As I begin to write this, the sun is setting neatly into the notch of hills formed by Langstrothdale. Its light is spilling the length of the wooded vale, illuminating the bare hills over a distant Buckden, with an ethereal glow. That scene, those hills, at this hour, in this light, fills me with a deep aching joy that’s impossible to describe. But I’m going to try.
I want to do something other than just sit here gazing through the window at it. I want to close with it, to gather it up somehow. I want to seal it in a jar for future dark times, when all I need do is twist off the lid and the darkness will be gone, and I imagine I will be here again, in this vale, at the setting of the sun.
I have been outside to gaze at it, to breathe the air of this golden hour, to feel the cool breeze on my face, to hear the gentle stirring of the trees. From the little garden of this cottage, I have combed the crenelated tops with binoculars. I have photographed the scene a dozen times. But I know what I feel cannot be captured. It is like a love that can be neither consummated, nor ignored. It can only be witnessed and felt, and the feeling of it is a kind of transcendence. It is the key to another world, to another mode of being.
Such a thing can only be shouldered. It is our lonely duty to feel it, to be the eyes, and ears, the heart, the soul of the universe, if only for a moment, as it becomes aware of itself through us. Nothing more is required, nor even possible. We must simply lend it our selves. Our reward is that, for a moment, it and we might become one, but only if we can let go of this vanity we can somehow capture it, record it, preserve it, for it is now, and only now. That’s the deal. That’s the only way in to experience the full joy of it.
Joy is not happiness. Happiness is the chatter and splash of a sunlit brook over pebbles. Joy is the long plunge of white water into a deep, crystal-clear pool.
Thus, I sit and watch as the shadows lengthen, and the light grows more beautiful, and more golden as the moments pass. Until,… of a sudden, they are no longer lush and bright, and awake with wonder, but hushed and cast over with the soft, blurry blue of sleep. The day closes, silence creeps over the vale and, from the barns that dot the buttercup meadows, the owls slip, one by one, big and white, arresting as ghosts, to own the night.
But the night comes slow in June, inching slow, dotted now and then by the ragged flight of bats. The hills become theatrical silhouettes against a blue grey, muffled sky. I draw the curtains, settle to dulcet lamplight and, as I seek the words to close, the owls call.
Whernside is something of a paradox. It is the highest of the three peaks of Yorkshire, at 2415 ft, yet also provides the gentlest of ascents, the starting point at Ribblehead being a considerable leg-up at 980 feet. It is not particularly photogenic in itself, yet provides a platform for some of the most stunning views in the dales. The trail is pounded constantly, of course, by three peakers as part of their epic undertaking, but as a day’s objective on its own, it lends itself to an especially fine round of about eight miles. And the climb to the summit is, at this time of year, is almost bettered by the return to Ribblehead, through wildflower meadows. These seem to be a new feature of a rural England, recently awakened to the steep decline in our pollinators – our bees and other bugs. I’m not sure if this is aided by a decline in the numbers of sheep being grazed, for they do seem fewer in recent years – the latter being the tell-tale of an economic, rather than an ecological, collapse. There are certainly pressures on traditional upland farming, post crash, post BREXIT. And it’s plain to all who walk the hills that things are changing.
We came this way in April, last year. There was ice and snow that day, and very few cars at Ribblehead. Today, there are droves, and a chuck wagon selling everything from hot-dogs to 99’s. At the nearby station pub, the jolly jacks are flying, and there is a festival air. It’s a strange place, Ribblehead. Its altitude has it catch some atrocious weather, and there is an air of remoteness about it, yet there is always something of a gathering here: cars, coaches, trains passing, walkers in procession.
It’s still cool as we step out, and the sky is moody, but the forecast is for things to clear around noon. We’ll just about be making the summit by then. For now the tops are lost in a lingering cloud, but the day has the feel of brightness and warmth to come. Sad to say, we’ve left the little blue car at home. She blew a hole in her back box this week and, though the resulting deep, throaty note sounds lovely, like a tuned exhaust, there’s a risk it’ll get very noisy of a sudden, so she’s waiting on repair. Instead, the Astra carried us with a stately kind of grace, this of course being a modern illusion, courtesy of cleverly folded paper-thin steel, mixed plastics, and packing foam.
Blea Moor signal box, Settle Carlisle line
From the iconic viaduct, completed in 1875 we make our way up the rough trail, by the railway line to Blea Moor. There’s a signal box here. Weather blasted and forlorn, you’d be forgiven for thinking it was abandoned, but it’s still manned 24 hours a day. The signalmen work in twelve-hour shifts, and their day starts with a mile long walk, in all weathers. It has the distinction of being the remotest signal box in the UK. First shift starts at six a.m., yet far from being considered a hardship post, it is one of the most coveted, amongst signalmen.
It’s a long walk in, this, and in the process we lose sight of our objective, only gaining it again at the aqueduct which carries the lively Force Gill, and us, over the railway. Here we have a grand view of the line as it emerges from the Bleamoor Tunnel. They run a good deal of freight on this line, gypsum and timber being common sights, but the jackpot is one of the heritage steam excursions. I’m guessing there are none today, or there would be enthusiasts here with cameras on tripods looking to catch these beautifully restored behemoths as they emerge in an explosion of steam
One of the hazards of this tunnel, in winter, is icicles, which can grow as long as fifteen feet. That’s not going to be a problem for Network Rail today, though. The clouds clear on time and, from a moody start, we find ourselves climbing gently over a sunlit Slack Hill, thick with cotton grass, bobbing about in a pleasant breeze.
We have had no rain for many weeks now, and the ways are dusty. I’m not sure if it’s a result of my last struggle up the fells of Patterdale, but the legs have no problem today with the gentle, and mostly paved route to gain the ridge. Like many of our popular upland routes, they were beginning to suffer from erosion. At the same time we were pulling down the mills, and someone had a bright idea of taking up the flagstone floors and laying the pavings end to end across the moorland routes. Not all walkers approve of these paved ways, and they do present their own challenges in winter, when iced, but mostly I think it’s been a success. From a distance, they are also invisible, unlike the ugly scars that were once becoming such a regrettable feature of the national parks.
As we begin our climb in earnest, and gain the ridge at Knoutberry Hill, the path catches a fierce upwards blast of wind, which accompanies us most of the way to the summit. Here we finally attain the lee, and the sun gets to work. The views open up, and the charms of Whernside are revealed as the ringside seat of impressive Dales scenery. Ingleborough dominates to the south, while to the west, suddenly, we see Lancashire’s only remaining mountain, the lonely and little visited Gragareth.
It’s busy here, lots of hikers about. It’s the school’s half-term this week, and many of them are very young, and nice to see them starting out in the right way – either that or being put off the hills for life. The sense of altitude from Whernside is exhilarating, the land falling away steeply to the left and to the right, but it’s the view Ingleborough that most draws the eye. It’s usually the final of the three peaks to be climbed, before the long descent to Horton, and it must have struck fear into the hearts of many a walker over the years, already tired from two stiff climbs, to be suddenly faced with its towering crags and gulleys, and all this after another long slog across the dale to get to it.
I have been digitally detoxing these past few weeks. I have been reading, instead of doomscrolling, drawing pictures and feeling out the direction of the current work in progress. Our access to digital and especially the “social” media is doing something to our brains, I think, sucking something out of them, dulling the imagination. I feel much better for the break, much more creative and in touch with that indefinable inner self. Current affairs can be addictive, and they have a deleterious effect on the psyche, over time, whereas time spent in the high places, like this, are a tonic. And on days like this, the tops can be lingered over, their views truly savoured, erasing all of that which is less wholesome to us.
