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 firstname.lastname@example.org.
53.   Why? On the Wyre Way
52.   Morecambe Bay - from Cark to Grange-over-Sands
51.   On Wild Boar Fell
50.   Walking Home (1) - From Kirkby Lonsdale
49.   Lingmoor Fell - For the Best Medium-High View in Lakeland?
48.   With The Grane
47.   The 'Wild Desert' of Kingsdale
46.   To the Point of Winterburn Reservoir
53.  Why? On the Wyre Way
The Forest of Bowland Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty is known for its windswept heather moorlands and blanket bogs but below the moors there is the timeless serenity of undulating lush green pastures with hawthorn hedgerows, grey walls and scattered stone farmsteads, with farmers going about their work as they have done for centuries. The upper part of the Wyre Way passes through some of these pastures. The Wyre Way runs from the Wyre estuary at Fleetwood to not quite its source(s). At Abbeystead the Way cannot decide which of the two branches is the major one and therefore splits in two, the right path following the Marshaw Wyre and the left one the Tarnbrook Wyre. Then, halfway along, both paths abandon the attempt to reach their sources (on Threaphaw Fell and Tarnbrook Fell respectively) and instead proceed across country to join up, thus creating a triangular loop at the top end of the Wyre Way.
I began at Tower Lodge, at the end of the Marshaw Wyre path, and headed for Tarnbrook. I was accompanied by a distant cuckoo and several too-close-for-comfort lapwings, no doubt annoyed that I was disturbing their nesting. Many fields had been freshly manured to ensure that I knew I was on farmland. Views of Ward’s Stone and Hawthornthwaite Fell opened out. I noticed that a new building was taking shape at the foot of the track up Tarnbrook Fell, which makes a change from seeing abandoned rural houses. The quiet stone cottages at Tarnbrook were much as I remembered them and the more refined village of Abbeystead also seemed unchanged. Children still played in the grounds of the small Abbeystead school, founded in 1664.
Ward's Stone from Hind Hill
Sixteen people died. Eight died instantly and another eight died later from their injuries. The other
twenty-eight people present were seriously injured. You will not learn these raw facts from the discreet
commemorating the Abbeystead disaster that is placed by a building just past the reservoir. Needless to say, the explosion on May 23rd 1984 – thirty-five years ago, to the day – shattered the serenity of the region and the lives of many.
The most straightforward summary of the Abbeystead disaster that I have come across is that by
“In 1984, at Abbeystead, Lancashire, water was pumped from one river [the River Lune at
Caton] to another [the River Wyre at Abbeystead] through a tunnel. When pumping was stopped some water
was allowed to drain out of the tunnel and leave a void. Methane seeping from the rocks below accumulated
in the void. When pumping was restarted the methane was pushed through vent valves into an underground
valve-house where it exploded, killing 16 people. If the operating staff had known that methane might be
present, they could have prevented the explosion by keeping the tunnel full of water or by discharging
the gas from the vent valves into the open air … The official report said that while references to the
presence of dissolved methane in water supply systems had been traced in published literature they were
not generally known to engineers concerned with water supply schemes. Nevertheless it is surprising
that a vent was routed into a pump-house. It seems that this was done because the local authority
objected in principle to any equipment that might spoil the view.”
That last sentence comes as a shock. It suggests that the disaster was our fault – that by insisting, through our councillors, that the environment should not be spoiled we risked the safety of the installation. Can we not insist on both, the safety and the environment, especially within an Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty? If the designers cannot protect the public and the environment then the work should not proceed.
Sheep, hawthorn, Grit Fell and Ward's Stone from near Top of Emmetts
In the parliamentary debate the day after the explosion, a local MP expressed the commonly held “incredulity
that such an incident could have happened at a plant which posed no danger”. The subsequent
Health and Safety Executive report
of 1985 described the Lune-Wyre Transfer Scheme, the explosion and its causes but it was not explicit about any blame. It said, for example, that “smoking in the valve-house was not prohibited because the likelihood of a flammable atmosphere arising there had not been envisaged” but it didn’t say whether it should or could reasonably have been envisaged. The HSE was hardly in a position to do so because it had itself rated the installation as ‘low risk’ when it was commissioned in 1980. The inquest, accepting the implication that what happened could not have been anticipated, duly returned verdicts of accidental death.
But was the presence of methane such a surprise? I am no geologist or engineer but even I knew that
there had been small-scale coal mining here in past centuries and that methane results from coal extraction.
Hudson (2000) gives details of the ‘Caton collieries’ that mined a coal seam along the
Caton-Quernmore-Littledale boundary. He writes that “the Minute Books of Lancaster Corporation show
income from the town’s drift mine on the moor and coal mines in Quernmore from before 1680” and that
the Gresgarth estate was put up for sale in 1801 with the advert “For sale Grassyard Park, Hall, land
and collieries included.” This coal-mining history was not mentioned in the HSE report because geologists
later concluded that the methane did not come from near-surface coal but from deeper mudstones – but
surely the possibility of methane should have been in the designers’ minds. A subsequent court case found the designers “liable in negligence for failing to exercise ‘reasonable care’ in assessing the risk of methane”. However, nobody was prosecuted. It may be relevant that ultimately this disaster was the responsibility of government, since the body in charge, North-West Water Authority, was at that time a regional authority, not a private company.
The disaster happened in an out-of-the-way location and may be put out-of-mind by those not directly affected. But two final thoughts: What if the explosion had happened, as it equally could have, at the opening ceremony, when the Queen was present? And are we absolutely sure that those now carrying out engineering work, such as fracking, in our region are not also incompetent and cavalier with our safety?
I looked at the
again. If those affected by this disaster were content with this plaque then I should not comment, but I can’t help asking questions. Why is the Duke of Westminster’s name there (in large font)? Why are those who died not named? It’s not as though their names are unknown. Do they not deserve more respect than a bland “those … who lost their lives”? Isn’t the biblical quotation singularly inappropriate? Or are religious people able to reflect upon such an event in terms of the ‘path of life’ and ‘joy’? Since the Duke wanted his name prominently on the plaque then he must expect questions (and we have a right to ask them since we paid for this project). Was (some of) the work carried out on his land? If so, did he receive payment for it and, if so, how much? Did the explosion happen on his land? Did he contribute from his £9 billion to the fund for the families of the victims?
