mention of a bridge, which is rather worrying. Estracating myself from a field, I locate the lane leading down to the ford. The lane itself is like a river, but a footbridge does appear to save the day. In fact, its steps provide a seat for a lunch stop.  I wouldn’t have fancied the ford across the River Dee. A little upstream from here live my friends, and we have bathed in the Dee in the summer months.

I reach the lane, which takes me back towards Birks. Upper Dentdale can wait for another occasion.

For over a mile, not a car is seen, and I have time to admire the old farmsteads along the way. Stepping back into another century.

After the side road over the graceful Rash Bridge, I come across an old abandoned Methodist chapel, Dent Foot, and then the Rash Mill, an undershot mill dating from the C16th when it was used for grinding corn. 

Outflow from the undershot wheel.

Then off the road on footpaths winding through the low hills, giving excellent views back up Dentdale and over to the Howgills, with Wild Boar Fell’s flat top visible through Gardsale. This walk has everything.

Judging by the variety of lichens, the air quality up here is excellent – fill your lungs.

Dropping steeply down through a thicket of hawthorns, which apparently gives a stunning display in May. Today I enjoy all the red haws.

Back alongside the fast-flowing River Dee, a beautiful arched bridge, Abbott Holme, takes me straight into a golf course, which I don’t navigate too well; fortunately, there are no players.

Woodland paths lead me along to a footbridge over the River Rawthey. Around Sedbegh, one is never quite sure which river one is following. The Lune is close by.

The old mill on the opposite bank used to be a water-powered cotton and worsted spinning mill. The lane leads back through the few houses of Birks to the cemetery and back through the arch with Sedbergh’s Winder above, celebrated in song by the school.

Far off from beck and fell,
As boyhood’s days grow dimmer,
The memory will not die
Of Winder’s clear-cut outline
Against an evening sky.

  That’s a lot crammed into 5 miles. Thanks for reading.

*

*

  On a final note, a fitting memorial in that churchyard to a brave Polish airman defending another nation. Let us hope we continue to stand firm with Ukraine.

GOOD THINGS COME TO THOSE WHO WAIT.

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Barbondale. 

If you look at the church clock, it is 12 noon. I’ve delayed the start of my walk today to let the drizzle and low cloud give way to brighter skies. What a good decision it turns out to be.

  I was initially attracted to this location, Barbon, north of Kirkby Lonsdale, by a piece on The Rivendale Review.

  I liked the look of his photo of the Devil’s Crag on Eskholme Pike. But today was not the day to go wandering up there in the mist. A low-level walk should be more productive. I found a link to a walk up Barbondale itself and returning through some of the estate parklands. Even as you drive up here from Kirkby Lonsdale, the epitome of an affluent market town, you are aware of a lot of imposing gateways leading to imposing mansions—tweed jacket country. In the past, the landed gentry settled here and shaped the landscape to their liking. 

   I park next to the church, just as it chimes twelve. Most of the hills are hiding in low clouds. Before leaving, I take a look around St. Bartholomew’s, which was built in 1892–93, and designed by the noted Lancaster firm of church architects, Paley, Austin and Paley.  Apart from the font, there is nothing of note inside.

  My way goes into the private estate of Barbon Manor, built as a shooting lodge for the Shuttleworths. The manor is situated high on the hillside and well-hidden by extensive woodlands.  As I walk up the access road, I am surprised to see a black and white barrier on one of the corners, but I later read that this road is used for a motor sport hill climb several times a year.

  Entering the woods alongside the river, a good track is used for about a mile up the valley. Autumn is the perfect time to visit here,

  As I progress, the path climbs away from the river, giving views of the surrounding hills. That’s Barbon Low Fell to the south.

  It feels much like a Scottish glen to me.

  Back alongside the river, where a lively stream joins the bedrock is exposed.

  I eschew the ford for the wooden footbridge.

  Several cars are pulled up alongside the road at what is probably a busy spot in the summer. Even today, dog walkers are out for a stroll, the dogs more interested in getting as wet as possible.

  The narrow road winds over to Dentdale, but I turn south and follow it back down the other side of the valley. A little red postie van completes the Scottish likeness. As you can see, the gloom has descended to just above my head. I’m walking down the Dent Fault with Silurian slate to the north and limestone to the south. Glacial erosion has shaped the valley.   I’m keeping my eyes open for a sheepfold by the roadside. Interestingly, the link I looked at for this walk mentions it only as a ‘strange sheepfold’; they obviously didn’t know of Andy Goldsworthy. He is an outdoor artist, and some of his early works were circular stone sheepfolds scattered across the north. This one is very accessible – Jack’s Fold.  The stonework matches the surrounding field walls. Inadvertently, I had captured it earlier in a photo across the valley. 

