This walk doesn't feature Freya because it was before we got her. Also, this walk will never feature Freya because dogs are not allowed on Clougha, or indeed most of the Forest of Bowland. It's quite difficult to find out the rules on this, so I'm still researching. But we don't want to take her somewhere she's not allowed by accident. I think my dad and Auntie Trish will know the answer to this one.
I've been trying to write this walk up for over a month! Probably nearly two, actually. I didn't want to not write it up because it was such a good walk.
So, perhaps the last bit of warmish weather we had before it turned properly autumnal, windy and wet. This below isn't actually part of our walk, but I went into town to collect my new glasses a few weeks ago and I stopped in Dalton Square to try them on properly (you can't try them for size in the shop now, what with the covidians and that). I sat for a while, marvelling at the wonder of the world through lenses that are the correct thickness. Everything looked very bonny, especially because my new lenses are photochromic – I still didn't look directly into the sun, of course, because that would be stupid.
But that was just the start of the day. I decided as I was sitting in Dalton Square that, because it was such a nice day, we'd just go for the big one, Clougha ... although not all of it, just the easy and flat bit of it. So I went home to collect Matthew. Fortunately, he was well up for a decent walk because he'd finished all of his homework and the thought of spending the day on the PlayStation or Netflix didn't appeal to him at all. Good man.
We pootled up to Clougha, got a little bit lost trying to find the Rigg Lane car park because I hadn't trusted my instinct on the correct turn-off, and had to backtrack when we found that I definitely should've trusted my instinct. We parked here. Ooooooooooh, pretty or what?! Looks like something from All Creatures Great and Small, even though that's set in Yorkshire – we're very close to Yorkshire, so it makes sense. Anyway, that's a bit of Clougha Pike. Also, aren't dry-stone walls beautiful?
Here, I did you a little panorama of the way we were going. This is what you see to roughly the east – Morecambe and the bay are behind us here. What I love about this place is that it never really seems to change. I've walked here quite a few times, and every time I come back, it's instantly very familiar. But no less stunning for that.
At the lower level here, there are masses of clumps of heather. We should come back in the summer to see them in full riotous colour.
Perspective is strange, isn't it? The pike bit of Clougha Pike is over that rise and a bit beyond, but we can't see it from here, even though we're closer to it than if we were down by the sea. And yet, when we are down by the sea, we can see the top very clearly. Perspective.
It's just over there too, but we still can't see it from here. We can see some scree though – which, as I've said before, is one of the few things I can remember from school geography lessons.
This is the heartbreakingly stunning view to the north. Some farms and cottages, some woods, and the Lake District. I don't need to say anything about it because it speaks for itself.
We tramped along merrily, Matthew and I, having a grand old time. It was a beautiful day, no breeze at all, and we weren't in any kind of rush. It was all about being just exactly where we were for as long as we could string it out.
We came to this lovely young oak tree that's probably older than me – I'm not sure because I still haven't figured out how to age an oak. But it is a very beautiful tree and one of the bits I've always remembered about this place. It's just a tree, and there are loads of them (though nowhere near as many as we'd like, eh? Plant more trees!), but it's important.
There's a turn on the path, right after the tree. You have to scramble over a few bouldery bits, and the path emerges at a trig point, where Matthew decided to adopt the stance of an elderly shepherd, watching his dog round up his sheep. I have a bunch of old photos from this trig point, all of them with a small boy or two sat atop the trig point marker.
Another turn to the left, and then you're into the boggy bit that you have to get across if you don't want to give up and go home – there's a bridge just beyond the mud, totally worth the soaking.
I was expecting the bog, which was why I'd worn my older trainers, not the pale and fairly dirtless newer ones. There's no way around; you have to go through – it's just about how much of your leg you're willing to get wet. There are places where you can get only your feet wet, but it's more about luck than knowledge, I think. You're just as likely to walk on a bit of innocent-looking moss and end up calf-deep in black peaty mud. So we didn't worry about it too much. We picked a route to one side and stuck with our decision. But I am saving up for wellies, all the same.
Ooooh, the view from the bridge. Isn't it delicious? The bridge crosses a tiny little valley thing that has a weeny stream running through it.
Special, is it not? It's like a little hidden treasure. I don't need to tell you anything about it because you can see for yourself how pretty it is here.
When the boys were much younger, I didn't like this bridge because I would have little heart attacks if they tried to go near the edge, and curious little boys always want to go near the edge. But now they are wiser, so I'm fine here. More than fine, actually. I never was scared of the fall for myself.
Glorious riot of autumn colour!
Oh yes, it's called Ottergear Bridge. I'll never remember that because I never remember names of things or people or places. But it's got huge water pipes in it that are carrying fresh water ... from somewhere ... to somewhere else. I've forgotten the details and I can't find them online. We can imagine that perhaps the water is coming from the Lakes and going to Manchester.