So: a misguided project, negligently designed, carelessly managed, inadequately reviewed, shamefully
handled by the authorities – and then this pathetic plaque. I needed to move on. I continued on
the Wyre Way to Long Bridge, passing an array of thirty-two dead moles in varying states of decay
pinned to a wire. I realise that it is the local custom for mole-catchers to display their success but I am at a loss to understand what harm moles do in these pastures.
Cows, Grit Fell and Ward's Stone from near Catshaw Hall
Across the bridge I passed through a cluster of farm buildings at Catshaw, with the Hall bearing a date of 1678, and then dropped down to the weir. Sadly, I had another view of the pump-house across the Wyre. I continued to be amazed that such an explosion occurred at such a location, so peaceful on every other day. If you asked the devil to devise a way to kill sixteen people here then I doubt that even he could have come up with such a scheme.
I walked back along the Wyre Way, across many fields and by the beck running prettily past pine and oak trees. In all, on this walk I saw 312 cows and 2,892 sheep. No, I must not risk losing the hard-earned trust that you have in the accuracy of these missives: let’s just say that I saw a lot of cows and even more sheep.
[May 2019; SD3676; Tower Lodge – N, NW (on Wyre Way) – Tarnbrook – SW – Abbeystead, Long Bridge – SE, NE (off Wyre Way) – weir – E (on Wyre Way) – Stoops Bridge, Marshaw, Tower Lodge; 9 miles; 122/400]
52.  Morecambe Bay - from Cark to Grange-over-Sands
Words are like people. Some I know well; some I think I know but don’t really; some I recognise but never interact with; some I have never met. In the last set until recently was the word ‘liminal’. ‘Subliminal’ I know but the word from which it is derived had escaped me. ‘Liminal’ is there in the dictionary (to be precise, it is in one of my three dictionaries) so I have to accept that it is a bona fide word. Perhaps I am now seeing the word because I have begun reading the literature where it tends to be used, that is, rather lyrical, perhaps pretentious, nature writing.
What does ‘liminal’ mean? According to the dictionary, liminal is an adjective derived from the
noun ‘limen’, meaning “the limit below which a stimulus is not perceived”. So it’s to do with this
perceptual threshold, but how exactly? Normally with an unfamiliar word I can make a stab at its
meaning from the context. What does it mean in the following context? “The Museum of Scotland offers a
lexicon of spatial types to suit the collection's variety of objects, artificially locating them within a
recognizable domain. Circulation occupies a liminal zone, offering a contrapuntal journey beyond the
taxonomy of collections or chronology” (Benson, The Architectural Review
, 2003). Authors seem happy to use the word – frequently – without feeling the need to clarify for dim readers. I am afraid that for me the meaning of ‘liminal’ remains below my perceptual threshold. I wouldn’t dare use it myself.
Nonetheless, I expect that it is an excellent word to describe Morecambe Bay. It is a region of perceptual thresholds – from sand to mud, from mud to water, from water to sky. And these thresholds are perpetually changing, hour by hour and day by day. The tides, the sunsets and the seasons generate an evolving palette to delight any lyricist. Yes, I am sure that Morecambe Bay is liminal.
I resolved to investigate the liminality of Morecambe Bay from a new angle (for me), from its northern coast between Cark and Grange-over-Sands. I headed first to Lenibrick Point on the estuary of the River Leven. I could barely see the river, for it flows far over on the other side. The tide was out and the whole inlet seemed to be of sand. Beyond was Ulverston, with its incongruous lighthouse. Inland I could see only the Coniston group of hills but the haze had rendered them a featureless grey.
Cartmel Sands, Ulverston and the Coniston hills from Lenibrick Point
As I continued to Cowpren Point, Heysham Power Station – or at least the rectangular shape of it – came into view some eight miles away across the bay. Beyond that, however, the Fylde coast and Fleetwood could not be seen. The bay itself seemed to be mainly sand or mud all the way to Heysham, with just a few streaks of water glittering in the sun. The heat haze made it difficult to distinguish sea from sky. Walney Island appeared to be a mirage floating in the air.
Turning east, I strode out on what’s called the Old Embankment. Sheep dotted the marsh-land on the bay-side and inland the fields seemed over-populated with cows but the only sound to be heard was that of skylarks. The fields inland were resplendent with the white blossom of hawthorn. Are we allowed to call hawthorn ‘may’ in other months of the year? At West Plain Farm I thought about trying the New Embankment to find a short-cut to Wyke Farm but it is not shown as a public footpath and it might well end at an unfordable ditch, causing an extra three miles to be walked.
So I turned inland to walk around what’s marked on the map as Cark Airfield, although I could see no sign of airfield activities. A somewhat depressing walk along the road passed a motley collection of activities – car services, Bay Search and Rescue headquarters, Flookburgh Fishermen, Cartmel Sticky Toffee Pudding Company, and so on – and brought me, after almost walking in a circle, to within half a mile from where I had started!
I headed east along the quiet, long and dull lane towards the promontory of Humphrey Head. If I had thought that the view would justify the effort I would have walked up to its highest point (it’s only 53m). But it wouldn’t, so I didn’t. I regretted my laziness later. Humphrey Head could have been the highlight of this walk, even without the clearest views, but my energy and enthusiasm had wilted during the hot trudge from West Plain Farm. However, I perked up as I emerged on the other side of Humphrey Head to be faced with a fine view across the marsh, the sand, and the river of the Kent Channel to Arnside Knott. It was a challenge to identify the grey shapes of the Dales hills beyond. To the south, I could make out the Bowland hills but I could see no detail, such as the Caton windmills. The bay itself was quiet and inactive. There seemed too little water for any action.