Wild flower meadows, under Whernside, Late May 2023
We walk on, a little way south, now, before making our descent. It’s a steep one, and used to be tricky, but extensive repairs have provided basically a stairway, which is nevertheless still hard on the knees. The legs are reduced to jelly by the time we come down to the farms at Bruntscar and Broadrake. From here, a delightful series of meadow ways scoots us back to Ribblehead. The last time I was here, that cold April day, I noticed the signs pleading with us to keep to single file across the meadows, and today we reap the rewards of it, a beautiful thread of a path across a golden meadow – mostly buttercup, but also clover and mayflower.
Ingleborough
One again though, it is the view of Ingleborough, rising across the dale, that draws the eye. You can never walk any of these hills too often, and I suspect I’ll be up there again before the year is out. Easy going now on smooth, tracks of crushed stone, which paint our boots white with their dust. And then the final bend, around which the viaduct calls us home, back to the car and a well earned brew.
Ribblehead
Whernside: a beautiful circuit, not too hard on the legs or the lungs. 8 miles, 1400 ft of ascent.
Patterdale, 9:30 am and there is just the one space left at the little car park at Cow Bridge. We drive into it with a feeling of disbelief, having expected it to be full. The gods are clearly smiling on us today, which is more than can be said for others – smiling upon us, I mean. An SUV comes up behind as we step out to take in the glorious air, and the driver has a face like thunder.
“Think yourself lucky there,” he growls, then drives off in a huff.
I suppose he’d had his eye on the spot as well, and we just slipped in ahead of him. But we didn’t do it on purpose, and he knows that, so his pointless remonstrance puzzles me. Anyway, this unexpected sourness is quickly dissolved by the overwhelming beauty of the morning. Brother’s Water is mirror calm, and perfectly reflective of the fells. There are light, fluffy clouds sailing in from the south, and broad patches of light stroking the hillsides. Such days as these among the fells are to be treasured.
It’s incredible to think of it, but it’s four years since I was last here, in the demi-paradise of Patterdale. I promised myself, then, I would do more in the Lakes. But of course Covid hit, and that was it. I’m trying to make up for it now, but finding the fells a challenge. I wonder if I’m just getting too old to handle them, or if it was always this way. Mountain form is a funny business – part acquired fitness, part one’s natural god-given power to weight ratio, and part mental attitude. I’m middling in all three. And these fells are steep.
Anyway, I’m unsure about the route, tackling it with a friend, who’s ticking off the last of his Wainwrights. I’m thinking it might be too much for me, too far, and too exhausting, but worth a go anyway. We’ll be bagging four peaks: Middle Dodd, Red Screes, Little Hart Crag, and High Hartsop Dodd. It’s seven and a half miles round, two and a half thousand feet of ascent.
I have memories of coming down from High Harstop Dodd, with my feet on fire in a pair of cheap boots, their soles worn to a wafer, and using my Alpine poles like a Zimmer frame. I arrived back at the car exhausted, and I’m not sure I’m any fitter now. It’s not an encouraging memory.
I have a soft spot for Patterdale. I used to holiday here a lot in the little hamlet of Hartsop, when my boys were small, and it always feels like coming home when I top the Kirkstone, and cruise down into the dale. My story, “The Lavender and the Rose”, was largely conceived here, and much of the action takes place among its valleys. My imaginary Drummaurdale – the vale of dreams – is here.
We take the path by Brother’s Water. There were Nymphs skinny-dipping last time I passed – though I may have been hallucinating. They’re not here today. The little woodland way is carpeted with ramsons and bluebells. The lake sparkles between the trees, and invites one to linger with the camera.
Middle Dodd and High Hartsop Dodd
Beyond the farm at Hartsop Hall, we cross lush, sheep cropped meadows, by the faint remains of the Iron Age village – just low ramparts in the grass and hut circles, now, dotted with massive boulders. I wonder if the rocks came down from the fell during the period of habitation, and what the inhabitants thought of that. It’s such an idyllic spot, but were they persuaded by this act of their gods to abandon it?
Middle Dodd Summit
We tackle Middle Dodd first, struck at once by the unrelenting steepness. Alpine poles deployed, we haul ourselves up step by step. Or rather, I do. My friend is ten years older than me, does not drink and is mostly vegetarian. He pulls away easily, and I cannot keep pace as the legs drain to jelly. All the beauty is to my back as Patterdale opens out, inviting retrospective photographs. Ahead there is only the rising path, and the occasional passing crag. This ascent to the little cairn on Middle Dodd takes two and half hours. But there is no cause for celebration, only the rising profile of Red Screes beyond it, and another half an hour of uphill.
Towards Red Screes
There is something daunting about Red Screes, which dips now into shade as we approach. I can’t remember the number of stops I’ve made thus far, sometimes leaning over the poles, head down, and deep breathing like it’s the high Himalayas, and I’m sucking on rarefied air. Other times I found a rock and sat down for a bit, let my friend plough on while I fiddled with the camera. I’m carrying the Lumix today – lightweight, and it always seems to do well in these conditions.
It’s not a well trodden route, this, and it’s only when we approach the summit various other paths converge, and the crowds appear, some bare chested and jogging. The fitness of others never ceases to amaze. Nor do they look wobbly legged and breathless, like me.
There is a small, nameless tarn here, a lone eye to the sky. It makes for a suitable lunch stop, while shaky hands fumble with the soup pot, and a welcome shot of sustenance. As we are admiring the view, identifying the summits we knew of old, a pair of young ladies settle across the water, peel off unselfconsciously to bra and underpants, and settle down to sunbathe. We remark that at one time, it would have been a balm for sore eyes. Nowadays, it rather puts us off our lunch, and we move on.
Head of Scandale Pass, looking back at Red Screes
The route descends to Scandale Pass, a loss of height that looked rather less on the map than it does in practice. Indeed, it is a long descent, on legs already tired by that climb up Red Screes. We begin well above the craggy profile of Little Hart Crag, but watch, helpless, as it soars above us. By the time we have descended to the head of the pass, we are faced with a long climb back up, and very little left in the tank. I’m wondering if I am harbouring the dreaded Long Covid and, actually, at this point I couldn’t care less about climbing the crag. There is a by-pass that will take us round it, but my friend is already en-route for the col, and the obvious path to the summit. I spend a while taking more photographs, more leaning over the poles, deep-breathing oxygen back into my bones.
Little Hart Crag
A bite of a juicy Braeburn apple seems to restore some semblance of dignity, and propels me slowly to the col. Once there, the climb to the top seems not so bad after all. But it’s doggie daycare on the summit, more dogs than people, and a tangle of long leads, some dogs loose and muddy. There is noise and fuss. The northern summit beckons, and is quieter. I catch my friend up, and we sit a while, contemplating the route ahead. It’s all downhill from here, and there is a mutual air of relief. We’re both knackered, but my friend is always better at hiding it.
A long stretch of ridge-walking, amid breathtaking scenery, restores the spirits. High Hartsop Dodd beckons, requiring no further climbing. From here the land falls away to the floor of Patterdale, to the ancient village, and a stone barn that never seems to get any nearer as we inch our way down a dusty zig-zag of path, on wobbly legs.
