To be precise, these are North-West England Saunterings. That is NWES to me.
This Saunterings blog contains descriptions of various saunters, ambles, strolls, meanders, rambles and
dawdles around the counties of Cumbria, Lancashire and North Yorkshire
(more details of my ‘North-West England’ are given in the Preamble).
I hesitate to call my saunters ‘walks’. A walk nowadays has become a serious business.
It might suggest a 10-hour trek to bag 15 mountain tops.
It might be part of some epic expedition around, say, the whole coastline of Britain.
It might demand precise details of the route (“walk 210 metres north-north-east to a
gate by the third tree”) so that you may follow my footsteps.
No, my saunterings are more leisurely and aimless than that.
And they are mental as well as physical. I saunter, at whim.
If you'd like to give a comment, correction or update (all are very welcome) or to
be notified of new items as they appear - please send an email to email@example.com.
35.   Dufton Rocks
34.   Thieveley Pike and the Singing Ringing Tree
33.   Is Nappa Hall Napping - or Dying?
32.   Russet Rusland Valley
31.   Pink Stones on the Orton Fells
35.  Dufton Rocks
It is obvious that the character of our North-West England hills and dales is largely determined by the underlying rocks. I should therefore try to gain some basic understanding of our geology – but where should I start? According to the Smith (2010) ‘introductory guide’ to Lakeland rocks, “the Lake District is a rather complicated place. The sort of place where to begin to recognise rock types and to begin geology, you would probably say ‘I wouldn’t start from here’.” On the other hand, somewhere like the Howgills seems to me to be so uniform that I suspect that I’d learn only about a single rock type there. I need somewhere that displays different rocks conveniently side-by-side so that a beginner like me can distinguish between them.
Turnbull (2009) describes just such a walk – from Dufton, around Dufton Pike, and along Great Rundale
Beck. In a distance of about three miles several different types of rock are to be seen. Moreover, Dufton,
being in the North Pennines Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty, is within a Global Geopark, which UNESCO
defines as “a unified area with a geological heritage of international significance” – which sounds promising.
There’s even a ‘geodiversity audit
which is a new concept to me, as is a geopark. I have a lot to learn.
We set out hoping to spot the differences between the various rocks. Having approached Dufton from the south, across the white limestone scars of Orton Fell, we immediately detected that Dufton is different. It is red. Well, the green isn’t red but many of the buildings are. Turnbull tells us – and I am, of course, indebted to Turnbull for such details of the rocks and how they came to be where they are that I feel brave enough to mention here – that the red stone is St Bees Sandstone, 250 million years old. Yes, the St Bees of west Cumbria. What’s it doing over here, by the Pennines? I assume that this sandstone once existed all the way between St Bees and here but has, in between, been eroded away or buried.
The stones in the walls by the path from Dufton, which is part of the Pennine Way, turned from red to grey. The rock here is a shale, called Dufton Shale, reasonably enough, and is, I read, about 450 million years old. St Bees Sandstone and Dufton Shale are sedimentary rocks, created from ocean sediment. Obviously a younger sediment should be on top of an older one but here we have walked uphill to find the older rock. As Turnbull explains, we have crossed a fault, one which has caused the older rock on the east to end up higher relative to the rock on the west.
As the track approached Halsteads we saw that some of the stones in the wall alongside were orange, not grey. Small crystals of mica could be seen in the orange rocks. This is getting complicated. These orange rocks are of Dufton Microgranite and are from an intrusion of molten rock about 390 million years ago. An intrusion has to be into existing older rocks (by definition), therefore once we pass the Dufton Microgranite we return to the shale.
Now we climbed Dufton Pike (481m), battling against a strong, cold wind. There were not many exposed
rocks but what there were did look different to the shale below. Turnbull says that these are volcanic rocks,
although we could not honestly say that we found the bubble holes (vesicles to the cognoscenti) that he mentions.