  I spend some time inside removing tissues and food wrappers stuffed in crevices between the stones.

  There are vast amounts of various lichens growing on the rock.

  I try to get above it for a better photo, but really, a drone would be the answer. Is that going beyond his artistic vision? 
Time to move on.

At the junction, I take the even quieter lane southwards.

This is above some authentic old sheepfolds.

  Looking back, one sees Barbon Manor above the woods I walked through earlier.

  With the day brightening, as forecast, there are extensive views out across the parkland and Lunesdale.  I struggle to place some of the hills seen from an unfamiliar angle—Farleton Fell, etc.

  I can’t resist a little play on these exposed rocks.

  As I approach the grounds of Whelprigg House, more mature plantations dominate.

  You can rent parts of the house for family occasions.

  More modest properties, presumably part of the estate at one time, are passed on the footpath below. The low sunshine, highlighting the autumn colours, particularly prominent today are the slopes of dead bracken on Barbon Low.

  This random stone wall, incorporating large boulders, is probably from the 18th Century or earlier.

  Crossing the driveway to Whelprigg, one enters more fields, complete with intimidating Beware of the Bull signs.

  The OS map here is unusual in that it names trees in the parkland.

  Anyhow, I can’t stop taking pictures of their stunning autumn garb.

  There are some strange groundworks in the park, for which I can find no explanation—presumably an ancient field or boundary marker.

  Skirting  Low Bank, I enter the back streets of Barbon through the grounds of the aptly named Underfell. The village is full of little cottages and friendly people, and of course the C17th Barbon Inn, who serve a good pint of Timothy Taylors Landlord. I’m not sure whether I am in Lancashire, Cumbria or Yorkshire.

As I sup my pint, I have time to reflect on a brilliant afternoon’s walk, just under six miles. It was well worth waiting for. I have some ideas for more walks in this special area, and of course, I need to visit the Devil’s Crag.

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*

TWO FELLS. EASY EASINGTON AND WINDY WADDINGTON.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Wife?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Easington Fell in the background.

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

 I’m still the only car parked up.

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

*

REVISITING THE FOOTHILLS OF PENDLE.

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Another  leaflet from  Walks with Taste – Visit Ribble Valley, this time setting off from the Assheton Arms in Downham.  

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 “This adventurous three-hour hike explores the foothills of Pendle, offering extensive views of the Ribble Valley, before diving into the wooded valleys beneath its flanks”  

It promised to be a good one. In fact when I think back I did an almost identical walk in reverse a couple of years ago, but that was then.

I’m joined by JD today. I arrived at his house and then realised I hadn’t brought the said leaflet so a bit of backtracking before we get going. We are still parked up in Downham before 11am. Soon enough for a short 5 mile walk. P1060910

All of the tracks today seemed well used by ramblers with good signage in the main. A popular area, and deservedly so. The scenery is classic Ribble Valley farmland with the limestone bed rock giving excellent walking and varied flora, all under the gaze of Pendle Hill. 

The first part was gently uphill passing idyllic farms on the undulating northern flanks of Pendle. P1060850

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On our way down towards Twiston we stopped for a bite in a sheltered limestone quarry below Hill Foot. We had time to observe the unique flora in these limestone undisturbed meadows. Identification of the individual species was not all that easy.  P1060888

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 And we had time to take in the fine view of Pendle from our perch.  P1060886

Passing the silted up mill pond of Twiston and then the old mill itself. then alongside the beck to a footbridge and up to yet another farm, Springs. Here we met up with a sunken track over Wooly Hill, which I’d never visited. There is a Roman road marked on the map – were we on the course of it back to Downham. The OS are not always accurate with marking Roman Roads. 

Throughout the walk we experienced a variety of stiles in the stone walls, some now neglected and bypassed by the functional wooden gate. At least none of those newfangled metal gates have arrived yet. Have a read of what outdoor writer John Bainbridge has to say.

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This or that? 

I have just remembered somewhere on the way we rescued, with difficulty, a sheep who had its head stuck through a wire fence. No harm was done to her or the fence, but JD suffered knee bruising when the released sheep ran straight into him and I ended up with stinking trousers where I had been kneeling in her shit.