Patterdale from High Hartsop Dodd
You might ask what’s the appeal of inflicting such punishment on oneself. When I was younger, I would have said, it’s worth it to get to the top. But now the tops, although they’re nice to have, don’t burn in my soul the same. There is only that transcendent perspective, walking so high above the valleys that nothing down there matters a fig any more – except, for the pot of tea waiting at the Brother’s Water Inn. The abiding memory, and one that shall linger long, I’m sure, is a retrospective of Middle Dodd, and Red Screes beyond, shot from that lovely, airy ridge to High Hartsop Dodd, and an appreciation of the enormity of the day’s climb.
Middle Dodd and Red Screes
I hope the other fellow found a parking spot, and had as good day of it as we did, though I rather doubt it’s in his nature to be thankful or satisfied with anything, for very long.
My thanks to fellow blogger Bowland Climber, without whose guides I would never have heard of Brock Bottom. Thanks also to the Copilot navigation app, without which I would never have found it. Brock Bottom lies in a wooded valley, and consists of an ancient bridge, a small carpark and picnic site, all tucked away at the bottom of a steep, narrow lane. Riverside trails and romantic ruins provide the main draw for visitors. Around ten miles north of Preston, on the edge of the Forest of Bowland, there is a sense of deepest rural Lancashire here, and a place out of time. We arrive mid-morning, mid-week, meet no other traffic on the lane, and the car park is almost empty. Notices, warning against parking on the lane, however, suggest weekends might not be the best time to visit.
By the River Brock
I’m feeling a bit off-key, today, a bit muddle headed. I don’t know why. The little blue car is also sulking. She says nothing, but I know it. I got her road tax renewal yesterday, and with it the usual shock, also the feeling there must be a mistake. She’s a 1.6 litre 125 horsepower roadster, so hardly a super-car. But she’s old, and primitive, and carbon heavy by modern standards. I’m guessing they want her off the road, stinging us £365, this time. I know she thinks I’m thinking I should be getting rid of her, and that’s why she’s sulking. But I’m not. Days like this wouldn’t be the same in any other car. Little lanes, sunshine, top down, birdsong, scent of meadows, woodland, fresh air. This is what she was made for, and we will continue to live this particular, dream so long as we are both still able.
The plan is to follow the River Brock upstream. Then a zigzag of quiet lanes and meadow paths will bring us round to the north of Beacon Fell. We’ll return by climbing the fell and dropping down the other side, back to Brock Bottom – a walk of around six and a half miles. Ahead of us are ancient woodland, meadows, pine forest, and stunning views of the Bowland hills.
If you search Brock Bottom, one of the most common comments is: “great place for dog walking”. So I’m expecting a lot of bags hanging from trees, but there are none. Nor is there a speck of litter anywhere. The dog population of the UK exploded during Covid, and you’re the odd one out to be walking without a dog these days. It’s as if you need a canine companion to explain your presence out of doors. Not weird, mate, honest. Just walking the dog.
Downstream, the riverside isn’t especially accessible. It’s also what photographer’s call “a bit messy”. What that means is there’s a riot of shape and colour in which it’s difficult to isolate a particular subject. You can take a dozen pictures and in every one it would be impossible to say what it was you were looking at. Some places are better simply experienced, and defy summing up in a photograph. This bit of the River Brock is one of them. The waters run clear through a tumble of rocks and fallen trees. The banks are thick with vegetation.
Earlier this week I was roughly equidistant, south of Preston, at Birkacre, another wooded valley, one where the ramsons have already finished. But here they’re still in their prime, competing with common mouse ear. And the woodland is thickly carpeted with bluebells. A yellow wagtail keeps pace with us, hopping from rock to rock. Tall, exotic-looking butterburrs crowd the riverbank. There is season, and then there’s climate. And then there is microclimate. Nature is too subtle to obey general rules on the timing of events.
I am not a botanist, but I do enjoy spotting wildflowers, then looking up their names. I’m guessing the more wildflowers you can count in an area is a sign of a healthy environment. If that’s so, then the valley of the River Brock is in good shape.
Everyone knows bluebells. Mayflowers, and stitchwort, though, are less “in your face”. Indeed, I’ve never seen stitchwort before – not at all common in my locale, but growing in profusion here. Its flower is impossibly intricate and beautiful,…
Stitchwort
After only a mile or so, I make the first navigational error, ending up on a path heading out of the valley, across meadows, towards a farm where the dog is loose and aggressive. I’m not for turning back, but then I don’t want to end up in A+E either, and this dog looks mean. I can hardly show it the map and say look, this is a public footpath so f$%k you. I guess the attack will come when I cross the line into the farmyard, even though it is a right of way. Is nobody home to call it off? Maybe it’s just bluffing. Or perhaps I’d better turn back after all,… this is not a good start.
The farmer appears at the last minute, calls it off, apologises. I’m not convinced, though, and suspect they want to discourage passers by. Anyway, we pick up our course again, finding our way back down into the river valley. Here, we discover the biggest scouting centre I’ve ever seen. There are tents everywhere and youngsters happy to be separated from their phones. They are playing with canoes and bows and arrows and tomahawks instead. This is proper stuff.
I enjoyed my time as a cub-scout. It seems incredible now, but fixed bladed knives were part of the uniform. I don’t suppose they are now. We wore them in scabbards, razor sharp, and polished up with pride. Mine was a bowie knife. I was especially proud of it, learned how to throw it, and we were generally trusted to behave ourselves. Sticking them in one another was the last thing on our minds. Knives were different then, not weapons, but tools. We’d be arrested now, wearing them on our way to the hut, like we used to do. I wonder what happened, what changed, to make it so.
I don’t know why I went wrong back there – enchanted by the woodland faery, perhaps? The way is clear enough, the paths well-marked, and I’m following a GPS trail on the phone – so no excuses. Anyway, we’re on track now, and we find ourselves climbing up Beacon Fell. This is a modest hill, but quite prominent, rising above meadows, on the edge of Bowland. Its wonderful views make it a popular destination for visitors. Part forested, it boasts many trails, and viewpoints.
Sculpture, Beacon Fell
I’ve met so few people on the route, I don’t want to spoil the sense of peace and isolation, so I avoid the main summit, and pick out a bench in a recently cleared area instead. The day has warmed to a high summer sultriness. We have terrific visibility over the Fylde coast, then north to the Lakes. South, towards my home patch, Lancashire melts into a soft haze, and a shimmer of heat.
Descending from here, the views over the Fylde get better and better. I’m three quarters of the way down, and pause to take it in. Then I get this funny feeling something is amiss. Hard to pin it down,… then, even harder to believe: I’ve left my rucksack on the top of the fell.
I’m guessing it must be on that bench, but I’m tiring now, and baulk at the idea of having to climb back up. I’ve no choice, though. It contains my soup pot, and a decent waterproof jacket. It’s strange, how quickly you can climb, when you’re motivated – tired or not. I reach the bench, and there’s the rucksack, looking at me with an accusatory stare. I’ve left a few sit-mats lying around. That’s an easy thing to do. But, for pity’s sake: your rucksack?
So, we enjoy our second rest at the viewpoint. While we’re at it, we empty the water bottle, as the sweat pours out of us, and the heartbeat settles back to normal. Sometimes my head goes sideways and I enter a different universe. At this rate, I’ll struggle to find my way home, satnav or not, especially with the little blue car sulking at me. But on such a beautiful day as this, it doesn’t matter how short or long the route home. And she’ll come round.
Reunited with our gear, we make the descent again, ticking off country lanes, birdsong, lush meadows, and lone trees. Then we’re back in the shady hollow of Brock Bottom, which is by now steaming as if it’s August, not mid-May. A terrific round, one I will repeat, and hopefully get right next time. About six and a half miles, eight hundred feet of up and down, but that second ascent of Beacon Fell is optional.