Arnside Knott and the Kent Channel from Humphrey Head
A tempting path curved east, where Wainwright (1974) encouraged what looks like a trespass across the railway
line at Kents Bank but I had no guarantee that it was still possible or safe. So I detoured away from the bay
again to get around Kirkhead. Its tower is a prominent feature on this walk and its caves were found to
contain the oldest human remains in northern Britain (Lloyd, 2016). However, it is all out of bounds, as
many ‘private’ signs told me. After dropping down to the railway line, it was now a simple matter to follow
its adjacent promenade all the way to Grange-over-Sands. Here I became increasingly intermingled with
holiday-making strollers. I paused to peek at the old Lido, which recently featured in the TV programme The Bay
which the Save Grange Lido
campaign is trying to resuscitate. It’s something of a miracle that its remains are still there to be resuscitated.
I had time before my train for an ice-cream and to mull over the name, Grange-over-Sands. I can imagine someone at, say, Morecambe, pointing and saying “that’s Grange, over the sands” but to the people in Grange-over-Sands it is not ‘over the sands’. Why do Grange residents accept a name bestowed on it by non-residents? Why don’t they insist on a name that suits the place from their point of view? Are there any other places that have names that are appropriate only to people who don’t live there?
[May 2019; SD3676; (linear) Cark railway station – NW, SW – Lenibrick Point – S – Cowpren Point – E –
West Plain Farm – N, E – Holme, Wyke Farm – N, E, SE – Kents Bank railway station – NE – Grange-over-Sands
railway station; 10 miles; 119/400]
Footnote: After my troubles detailed in 44
I should note that I enjoyed an exemplary rail journey to Cark. £5.15 for a return trip in such scenery is a bargain!
51.  On Wild Boar Fell
I try nowadays to think in terms of walking on
a hill, not up
a hill. If I said that I intended to walk
Wild Boar Fell then you would naturally assume that I aimed to reach the top in order to admire the views of the Howgills and the Lake District and, from the eastern flank, of Mallerstang and the upper Eden valley. The many on-line descriptions of Wild Boar Fell walks all eulogise exactly that. If, however, after stating my intention, I did not reach the top then I would be considered an abject failure, with a permanent stain on my character.
An intention to walk on
Wild Boar Fell is vaguer. Wild Boar Fell covers a huge area between Mallerstang and the A683 into Rawtheydale. It is possible to wander all day on Wild Boar Fell without reaching the top of it. But before wandering at all I was doubly surprised. I had parked the van on Tommy Road only to be engulfed by frisky fell ponies. They usually regard me with disdain. There was a delicate foal amongst them, contrasting with the heavy-set adults. The ponies proceeded to rub themselves vigorously against the road signs and I feared that they would do the same to the van, for I doubt that its wing-mirrors would withstand such an assault.
And then I saw a red double-decker bus cruising along the narrow country lanes. There are no Sunday
buses here, let alone red double-deckers. I then remembered that at Bowber Head, just two miles away, there’s
Cumbria Classic Coaches
which renovates old coaches and buses, an unlikely activity for such a rural outpost. The double-decker was presumably out for a Sunday spin or perhaps on its way to a wedding.
I set off south across Wharton Fell, avoiding the shake-holes that reminded me that this is limestone country. In fact, Wild Boar Fell, surrounded by its limestone base and with its millstone grit cap, is so characteristically ‘dales country’ that it is a surprise that it was not part of the Yorkshire Dales National Park until the recent re-drawing of the boundaries. The fact that it is in Cumbria didn’t help.
I cut across to the fence that leads up to the top of Wild Boar Fell to see that thousands of saplings have been planted on the slopes of Mallerstang. The open, grassy hills will look very different after a few decades. At the moment it is possible to appreciate the vistas that open out across the dale to the moors of High Seat and Hugh Seat. To the south stood the prominent nose of The Nab, forming an irresistible attraction to any hill-walker, even though (at 702m) it is not quite the highest point of Wild Boar Fell (708m), which is a little beyond.
Mallerstang from Wharton Fell
The Nab from Wharton Fell
It is a relatively new phenomenon to regard the reaching of a top to be the raison d’être of a hill-walk.
Wordsworth, great walker though he was, did not fuss much about getting to the tops. However, it must have
been the fashion to walk to the Lake District mountain tops when Payn (1859) offered this advice:
“Unless you have plenty of time to spare for seeing natural beauties … upon no account waste any of
it in ascending a very high mountain. The fatigue, to persons of average strength and ordinary habits, is in
much over-proportion to the advantage in any case, while, in nine cases (at least) out of ten, in this part
of the country a day sufficiently clear for seeing any great extent of prospect does not occur.”
Later guides to the Lake District, such as Baddeley (1880, 1922) and Palmer (1930), still kept mountain-walking in perspective, with both filling over 200 pages before they began to discuss walking up the hills.
More recent guides (such as Allen (1987), Birkett (1994), Calvert (1995), Crow (2015), Griffin (1968),
Poucher (1960), Richards (2008), Smith (2017), and Wainwright (1955-1966)) have focussed on conquering mountain
tops. The top has acquired a transcendental aura (Macfarlane, 2003):
“When we walk or climb up a mountain we traverse not only the actual terrain of the hillside but
also the metaphysical territories of struggle and achievement. To reach a summit is very palpably to have
triumphed over adversity: to have conquered something, albeit something utterly useless.”
Reaching a top has become the climax, the point above and beyond which it is impossible to go and after which one can only subside. However, a climax isn’t everything and it isn’t even necessary for an activity to be enjoyable. That reminds me of something but I can’t quite put my finger on it. In any case, to reach our North-West England summits is not that great a triumph. We can walk up any of them before lunch.
At Low Dolphinsty I turned aside from the ascent route in order to contour below the cliffs that face
eastward over Mallerstang. In the past I had always approached Wild Boar Fell from the west, south and north (mainly because of where I live) but the most dramatic and challenging slopes of Wild Boar Fell are to the east, overlooking the Eden valley. I have never really looked at them – and neither, it seems, have those on-line walkers. These eastern slopes are now all open access and yet hardly anybody walks there. I continued until I was below the many cairns above Yoadcomb Scar and then dropped down to Angerholme Wold. I was struck by how much it is The Nab, rather than the Wild Boar Fell top itself, that dominates Mallerstang. It stands like a proud sentinel overlooking its valley, being visible from almost everywhere within it.