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The afternoon ended well with a pint of Bowland beer outside The Asheton Arms as befits this series of summer walks. This has been a quick visit to our route but one worth you trying someday.P1060911

Oh, and one more picture of Pendle from the porch of St. Margaret’s Church..P1060915

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AT LAST. THE QUAKERS AROUND SEDBERGH.

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This post has been two weeks in the writing, not that that makes it any better.

It’s been a strange time. Monday, having my haircut with Phil, a traditional barber, we all come out with the same style, fine by me. Most of our conversation was about mutual friends who have or who are shortly to depart our presence. With a humorous twist I can’t go into details here.

After my recent soaking on Longridge Fell I decided on some indoor culture for Tuesday. There were some interesting exhibitions at Abbots Hall Gallery in Kendal. I drove up in horrendous wet conditions on the motorway, found somewhere to park, £3.50, and walked to the hall only to find it only opens Thursday to Saturday at this time of year! Why didn’t I check? I phoned Sir Hugh in Arnside hoping for some sympathy and coffee, but ironically he was in Preston shopping. Drove back down the motorway in horrendous wet conditions.

Then on the Friday drove down to Manchester to visit my longtime friend, since university days, who is suffering with Pancreatic Cancer. It was a joyous occasion as we dutifully reminisced our days in various flats in London; beer, curries, girls, music and football. He showed me around his local park, John Leigh. What a wonderful space cared for by wonderful volunteers, a blue print for community parks anywhere.  

The sun shone on Saturday, Sunday and Monday but I was ill, another humorous incident I can’t recall here. The tablets were working so I hoped to take advantage of a good forecast and  complete a walk I have had in mind for some time – The Sedbergh Quaker Trail. It was not to be, three close friends died this week and I was quite depressed. I missed the good weather. 

Preparations were underway for all my family visiting at the weekend for my birthday. I awoke in the night and found that my electricity had tripped. At 3am I was paddling about in my dressing gown trying to find the problem. I isolated it to the kitchen and disconnected everything in there, but it still tripped. Into the garage for extension cables to at least keep my freezer and fridge working. The birthday dinner must be saved., not sure how I will cook it. An early phone call, Saturday morning, to our community electricians and within an an hour Paul is prowling around the kitchen with his magic electric probe. “The problem is between these sockets and the dishwasher” Visions of the walls coming down. But as both of us lie on the floor peering into the dark of that forgotten space behind the kickboard below the units the evidence is clear – a mouse has been nibbling at the wires. Within a short time he has rewired it and all is go. I’m keeping the space open until a few mice have been humanely caught and deported.

The birthday meal was a huge success. 

All of this has nothing to do with Sedbergh and the Quakers but may explain my tardiness.  

***

Historians mark 1652 as the beginning of the Quaker movement.   In that year on Pendle Hill  George Fox, (1624-1691)  is said to have had a vision commanding him to “sound the day of the Lord” to a great gathering of people.  I have written about Fox’s Well.

In June1652, fresh from his vision on Pendle Hill, George Fox arrived in Sedbergh. He did not preach in St. Andrew’s church there but the next day he was encouraged to attend a large gathering of ‘Seekers’ and other nonconformists in and around the small chapel on Firbank Fell a few miles from Sedbergh. 

Fox wouldn’t go into the chapel to preach but instead spoke for three hours to the gathered crowd from the top of a nearby crag – this is now known as Fox’s Pulpit. Many Seekers were convinced by Fox on the Fell that day and added their weight of  missionary zeal to his and what became the Society of Friends, or ‘Quakers’ – after Fox told a Derby judge to “tremble at the word of the Lord”  By 1660, there were 50,000 followers.

Meeting houses for silent prayer and contemplation, such as Swarthmoor near Ulverston, and Brigflatts near Sedbergh, were subsequently built. Brigflatts,1675, in Cumbria, is one of the most famous Quaker meeting houses, known and loved by Friends all over the world. It is acknowledged for all the simplicity of its lime-washed stone walls and interior woodwork — panelling, columns and balustrading — as one of England’s vernacular gems. For many, the peace and tranquillity of the Meeting House at Brigflatts leave a lasting impression. (information from their website.)

People of all faiths can admire the Quakers’ respect for all humans, their tolerance and belief in peace without the need for churches, rituals, holy days, or sacraments, to practice religion. Rather religion should be something one lived and acted out every day. These ideas were radical in a period where the established church held great political power, and many early Quakers were imprisoned and oppressed for these beliefs. Quakers were conscientious objectors in both world wars. Because Quakers were barred from universities and many professions, one natural outlet for them was in business.  A large number of British businesses were founded by Quakers, including such household names as Barclays, Lloyds, Carr’s, Clarks, Cadbury, Reckitt’s, Rowntree, Fry and Terry’s. The football team In Darlington that I supported as a teenager was nicknamed The Quakers from the links within the town. 