We have been to Chorley, to the B+Q emporium, exchanging a length of drainpipe for what we hope is one of the right size this time. Whilst there, we noticed they have opened a new Home Bargains store across the road, and could not resist a mooch. We bought a cheap Chinese lantern for the garden pond. They sell sandwiches, too, so we bought one for lunch. Then we drove the short distance to Coppull, to the Birkacre visitor centre.
So, here we are, back on the old patch, coffee at the Treeface café. It’s a sultry day for the circuit. The big lodge is looking forlorn, only half full, having sprung a leak. Investigations and remediations continue. Built in the later part of the eighteenth century, the lodge was ground zero for the industrial revolution. It’s lasted well, then, and I do hope they manage to fix it up, as it’s a very pleasant stretch of water.
Repairs to Birkacre’s Big Lodge, Coppull
I am reminded it was once in much worse condition. Owned by an Angling club, whose volunteer water baliffs used to chase us off, it went slowly to ruin from the later seventies. Drained and derelict, it became an ugly basin, thick with scrub. We locals, brought up on walks around the lodge, and generally contemptuous of the baliffs, used to dream of its restoration. Then, Chorley Council bought it, and have done wonders. Far from discouraged, now, it welcomes visitors, and they come in their droves. It can be a bit of a doggie heaven, so not suited to all, but we can soon evade the crowds by venturing deeper into the woods.
This piece was to be titled “Springtime and the horseshoe of the Yarrow”, but I am several weeks too late. Only a week ago, in the Dales, spring was at its peak. The starry ramsons, in Foss Wood, were at their most pungent prime. Here, they’ve mostly finished. Their leaves are yellowing, dying back. The wood anemones, too, have finished, and the common mouse ear is taking its place in snowy waves. The bluebells persist, and campion is flourishing in the moist, shady hollows.
I am sorry to have missed the anemones, but a close look in the undergrowth reveals one hanging on against the season.
The last anemone, Drybones Wood, Coppull
This is an ancient way, along the horseshoe of the River Yarrow, from Birkacre to Duxbury. A rare stretch of ancient woodland, its paths can be heavy with mud, at least beyond the falls at Drybones Dam. Today, though, we are able to make way with care. It’s not that long ago the Himalayan balsam ran riot here, smothering all this wonderful diversity of flora. But a concerted effort over the years has restored the richness of habitat, and the depth of colour.
In the deep of the wood, we meet a man with a large bulldog. It’s a jolly creature that seems beside itself with excitement. After chasing its tail for a bit, it splats down in a puddle of mud, then launches itself at its owner. The man is none too pleased to have his trousers ruined. The bulldog lollops around, then goes for the puddle again. The man is telling it not to dare.
“He’s playful,” I comment.
That’s a mistake. The dog is a gregarious sort, and now includes me in the game. The man calls it off just in time, and I am spared its affections, and the washing machine.
Where the meadows of Hall Farm run down to the edge of the wood, the council used to tip refuse, well into the 1960’s. This can’t have been a pretty sight, dustbin wagons spewing their steamy loads. So what has the appearance of grassy hummocks, is actually a trove of tin cans and bottles, now, that once ran like scree slopes, into the woods. As far as I can work out, the older stuff is the furthest to the south. Here you can find fancy bottles from the Victorian, and the early twentieth century.
Bottle, ancient tip, Hall Wood, Coppull
It’s not a place I like to root, it being littered with glass shards. But we were less concerned with such things as children, and were often to be found among the nettles and bumblebees, poking with sticks for treasure. Today we have a cautious mooch for old time’s sake, and turn up a medicine bottle. It is engraved with the name of a London apothecary. It’s broken a bit at the top, so it’s junk, I suppose. Were it complete, later researches reveal it would fetch over twenty quid on eBay.
On we go a little way to where Ellerbrook joins the Yarrow. Ellerbrook emerges from the spoil heaps of the old Ellerbeck colliery, where my father worked until its closure in 1965. The brook used to run a rusty orange, while the heaps gently smouldered, and stank of sulphur. The waters are clear, now, the spoil heaps reclaimed by nature over a half a century. We can be a terrible destroyer of the earth but, given time, Nature can heal the mess. I am told there are even Salmon in the Yarrow, now.
Speaking of collieries, the area is dotted with sinister dimples in the earth, marking the positions of old shafts. The Coal Authority has a list of those that are known. They supply an interactive map to the British Geological Survey. The map is used by developers as a precaution against building over fearful voids, or in areas that might be prone to subsidence. But mining in this area was so feverish down the centuries, not all mines are listed. There is the outline of a shaft-top here cutting part way into the brook. My father pointed it out to me when I was a boy, and so far as I’m aware he was the only one who knew about it. It’s certainly not on the Coal Authorities map.
Outline of shaft, Hall Wood, Coppull
After crossing the meadows that come down from Grundy’s Lane, we enter Duxbury Wood. Then it’s up to the new developments on Burgh Lane, which are always threatening to encroach further, sealing up the green gap between Chorley’s southern suburbs and Coppull. We return to the lodge via Primrose Hill. Such a small corner of the world. It’s far from dramatic, and has suffered the usual threats from development and, before that, scarred by industry. But it’s where I grew up, and where I still return, to measure the seasons by the wax and wane of the wildflowers, and the turn of the leaves of the beech, and the oak, and the sycamore.
Approaching Burgh Lane
Just three miles round, and a couple of hundred feet of gentle up and down. Wild flowers, woodland and water. I hope I managed to get the right drainpipe this time.
It was the late great Kurt Vonnegut who reminded us the arts are no way to make a living. You can apply this to any of the arts – writing, poetry, painting, photography – all things we amateurs take great pleasure in. This is a pity, but it’s also an obvious fact of life in a world that values capital, above soul.
We might wind up in a toxic job, suffering under bad bosses, and psychopathic colleagues. Or maybe it’s more simply that we find the day-to-day business of paid work unfulfilling, because that’s just the way contemporary work is organised, robbing us of all sense of our own agency. It is only through our art, carried out in free time, we become re-animated through our satisfaction in what we do, and by exploring life’s meaning. Through the lens of art, life takes on a greater depth and a richness. Without it, life is featureless and void as any workplace on a wet Monday morning. We can hardly be blamed then for making the connection, and wanting to earn a living by our art. During my own early working life, I sought financial independence by writing, and by landscape photography. Neither worked out. Obviously, some artists do make it, but for the main part, at least, Kurt was right: it’s no way to make a living.
The Ruined Windmill, Harrock Hill, Lancashire (by me)
Some formerly amateur “hobby” photographers have made a success of themselves by virtue of the Internet, setting up smart YouTube channels where they can be the stars of their own show. I follow a few, find them entertaining, and a useful source of tips and tricks, but I have also noticed they are not making a living from photography. When we look more closely, we realise that although their photographs are very accomplished, they are making a living by selling a lifestyle. They gain followers, and thereby earn ad revenue, and sponsor products and services. They also hold workshops which others pay to attend. As for their picture, they actually make very little from sales. Like everyone else, then, they have to reach beyond their art in order to pay the bills. If you are an articulate, good-looking and charismatic individual, moderately skilled in picture taking, I dare say you might do as well as any other YouTube photography guru. If, however, you are an introverted, camera shy, tongue-tied old gargoyle (like me), it’s probably better giving it a miss.