Wild Boar Fell and The Nab
I then walked north between the railway line and the infant River Eden. This path eventually becomes part of
Lady Anne’s Way
a 100-mile path between Skipton and Penrith that follows a route between
Lady Anne Clifford
Skipton Castle and Brougham Castle. In Mallerstang it passes another of her castles,
What a fine name for a castle! According to legend, the castle was built by Uther Pendragon, father of King Arthur. Whatever the truth of that, it cannot be denied that it is a splendid location, as I appreciated whilst I sat for a snack on the castle mound admiring the view south along Mallerstang. It was rather blissful and then, to cap it all, I heard the call of a cuckoo wafting down from the hills. I reflected that cuckoos have been returning to Mallerstang every year since Pendragon built his castle. It would be sad indeed if we so ruined the world that we no longer heard them.
As I walked up the road that crosses Birkett Common I became gradually closer to the sound of the cuckoo. It seemed to be emanating from a copse by the railway line. I was tempted to walk closer in the hope of spotting him. But I thought better of it – he deserves not to be disturbed after all his efforts to get here. Back at the van I was relieved to find that its wing-mirrors were intact.
[May 2019; NY7603; Tommy Road near Pudding Howe Hill – S – Wharton Fell – SE – wall – S – Low Dolphinsty – S on contour, below The Nab and Yoadcomb Hill – E – Angerholme Wold – N, E – Turner Hay Hill, Hazelgill – N – Shoregill, Castle Bridge (detour to Pendragon Castle) – NW – Pudding Howe Hill; 8 miles; 117/400]
50.  Walking Home (1) - From Kirkby Lonsdale
A circle has no point. A long circular walk, as most of my saunters have been, involves a considerable
expenditure of effort and time but leaves me exactly where I started. A linear walk from A to B at least achieves
something, that is, the transfer of myself, by my own legs, to somewhere different. And if B is somewhere I’d
like to be – say, home – all the better.
The saunters that I have regaled you with in this blog are but the tip of an iceberg.
They generally involve an expedition to somewhere in
North-West England but they are supported by numerous local walks to keep the legs
in walking order. Some of them are what I call ‘tip-outs’, where I am taken, either by public transport
or by Ruth on her way to somewhere, and deposited by the road-side to walk home. It would become
repetitive if I were to describe all these walks here – but I thought I might add a ‘walking home’
from time to time, such as this one involving a walk back from Kirkby Lonsdale alongside the River Lune.
From the Kirkby Lonsdale bus stop I headed straight through the Market Square and along Jingling Lane
to the Devil's Bridge. Knowing that I had quite a few miles ahead of me,
I ignored the many charms of Kirkby Lonsdale,
apart from the bridge, which is always worth another look, especially if there is no motorbike convention
on at the time. The bridge is believed to be of the 14th century and has three ribbed arches high above
the River Lune carrying a narrow crossing, once on the Skipton to Kendal route but no longer used as a road, of course.
There are a great many Devil's Bridges, including at least another seven in the United Kingdom.
The name tends to be used for old bridges that seem to demand a surprising degree of technical skill, a
skill which, it seems, local legends can only attribute to the devil. However, in order to ensure that
the devil doesn't come well out of the legend, there is usually some ruse involved whereby he receives
his comeuppance. So common and similar are these legends that they form a special category
(number 1191, in fact) in the Aarne-Thompson-Uther classification system for folktales.
The river was very low. Stones that were normally underwater were now beached and bleached.
Green sludge was forming in stagnant parts. Rarely can the river have been so low in April.
After half a mile I reached a bridge, but not one for walkers.
The bridge is an aqueduct for water from Haweswater on its way under the Bowland hills to Manchester.
It was built in the 1950s and appears somewhat functional compared to the rather
ornamental 1890s aqueduct (Waterworks Bridge, for Thirlmere water)
to be met later - much later.
How much later I could judge by my first distant view of the Caton windmills, some ten miles away.
The windmills are on the hill above my home village, Brookhouse - and since I know how huge they are and how
tiny they looked now, I could tell that I had far to walk.
The path continued close to the west bank of the Lune, passing the village of Whittington, with a view
of Whittington Hall.
Any other walkers from
Kirkby Lonsdale - I passed three - will probably turn off to Whittington and so the next couple of
miles will be in solitude. Leck Beck entered the Lune from the east but could easily be missed because it too had little
water. Here the valley opened out, providing wide panoramas of the Dales hills of Leck Fell,
Whernside and Ingleborough - and, still far ahead, the Caton windmills.
I was preceded along the Lune by a group of three little egrets.
I didn't have my binoculars with me and so couldn't tell if they were male or female
(to tell the truth, I couldn't even with binoculars - but as long as little egrets can tell
the difference that's all that matters). Anyway, whatever they were, three seems an odd number to
form a group. The last time that I walked here I saw heron (at least one) but not this time.
Are little egret, as welcome as they are, at least to me, displacing heron?
Opposite a large stony beach that had accumulated huge tree trunks washed down in floods
I sat for a while with sand martins. Sand martins had accompanied me all
the way from Kirkby Lonsdale but here they swirled about over the river in some numbers,
disappearing into and emerging from their nests in the bank just along from where I was sitting.
I was pleased to see them all because every year from April 1st I look out for sand martins
and I had only seen a few at my local patch of the Lune and none at all by the Waterworks Bridge
where they normally nest. I was beginning to worry that some harm had befallen them.
But here there were hundreds of them. I am unreasonably fond of sand martins.
Their twittering is so characteristic of the summer Lune and they are one of the first of our
migrants to return to tell us that summer is on its way.
I have no idea why they have abandoned their Waterworks
Bridge nests, if that is the case. I had understood that sand martins returned to their nests
of previous years, which is only sensible since it must be a lot of work for these little
birds to excavate their tunnels.
As I neared Arkholme I saw, out on the riverside stones, a man scanning the skies with his
binoculars and making notes on his clipboard. I would have liked to chat to him but
he was so determined to pretend that he had not noticed me that I thought I'd better not.
I wonder if he had spotted the jay that I saw in a wood at Arkholme. Probably jays are
common to him but I don't see them in the region as often as I should, judging by the bird books.
