Sunday, 28 June 1925 Trough of Bowland

Post:     Ideal weather for them today, if a little hot, but no rain.  This really is a nice route, but rather busy these days, and it is easy to forget that the vast majority of this route would have been devoid of tarmac or rolled chippings.  That was the fire in Charlie’s belly that drove him on to become the Chairman of the Rough Stuff Fellowship in later years.  Rough Stuff !

Sunday, June 28                                             Trough of Bowland

         We were up at 5.30 this morning, but as usual when we are together, it was 7.30 before we could get away.  Passing through the yet sleeping town, we gained Belmont road, and faced a stiff breeze through the village and over the moors, gaining some relief when we dropped into shelter at Withnell.  The Belmont road is not at all bad, scenically, with the fine moorlands around and little wooded patches here and there, so that one soon finds the 18 miles to Preston’s rough setts covered.  We took the Moor Park route out of the town, gaining the north road at Fulwood.  This road is very beautiful beyond Broughton at this time of year, but is apt, as are all the roads to resorts, to get motorised.  At Brock we stopped for a pot of tea, making a short meal, then with increased pace got through Garstang and Galgate to Lancaster, turning here towards Wyresdale.

We made a slight mistake at one of the turnings here, but our map showed us a correction, and after passing the reservoir at Mt Vernon, we turned left along a poor surfaced byway, but giving us fine views across the Conder Valley to the fells beyond.  About one and a quarter miles further on, we turned right, and swept round a hair raising bend on a steep gradient, down to Lee End in the valley.  Then a few yards to the Temperance Hotel at Quernmore for lunch.  We had to have it in the hedges and were hampered by hordes of flies which contrived to get in the cups and milk-jug.  But the view of park-like wooded hillsides and higher fells and the green valley repaid any such discomfort.

We ‘padded the hoof’ after that for the better part of two miles, and hot work it was too, with the gradient all against us and a loose surface on which walking was a real discomfort.  A backward look when we neared a rideable part showed us that we had not climbed in vain, for a fine view from West to Northeast presented itself to us.  Westwards, the flat Fylde country stretched, with the silver ribbon of the broad River Wyre as it nears Fleetwood streaked across, then the townships of Blackpool (not forgetting Blackpool Tower and the Big Wheel) and Fleetwood with the open sea beyond.  Veering round, we saw Morecambe Bay, its background of hills, which further behind developed into the craggy heights of Lakeland; below us, Lancaster and its grim old castle above the tidal River Lune, with the fine mausoleum of the Williamson memorial on a higher plane to the East of the town.  Then Lunesdale and the hills around, wooded and moorland, rising to a respectable height nearer Kirkby Lonsdale completed a fine prospect, worth the climb above.

Concentrating on the ‘ard ‘igh road’ before us, we reached some fine moorland scenery and experienced some vile road surfaces, until the decrepit Jubilee Tower on the highest point claimed our attention.  A rush downhill now, terminating in an awkward drop to a river, where we lingered, engaged in the classic pursuit of throwing stones at a particularly fine specimen of a trout.  The run that followed along an undulating road through some fine scenery was punctuated by a similar stop at every stream which seemed to be packed with the aforesaid trout, and each of which supplied us with a drink.

At Marshaw, we entered the glen that signals the approach of the Trough itself, and very soon after, the trees were behind us, we had dismounted and were tramping up a wild little pass.  Another stream kept us supplied with cooling beverage, a necessity in this kind of weather, until we neared the summit, where it trailed off into nothing.  From the head of the Trough (1,000 ft), nothing but wild moors, barren defiles, and heathery turf is visible, a wild picture indeed on the sunniest of days.  The breakneck descent on the Lancashire side is amplified by the boulders which lie strewn all over the road.  Alas, the Trough has lost much of its terror to travellers now, for we actually saw a charabanc there.  I still wonder, however, how on earth two pass each other on these roads.

The road after that claimed most of our attention on account of its resemblance to a river bed, but we stopped often before we reached Whitewell, for the surrounding country is too good to be missed.  At Whitewell, we entered that ever beautiful gorge, which took us to the Vale of Chipping, where we stopped at a bridge over that princess of rivers, the Hodder.  Whilst crossing the shingle to get a photographic viewpoint, both of us slipped in, and then, thinking it not worthwhile to hop from stone to stone, splashed through to an island in the middle.

The next item was a steep, stony scramble to the summit of Jeffrey Hill, whence was an extensive vista of the Vale of Chipping – and a well full of gloriously cool water.  Down now, on the other side with another fine view of the serpentine River Ribble, to Ribchester, then Miss Bolton’s for tea.

Crossing the Ribble, we climbed uphill to the Whalley-Preston road, patronising it to Mellor Brook, where we turned towards Blackburn, but dodged that industrial brick-heap by means of a footpath which led us to Cherry Tree.  The Tockholes road of atrocious surface and many hills brought us at length to Belmont, then down to Bolton and home.  Some supper, then we started again to Moses Gate and Kearsley, where Tom and I talked until 10.10pm, then Tom carried on home and I did a ‘blind’ to get back before lighting up time.                                      108 miles

 

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