Bank End Farm, Cockerham Marsh (by me)
But this does not mean the art of photography is denied us. Quite the opposite. We have the opportunity to become much more intimately acquainted with it, to truly grow our souls by it, undistracted by the need to apply our art to the business of making money. That said, we have to reconcile ourselves to making a living by conventional means, and making our peace with it. Then we can begin to explore the art in photography.
It would be vain to call myself a photographer. I have a smattering of technical knowledge gained ad-hoc over a lifetime of simply fiddling with cameras. I have picked up compositional guidelines – the rule of thirds, for example, or the Golden Mean. I can talk about the times of day when the light is more interesting, more dramatic, but if we are not selling our photographs, these details are secondary. What brings us back to photography, to the frame and the shutter, is something else.
“Photographers deal in things which are continually vanishing, and when they have vanished there is no contrivance on earth which can make them come back again.”
Henri Cartier-Bresson
Lone figure, on a hill. Rivington, Lancashire. (by me)
This comes close to nailing it for me. My own photography is mainly landscape and rural scenes. It fits in with a love of exploring those wild places that remain to us, here, in the British Isles, mostly the North of England within a radius of a couple of hours drive from home. I walk with a camera. Just a camera. Too much gear, and especially a lumbering great tripod, gets in the way of the freedom to move, to stalk those things Cartier-Bresson describes as continually vanishing. And in the hills you are better packing an emergency bivvy bag and an extra layer of clothing than, say, a bag of photographic filters or other accessories you are unlikely to use.
A patch of light on a fellside, a dramatic formation of clouds, above a light-painted tree, a single mountain standing out from its neighbours by dint of time and light, and moment. All these things are continually vanishing. Blink and they are gone forever. They are moments to be enjoyed in the moment, of course, as we bear them witness, and this is the pleasure of the walk. But if we can return home with a camera full of images, we can continue to explore our day though the dimension of the photograph, and what more we can draw out of it in the (digital) darkroom.
Penyghent, Yorkshire Dales National Park (by me)
This way, an afternoon’s walk, say in the Yorkshire Dales, can be enjoyed, relived, and explored for the rest of the week, or longer as old photographs are revisited. And sometimes even the shots we thought blurred and uninspiring can reveal something new, something unexpected at a later date in their colours, shapes, or contrasts. This is the art in photography, and anyone can do it if they are so minded.
How we develop as photographers is down to individual experience. Beyond a basic grasp of the triangle of shutter, aperture and ISO, the rest is application and, here, as Bresson says, your first 10,000 photographs will be your worst. In other words, we gain nothing by having our camera in a box. We must get out there, and use it.
“A good photograph is knowing where to stand.”
Ansel Adams
Drinkwaters farm (ruin), Anglezarke moor (by me)
The difference between a snap and a photograph is in the perspective. Two photographers can capture the same subject. One will record the subject as existing, in a documentary fashion, the other will frame and express it, and add to it something of the moment. It’s like looking at an apple. Fine. It’s an apple. But how does it make you feel? How you express that is down to where you stand.
As for the kind of camera, a simple phone camera has plenty to teach, and reveals as much about the art in photography as a top of the range Leica or a Hasselblad. Art is not about counting pixels. It’s about growing the soul. And the art is in the image, even a grainy one. I am still discovering things in pictures I took twenty years ago, with a 3 megapixel camera – considered the bee’s knees at the time – when now even 24 megapixels is pedestrian, at least from a technical perspective. And personally speaking, I shall never bottom the potential of my 24 megapixel Nikon, and to which I apologise, for I am sure it would perform much better in more capable hands.
But then:
“All the technique in the world doesn’t compensate for the inability to notice.”
– Elliott Erwitt
And, likewise, all the megapixels in the world are secondary to the eye’s ability to look and to truly see whatever it is looking at.
Late March, four years ago. Little did we know, but it was to be our last year of freedom for a while. I climbed Pikedaw, a little visited summit to the west of Malham, in the Yorkshire Dales, and was very glad I did. I thought I’d written it up on the blog, but I’ve searched my back numbers in vain and conclude I must have imagined it. Then again, I’m increasingly caught out not knowing what day it is, these days.
When it comes to eye-catching scenery, Malham has it all: the splendid little waterfall of Janet’s Foss, the great defile and occasional film-set of Goredale Scar, and of course the stupendous drop of the Cove. Naturally, this makes it something of a draw for visitors. Indeed, I suspect there are no quiet days here any more, but if your taste is for the quieter, wilder side, you can still escape the crowds in five minutes, and not see a soul. If that’s your bag, then Pikedaw is for you.
So, here we are again, in Malham. We’ve arrived too late for the free roadside parking, which is already tailed as far back as the village bounds. The National Park car-park is filling up too, but the little blue car manages to find a spot between a pair of enormous SUV’s. The evidence of the state of our provincial towns is that the country is in ruins, while paradoxically strung with jolly bunting as if in celebration of it. Meanwhile, the national parks are increasingly dominated by wannabe country squires and these gargantuan latter-day shooting brakes. The little blue car looks like a child’s pedal toy beside them, but I know which I’d prefer to be threading along the narrow lanes of the Yorkshire Dales. We clocked 98,000 on the drive in, and she still handles like new.
The plan is to take the paths west, to a meeting of ways on the high moors, near the ancient Nappa Cross. We’ll be calling at Pikedaw on the way, but the summit is not the main objective. A little below it, and commanding a view over the dale is a lone ash tree, one of my favourite lone trees, and I want to photograph it. From Nappa Cross, we’ll then navigate the moors amid the rapture of skylarks, coming out at the tail end of the dry valley known as the Watlowes. This is where we’ll pick up the crowds again, and join in with the slow shuffle, via the well-worn trail by the Cove, across Malham Rakes, to Goredale, and finally Foss Wood.
To begin, though, we climb along dusty, stony farm lanes, dotted with picturesque barns and amid lush pastures. At the first of these barns, we are threatened by a vicious looking brute of a dog. But I remember it from last time, so I have its measure. It is chained sufficiently to allow it to leap onto the wall and play merry hell with passers-by. One overenthusiastic slip, though, and it will end up hanging itself. I advise it, in passing, to watch its step, for it is clearly an ill-tempered beast, and unlikely to attract much by way of sympathetic assistance.
From here we have a view of Pikedaw. It’s not a prominent summit, which is perhaps why it does not receive more visitors, even though it is signposted from the village. After the last of the barns, we leave the farm track, and the way becomes suddenly vague, crossing a broad meadow. The park authority have been out placing notices, begging that dogs be kept on leads in order to protect ground nesting birds. Larks seem not to be struggling this year, but I have seen fewer lapwing and curlew. The meadow is grazed by Belties, and they have knocked one of the signposts over. We plant it upright again, for all the good it will do.
There is just the faintest indication of a walked way here. It runs roughly west of north-west, to intersect the wall below Hoober Edge, and it is here we find our tree. Unlike many ash trees on my home patch, in Lancashire, and which are showing signs of die-back, this one looks to be thriving, perhaps on account of its remoteness. We sit a while, watching the light change across the dale, and we get our shot. Damn those smug Yorkshiremen. They’re right. This is surely God’s own county.
So, four years since I was last here? No way! It feels like yesterday. I remember how I puffed and panted up the hill on that occasion, and I seem to be no fitter today, in spite of being out on a hill most weeks ever since. It seems all improvements in fitness are eventually overtaken by that great leveller: age. Still, so long as I can put one foot in front of the other,…
The path meanders its way past Pikedaw, with no clear route up it, so we are left to make our own way. The summit cairn is actually a Bronze Age burial, with a distinctly wonky stone cairn plonked on top. As a viewpoint it is superb, especially towards the east, over Malhamdale. We have a wonderful blue sky, across which sails an armada of fluffy clouds, rendering the land in dynamic light and shade. The greens darken to viridian, then warm slowly as they brighten almost to yellow, aided in no small part by a profusion of dandelion, and lesser celandine.