These are rocks of the Borrowdale Volcanic series, the same series that is found in the most dramatic parts of
the Lake District. It is not dramatic on Dufton Pike. It is a smooth, grassy, conical hill. It does, however,
provide an excellent view of Cross Fell and up Great Rundale (shown to the right). In the opposite direction, across the green
Eden valley, we could not, because of the haze, make out Dufton Pike’s sister hills twenty miles away in
the Lake District. The Dufton Pike volcanic rocks are also about 450 million years old but older than the Dufton Shale, indicating that we have crossed another fault.
Dropping off Dufton Pike and continuing up the valley of Great Rundale Beck, we came across rocks that look familiar to any walker of the Yorkshire Dales. These are slates and limestone of the Carboniferous period, 350 million years ago. Having dropped down to a younger rock, we must have crossed another fault, a fault that also separates the adjacent Knock Pike and Murton Pike volcanic rock from the rocks of the North Pennines to the east. With all these faults within such a short distance, it is surprising to me that the nearby sedimentary layers of the cliffs on both sides of Great Rundale have survived more or less level. Should I deduce that the North Pennine Faults occurred before these sediments were there, say, 400 million years ago?
We continued up Great Rundale, surprised that the beck within was virtually dry when it clearly causes significant
erosion when in the mood, and past a prominent limekiln to reach old mine workings with piles of grey stones that
we assumed are of the gritstone that forms the peaty plateau above. Turnbull admits to some difficulty in telling
the limestone and gritstone apart so we didn’t attempt a close study. We also didn’t attempt to continue up and
over to High Cup Nick as Turnbull did – we had seen enough rocks for one day. So we returned down Great Rundale and around the eastern side of Dufton Pike.
We walked past the nicely-named Pus Gill, which is a Site of Special Scientific Interest for its geology.
Here there are rocks of Onnian and Lower Longvillian age, forming the most extensive Pusgillian section in
the north of England. As you can see, my geology is coming on in leaps and bounds. (OK, I admit it:
I pinched that from the
[November 2018; NY6825; Dufton – N – Halsteads – NE, SW – Dufton Pike – NE – Threlkeld Side – SW – Dufton; 6 miles; 81/400]
34.  Thieveley Pike and the Singing Ringing Tree
Thieveley Pike (449m) is the highest point of Deerplay Moor, five miles south-east of Burnley. The
climb to the top of the moor from the ambitiously-named Cliviger Gorge has a modicum of drama but
the top itself is unassuming. It is a smooth, boggy hump with just a trig point and a fence.
Still, the views are extensive: to Pendle beyond Burnley, to the West Pennine moors over Rossendale,
to the Bowland fells, and, on a clear day, to the Dales Three Peaks – not forgetting about sixty windmills.
From Thieveley Pike towards Burnley and Pendle
However, it seems that the region around Thieveley Pike is too dull for some. It has been enlivened by
various sculptures. I headed south past the source of the River Irwell, which flows through Manchester
to join the Mersey, to find the
Irwell Sculpture Trail
or the beginning of it at least because it is said to be England’s largest piece of public art, running for over thirty miles and including some seventy artworks. Unfortunately, I cannot report upon the artworks because I found no sign of or to the Trail where it is marked on the OS map, north of Weir. I understand that the Trail is a work in progress – perhaps it hasn’t yet progressed to the northernmost end of the Trail. Dark clouds were gathering, so I did not prolong my search.
I headed west on the Rossendale Way, aiming for the acclaimed Singing Ringing Tree. But never mind the artworks – I became depressed by the prevailing scruffiness. OK, autumn is an untidy time, with decay in the air and mud on the ground. This, however, does not excuse the rubbish, rusty machinery, rubble, and so on that litters the footpaths and roadsides. It’s as though the standards are set by the old dark stone walls. The walls are all falling down: why bother to tidy up anything else? There are no grants to keep these walls in order, as there are for walls in the Dales and Lakes, because their sombre appearance has no appeal for visitors.
After Sod Hey Farm I thought I might as well walk directly along the road to Crown Point and the
Singing Ringing Tree. The Tree was designed by Mike Tonkin and Anna Liu in 2006 and a year later won a
Royal Institute of British Architects National Award. It is now the centrepiece of the
Wayside Arts Trail
The Tree is one of four
the others being near Blackburn, Haslingden and Wycoller. I tried
not to let the pretentious re-definition of ‘panopticon’ put me off. The word was first used to describe a prison where all inmates may be monitored and has recently been co-opted for modern surveillance techniques and in photography to describe a kind of panoramic image. The Lancashire structures are called panopticons because they provide a comprehensive view. Actually, the view from the Tree is not that comprehensive: you can’t see far to the south.