***

This Tuesday the forecast is good, Despite a bit of faffing I am parked in Sedbergh by 10 am. Too soon to pick up a leaflet from the Tourist Information Office describing this walk. I’ll just have to do it from the map and follow my nose, I think I am pretty good at that.

I pay a visit to St. Andrew’s church. Once through the cemetery I’m on a quiet lane to Birks, a hamlet of farming cottages, a brief flirtation with the River Rawthey.  P1040883 P1040884

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Through muddy fields to visit Brigflatts Meeting House. What a beautiful peaceful place. Built in the style of a Cumbrian farm house, it has open doors for visitors. The porch with its ?original studded door leads into the main room. A place for prayer or contemplation. Alongside was another room used as a library of relevant books and a place to sit and have a brew. All very inclusive. P1040895P1040900P1040896P1040899

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I move on, suitably refreshed in mind and body. I think I miss a turn to Ingmire Hall but find myself on The Dales Way for the first time in 40 years. It is a little disappointing following the road verge for some while. Some rather complicated navigating through  The Oaks, holiday lets now, and I’m on the banks of the Lune for a short stretch to the strangely named Lincoln’s Inn Bridge. The adjacent farm had been an in  at one time.

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I leave the Dales Way until rejoining it later in the day, and find a way up into the mixed woodlands which will be resplendent with bluebells in a few weeks time. For photos of them have a look at John Bainbridge’s  post from 2022. P1040941P1040947

Emerging onto a narrow moorland lane at New Field.

Onwards and upwards I reach the highest point and there on the right is the rock or pulpit from where Fox is said to have preached way back in 1652. An isolated spot as you could find. P1040954P1040957P1040965

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The plaque affixed to the rock reads –

Here or near this rock George Fox preached to about one thousand seekers for three hours on Sunday, June 13, 1652. Great power inspired his message and the meeting proved of first importance in gathering the Society of Friends known as Quakers. Many men and women convinced of the truth on this fell and in other parts of the northern counties went forth through the land and over the seas with the living word of the Lord enduring great hardships and winning multitudes to Christ.

I sit atop of the rock eating my sandwich, nobody about to hear my words. The chapel mentioned up here fell into disrepair and has vanished but there is an abandoned graveyard with one lone standing gravestone.

I choose a nearby squelchy, but well signed, bridleway to take me back down the valley. The Howgills are spread out in front of me, but unfortunately the summits are cloud covered.P1040973P1040975

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Half way down past Goodies Farm I cross the bed of an old railway. This was from Ingleton, via Kirkby Lonsdale and Sedbergh. to join the main line at Tebay. It opened in 1861 and the rails were finally lifted in 1967, twelve years after it had closed to passengers. I had previously passed below it near Brigflatts and seen in the distance the Waterside Viaduct. P1040992

I cross the River Lune on a recently rebuilt footbridge and back onto the Dales Way but now going in the opposite direction. P1040995P1040996P1040997

A series of farms and fields take me south. The farmer at Hole House complains about the wet weather causing problems at lambing time. At Nether Bainbridge most is falling down. 

Along the track a farmer is repairing his drystone wall. I get the whole history of the area. A magic conversation. P1050014

I leave the Dales Way at Bramaskew and walk on to High Branthwaite, taking the farm lane up to Howgill Lane which I can follow all the way back to Sedbergh. The alternative was to walk along the higher fellside of Winder Hill on open access land. After nine miles I was happy to use the traffic free lane. All the time looking at the surrounding fells. The Howgills, Baugh Fell and Dentdale with time to spot a few early flowers. The area is mostly neglected by hiking community who go elsewhere to the honey pots. I’ve not met a single walker all day on my ten mile round.P1050026

Back in Sedbergh the village is buzzing with visitors mostly decked out in the latest walking garb. The, no doubt otherwise helpful, Tourist Information closed at 4pm so I never acquired that walk leaflet.

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BELOW PENDLE AGAIN.

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I’m parked up at the same spot as a couple of weeks ago in straggly RIMINGTON. There seem to be more cars about than last time, perhaps a walking group have departed some time before me. But I never meet another walker throughout this short walk. Looking again at Clitheroe Ramblers’ 25 Walks in the Ribble and Hodder Valleys I see this is the only one I have not completed in the past. It should prove ideal for a short off the cuff walk.