Pikedaw
From here, our way leads north to intersect the main path coming up from Fair Sleet’s Gate. The problem is this is open country, and there is a wall in the way. Heading due north, by compass, however, brings us to a gate which can be carefully vaulted. The wall is showing signs of damage. These are delicate structures and prone to collapse, if one is foolhardy enough to try to mount them. We should respect them. They are ancient structures and a pain for the hill farmers to repair. The gate has been set aside. Our way is clear, and we meander across to meet the path, then turn west towards the Nappa Cross, and lunch.
Dating from between the ninth and the fifteenth century, not much of the original cross survives. It’s no longer even in its original position, having been moved a little way off and built into a wall. Still, it survives as an antiquity on the OS maps and, though not considered worthy of listed status any more, it is at least deserving of a photograph.
Nappa Cross
From here, the bleakness of the moor is broken by the glittering eye of a distant Malham tarn, which also serves as our way marker, and brings us down to the road near the Watlowes. As predicted, it is here we pick up the company of others. The path through the deep defile of the Watlowes is narrow to begin, and our way is impeded by walkers of indifferent ability. To be fair, the limestone is worn smooth here by long decades of visitors, and can be tricky for the less sure-footed. There are Highland Angus calves grazing the fellside.
Eventually the valley opens out onto the top of the dizzying cove. At one of the last stiles before the cliff edge, we encounter a sobering notice, suggesting the cove’s use as an exit for troubled souls. Indeed, I am reminded of the last time I was here, when someone had gone over to their death, a grim scene with cops on the skyline, and the air ambulance making a precarious approach.
I note with some unease the people who must gather as close as possible to the edge, perhaps for the thrill of it. It is a thrill I cannot share, and turn away from the place. A fearful spot, it gives me the willies. Anyway, climbing slightly from the cove to a less airy place, we are able now to look back at the dry valley of the Watlowes. One side is catching the sun, the other in deep shadow. This is Dales scenery at its finest and most rugged.
The Watlowes
Another mile brings us down to the chuck wagon at Goredale, where we splash out on a restorative brew and a Kitkat. Inflation has hiked the price of a four fingered Kitkat to £1.00. Here, it’s really busy. One family are trailing a pack of ten little yappy hounds. They are making an awful racket, and the hounds are no better. I overhear that they are visiting the falls in the scar, a spectacular sight, but overly populated now by people and Instas who saw it on TV, it having starred as scenery in various movies and dramas. We shall give it a miss.
Goredale
Similarly, a huge school party is hogging the view at Janet’s Foss, the teacher delivering a stern, open air lecture on how to behave. I do feel for him, having discovered long ago that children and water are bound to combine eventually. We pass by unseen. Sunlight is filtering pleasantly through the little patch of woodland, the air thick with the scent of allium. Springtime is such an uplifting season, I would sooner swap it for the stultifying heat and heavy greens of summer any time. For all of its busyness, there is still something heavenly about Malham and its environs, something also, by contrast, hellish about the coves and scars, but which are also beautiful if held at bay by the safety of a telephoto lens.
And then we’re back at the little blue car, which is catching the cool shade between its bulked up SUV minders. We peel the top down. From here to the A59 at Gisburn is what the car was made for, especially on days like this, but first we’ll call at the farm shop for cheese.
Wensleydale of course.
Seven and a bit miles round, fifteen hundred and fifty-ish feet of ascent.
M6 Northbound. 10:00 AM. The forecast was for minus two overnight, and nippy all day, but the day is already shaping up to be a warm one. We’re heading for the pretty little Dales village of Clapham. As we drive, the mind meanders, pausing now and then on a snippet of news picked up from this morning’s dawn doomscroll. The chief economist of the Bank of England, a Mr Pill, tells us we must accept we are all a lot poorer, now, and stop expecting it to get any better, and certainly not by agitating for a pay rise. Mr Pill’s pill is indeed a bitter one, and I must be careful not to choke on it.
The run east from Crook O Lune, through Caton and Hornby, towards the Dales is such a beautiful drive. Conditions look perfect for the hills, and a little route I’ve not walked before. We’ve got a blissful blue sky, and meadows so green they make your heart ache. Ingleborough puts in an early appearance, and tells us we’re nearing our destination. The plan is to visit an upland area littered with boulders that came from the Lake District, during the last glacial period. These are the Norber Erratics, and I’ve had them on my list for a long time.
Parking for a day in the Dales, is typically half the price of the Lake District. In terms of prettiness, Clapham is easily the equal of what the Lake District’s Grasmere might once have been, had it chosen another path, and which Grasmere has now lost to tourism. Thank heavens, Wordsworth never so much as hung his hat here. I’m sure there are many fine poets who have lived in Clapham, for the setting most definitely inspires verse, but they remain obscure. They attract neither pilgrimage nor the curse of memorabilia.
Clapham Tunnels
We head for the church, and enter the tunnels. These are a peculiar feature, giving access to the fells, but without our having to cross over land owned by the Big House. Instead, we go under it. I recommend a torch on poor days, or if returning in the gloom of twilight. I have literally fumbled blindly through them on occasion, but not today. After the tunnels, it’s a stiff climb up a broad track, then we’re on our way to Austwick, and Robin Proctor’s Scar.
Here we meet an enormous school group, and a lively bunch they are too. When my good lady was teaching, so many safeguards needed to be in place for a school outing, they were becoming all but impossible to organise. It’s good to see some schools still making the effort to get out of doors, but cheery as these youngsters are, I’m glad they’re coming down, and not going up at the same time as me.
Robin Proctor’s Scar
Just past the scar, a path strikes north, climbing to the plateau where most of the erratics are scattered. They are indeed an impressive sight, some of them massive, and beautifully weathered – much darker gritstone rocks, sitting atop the white of the native limestone. This is a place to loiter, so I do, prowling around for photographs, most of which I manage to fluff.
This is said to be one of the premium sites in the British Isles for students of geology, and it’s plain to see why. Interesting glacial factoids: twelve thousand years ago, the ice was half a mile thick, and the last British glacier to disappear was in the Cairngorms, only three or four hundred years ago.
Norber Erratics
We decide upon our favourite erratic, hunker down beside it to take in the view and rest a while. What about that Mr Pill, eh? The foodbank queues are getting longer, the NHS is on its face and the poor have been huddling together in dedicated, council run warm spaces over winter. But this is the first time I’ve actually heard it admitted that there is no real concern among the plutocracy things should be better for the population at large, and no plan to get us even halfway out of the mess we’re in.
Anyway, we have a much more pressing problem now. The right of way gives out in a dead end, up ahead, and we must return to the valley, lose quite a lot of altitude if we are to pick up the path that will take us up Crummakdale. But I’ve just spotted a ladder stile that gives on to the open access land around Thwaite Scars. This is an area the map shows littered with cairns, and crags, so I suspect a profusion of faint ways, and long drops. With luck, we can contour round and intersect the Crummackdale path, without losing the height we’ve gained so far.