The Singing Ringing Tree
Contrary to what I said above, the Panopticons were not designed to enliven dull regions: they “were designed to attract visitors into the countryside to enjoy the stunning landscapes.” Can a landscape dominated by a view of Burnley really be stunning? Aren’t visitors attracted to stunning landscapes anyway? Perhaps the designers, knowing that they would be, wanted more visitors to chance upon their artwork. Perhaps it was hoped that fine artworks would encourage people to treat their countryside with more respect than I had seen on my walk here.
In general, do we need sculptures in our countryside? This question rather presumes that we do need sculptures but not necessarily in the countryside. The countryside, it may be thought, speaks for itself. The word ‘countryside’, coming from the Latin contra (or other), implies that the countryside is other than something, the city. What is suitable for one may not be for the other. If sculptures are thought to be intended for the built environment of cities then we might think that they do not belong in the natural countryside.
I am not referring to structures such as cairns which may be more ornamental than their function
demands but to works constructed by an artist to be viewed in a countryside setting that have no function
other than to have an aesthetic impact upon the viewer. For example, Andy Goldsworthy created a series of
artworks based upon old
– there is one in Tilberthwaite, another near Cautley Spout, and so on. These works are intended to
meld into their surroundings so that a viewer may not even be sure whether they are artworks or not.
Most of these creations are ‘land art’, that is, they are created from natural materials. In many cases,
land art is intended to be ephemeral and to disappear into its surroundings in due course. Some artworks
don’t require materials at all. For example, Richard Long created
A Line Made by Walking
in 1967 by
walking up and down a field, a work considered a formative piece by the Tate Gallery in a 2007 exhibition. (Ah, perhaps we shouldn’t consider our worn hillside tracks as disfigurements but as works of art.)
These, however, are different from the explicitly artistic sculptures that are set prominently in
the landscape, such as the Water Cut in Mallerstang, installed in 1998 as one of a series of
and indeed the Singing Ringing Tree. I cannot think of anything similar on the Lake District fells although there are sculptures rather tucked away in Grizedale Forest, between Esthwaite and Coniston Water. I can’t picture a Singing Ringing Tree ever being installed on Helvellyn.
Anyway, I appreciated the Singing Ringing Tree as an imaginative reflection on the nature of its location. The main natural element of this exposed setting is the wind, which the sculpture certainly captures. As the name indicates, it is a structure to be heard as well as seen, although the noise of the wind in the pipes was, to me, interesting rather than attractive. Overall, is the Singing Ringing Tree more artistic than the windblown hawthorn tree that might otherwise have occupied this spot?
[November 2018; SD8727; P SE of Holme Chapel – S, W, S – Thieveley Pike – SE, W – Height End, Clifton – N – Burnley Road – NW – Crown Point – E – Singing Ringing Tree – E – Dyneley Farm – SE, N, SE – Holme Chapel, P; 8 miles; 79/400]
33.  Is Nappa Hall Napping - or Dying?
I have it on good authority (in fact that of Historic England) that
which is near Askrigg in Wensleydale, is “probably the finest and least-spoilt fortified manor house in the north of England.” In that case, it deserved to be the focus for a saunter around the middle of Wensleydale.
The sun that brightened my drive to Wensleydale had disappeared by the time I reached it. Low cloud smothered the hills. All was grey, silent and still. If there were any remnants of autumn colour then they were thoroughly dampened, apart from a few larch which somehow kept their glow. Nothing moved (except a little traffic): it was as if life was preparing for a winter hibernation. I walked over the River Ure, past Bear Park (no, I didn’t see any) and on towards the famous Aysgarth Falls. It wasn’t on my itinerary to visit the falls but I had a quick look at High Force anyway.
