
So, today we’re looking for trouble. We fell foul of disappearing footpaths on this walk last time, and today we’re not messing about. We’re well rested, tack sharp, and feeling assertive. We’ve also cleaned our spectacles in case we missed any obscure signage that would have seen us on our way. But since our last visit, there has been a mysterious and profuse flowering of the official green way-markers, which is frankly unexpected, since I have not yet reported any obstructions to the council. Perhaps someone read my blog? I feel my guns have been spiked, but in a good way, and whoever you are, thank you.
Thus, we are guided, without a hitch, through the formerly troublesome farmyard, and to a diversionary path. It’s not exactly as marked on the map, but it’ll do, and before we know it we’re smoothly on our way towards Tockholes. Then, at the gate, which we found to be locked last time, and had to be climbed, we note the gate is merely tied. So we untie it, and pass through with dignity. We then tie it up again with a boy-scout’s reef-knot, and a little bow on top – by way of thanks to our guardian way-fairy, for restoring safe passage. Except then, we turn to find we are greeted by a pair of magnificent horses, who must have heard us coming, and are curious. They’re big horses, too, which is a little alarming, as they canter down with purpose – their purpose being – well – us. Cobs, I think the breed is called. I wish I’d had the presence of mind to take their picture – such huge, beautiful creatures, not as big as a shire, but impressive all the same. Our alarm is uncalled-for, though. They are gentle, and their stillness invites our touch. Just mind their back legs as we get around them. Horses can sometimes have a quirky sense of humour.
It’s with some regret, then, we leave our new friends, and head off up the meadow to Tockholes. We’re going a little further than we did last time, pushing the walk out to eight miles, taking in Sunnyhurst Woods, at Darwen. I’ve not been there for ages, and it would be nice to see if it’s still as I remember it.
I put a short story up on the blog last time, wrote it for Ireland’s Own magazine, some twenty years ago. I did a lot of stories for them in the nineties and the early noughties, and, as I walk, I’m trying to remember the others. One in particular comes to mind. It was about this guy who’s aching to leave his home town and see the world. Then he meets a girl from the other side of the world, who’s travelled to his town, because she saw it on the map, and thought it sounded like a cool sort of place. Through her, the guy ends up seeing his home-turf in a new way, and he decides to stay.
Looking at the lush meadows here, as they sweep up to the shaggy moors, I’m thinking, it’s a small part of the world, this corner of the West Pennines and, beautiful as it is, it’s one I sometimes take for granted. Shall I go somewhere? or shall I just nip up the moors? But when I put out a photograph online, of Great Hill, or the spillway of the Yarrow reservoir, or when I write about walks like this, I don’t always appreciate how others from around the world, and for whom their part of the world is radically different to mine, will see them. Even the names of places, unremarkable to me, sound exotic to others, as their place names, unremarkable to them, sound exotic to me.
So, whilst it’s a pleasure, and an education, to travel, and I think we should always travel as much as we can, we’ll never know anywhere as well, and I mean as intimately, as our own allotted patch of God’s earth. So we should never feel there’s anything dull, writing about it, or photographing it. We are curating what we know, and what we love. Photographs of the landscapes of Iceland, and the Faroe Islands in particular, blow my mind, but I could never know those places intimately. Such grandness is for the Icelanders, and the Faroese, as this part of the world is for me, in all its understated beauty, also, it has to be said, its occasional ruin and imperfection.
At last, we come down to Sunnyhurst Woods. It’s a public park, actually, on the edge of a once industrial Darwen, but also on the edge of the moors. Bought out of a public-spirited ideal, and planted up in the early 19th century, it’s now a ruggedly mature gem, natural in style, well-kept and well-loved. We’re beyond peak autumn, now, with most trees are looking bare – just the occasional beech still hanging on to its coppers, and the stubborn oaks. And yes, it’s all pretty much as I remember it, and gorgeous.
There’s a pretty waterfall here. We try a shot, but the light is poor. Maybe we can tease some colour out of it in post-processing. There’s a park bench. We sit, retrieve our soup-flask from where it has settled, deep in the sack. Bacon and Lentil today, made in Wigan. Kitt Green. We do still make things in Lancashire, just not as much as we used to do. But still,…

From Sunnyhurst, we pick our way over to Ryal Fold, where we enjoy another break, and a pot of tea at Vaughn’s Café. Then it’s down through the plantations at Roddlesworth. Gone is the gold of just a few weeks ago. All is bare, now, and autumn firmly on the ground. The season is still worth some pictures, though. I’m glad to have found a properly marked way through that farm. The public rights of way network is a thing of immense value, protected in law, and a freedom not enjoyed in other parts of the world. An understated resource, it costs nothing to enjoy – good for the body and the soul, and no gym membership required.
That was a successful walk in many ways.
Someone must have reported the obstructions to the Local Authority, maybe months ago, if the waymarks were of the official variety.
I once wrote a piece in the local paper extolling the virtues of outdoor exercise in an attempt to get more people onto our footpaths and to save them their gym membership costs. It works on a bright sunny and dry day but try telling them that when the rain is lashing down. Not that it ever rains in Longridge.
Have often walked with my Bolton pals from Rydal Fold over the hill past the tower and down into Darwen for a pub lunch and then back through Suunyhurst Woods. Wonderful.
Lashing rain? I must admit to being put off by that myself, at least at the start of a walk. I don’t mind getting caught out in it, though. Ryal Fold’s a good place for a rendezvous. The tearoom there seems to close a bit early, especially in winter. This is the first time I’ve managed to get a brew there.
Marvellous, Michael, thank you for allowing me to accompany you on this early winter walk! 🙋♂️
You’re welcome, Ashley. Glad to have you along. ☺️🍁🍂
Greetings. I recently noticed your site’s subheading. I also write to know what I think. Most of the time, anyway. And in so doing I’m sometimes surprised by what I find out. Neil S.
Hi Neil, I know what you mean. There’s nothing like writing a thing down for triggering the subconscious and a little voice saying: you don’t actually believe that. So I delete all the dubious stuff, and I guess what remains is what I think.
On horses – you know I hate motor cars – I do like a motor hearse!
Our horses come from Essex or Norfolk, a wide boy, literally, and emigrant from East London brings them up in a big lorry.
Our Jamaican regulars usually demand whites, so we see a lot of Paddy and Ernie. Paddy is bigger than Ern but Paddy is only for show, Ernie does the pulling. They are dear things, and it is great to see how they enjoy the job, but it’s nerve racking being up beside the driver, it doesn’t do to be seen with the A to Z. And one is never quite sure what to expect of our equine friends.
For sure, when venturing into unknown streets on a stressful job, give me the Jaguar!
We have a couple of whites stabled locally. They do weddings and funerals. I’ve seen them out and about and they seem to enjoy the dressing up.