Over the stile, we follow the wall north. There is a faint way here, but hard to tell if it was made by sheep or man. Still, it’s easy going, and the wall draws us a good long way, before tumbling to ruin over precipitous crags. The path skitters along the edge of its remains, but the exposure is extreme. The route definitely shows use here, but perhaps by mountaineers who have more of a head for these things. As a humble pedestrian, I could be walking into trouble, so back track a little, try a faint path higher up the fell, and this brings us more safely around the dangers. The view of Penygent from this angle, is breathtaking.
Penyghent from above Crummackdale
A profusion of faint ways now crosses a more gently undulating area. The land closes in around us, pockets us quietly, and there is a sense of having lost one’s way. The mind temporarily misbehaves, refuses to think properly, confuses west and east. I’m probably wanting my lunch. The map on the phone spins uselessly around our position when we activate the electronic compass. An old Silva compass settles the argument, and on we go. Phones are great for pinpointing your position, and a real boon in bad weather, when you might otherwise be reluctant, or even unable to unfold a map. But an analogue compass is still a good thing to carry, if only to set north.
Anyway, we crest a hill and the massive cairn on Long Scar rises into view, Ingleborough beyond. A friendly hand, it waves the traveller in. Over here, it says.
The cairn on Long Scar
Lunch at the cairn. We are a little way above the grand fissure that is Trow Ghyll, a popular route up Ingleborough. Our way is clear, now: simply pick up the head of Long Lane, and follow it back to Clapham. This is a daunting proposition, though. Long Lane is so named for obvious reasons. Arrow straight, a rough track bordered by drystone walls, it undulates into infinity. There is no past, no future, and an almost supernatural lack of progress when walking it. There is only an infinite now. Fortunately, that now is in the midst of some of the finest Dales scenery.
Long Lane
I don’t know in what context Mr Pill was speaking, nor what the media intended we are supposed to make of it. At face value, it seems an incredibly crass thing to say. And anyway, he’s wrong, because on days like this, in places like this, we are all enriched beyond measure.
About seven miles round, seventeen hundred feet of ascent.
When the Soviet Union collapsed, footage emerged of Russian motorists travelling deeply potholed roads, even in their major cities. The poor benighted souls, we thought. But our sympathies were edged with more than a hint of smugness. After all, our own infrastructure could never fall into such a parlous state as that. Could it? Fast-forward twenty years, and we can tell we’re entering the environs of Chorley by the sheer violence its roads are doing to our suspension. Thus, we shake, rattle and roll towards the Hartwood roundabout. It’s a beautiful morning, a top-down day, and the little blue car has an excited buzz about her. We’re heading over to Tockholes for a walk up Cartridge Hill, on the edge of the Darwen Moors.
As we make way, I note there is nothing by way of reminder there are local elections on the 4th of May. There are no posters in windows, and I’ve had no leaflets through my door. I suppose they’re always a low-key affair, few punters bothering to turn out. But there seems something almost secret about them this time.
The Labour Party usually retains overall control of the council, here. I don’t expect that will change. It’s not much of a bell-weather for the shifting political tides of the nation, though. That said, I suspect the Greens will do a little better than usual. I read they’re currently attracting disaffected lefties, upset by Labour’s rightwards drift. Disaffected Tories are going the other way, to Reform UK, though they’ve yet to field a candidate here. Thus, we become ever more polarised, and nothing gets any better.
So, we take the Blackburn road towards Brinscall, then Abbey, and the A675 towards Belmont. Chorley is never far from beautiful countryside. Soon, we’re cruising along rural roads, flanked by neatly clipped thorn hedging. We dally with the idea of parking at Ryal Fold, but it’s getting busy there, even of a mid-week. Instead, we settle on the quieter Crookfield Road carpark.
The moors surround us here, pale as straw, and stretching as far as the eye can see. We have a clear blue sky, but a cool wind blowing down from the heights. We step out to the sound of curlew and lark.
Just off a busy turnpike, the carpark is also a favourite with vans and rep-mobiles, guys pulling in for a break between appointments. There’s a boss class Beamer, leaking thump-whack music. Then there’s a beaten up builder’s van bearing the logo of a construction company. He’s listening to Dvorák’s New World, second movement – not heard that in a while. We park closer to the builder’s van, all the better to listen, as I change into my boots. Then we set off to rejoin the curlew and the larks. Unusual that, not the sort of thing you expect to hear coming from a builder’s van. It just goes to show, you can’t always tell the depths of a man’s soul by appearances. So, beware your prejudice.
When the larks are ascending, like they are today, it’s Vaughn Williams that comes more easily to mind. But for our ascent of Cartridge Hill, it’s definitely the New World that worms about in the ear. Composed in the 1890s, and inspired by his time in America, the symphony has great warmth. It conjures up, in my own mind at least, a spirit of optimism, an anticipation of the great adventure.
Considering how the summit of Cartridge Hill must be the least visited of the West Pennine tops – at least judging by the complete lack of detritus – the cairn here takes on a different appearance every time I come by. Although indistinct when viewed from the moor, the hill has a dominant position over the valley. As a viewpoint, it is well worth the effort for a seldom seen perspective.
But now I’m thinking we’ve done this the wrong way round, actually, and climaxed too soon. We’re barely a mile in, and the remaining four have not as much to offer. But that’s just our mood talking. Lunch is chicken soup, and a view to die for. Great Hill, across the way, is dominant. Over its shoulder, I can just about make out the three windmills at Cliff’s Farm, way down on the plain at Mawdesley, near home. Next time I’m there, I’ll have to see if I can make out Cartridge Hill. Thus is it we slot the pieces, one by one, into the map inside our heads. Except now, we rely on the sat-nav and other iron-brained devices to tell us where we are, and perhaps even who we are. And such questions as “what’s that hill over there” no longer have any meaning in the world.
On we go, then, picking up a faint way towards the little moorland oasis of Lyon’s Den. The moor is dust-dry, and sandy in places. The sun is blinding and the wind is keen. I wonder if we’re heading into another of those seasonal droughts that last until July.
Darwen Tower
A huge walking party is coming up from Ryal Fold. They are taking photographs of a distant Darwen Tower with their phones. It looks like they’re heading out that way. They’ll need to hang onto their hats. We leave them to it, and cut down to Ryal Fold. As we reach the lower pastures, dandelion and coltsfoot are in profusion. We’re tempted by a brew and a bacon butty at the Rambler’s Cafe. But they’re queuing out of the doors again, and time is getting on, the long haul up through the plantations still ahead of us.
In Roddlesworth
Mid-afternoon now, and sunlight is filtering through the trees of the plantation. They are mostly bare, and the mosses are luminous. As I’ve written before, the Tockholes and Roddlesworth plantations are a bit of a doggie place. Sure enough, I meet a couple of the new breed of professional dog walker, sleight looking girls with packs of big, bouncy dogs that seem barely in control. They talk to the dogs like they are little people, but can barely manage a passing hello for me.
Roddlesworth and Tockholes are at their best in the autumn. Springtime brings little of interest, none of the carpets of anemones and allium, and bluebells of more ancient woodland. Lone gateposts among the tree trunks mark a long-lost residence, while fragments of drystone wall and fallen tree, thick with moss, speak of a near perpetual winter wet.
The Well House – Hollins Head
It is indeed a long haul from the bridge over Rocky Brook, up past Slipper Lowe, with just a faint respite to the ruins of Hollins Head. A final pull brings us back to the car. Short and sharp. Five miles round and eight hundred feet, according to the Iron Brain. The builder’s van has gone, so has the Beamer. The New World and thump-whack. Each to his own.