I continued north to the village of Carperby, where every building that I saw was a fitting
stone-grey. The village seemed to disappear into the hillside. There were no white-washed walls
although one or two doors had been bravely coloured. Carperby is said to be a village of two
centres, a West End and an East End. I only saw the former – perhaps the latter is gayer, but I
doubt it. The gloom was getting to me – no doubt Carperby sparkles in the summer sun. I passed
only a few buildings but one of them was a Quaker Meeting House (1864) and two were Wesleyan
Chapels (1826, 1890). According to its
Conservation Area Character Appraisal
there are “dramatic views outwards from the village … towards Penhill, Bishopdale and Addlebrough”. I could see absolutely nothing across the valley and not much more of the nearby hills of Carperby Moor.
I followed the Oxclose Road (which is not a road but a bridleway path) west for three miles.
It is a good path for striding out, which is the best thing to do when the only scars to be seen are
not the limestone scars to the north but the scars of old lead mines near the track. The murk was
harder to accept knowing that it was sunny just five miles south. The only cheery sight was of two
hares lively enough to indicate that they do not have the myxomatosis that is said to be spreading
from rabbits to hares. I was momentarily excited by a sheep with impressive horns, which shows how dull
this walk had been.
Eventually I dropped down to Nappa Hall. The first impression is of large, solid grey
edifice in need of repair – understandably so, since it is mainly of the 15th century. It was
built by the Metcalfe family after land was given to James Metcalfe of Worton by Sir Richard
Scrope of nearby Bolton Castle following service at Agincourt in 1415. The hall is probably more
due to James’s son, Thomas, since James would have been getting on a bit by the time of most of
the building, in the 1470s. Thereafter, for three centuries, the Metcalfes set about consolidating
and enhancing their status in the region. They played a leading part in thwarting Scottish invasions
of northern England and took on various administrative roles. For example, Christopher Metcalfe
became High Sheriff of Yorkshire, a position of power he emphasised by having a retinue of 300
Metcalfes on white horses accompanying him to the York assizes in 1556. The Metcalfes energetically
propagated their name, so much so that by the end of the Middle Ages the Metcalfe family was
thought to be the largest in England (Muir, 1991). They seem to have had something of the
nature of a Scottish clan – indeed, the
today refers to the ‘Metcalfe clan’.
Nappa Hall (sorry, the cloud droplets have fuzzied this photo)
Nappa Hall reflected the growing wealth and status of medieval rural gentry. It has a long hall and two towers, of four and two storeys, with crenellated parapets that give an impression of defensibility. Subsequent alterations by the Metcalfe family are, according to a Historic England report, “not indicative of great wealth or having distinguished craftsmen at command”. After the Metcalfes left Nappa Hall in the 1750s it was occupied by tenant farmers. They had little incentive to maintain the whole building, and parts of it, such as the high tower, suffered from neglect. The wealthy owners did have schemes for the Hall, such as converting it into a shooting lodge, and it seems that a stable and coach house were added but the original Hall remains substantially intact.
Members of the Metcalfe family moved back into Nappa Hall in 1889 but sold it in 2008 to the
publican and artist, Mark Thompson. He put forward plans to renovate the Hall, including converting
some of the Hall and outbuildings for holiday lets. However in 2014 it was
that Thompson, although “in the middle of restoring Nappa Hall”, was moving to Greece. I don’t know what the situation is today.
To me, it seemed that Nappa Hall was grey, silent and still, like almost everything else I’d seen. A close inspection is not possible but I could see no sign of habitation or on-going work. There was nobody about and no cars parked. From the road there was nothing to even indicate that Nappa Hall was there – and I saw no indication that the building is of any significance. If Nappa Hall is as moribund as it seems to be and if it’s as important as Historic England says it is then it’s rather sad. But if all those Metcalfes don’t care about it, why should I? I cheered myself up on the walk back, along the old railway line and by the River Ure, by admiring the many fine barns, which are, in general, much more substantial structures than the acclaimed field barns of Swaledale to the north. The sun never made it to Wensleydale.