Where the River Greta joins the Lune I was reminded that everywhere that I had walked
was within a floodplain and is underwater from time to time. The River Lune itself has changed
course here relatively recently. An 1847 map shows the Lune flowing about 1/4 mile east of where
it now is. Its present course is marked as 'Old Lune' on the 1847 map, indicating that it has
returned to an old route. Today's map marks two other 'Old Lune's. At the moment, the river is
channelled through an arch of the Carnforth-Wennington railway line.
The footpath also passes through an arch, swerves round the motte of the old motte and bailey castle,
cuts across the toe of Arkholme, passes the Ferryman's Cottage, and re-emerges by the Lune.
It continued to be peaceful alongside the river until I came upon a group of twenty-one swans and
hundreds of gulls. The gulls all flew up, screeching as one, annoyed that I had disturbed them.
The swans just flapped a wing or two in the water and carried on as they were.
Hereabouts I appreciated that I had chosen wisely in taking this walk in April,
when there's fresh green on the trees and little undergrowth underfoot. The last time
I came this way, in an August/September, it was a distressing scramble trying to locate the path
through dense Himalayan balsam and brambles. This time I could enjoy the bluebells in the shady dells.
As I emerged from one such dell I saw two young deer by the river. They did not see me for some time.
When they did, they became flustered for a while as they realised that they were between the river
and my path. After some to-ing and fro-ing, they eventually glided up the hillside.
I next came to Loyn Bridge, the only road bridge that I would pass south of Kirkby Lonsdale.
This fine 17th century bridge sits rather squat across the river, unlike the Devil's Bridge which is
perched high above. As a result, flood-waters often bypass the Loyn Bridge to the west.
For example, the record-breaking deluge of December 2015 (Storm Desmond), which reached the
beginning of the arches at the
, demolished the
hedges of the fields near the Loyn Bridge, as can still be seen. The Loyn Bridge itself was
so damaged that it was closed for almost five months.
Below Priory Farm, on the opposite bank, I saw two anglers, the only anglers that I saw on this walk.
I realised then that I had seen no sign of fish at all, not a splash nor a ripple.
Perhaps when the river is so low and slow fish rest in whatever deeps they can find: not ideal
conditions to fish, I would guess. The anglers gave me an un-angler-like cheery wave, which made me suspect
that they shouldn't have been fishing at all. Anyway, I doubt that many salmon and trout have
been able to make their way up-river this year yet.
Behind the River Wenning's entrance to the Lune could be seen
Ingleborough far beyond. Hornby Castle has a long history but what is seen today is a
19th century re-building of it.
A large flock of oystercatchers (with one or two
lapwing intermingled) waited until I became very close before taking to the air with loud, shrill calls.
I was very much in their territory, alone on the floodplain, away from any habitation.
This is a renowned bird-watching area, especially for over-wintering species, including large
flocks of curlew and lapwing down from the hills.
I cut across to The Snab, as the large promontory south is reserved for cattle and wildlife.
There were a number of geese in the large pond, plus a few cows wetting their feet. The cows were so stationary
that I wondered if they had become stuck there.
At Great Close Wood I paused to look at what I think of as 'the island'.
It was no longer an island. There was no water at all flowing on the east side, where the present
OS map indicates most of the river should be. It was all flowing close by the wood.
The 1847 map that I referred to shows no island at all, with the river all to the east of
what is usually an island nowadays. So it seems that the river is in the process of migrating westwards.
Certainly, there are signs of recent erosion all along this west bank.
At one point, past Aughton Barns, there's a stile on the footpath (shown right) that a distracted walker
could step over and find themselves in the river a few feet below.
I heard rumbles that I assumed to be from the quarries of Claughton Brickworks, high
on the moor. I don't think that I've ever heard this noise here before: it must have been brought
to me by the strong wind. I was now more-or-less opposite the Caton windmills, so long my
target. However, I still had some way to go unless I took advantage of the lowness of the
Lune and paddled across it.
I took a short-cut across the neck of the huge meander of the Lune (as I always do, and
nobody has told me off yet) to enter Lawson's Wood, part of the Aughton Woods Nature Reserve.
This path has only recently been re-opened, after repairs necessitated by landslip damage
during Storm Desmond.
No doubt Aughton Woods have many delights for naturalists but I am content with just four
of its species. There are often deer to be seen here, but not on this occasion.
Badgers are not often seen, of course, unless you make a special expedition in the gloaming, as we have done.
I won't say exactly where they are because there are people who enjoy badgering (or worse) badgers,
encouraged by government policy, without scientific justification, to cull badgers to prevent
the spread of bovine TB.
The woods are noted for their small-leaved lime, here at the northern limits of their range.
However, unless my memory is mistaken, the trees that I had previously identified as small-leaved
lime had not yet unfurled their leaves to help me be sure.
For most walkers the most appealing flora is the bluebell display in spring, and of course I had
skilfully timed my walk home to coincide with it.
I emerged from the wood to see the Waterworks Bridge and to feel on home territory.
Again there were no sand martins to be seen.
The bridge bears the date of 1892 on its upriver side.
After you cross the bridge you may see carved neatly into the stonework the 1890 and 1891 flood levels.
Maybe the workmen at the time were impressed by these floods.
I wonder how they would react to the flood level for Storm Desmond recently marked towards the top of
the stonework. It is astonishingly higher than their 1890/1891 levels. In fact, the River Lune height
at Caton was measured at 7.95m, way above the previous record of 5.83m.
I walked across the field and up the lane to home.
One advantage of a 'walk home' like this is that it is obvious - to me and to anyone who asks - what
is involved. A walk in Langdale (like the previous saunter) could mean anything from a stroll between the
car-park and the pub to an assault on Scafell Pike. Anyone local has a good idea what a walk home from
Kirkby Lonsdale entails. Anyway, there's no better way to end a walk than tea and cake on the lawn.