There’s a Green candidate putting up in my ward. I’ve had to dig for the information. Should I lend him my vote this time? If there are elections in your area, do turn out, but remember your ID. I know,… it won’t change anything. I fully expect the potholes around Chorley will be even deeper this time next year. So it’s even more important to get out for a walk. Returning from a walk, the world always seems renewed, no matter what mess it appeared to be in before. It is less a path to wrack and ruin, and more another step in the great adventure.
It’ll cost you £8.50 to park at the bottom of Tom Ghyll, if you’re planning on a long walk. There is no option to pay by debit card. It’s coins only, or you can scan your National Trust membership, and park for free. I have neither. You can pay by phone – or you could if this wasn’t a dead zone. The alternative is the last place I want to be, which is where we are now, the visitor centre at Tarn Hows. I’d thought they might do pay-by-card here. They do not. But the helpful warden is able to change my emergency ten pound note into coins, all but one of which I then feed into the hungry machine. It gives no change. It’s a shaky start, but this is the Lake District, after all. It’s busy. All the time. And it’s expensive. But it’s also beautiful.
Indeed, I’ve forgotten how beautiful it can be. The forecast hadn’t been too promising, and I’d expected a bit of a claggy day. But, after a light frost and morning mist, the day cleared, and the fells are now on display to a degree that makes your heart sing. The plan is a circuit of paths, taking in two lesser summits, Holme Fell, and Black Crag. I remember I had a go at Holme Fell long ago, but got lost in mist. So, today is a rematch, and we’ve no excuses, armed with GPS, which would have been like science fiction back then.
I’ll wager anyone who’s ever visited the Lakes on holiday winds up at Tarn Hows. A man-made lake, forested, in a bowl of fells, it provides a variety of attractive walking for all abilities. It is without doubt a pretty spot, and if you’ve not been, you must visit, but come early. Also, sadly, in spite of the National Trust’s best efforts, the volume of visitors still brings attendant stresses. I even spotted the dreaded dog poo bags – calling cards of the graceless and the damned – lurking in the bushes as if this were Rivington. But, we’re soon out of its environs with a quick plunge down the sylvan ravine of Tom Ghyll. The rush of lively water fills the air, and there are several gorgeous cascades at which to pause and admire.
Tom Ghyll
Ten minutes, and we’re at the bottom, back at the little car park where we were unable to pay, earlier. Then it’s along the road to the most photographed farm in the Lakes, Yew Tree Farm. It’s easy to see why it’s so popular. Its setting, against steep fells, is quintessential Lake District fayre. It must have graced countless post-cards in its time, all of them wishing you were here. Do people still send post cards, by the way? Why would we, when we’re constantly connected by text or WhatsApp anyway?
Yew Tree Farm
From here we pick up the way to Holme Fell, the one I managed to lose in mist, last time. It’s also where we encounter the first of many Belted Galloways. These lovely, shaggy creatures are now a familiar sight in upland areas in the North of England. Known affectionately as Belties, they are indicative of changing land management. Hard as nails, they forage on the fells all year round, so cost virtually nothing to keep. They’re also selective in what they eat, encouraging greater bio-diversity, and they’re not so easily spooked as other breeds of cattle, which makes them safer to be around.
Holme Fell summit
It’s a steep plod up Holme Fell, its fine craggy summit marked by a huge pile of stones. Although not of massive stature itself – just a little over a thousand feet – as a viewpoint it is 360 degrees of delight. It’s plain to see why it made it into Wainwright’s definitive guides. We have the distant, distinctive profile of the sun-dappled Langdales, and closer to hand, the brooding wall of Weatherlam. Then there’s the Old Man of Coniston, and all the lower fells between, and the sweet pastures, and the mixed woodlands fanning out in all directions. To the south lies Coniston water, visible for its entire length, while to the east is our eventual destination, Black Crag.
We’ve seen not a soul since leaving Tarn Hows, and have the summit to ourselves. We’re beginning to think we’re in for a quiet day ambling among the jewels of the lesser fells, away from the crowds. But then a garrulous, twenty strong walking group appears, and I find myself sitting among wall-to-wall gawpers who threaten absent-mindedly to trample my picnic. It’s like I’ve suddenly been relegated to the cheap seats. As I pack up to leave, the leader, a well-togged out, fruity voiced gentleman, begins his spiel. He points to Black Crag, which, he says, is where they’re heading next. Drat!
The Langdales
Anyway, we fight our way from the top, as if extracting ourselves from a busy pub. Then we make our way down to the awesome hole in the ground that is the Hodge Close Quarry. I remember walking in this area forty years ago. It had been one of those days when the silence hangs in the air, and the only sounds are your own breath and heartbeat. The sense of peace was profoundly all-consuming. Then there was an almighty explosion, and the ground shook. The shock of that moment is still vivid in memory. No explosions today, though, as we make our way up the rough track to High and then Low Oxen Fell farm.
These little unmetalled byways are one of the great charms of the Lake District. They allow glimpses of a way of rural life that disappeared from the rest of England long ago. Lone, limewashed farmhouses, sheep out in the surrounding meadows. It looks timeless, but all is not what it seems. Sheep are awful tyrants, denuding the land of its floral diversity. The effect is a loss of insect species, and birds. As a consequence, there’s pressure to reduce their numbers, and restore habitat.
Farmed landscapes are a part of our collective memory. They can be pretty, but they’re also unnatural, and vulnerable to attack by nature when its dander is up. In December 2015, a massive storm swept over the British Isles, and much of Cumbria. Here the rush of water, thundering from the mountains and filling the gullies, caused terrible damage. It then picked up more water over the North Sea and carried on to Norway, where having gained even more ferocity, it attempted the same carnage. But the damage was ten times worse in the UK, purely as a result of the way we manage our uplands.
There are fewer sheep about now, there are Belties grazing the margins, and meadows are beginning to be set aside for wildflowers. This may be too little, and too late, but it’s a start.
Bowfell
The track emerges onto the busy Coniston to Ambleside road, at Hollin Bank, then makes its way up the fell towards the farm at Low Arnside. We’re on open access land now, and the ways begin to bifurcate. From here, looking back, there is a stunning view of Bowfell, looking very remote and austere, still with a dusting of snow. We choose a likely looking detour from the main track. This brings us to the top of Black Crag, whose main revelation is the sudden view of Lake Windermere. There are two cairns here, one forming the trig point and sporting the metal sign of the National Trust. As it did in Wainwright’s day, it carries the engraved names of passing vandals, intent on establishing their immortality. And, as Wainwright tells us, in his own inimitable prose, it is the only way persons of such mentality are ever likely to manage it.
On Black Crag
To the south of the trig point is another, larger cairn. In Wainwright’s guide, he describes it as being in poor repair, but is now restored to its full height, and very impressive too. We can see the waters of Tarn Hows now, sparkling through the trees. We can see too, the line of our return route through the Iron Keld plantation. As we set off, we meet the twenty-strong group on its way up – it seems we managed to comfortably outpace them. There are more Belties mooching about here, as indeed there are in the plantation. Semi-wild, they add something to the landscape. If I had to have a cow for a pet, it would be a Beltie.
Belted Galloway, Iron Keld Plantation, April 2023
Finally, it’s Tarn Hows, and back to the bustle. But it’s been a beautiful day and, as the late afternoon sun paints everything with a buttery glow, vexations melt away, and we can be magnanimous about anything. After all, are we not one of the crowd, ourselves?
About seven and a half miles, and two thousand feet of ascent.
All of my novels are free. Click on the book cover to download. This works best if you’re reading on your phone or tablet device, then the book will open up directly in your chosen e-book reader.
The Rivendale Review 