The River Ure, still under cloud
[November 2018; SD9988; P on A684 – N, E – Bear Park – SE – High Force – N – Carperby – NW – Oxclose Gate – W, NW on bridleway – Heugh – S – Nappa Scar Farm, Nappa Hall, old railway line – SE, along railway line, by river – P on A684; 9 miles; 77/400]
32.  Russet Rusland Valley
(1914-1987), Lakeland poet and author,
was adamant that there is more to the Lake District than high peaks and large lakes, and for two good reasons.
First, he emphasised the contribution that ‘fringe’ regions made to the culture and heritage of the Lake District.
He lived all his life in Millom, in the south-west corner of Cumbria, and he naturally wanted to ensure that Millom and its residents were not overlooked in any account of the Lake District. I am not competent to judge Nicholson’s poetry but I like his comment when referring to a Keswick dining-room’s stained glass windows depicting the Lake Poets (Wordsworth, Coleridge, Southey and so on) that “it seems a pity they could not have left one window blank in case another local poet turned up” (Nicholson, 1969, p28).
Secondly, he was correct. Take, for example, the Rusland Valley, which lies between the southern ends of Windermere and Coniston Water and is thus hardly a fringe region, lying as it does within the Lake District National Park. It has no high peaks surrounding it. It has no large lakes – in fact, it has no lakes at all. The brochures do not encourage any visitor to travel to the Rusland Valley. And yet “it is a dale which has retained much of the look and tone of what southern Lakeland must have been before the tourists discovered it” (Nicholson, 1969).
However, Nicholson was writing fifty years ago. I went to see if the same might be said today.
I went first to Pool Foot, where Rusland Pool joins the River Leven before entering Morecambe Bay.
Rusland Pool is not a pool but it is hardly a river either. It barely moves, completely lacking the
sprightliness of typical Lakeland becks. I walked to Bouth, which is the valley’s largest gathering of
houses, about thirty of them. In the past, people lived scattered about the valley, making a living from
the pastures and the forests, through farming, coppicing, charcoal-burning, and so on. Some of the houses
have names that self-consciously echo that heritage, such as The Cooperage and Creel Cottage. I saw a notice
advertising the work of
a “community-led Landscape Partnership Scheme” that aims to revive traditional woodland skills in the region. Although I saw only two workmen on this walk (collecting logs in Crooks Pastures), there was much evidence of on-going work in the woods and the footpath trails were exemplary. I gained the impression that the locals were proud of their hidden valley. I don’t know what exactly they do to earn a living. There’s a pub, a caravan park, a farm with a café, and of course plenty of sheep and cows, but I noticed nothing else that would bring any income. No doubt many of the few houses are now holiday homes.
I continued north on the road to the
Hay Bridge Nature Reserve
As the road is a cul-de-sac there is very little traffic. I was passed by one car – or rather, I passed it: it was stationary. It was a very pleasant walk, through fields and woods, with views of surrounding woodland resplendent in their late autumn colours. The enclosing hills are low but high enough to screen all views of the high peaks. I passed a pond and then a larger one, but it was still not large enough for a name, although the hide nearby is named Harold’s Hide (I assume those to whom it matters know which Harold that is).
And then on to Hulleter Moss and Rusland Moss, a National Nature Reserve. These complete the impression that we are a world away from conventional Lakeland. There could hardly be a greater contrast than that between Scafell Pike and these mosses. The mosses are lowland raised mires, a habitat rare in Cumbria. The ‘raised’ means that the middle of the mire tends to accumulate more decaying vegetation and hence, over centuries, becomes slightly higher than the fringes. To the untrained eye the mosses are flat. They present an extensive vista of high, light-brown grasses and reeds, whispering gently in the breeze, with birch and pine growing on drier patches. It would be impossible to cross the mires safely without the boardwalks provided. According to an 1850 map online, spring tides reached inland as far as Rusland Moss, and I don’t see any reason why they shouldn’t do so today. The OS today marks the normal tidal limit at Crooks Bridge, some two miles south of Rusland Moss, but I saw no barrier to further in-flow. Whether this affects the special nature of the moss habitat I cannot say.
I walked past Rusland Hall and noticed that a house called The Syke (which was for sale) had a flock of
which I had never heard of. Perhaps you would inherit the Ouessants if you buy The Syke. On to Rusland
Church, perched on a knoll. It is big enough to welcome all within walking distance and their cattle too.