[April 2019; SD6078; (linear) Kirkby Lonsdale - E - Devil's Bridge - S, SW on west bank
of the River Lune - Waterworks Bridge - S - Brookhouse; 12 miles; 115/400]
49.  Lingmoor Fell - For the Best Medium-High View in Lakeland?
I have another question (after the one in
this time one that any self-respecting follower of Wainwright should be able to answer: Which of his medium-high tops (to be precise, let’s say lower than 500m) enables you to see more of the other 213 tops than any other medium-high top? Imagine that you have a friend who is not a fell-walker and doesn’t want to walk too high but wants to conquer one Wainwright top and to see, from that top, as many of the rest as possible. Where would you advise her to walk?
I haven’t given away the answer in the title because Lingmoor Fell is in fact second on the list of ‘medium-high fells with the most tops in view’. While you’re pondering over what is first on the list we’ll saunter up Lingmoor Fell. The fell is a rather sprawling area of ground that reaches 469m at its highest point of Brown How. It lies between Little Langdale and Great Langdale. We, however, did not tackle Lingmoor Fell from the central parts of either dale but from the village of Elterwater that lies at the foot of Great Langdale.
The reason for adopting this direction of approach is simple: this way, the best views would be gradually revealed ahead of us. On the walk up we saw Little Langdale Tarn, Wetherlam and Swirl How, and then the Pike of Blisco – and finally the sweeping amphitheatre of Crinkle Crags, Bow Fell and the Langdale Pikes. It was a little hazy on the day of our walk, so we could not see everything to perfection. We could not, for example, see Blencathra at all. However, we could make out a snow-dappled Scafell Pike to the left of Bow Fell (which itself had a few dabs of snow), plus Loughrigg Fell, Red Screes, Fairfield and Helvellyn.
Towards Brown How on Lingmoor Fell, with Bow Fell and the Langdale Pikes beyond
The view from Brown How, Lingmoor Fell
I had anticipated that Langdale walkers would be attracted to the celebrated peaks, leaving the relatively unsung Lingmoor Fell to us. However, there were a fair number of people on its slopes, including several children and at least four grandparents. No doubt, families staying in Langdale find Lingmoor Fell a not-too-taxing challenge, as did we, although our walk back along the Cumbria Way through Langdale, on a warm day, proved a bit longer than necessary – but then every extra minute spent in this scenery is a bonus.
The other surprise on Lingmoor Fell was the view of the paths on surrounding hills. We couldn’t see any.
My memory is that the path up, for example, The Band to Bow Fell formed a wide, prominent, ugly scar but from
Lingmoor Fell we could see no sign of it. The
Fix the Fells
path-repairers are clearly doing sterling work, ensuring that, from a distance at least, the fells look as they should, as if no human had ever set foot on them.
I am about to reveal – suspenseful pause, roll of the drums – the answer to my question, after this photo.
Crinkle Crags, Bow Fell and Mickleden from the slopes of Lingmoor Fell
According to the description of the fells’ views by Wainwright – and who better to rely upon? – the lower-than-500m fell that provides a view of the most other tops (55) is Great Crag. Even our dedicated Wainwright followers may have difficulty in pinpointing where this unimaginatively-named top is. It is, in fact, in Borrowdale. For your delectation, here is the top ten:
1. Great Crag (440m) 55
2. Lingmoor Fell (469m) 52
3. Latrigg (368m) 48
4. Barrow (455m) 47
5. Binsey (447m) 46
6. Walla Crag (379m) 45
7. Catbells (451m) 44
8. Grange Fell (392m) 43
9. Loughrigg Fell (335m) 43
10. Armboth Fell (479m) 42
However, quantity isn’t all that matters: we must consider quality too. It might be argued – and I would – that Lingmoor Fell provides the best medium-high view because it provides the finest platform from which to admire the Langdale Pikes, the Pikes, of course, providing an iconic image of Lakeland second only perhaps to the classic view of Great Gable and Scafell Pike from Wasdale.
[April 2019; NY3204; Elterwater – SW, W – Bield Crag – NW – Brown How on Lingmoor Fell, Side Pike – N, E on Cumbria Way - Elterwater; 7 miles; 112/400]
48.  With The Grane
The River Ogden runs for 4.4 miles from the moors east of Darwen and Blackburn to join the River Irwell, according to Wikipedia. However, the Ordnance Survey does not name the watercourse on its West Pennine Moors map, perhaps in protest at the treatment of the river. There may no longer be a River Ogden and there probably never was an Ogdendale. The valley seems to be referred to as Haslingden Grane, or The Grane Valley or The Grane to locals. Haslingden Grane used to be a settlement of 1,300 people but on today’s map the name is placed to mark nothing in particular towards the head of the valley.
I noticed that the map shows a Visitor’s Centre at Clough Head, so somebody believes that there will be visitors. And indeed there were, at least by the time that I returned to the Centre after my walk. The place was buzzing for an April Monday. I suspect that most were relative locals walking their dogs, rather than visitors from afar, like me, but anyway the centre-cum-café seems a recommendable spot.
I had come to Haslingden Grane mainly to see how it was recovering from perhaps the most concentrated exploitation of a valley in North-West England. Within a distance of no more than three miles, there are many instances of our determination to change (or destroy) our environment to meet our needs. I walked first past Jamestone Quarry, which today consists mainly of large abandoned lakes although there were still a few trucks working away, causing the occasional rumble. The map shows many quarries, most now disused, in the region. I don’t know what special property the sandstone/shale hereabouts has that justifies all this quarrying but clearly there was a demand for it (mainly for road building, I understand) because, according to a notice at the quarry, at its peak in the late 19th century up to 3,000 men were employed here in the quarrying industry.
Continuing east, I passed another large over-blue quarry lake to walk above a conifer plantation. There are a number of such plantations scattered around Haslingden Grane. Perhaps they were added when the reservoirs were built, to filter the water entering them or for aesthetic purposes. I saw no sign that the forests were being harvested. Not all the valley woodlands are conifer forests – there is, for example, a native (it seems to me) wood at the top of the valley, providing a pleasant walk.