Lovely bit of bracken. I don't know if we can get down into the valley. I suspect not because it seems to be fenced off all the way round. It would be lovely to walk down at the bottom, I think, all shady and sheltered.
At the other side of the bridge, I couldn't remember whether the quarry was to the left or the right, so I hedged right because the path looked more likely.
It was indeed a lovely path. But it was the wrong one. Definitely no quarry this way. A very sheltered path, actually, and I soon had to stop to remove some layers because it wasn't right for a winter coat and a thick jumper. I was glad I'd brought that big bottle of water, I can tell you!
I don't know why this picture is twisty. Matthew took it. Also, I'm not wearing sunglasses – they're my fancy new reactors that I wasn't even aware had gone dark. Fancy!
Here's the right path. Less well trodden, but maybe not everyone knows there's a quarry here. There's no sign, so there's no reason why anyone would know if they hadn't been before.
Here's the bridge. Not even that high. If any of my kids had ever fallen off, they probably would've just bounced a bit and rolled to the bottom. I don't know what I was even worried about.
And just round the corner is the quarry. Yes, it is a quarry. Or it was. Now it's just a nice little spot that you might stop in for a cup of tea if you brought a flask, or a picnic if you were even better prepared. We had nothing but water, but it was still a good spot to have a sit and a rest.
In the corner of the quarry, there's a treacherous path that goes right to the top, and I can remember Thomas climbing up it when he was six. I wonder why I didn't, because I usually love a climb. Maybe it was because Matthew and James were only two and three and someone had to stay at the bottom with them. It is pretty steep with quite a sheer drop to the side. Matthew wouldn't come with me this time either, so I went by myself.
The top. Brilliant.
Brillianter. Cosy little spot, isn't it? If we ever come here again, without Freya, we'll try to remember to bring a picnic. There's something very Prince Caspian about this place – it reminds me of Cair Paravel, when Peter, Susan, Edmund and Lucy go back to Narnia, but thirteen hundred years have passed and their castle is in ruins and the Narnians have retreated to a place only Aslan can save them from. Something like that probably happened here, I reckon.
This is used as a bouldering wall now. I know this because I know someone who climbs it sometimes. There's a flat bit at the bottom that's perfect for placing your bouldering mat. I like climbing rocks, but I'm not very good at it because I have rubbish upper-body strength.
And then, lo! we found the One Ring! It was upside down, but it was clearly the One Ring. The One Ring to rule them all, and in the darkness bind them! See! SEEEEEEE! I knew this was a magical place.
Matthew pocketed the ring and then we decided we'd best leave because, as pretty as this place is, it's also a likely spot for ring wraiths, and we had nothing with which to fight them if they did come in search of the Ring. If only we'd thought to bring our swords. Or our wands. Or both – we have both. Well, next time.
Before we legged it, I just wanted a peek at what was beyond the trees. We discovered an ancient wall and the little stream running alongside it. But then we had to leave when a branch moved of its own accord and tried to strike Matthew in the face – he ran screaming and I was laughing my head off.
We were quite tired by now. We hadn't really walked very far, but it was still quite a warm day and that tends to take it out of your legs. Nevertheless, we tramped back the way we'd come and it was all still glorious and beautiful and life-affirming. This is what most of the path looks like, all stony and ankle-twisty, hemmed in by masses of heather and bracken.
Proper Clougha is up there, but I have no idea where the path is to get to the top, or even if there is any sort of path. I suspect there isn't. I've been to the top, but I can't remember how to get there. I guess you could just start walking and you'd eventually make it, but it would take longer without a map or some knowledge, and you'd end up in thigh-deep bogs, covered in bracken scratches. My dad knows the way because he used to be a countryside ranger here. I might have said that before, but I know you don't mind – if you strongly objected to repetition, you wouldn't be here! Repetition is my whole writing style!
What's quite wonderful about this little walk is that, although it never changes in itself, the landscape and the view you're treated to frequently change. You're looking at trees and a big hill one minute, then those are gone and you see a strange patch of fallen boulders and brackeny heather. Amazing.
See? It's changed again. Love it. I can't imagine wanting to walk without my dog ever again, but I also really would like to come back here some time. Maybe I can just do two big walks sometimes so Freya doesn't miss out on her exercise. Win win.
And it changes again! This is where I see my tiny children in my mind – I remember that particlar walk eleven years ago really clearly at this point, when Matthew was crying because we'd walked a few metres from the car and he'd had enough, and where James and Thomas were already looking for the perfect staff-like stick that was good enough for me to allow them to take it home. We found that perfect stick once, at Warton Crag. It was like Gandalf's staff – nearly as tall as me, very heavy, with a knobbly bit at the top to hold a enchanted stone. Someone left it somewhere once, and we were all devastated. It's probably in the hands of the enemy now. Ah well.
So that was a bit of Clougha. We've been wanting to show it to you for ages, and now, finally, we have.
Until tomorrow, heathers.
WQ+M
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