
A glimpse at the news this morning reveals the media’s sudden interest in a man’s shoes. The man in question is one of the contestants in the game show to become prime minister. He seems to be getting a kicking over the trappings of his personal wealth, which I find an odd line of attack, him being of the party of the rich, and what else does one expect? I have no wish to defend the man, no horse in that race, so to speak, but I wouldn’t expect him to be buying his shoes from the same place I buy mine. It’s a peculiar start to the day, but one that has already raised a smile. I think we’re on to a winner!
And speaking of shoes, it’s looking like a day of intermittent and lively showers, wet underfoot on the fell, even after such a long period of dry – and my best boots are occasionally leaky! We shall have to see how we go. The fell in question, or rather the hill, is Mellor Knoll. I attempted a circuit of this attractive Bowland peak, back in May, but ran foul of motorcycles from an adventure centre, in the woodland above New Hay Barn. They threw me off course, got me lost, and ruined the walk. It’s been a bit of a monkey on my back ever since, and today I intend putting it to rest by completing the route, without a hitch.
We come at Bowland by snaking around Longridge fell, through Hurst Green, Mitton, and Whitewell, then along the valley of the Hodder to Dunsop Bridge. There’s a fast changing light, bright sunshine backed by glowering curtains of rain that sweep down through the nick of the Trough. They deposit a great, glittering soaking, then move on, leaving the wet to steam in the sun. It’s waterproof trousers from the start then, which isn’t the most optimistic way to commence a walk, but the forecast is for a window of drier weather later.
Since I last did this route up from Dunsop, the season has matured, and the hills have taken on a deeper green, as the bracken swells. Last week I was struck by the emptiness of the Stocks’ reservoir, signs of serious drought everywhere, and still talk of rationing this morning. Now we’re climbing towards Middle knoll with a wind to our backs, and driving rain. The grasses are tall, the path little used and, in most places, no more than a faint impression across the steep meadow. Bowland is quiet today, the car park in Dunsop Bridge was empty, and I’ve seen not another soul on the route.

Instead, our ascent is observed by poker-faced cattle. They turn a blind eye, as we temporarily lose the path and find ourselves on the summit of the Knoll. This is technically a trespass, but it looks like a popular one. Even the cows have been up here to admire the view, if their copious doings are anything to go by. Like before, I claim navigational error, and no intention of taking up residence.
From up here, we can see an opening in the weather coming our way. The views stretch forever, a vast swathe of North Lancashire as it blends seamlessly into Yorkshire, all of it green and beautiful, and blinking in and out as the light moves, and the showers sweep it. We also have a good view of enemy territory, this being the patch of woodland where we were routed by armoured riders last time. A quick sweep with binoculars from our summit vantage reveals no riders today, so we gird our loins and make our descent, ready for battle.
It’s easy to go wrong with navigation. You think you know where you’re going, where you are. Then something happens. It could be an up-welling of thick fog that disorientates you, a sudden squall on a mountain that takes you off the path, or it’s an unmarked way, and you meander into a bog, or it’s motorcycles leaping around you in a forest where there should be only pedestrians. At such times, the brain stops working, and you no longer know which way round the map’s supposed to go. The instinct is to keep moving, even though the sensible thing is to be still a moment and think, to take a breath, re-orientate yourself, find north,…
The line of the path through the woods above New Hay Barn is still obliterated by scores of bike tracks, leading off in all directions, cutting up the land. But without the bikes around, I’m able to locate a shy marker post in the midst of the battlefield. With its help, we trace the line of the path and muddle through. Last time, I would have been mown down.

The footpath network is often derided by the landowning community. I’m sure they would sooner it was dissolved as an anachronism, and an impediment to progress. But it’s of great importance, granting us all a fine laced network of access to the countryside, one that’s the envy of other nations. Although we are clearly intended by our maker to live in the world, at least for a time, we are not fully of the world, and it’s the quiet places, the green spaces, the fells, the riversides, the forests that remind us of this all important, non-material side of our natures. Without that reminder, we are lost. We become machines.
For our part we ramblers keep the bargain by using the footpath network as it is intended – on foot, respectful of nature, and the ways of the countryside – and in return we expect the landed to respect our ways, and keep them open. We do not expect scurrilous, unofficial re-routing, down featureless ginnels, nor intimidation by aggressive signage, nor, on occasion, misuse by motorcycles.
Anyway, the monkey climbs down off my back, and the route continues where last time it ended in ignominy. We leave the views of Mellor Knoll behind, and enter into a greater acquaintance with the shifting shape of Totridge fell – quite a monster it is, too. We shall have to think of a way up there for another day, one our legs can keep pace with.
The rain eases off, and the sun comes out in celebration. Waterproof trousers go back in the sack, and we make a leisurely return over emerald meadows, along the Hodder from Burnholme Bridge. On the last occasion, I ended the walk having thought I’d lost my wallet on the fell – I’d actually left it at home. It took the edge off the coffee at the Puddleducks café. Today, though, I settle with that coffee, and enjoy every sip. A toasted crumpet is the crowning glory.
You can pay eight hundred and fifty quid for a pair of gentleman’s Prada shoes. I suppose your gentleman might also want them made to measure, which would jack that up a bit. It puts my walking boots into perspective, and I’d be tempted to stop whining, and finally replace them, except, in spite of the soaking earlier on, they’ve kept my feet dry. That’s more than those posh shoes would have done. No, even for eight hundred and fifty quid, they would have made a poor showing on Mellor Knoll, being made for a different kind of world altogether. One wonders, though, where they add the value. Does there not come a point where, beyond a certain level of quality, I mean, in terms of materials and construction, when a shoe is just a shoe, and the rest is a name? And is it possible to judge a person by the name of their shoes, anyway, or does it not tell us more about the person asking the questions?

I wonder what my shoes say about me.
Thanks for listening.