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C18th Bustards Farm, my starting point in the village.

It is a pleasure to be back on the better drained limestone hills after last weekend’s mud-bath. Straight forward walking out of the village, across fields on a concessionary path and then a footbridge across Ings Beck. Robins are singing from every tree, Jays are making a commotion in the woods, yellow Celandines are poking through and the sun is shining, so perhaps we have turned a corner in the seasons. I’m soon alongside Twiston Mill and on to the minor road. I resist the short diversion up to Witches Quarry, a popular limestone climbing venue.

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Twiston Mill.

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Its silted up mill pond.

Each chapter in the book is written by a different local author and the standard of accuracy has varied, todays is not the best and I have to resort to my OS mapping on the phone to find my way above Twiston. Its uphill all the way to meet the next minor road. I recognise some stretches from a reverse walk in March two years ago which helps. The Blackthorn Blossom is just starting, as it was last time I came this way. P1040666P1040665

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Looking back to the Ribble Valley.

All morning Pendle Hill has been looming above me, a little hazy at times and at the road its big end is directly above. The scenery changes here, I’ve left the green pastures and  venture onto the open moors for a stretch above Coolham Farm. This is the highest I get on Pendle’s skirts. I have to imagine Ingleborough and Pen-Y-Ghent ahead of me in the haze but can pick out Rimington far below.P1040670P1040673

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Out of nowhere a wall enclosed green lane appears heading down from Twiston Moor. I follow it, doglegging, until alongside a deep wooded clough, the upper reaches of Ings Beck. I try to take some pictures of the red buds on the Larches here but the breeze makes it difficult to focus. P1040683P1040680P1040691P1040687P1040695

Just outside the garden of Clough Head Farm is the Thomas Peel Bulcock memorial of which I knew nothing. It was erected by Thomas Bulcock in 1863 in memory of his son buried here and other relations buried in Whalley and Downham churchyards. The Bulcock family apparently had a long association with the area. P1040698P1040701

Having passed through the farmyard I find myself in one of the longest fields I’ve seen in these parts. Back to green pastures I wander down the hillside to come out onto a familiar lane. P1040704P1040705P1040710

From there I traverse the hillsides above the Ings Beck where silver rich lead was mined for many years. I wrote about this last time. Today I find the remains of the limekiln for the little limestone quarry and pass the mine managers cottage. Oh and that lamp post in the middle of nowhere.

Knowing the way I am soon back into sleepy Rimington. P1040739P1040746

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The converted Black Bull and Cosgroves ladies clothing shop. 

 A sprightly five miles.

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RIMINGTON – ‘Time flies swiftly away’.

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For a change you may start this post with a  piece of music to set the scene.

The  tune is the hymn ‘Rimington’, composed by Francis Duckworth. He was born in the Ribble Valley village of Rimington on Christmas Day 1862 at the grocery store, now a house. When he was five he moved with his family to nearby Stopper Lane, where they ran the village shop next door to a Wesleyan Chapel and hand loom cottages, now all private residences. Francis’s mother died when he was 12 and he began a hard life of working in various family shops. He later opened his own grocer’s shop in Colne. He was well known throughout the area as an accomplished musician and organist and composed many hymns, often named after local villages. ‘Rimington’ appeared in 1904. He remained in Colne until his death in 1941. He is buried in nearby Gisburn’s churchyard where his memorial is inscribed with the first couple of lines of his famous hymn.

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We find ourselves parked this morning in that village of Rimington to follow another walk from Clitheroe Ramblers – 25 Walks in the Ribble and Hodder Valleys. Once again under the shadow of Pendle Hill, only a few miles from touristy Downham where I was a couple of weeks ago. But there are no tourists here, it is a curious village strung out along the lane with no obvious centre and a variety of housing styles. The Black Bull pub mentioned in the guide is nowhere to be seen, presumably closed. 

Anyhow we find our footpath heading into the fields – it is marked as a Heritage Trail, of which we know nothing. Some of the stiles are hard to spot with the sun in our eyes; as is Pendle towering above us. Yes, at last the sun is making a weak appearance today. In places the stiles have been replaced by those utilitarian galvanised kissing gates. I’m still not bowled over by them, being a dyed in the wool old git; see below. Anyway we head towards a farm through more tradional old gate posts and past a street light in the middle of nowhere. Bits of limestone break through the grass giving us a clue to the geology of the area. P1040511P1040514P1040517P1040519P1040522

Before we go farther I would like to do a poll on which of the following you feel is most appropriate in our countryside, assuming progress has to be made. Galvanised or green?