I left the Rossendale Way to drop down past Holden Hall to cross the dam of Holden Wood Reservoir. This is the lowest of the cascade of three reservoirs that have replaced the upper River Ogden. Holden Wood Reservoir was the first of them to be completed (in 1842) and was intended to provide water for local textile mills. It is now used, like the other two (Calf Hey Reservoir, 1860 and Ogden Reservoir, 1912), to provide water for the local population. Of course, the reservoirs now look well settled within the valley but we should not forget that the 1,300 people I mentioned above were displaced by them. Their homes are now under water or stand derelict on the reservoir slopes. Many such remains are passed on a walk around the reservoirs and in most cases it is hard to tell now whether the heaps of stones were once homesteads or barns.
Calf Hey Reservoir and Ogden Reservoir
As the Rossendale Way curved back I left it to walk up to the windmills that dominate the head of the valley. The twelve turbines are not quite within Haslingden Grane but lie over the watershed on Oswaldtwistle Moor, overlooking Oswaldtwistle and Accrington. I detoured not to see the windmills but to have a look at Warmwithens Reservoir. This too is no longer on the map. Where it was is now marked as “Resr (dis)”. The reservoir was built before 1849 (it is shown on a map of that date) but its dam collapsed in 1970, a few years after it had been ‘improved’. Luckily, the escaping water was held in two lower reservoirs, preventing serious damage below. Today, there is only an otherwise enigmatic embankment, about 100 yards long, with an overflow channel, to indicate that the reservoir was ever there. I like to be reminded that our engineers are not infallible and to see how quickly nature reclaims what should be its.
As for Haslingden Grane, it would be an exaggeration to say that nature has reclaimed much of it. The evidence of our exploitation is plain to see, and my walk around the reservoirs was accompanied by quarry rumbles, the noise of the B5232 traffic, and the swish of windmills. Of the Haslingden Grane of 200 years ago, not much remains. We have submerged much of it, planted trees and windmills on some of it, and quarried a lot of it. And yet arguably the Grane has been improved for walkers like myself. Where once there were similar scattered farmsteads trying to make a living on rough, boggy pasture and moorland, there are now skilfully fashioned walking paths providing a variety of interest through what I originally thought, judging from the map, to be unpromising terrain.
[April 2019; SD7523; Clough Head car park – NW on concessionary path, E on Rossendale Way, S, SE – Holden Hall – S, W above reservoirs – Haslingden Grane – NW, N – Warmwithens Reservoir – S, E on Rossendale Way, SE – car park; 8 miles; 110/400]
47.  The 'Wild Desert' of Kingsdale
There is no definitive list of the dales of the Yorkshire Dales. Some people include tributary-dales, such as Whitsundale; others consider them part of their main dale, Swaledale in this case. Some refer to, say, Malhamdale; others just call it “the Malham region”. The best that I can offer is a list of the top twenty ‘most interesting’ dales, as determined by the number of references to them in the Yorkshire Dales books on my shelf (the number in the right column indicating the relative interestingness):
1. Wharfedale 100
2. Wensleydale 87
3. Swaledale 85
4. Ribblesdale 62
5. Arkengarthdale 46
6. Littondale 29
7. Malhamdale 29
8. Bishopdale 24
9. Coverdale 22
10. Garsdale 20
11. Chapel-le-dale 19
12. Dentdale 19
13. Langstrothdale 17
14. Airedale 9
15. Crummackdale 9
16. Cotterdale 7
17. Kingsdale 7
18. Raydale 6
19. Deepdale 3
20. Waldendale 3
So, a walk around number 17 on the list, Kingsdale, doesn’t promise much of interest. That anticipation would be
consistent with the view of
Housman (1808, p48)
who, in probably the first-ever words written about Kingsdale, described it as having “the appearance of a wild unfrequented desert”. The well-regarded Hartley and Ingilby (1956) book seems to agree, for it devotes less than one of its 300 pages to Kingsdale. Echoing Housman, it asserts that “the whole valley seemed deserted, seldom visited.”
However, for a walker, Kingsdale has an advantage over most of the other dales on the list: it can be walked from end to end and back on a single walk. It is only three miles from its foot at Raven Ray to the farmstead of Kingsdale Head – and five miles to the true head of the dale, at the watershed at High Moss. Therefore, whatever features of interest Kingsdale has may be visited on one walk.
Kingsdale, with Kingsdale Head to the right (photo taken on an earlier occasion)
Moreover, since the dale is virtually straight, it is possible to appreciate the properties of the dale from almost any vantage point. We set off along the track above Raven Ray and could immediately acknowledge the basic geological properties of the dale. Clearly, it is a glaciated valley, with the ice having stripped bare the limestone escarpments on both sides. Interestingly, Housman (1808) seems to be groping towards such an explanation, before the theory of glaciation had been developed, when he writes that “the mountains seem, at some time, to have undergone a sort of anatomical preparation; when the coating of earth or muscular parts have been taken away, and the rocky bones of this huge monster left to the inspection of the naturalist and philosopher”. Raven Ray itself is, it seems obvious, a heap of debris dumped by the glacier. We can easily visualise this barrier causing a lake to form in this wide, flat dale when the ice melted – and then, when the barrier was breached, the lake disappearing over Thornton Force and other waterfalls now on the Ingleton Falls walk.
We left the track to follow the wall that heads north to Whernside. Looking east to Ingleborough, it seemed that the
limestone pavements of Twisleton were continuous with the pavements above Raven Scar on the western slopes of Ingleborough,
with the intervening valley of Chapel-le-Dale having disappeared. At West Fell we dropped down into Kingsdale to have a
look at the Apronfull of Stones. Of course, today the Apronfull just looks like a large pile of stones, with a recent
wall to protect it from being washed away by the beck. It is only the knowledge that it is 4,000 to 4,500 years old that
gives pause for thought. And we might pause a bit longer to contemplate the fact that an excavation of a pit nearby
found charcoal dated to about 8,750 years ago (Johnson, 2008, p104).
Ingleborough across Twisleton (where's Chapel-le-Dale?)
Next we crossed the beck, which was not difficult since it was completely dry, to have a peek in Yordas Cave, a cave that
fascinated early visitors to the dale. From there we found the Turbary Road (the concessionary path marked on the map didn’t help). Turbary is (or was) the legal right to collect peat. The Turbary Road is a well-made track – but was it well-used for the purpose of turbary? I couldn’t see any signs of where peat had been collected, although I suppose it is many years since it was.