In the graveyard, by a huge, old yew, is the modest grave of Arthur Ransome (1884-1967), who wrote Swallows
. He lived the last years of his life at Hill Top – no, not Beatrix Potter’s Hill Top, but the Hill Top a few miles south in the Rusland Valley. Neither Hill Top is atop a hill.
South from Rusland Church
The map boldly marks ‘Rusland’ hereabouts but does not seem to refer to anything particular. The signpost at Rusland Church points back south to ‘Rusland’, so I took the church to be the northern end of the Rusland Valley. I walked back through the woodland on the eastern side. If you want a woodland walk then you could hardly do better than this. There were a few yews, as you might hope, in Yewbarrow Wood (a Special Area of Conservation) but the star trees were the tall beeches, aglow in the lowering sun, although perhaps just past their best.
I saw no squirrels or deer. Surely, there would have been more wildlife here when Nicholson was a boy.
Commendable efforts are being made to protect the valley’s special habitats, the mosses and the woodland, and
to revive old traditions – but the fact that a ‘Landscape Partnership scheme’ needs to revive them tells us
that the valley is, inevitably, not as it was. However, Nicholson has a point: the Rusland Valley is a worthy
part of the Lake District. It provides contrast, not competition, to the majestic central regions. Actually,
I did see one deer. It was tame, in the garden of Old Hall Farm.
[October 2018; SD3484; Haverthwaite, by Anglers Arms – W – Pool Foot – N – Pool Bridge – NW –
Bouth – N – Burn Knott, Low Hay Bridge – N, across Hulleter Moss, Rusland Moss – N – Rusland Church – S –
Rusland Cross – E – Hall Brow Wood – S – Border Moss Wood – SW – Crooks Bridge, Pool Bridge – E, S, E –
Haverthwaite; 10 miles; 74/400]
31.  Pink Stones on the Orton Fells
The stone circle one mile east of Orton is magical but not because of its location or its structure.
Compared to the Castlerigg stone circle near Keswick, with its large monoliths in a dramatic setting
with a panoramic view, the
is uninspiring, being set in the corner of an ordinary field, with little view, and being composed of relatively small, prone stones. Not prune stones, prone stones. These stones have obviously fallen from the white limestone cliffs of the Orton Fells to the north and in the process of rolling down to form this circle have been metamorphosed into pink granite. That sounds magical to me.
Geologists have another theory. They say that a different trick has been played upon us. When we weren’t looking, during the last Ice Age, the pink stones were slipped here by glaciers from where the Shap Pink Quarry now is, five miles to the west. They call the stones ‘erratics’. Neolithic men and women must have gathered up 32 of them, plus one limestone boulder by mistake, to make this circle. Now, if the geologists’ theory were correct then the erratics wouldn’t just be in this one field – they would be scattered all around the region. So I would look out for them on this walk around the Orton Fells. I wouldn’t pause or divert from my route but I’d just see how many pink granite boulders I’d come across along the way.
I headed east on what is part of the Coast-to-Coast walk and by the time I reached the road at Acres I’d already spotted eleven ‘pinks’, including two in the wall of a barn (so, 43 in total). I saw another seven (50) around the hamlet of Sunbiggin, where I noticed that they have recently set up a Coast-2-Coast Café. I wonder how well it does, in this spot out-of-the-way except for those walkers. I pressed on to Sunbiggin Moor, where although this heathery land has probably never been cultivated I didn’t see any pinks. Perhaps I was distracted by the views of autumn mist lifting from the Howgill valleys and from Wild Boar Fell.
Sunbiggin and the Orton Fells from Sunbiggin Moor
Turning north, I came upon a pink so big that it has a name, Mitchell’s Stone (51). It is embedded in the wall that forms the parish boundary. Next I walked up and over the limestone terraces of Great Kinmond, with fine views opening out of the North Pennines ahead and of the Lake District hills to the west, with the distinctive profile of Blencathra prominent. I saw another pink when I reached the bridleway and a further seven close by the path further north (59). Here the soil had turned a dark red, which I assume is the influence of Penrith Red Sandstone.