 Disused mines are marked on our map, perhaps they are something to do with the heritage trail. On the ground, pits start to appear all over the hillside and across the other side of Ings Valley. Apparently silver rich lead was recovered from here originally in the C17th from bell pits and later on an industrial scale from mine shafts. A smelt mill was built in the C19th.  “Between 1880 and 1885 the York & Lancaster United Mining Co. Ltd sank a shaft and raised some ore. Unfortunately, James Wiseman, the banksman in charge of the shaft top, fell down the shaft and was killed in September 1884”  This latter information I gleamed later from the internet where Rimington’s heritage is well represented. We should have known this before to fully appreciate and interpret the area. P1040526P1040528P1040530P1040529

We come across a small limestone quarry but fail to spot its limekiln.P1040532

There is probably a lot of heritage around here.

In the distance below Pendle is listed but modernised Clough Head Farm. We are almost on the border of Lancashire and Yorkshire hereabouts. I remember when White Rose flags were flown in Gisburn long after it had been assimilated into Lancashire. Lanes, which switchback the slopes, bring us to Middop Hall, C17th and again listed but without much change. A grand display of mullioned windows. Somewhere in the barn are remnants of Sawley Abbey. The stone from the abbeys must have been reused in many farms in the area, we have  passed some at Little Mearley Hall before. P1040536P1040537P1040543P1040541

Shortly after leaving Widdop Hall we get into conversation with a friendly farmer on his quad bike. After the usual discussion on the weather he opens up and tells us he lives at the Hall and relates its history. If only we had met him down there we may have had a closer look around.

Onwards on the deserted lane with more ups and downs than I want. Then we are heading up onto the slopes of Weets Hill to join the Pennine Bridleway on Coal Pit Lane, more heritage there.
P1040548P1040550From this elevated position the Three Yorkshire Peaks are just visible but too hazy to photograph. It is a slightly better view down the Ribble Valley towards the Parlick and Fairsnape group of Bowland. And of course you can’t get away from Pendle in these parts.P1040551P1040553Soon we are on the return leg, again on quiet lanes, through the hamlets of Howgill, Newby and Stopper Lane. Lots of interesting buildings are passed and we guess at their original purposes.

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A lot we walk past without a second glance, never mind a photograph. We do notice the plaque to Duckworth in Stopper Lane, but had no idea of the industry here. The historic photo is of the village’s joinery shop with its ‘windmill’. Screenshot 2024-02-24 213325Screenshot 2024-02-24 213447Here abouts is the village institute hall, a good half mile out of the village proper. But it does have an information board which tells us, all too late, about the Heritage Trail we have almost followed. P1040562

If you are planning to visit this area be sure to download this map from their website. https://www.rimington.org.uk/index.php/rimington-s-heritage/heritage-trail   We wish we had and feel the need to go back and check out our omissions. 

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The sundial on Martin Top Chapel, under scafolding today, is a reminder that this life we live is short and fleeting, and also seems to comment on the changes that have occured quite rapidly in these working villages in our lifetime.

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THE FINAL STANZA?

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It never used to be so busy at the Cow and Calf Rocks’ carpark  A bright Saturday has brought crowds up here above an equally busy Ilkley. We are here to find the last of Simon Armitage and Pipa Hall’s  Stanza Stone Poems, Beck, hidden in Backstone Beck where the latter comes down at speed towards the town. I have downloaded some ‘simple’ directions but am afraid I may get distracted by the nearby climbing crags.

Ilkley Quarry, the Cow and Calf and the Rocky Valley were favourite haunts of my early climbing days. There was plenty of traditional excitement to be had on the rounded gritstone. But no let’s find the poetry stone first.