Today, the track is mainly used by walkers to provide a safe route past various pot-holes, such as
Rowten Pot (shown top right) and Jingling Pot, some within a footstep of the track. It is good that the pot-holes are left as they are, without warnings or fences. However, I wouldn’t take children with me along this track unless I didn’t mind losing one or more of them. Since a high proportion of the few visitors to Kingsdale are intending to go down these pot-holes, it is perhaps not the case, as I implied above, that all the interesting features of Kingsdale can be seen from any vantage point. Whether there is much of interest underground I cannot say. We only peered over the edges to see the depth of the abysses and, sometimes, the waters that could be heard below. It is a strange sort of desert that has water gushing underground.
[March 2019; SD6975; layby by old quarries – N, SE (over Kingsdale Beck), NE (by the wall) – West Fell – W – Apronfull of Stones, Yordas Cave – S, SW on Turbary Road – near Blea Dubs – SE - layby; 7 miles; 108/400]
46.  To the Point of Winterburn Reservoir
If a reservoir wants to be fully appreciated then it should not use ‘Reservoir’ in its name.
It should be something friendly, like Gurnal Dubs or Kitmere. A ‘Reservoir’ only reminds us that, however charmingly sited and skilfully engineered it may be, it is not a bona-fide, natural lake. We don’t get emotional about anything unnatural. Unless it’s the Ribblehead Viaduct. Or the Hoad Monument of Ulverston. Or Blackpool Tower. Oh well, perhaps Winterburn Reservoir has a chance after all.
A ‘Reservoir’ in the name might at least lead us to wonder what the reservoir is for. It is an expensive business building a reservoir. Nobody builds a reservoir for fun. On this walk I hoped to see evidence of the purpose of Winterburn Reservoir.
Gargrave was under a grey sky. I suppose it was cloud – but every cloud has a silver lining and
there were no linings. Gargrave developed through being on an important east-west route across the Pennines.
The Romans walked nearby and more recently Gargrave has been a staging post on the Leeds-Kendal A65, the Leeds-Liverpool Canal (completed in 1816) and the Leeds-Lancaster railway line (completed in 1850). Nowadays it is also on the north-south route of the Pennine Way, and I headed that way myself, first crossing the canal, which I was pleased to see was active (unlike the Lancaster Canal on my previous outing) with some canal-boaters struggling to un-lock themselves.
I continued north across the parkland of Eshton Hall, through Gamsbers Wood, and along a fine path above
Eshton Beck, emerging on Winterburn Lane to be confronted with the surprising sight of Friars Head. The front wall of this 17th century building – and it is not a huge building – has (I make it) 584 panes of glass. There are seven sets of twelve narrow windows, each with six lights, plus on the second floor a further four sets of windows with twenty lights. Friars Head is thus an impressive example of the local building style that favoured narrow windows. Where in a modern house we would have one rectangular window, here they preferred a set of tall, narrow windows separated by stonework. It was good to see that Friars Head is still in normal use, judging from the farmyards to the rear and the gardens to the front, and hasn’t been converted or deserted as so many grand old buildings have.
I walked on, to meet a sign saying “Warning: shooting in progress”. I wondered if, more to the point, the shooters met a sign saying “Warning: walking in progress”. I heard no sound of shooting, so I carried on. I reached the reservoir outlet but couldn’t see the reservoir itself without a walk up to the farm of Way Gill, but that did at least get me high enough for views across to Cracoe Fell and, in the distance, a grey Pendle. I was sorry to disturb the many geese and a large flock of oystercatchers, all of whom probably expected to be left in peace on such a dull day.
Winterburn Reservoir, with Pendle in the distance
I crossed the bridge at the northern point of the reservoir and strode out south on the good path of the
Dales High Way. I was saddened to see a hideous repair of a grey stone wall using huge yellow-orange
sandstone blocks quite alien to this region. I now realise that, philistine that I am, I had failed to
appreciate what is surely a masterpiece of ‘land art’, a deeply moving conceptual allegory on the problems of integration in modern society.
Land art on the Dales High Way
The skylarks and the curlews were in good voice despite the increasing gloominess. I hurried on, reaching the road at Flasby, and shortly after, at Eshton Bridge, had a view of Eshton Hall. It seemed to be mainly with curtains drawn. The hall was built in 1827 on a rather grandiose scale, it seems to me. In 2005 it was converted into apartments.
I detoured a little in order to have another look at the Leeds-Liverpool Canal. I had seen no signs on
my walk of the purpose of Winterburn Reservoir but I hoped to see some by the canal (but I didn’t)
because the reservoir was built to provide water for it. At least, that is what I have read.
However, the canal was finished in 1816 and the reservoir in 1893. I picture engineers standing by a
dry canal for 77 years, scratching their heads, wondering what they had overlooked. No, of course, the
problem was that the increasing traffic on the canal, with the corresponding greater use of locks, was
transferring water along the canal. Somehow, in a way that I had not been able to detect, Winterburn
Reservoir tops up the canal. But how did those engineers have the foresight to aim the Leeds end of the canal north-west towards a non-existent Winterburn Reservoir, rather than aim more directly south-west to Liverpool?
[March 2019; SD9354; Gargrave – N on Pennine Way, NE on Chew Lane, N on Eshton Road, N –
Eshton, Brockabank, Winterburn, Winterburn Reservoir – W, N, around Reservoir, SE on Dales High Way,
SW on Cross Lane, SW, SE – Flasby – S – Ray Bridge – W - Gargrave; 10 miles; 107/400]
45.   Thoughts from the Towpath (Bilsborrow to Preston)
44.   Interlude: We Are Sorry for the Delay ...
43.   The Red Screes - Wansfell Question
42.   Appreciating Meg and Lucy
41.   Safe in Littledale
40.   In the Borderlands of Burton-in-Lonsdale and Bentham
39.   Halls Galore by the Middle Ribble
38.   Reflections from Jeffrey's Mount
37.   Whoopers on Thurnham Moss
36.   The Flow and Ebb and Flow of Morecambe
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
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