I continued to the ancient settlement near Maisongill which the
Historic England website
considers to be “a good example of a Romano-British enclosed hut circle settlement”. To me, it seemed to be a set of strange humps in a field, with a few stones sort-of-aligned. There were two pinks (61) among the stones. This region appeared to be prime farming land, with lush green fields well stocked with contented cattle and sheep. I passed six more pinks (67) in the fields and by the fine track over Asby Winderwath Common up to the Great Asby Scar gate.
Great Asby Scar
Here Natural England has fenced off an area as part of a
Great Asby Scar National Nature Reserve
The absence of grazers naturally leads to a change in the vegetation. The limestone terraces heretofore had been rather bare, with just the occasional shrub surviving the attentions of the sheep. Here, heather and small shrubs-cum-trees are recolonising. It is a rather captivating, secluded area among limestone outcrops that I imagine at other times of the year has a more impressive display of flowers. I had forgotten about the pinks until I stepped on one embedded in the path (68).
I cut across to see the Thunder Stone, another large pink embedded in a wall, spotting another pink on the way there, and on over Beacon Hill to the road, seeing three more pinks on the way (73). The path down to Broadfell passes fields that have a number of large stones within. With my new expertise at identifying pinks, I’d confidently say, from a distance, that these are also pinks. I counted twelve (85), and, since I’d otherwise have to trespass with a tape measure, I declare two of them joint winners of the largest pink prize. They looked about two metres round. The glaciers did well to shift those.
The Thunder Stone with North Pennines beyond
The beck flowing past Broadfell seemed somewhat jaunty and not fully settled into its bed. At a wee bridge at least eight pinks (93) had been used to protect the bank. I saw three pinks in the beck, two beside it (98) and I suspect many protecting it, overgrown with moss. At this point, two buzzards circled noisily above – which made me realise that the Orton Fells had been devoid of bird sound, unless you count a helicopter.
Entering the village of Orton, I noticed three large pinks embedded in garden walls, two
used as garden ornaments, and about twenty positioned along grass verges – all before I’d reached the ice-cream shop. I stopped counting. Clearly, the residents of Orton are fond of their pinks. Yes, the pink granite boulders are well scattered around the Orton Fells. The geologists might be on to something.
[October 2018; NY6208; Orton – E – Street, stone circle, Acres, Sunbiggin Moor – N – Mitchell’s
Stone – N, NW, N on Dales High Way – settlement – NW, SW on Sayle Lane, SW – Great Asby Scar, Thunder Stone –
SW – Beacon Hill, quarry – S – Broadfell, Orton; 11 miles; 72/400]
30.   Dunsop Bridge, Whitewell and Duchy-land
29.   The Quiet End of the Ribble Way
28.   Broughton Moor, or What's Left of It
27.   The Footpaths of Anglezarke Moor
26.   A Booze by Any Other Name
25.   Mysterious Harkerside Moor
24.   Up Ingleborough with the Holiday Crowds
23.   The Kentmere Diatomite
22.   In the Lancashire Yorkshire Dales
21.   The Fortunes of Fleetwood
20.   On the Sunny Side of Pendle
19.   Viewpoints around Keswick (part 2)
18.   Viewpoints around Keswick (part 1)
17.   Sheep-Wrecked Matterdale?
16.   The Wildflowers of Sulber
15.   On the Hobdale Fence
14.   Logging Along the Cam High Road
13.   The Cairns of Grisedale Pike
12.   Uplifted by High Street
11.   The Struggle over Boulsworth Hill
10.   The 'Hillfort' of Addlebrough
9.   "The Prettiest Mere of All" Lakeland
8.   What Price Catrigg Force?
7.   Castling in Cumbria: From Brougham to Lowther
6.   The Count of Flasby Fell
5.   Circumperambulating Stocks Reservoir
4.   In a Flap at Bolton-le-Sands
3.   Zipping around Thirlmere
2.   The Dentdale Diamonds
1.   The Taming of Caton Moor
(and here's some I did earlier)
© John Self, Drakkar Press, 2018
Top photo: The western Howgills from Dillicar;
Bottom photo: Blencathra from Great Mell Fell