‘Take the path out of the car park’ was an obvious start, we could manage that. The paths are more well used than I remember them, were they even here back then? But there are lots of them going off in all directions. And there are people in all directions too. Some coming up from Ilkley by way of the tarn, most like us wandering from the Cow and Calf and others from over the moor. Dogs, in all shapes and sizes, are everywhere, which gives Zola plenty of canine interactions, Clare is on hand to call her in when things are starting to get out of hand. I am amazed that she can bound off into the distance (Zola, not Clare), in a place she has never set foot in, and keep reappearing at our heels. The bracken is dead which helps us find the narrower paths. All the time we have a panoramic view of Ilkley down below in the Aire valley. P1020983P1020984

‘Head towards a plantation’ was the next  instruction, yes, but which one? A solitary Stanza Poem fingerpost then takes some of the adventure away. The sound of the beck meant we were close. ‘Scramble up alongside the beck’ was our instruction – but steps have been provided recently. ‘Squeeze through between a gorse bush and a boulder’  the guide says. But someone has cut the gorse bush back. Is this all down to the YouTube/Instagram/what three words phenomena creating honey pots in our wild countryside? I’m beginning to feel a little cheated, this was to be the climax of our poetry trail with the most difficult stone to find. Zola obviously finds it for us, but then in the end we have it completely to ourselves. P1020990P1020995P1020996

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False trail 

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Is this what you are looking for?

What a spot, a wild tumbling beck with the brown bracken clinging to the hillside. Water is splashing around the rocks and there in the centre of it all is the Stanza Stone. A proud boulder sitting in the flow as was Pipa Hall when she carved out the letters. We ask ourselves how did they find this elysian place?  P1030027

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It is all one chase.
Trace it back the source
might be nothing more than a teardrop
squeezed from a Curlew’s eye,
then follow it down to the full-throated roar
at its mouth – a dipper strolls the river
dressed for dinner in a white bib.
The unbroken thread of the beck
with its nose for the sea
all flux and flex, soft-soaping a pebble
for thousands of years, or here
after hard rain, sawing the hillside in half
with its chain. Or here, where water unbinds
and hangs at the waterfall’s face, and
just for that one, stretched white moment
becomes lace.
©Simon Armitage 2010

A bit of precarious scrambling had us up close to the poem which is slowly taking on the patina of all the other water splashed rocks. What will it be like in another ten, twenty or fifty years? all a very short period of time for the stones up here on the moor. The references to the curlew and the dipper are perfect for the situation. If you have read any of Simon Armitage’s poems you will recognise his acute observation, engagement and ability to weave his words. If you haven’t, a good start would be an anthology of his writings – Paper Aeroplane, 1989 – 2014. The title poem at the very end is one of my favourites, a self-effacing offering worlds apart from Tennyson, Simon is no stuffy Poet Laureate.

Where next? Well I had suggested we explore the wild moor looking for those thousand years old markings in the rocks up here. Cup and ring marks and geometric carvings. I won’t bore you with our subsequent wanderings. Zola probably derived the most benefit from the open moorland obstacle course. Did we find any? I can’t say for certain, lets just leave it there. I don’t know who C Clark and Crackety Jack are.P1030074P1030048P1030051P1030053P1030062P1030111P1030094P1030100P1030120

Our only trophy was stumbling across a ‘poetry seat’ constructed in line with the poems. The sign said Marsden 451/4 miles, where we had started with Snow up in the quarries at Pule Hill in October. We have not walked the whole trail but picked off the stones on the way – Rain, Mist, Dew, Puddle and now Beck. Whichever way you approach it this gives a wonderful feeling for the Pennine scenery, the vagrancies of its weather and the talent and inspiration of the poetry team.

Going with the flow Clare posts a poem into the letter box. I wonder when it will next emerge.P1030088P1030087P1030083P1030080

On our way back to the car I indulge in some reminiscing of those carefree climbing days long ago. P1030103P1030109P1030123

There was no congratulatory drink in the nearby Cow and Calf Inn, a quick toilet stop and I was happy to be on my way home before all those high intensity car headlights had chance to confuse me. How the mighty have fallen.

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There is however a post script. Our journey is not yet done.

The final Stanza?  Armitage and Hall spoke about a seventh, hidden Stanza Stone. Although they disputed its size, both agreed it was fairly small and had been placed within either a “wooden casket” or “hollowed-out log”.  Armitage added: “We took it to a place above Hebden Bridge, where the Ted Hughes poem ‘Six Young Men’ is set, and placed it under the riverbank there.” Shortly afterwards the valley was flooded, “so we’ve no idea where it is now. It’s either in the Atlantic, or in the North Sea – or lying in someone’s cellar in Todmorden”.

Let me know if you come across it.

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EDEN VALLEY, MALLERSTANG.

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Time to head into the hills. After a good breakfast I  was ready to be away fairly early from the pub. Interestingly the garage opposite had more farmers’ quad bikes in for servicing than cars. P1010656

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Refueling.

It was a short drive up the valley into Mallerstang proper. On the way I passed the ruins of Pendragon Castle. The early morning light was so clear that I made a quick photographic stop in case things were murkier when I returned, it starts getting dark between three and four.

There is a lot of legend associated with the castle. it was supposedly built by Uther Pendragon, the father of King Arthur. It is said he tried to divert the river to form a moat.

A well known local couplet goes –

    Let Uther Pendragon do what he can,                                                                                                     Eden will run where Eden ran.

 The castle was built during the reign of King Rufus in the 12th century by Ranulph de Meschines,  After attacks by Scottish raiders in 1541 it became uninhabitable until the C17th when Lady Anne Clifford inherited it. She rebuilt it and added to it in 1660. It remained one of the favourites among her many castles until her death in 1676 at the age of 86. She spent her time between Skipton Castle and here in Westmorland  becoming involved with local affairs and restoring several nearby churches. A long distance walk tracing her travels passes this way. There is a statue of her in Kirkby Stephen market place. P1010666

 Her successor, the Earl of Thanet, had no use for the castle and removed anything of value from it, By the 1770s much of the building had collapsed. It now stands as a romantic ruin with pointy Wild Boar Fell in the background. P1010185P1010188P1010189

Whilst wandering around the ruins I was treated to a flypast by a Lockheed Hercules. P1010205

I drove through Outhgill which I visited yesterday and parked up at The Thrang for a walk I had picked off the net. It would take me up to the first Eden Benchmark, Water Cut – before visiting Hell Gill and its waterfalls, and then wandering back past valley farms.P1010209

Quite a broad track headed away from the valley floor, an old bridleway to Hawes at the head of Wensleydale. All the rivulets coming down from Mallerstang Edge were in full flow and my feet were wet after the first ford crossing. P1010224P1010221

That dot on the horizon turned out to be the benchmark in its very prominent position – how come I have never spotted it before? After some steady walking and a few more fords it was reached at about 420m. P1010225

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Water Cut by Mary Bourne. 1996. 

“Water Cut is located a few miles from the source of the river Eden, high up on the eastern side of the Mallerstang valley. Like a huge milestone, it stands alongside the ancient green road known as Lady Anne Clifford’s Way. The space carved between the two vertical pillars creates the shape of a meandering river in the sky and provides a ‘window’ onto the real river in the valley below. It also symbolises the power of the river Eden cutting through the rock on its journey through East Cumbria and our own human journeys through the rural landscape and through life. Made from Salterwath Limestone, taken from a quarry near Shap, it also resembles the gate posts and stiles in drystone walls, which are so characteristic of the area, whilst it’s outer curve makes reference to the viaduct arches on the nearby Settle-Carlisle railway.”

Mary Bourne is an accomplished stone carver,  living in the North East Scotland. Her work explores forms of the landscape and her relationship with the natural environment.

I played about with various camera angles. The more I looked they resembled two salmon leaping, are there salmon in the Eden?

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From up here one has good views north along Mallerstang Edge and across the valley to Wild Boar Fell. The limestone lower layers contrasting with the overlying gritstone.

Not much farther I came to Hell Gill, I could hear it well before I reached the bridge over it. A deep rift in the limestone tearing down the hillside with thrashing waters in its depths. This was dramatic. I tried to get views down into the canyon but it was sensibly well fenced off. All was green mossy and ferny, I think there are fairies down there. P1010346P1010352P1010366P1010372P1010377P1010388P1010398P1010401

The water tumbled on down the hillside and I followed. It came to a welcome rest at a ford. P1010409P1010418P1010422P1010424P1010433

But what was that noise? A small steep detour and I could see the next and probably the best cataract. A video should have been taken. P1010440P1010451

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My boots were under water crossing the fast flowing ford.  P1010462

It must be all downhill from here but the next few miles tried my patience. I was basking in the beauty of Mallerstang and yet struggling to find the bridleway marked on the map on the ground. There was a lot more rough walking to come. It tended to keep above the top intake wall and hence involved tussocky grass and boggy areas. Few people use this way. P1010464P1010480P1010513P1010533

There were a few more waterfalls to admire and the light on the other side of the valley was beautiful. No steam on the Settle to Carlisle today.P1010550P1010472P1010477P1010466

Eventually I made my way to the valley bottom and along by the Eden back to my car just as the sun was going down behind Wild Boar Fell.P1010539P1010565P1010572P1010579

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I would highly recommend this walk, it packs a lot into those 6 miles without going onto the tops. I never saw another person.

Mallerstang-trail.pdf (edenriverstrust.org.uk)

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