Saturday 22nd February – Hilda’s Stylish Meander
Twenty five ramblers gathered in Top Lane’s generous lay-bys, just beyond West Bretton, seven miles south of Wakefield. Given the forecast of gusting winds and substantial rainfall, it surprised more than a few of us to congregate under blue skies and with the sun shining. Indeed, a blustery wind made its presence felt as it was very chilly round exposed regions. However, unlike two weeks ago when we had Storm Ciara and last week when Storm Dennis made matters worse, this weekend’s bad weather predictions had no name. Hardly surprising then that little groups, here and there, were in intense discussions not only about the price of fish but also about what criteria had to be met before a storm was declared. Dave King, retired cartographer, keen gardener and amateur meteorologist, knew the answer; winds in excess of 48 knots (55 mph) or 25 mm of rain per hour and it’s a storm. Apparently, naming a storm using a single authoritative system helps the public to keep themselves, their property and businesses safe. (If you want to suggest names for future stormy weather go to This email address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it.
In addition to its extensive lay-bys, Top Lane was also a busy short cut or rat run, connecting the A636 and A637. Our seasoned and watchful walk leader, Hilda Levine, invited us to join her across the A636 for a safer location to deliver the pre-walk briefing. All the necessary bases were expertly and succinctly covered by a leader well practised in the arts; no nervous stuttering or logorrhoea here. Paul, Sam and Nicola were given a particularly warm welcome in addition to the rest of the group. The route, its various features, details of stops and timings were all skilfully given. Hilda even managed to affably advertise the coach trip for June 27th. Then, an experienced, enthusiastic backmarker, Peter Miller, was selected since he had helped with the ‘recce’ but only after he had clearly demonstrated he had a mobile phone, a working whistle, a full first aid kit and a laminated map.
So, with wind in our hair and sun on our faces, we were led confidently south-east on a path by the oddly named Wilderness Plantation. Continuing in the same general direction, we skirted the western perimeter of the 500 acre Yorkshire Sculpture Park, now in its forty-third year. Only a keen eye would have been able to spot a Moore, Hepworth, Hirst or Weiwei. Thus far, however, the tracks were stony and firm but as we took the Dearne Way, across various open fields, the route became soggy and sludgy with water and mud. Pools of standing water were hard to avoid and made progress slower for some than others. Our kindly leader often paused to allow the group to remuster. By the time we had crossed the A636 again and picked up the Kirklees Way, going north-west then north, it began to dawn on some of us, after eight stiles, why the walk was appropriately called “stylish.” At least twice that number of stiles lay ahead.
Between Gillcar Farm and Woodhouse Farm, there was the occasional stretch of dry land but in the main it was the subject of what Flanders and Swann sang about in “The Hippopotamus Song.” Undeterred, we reached Ash Lane, enjoyed thirty metres of dry tarmac and then resumed our north-westerly trek, encountering brambles, declines, steeper declines and, just after a bridge over a stream, a patch of very deep mud, deep enough to overwhelm the tops of boots. Thank goodness someone invented gaiters. By this time it was 11.30 and a halt was called to allow a snack and a drink. While we sat, still in some sunshine and with a little shelter from the wind, we could enjoy the views over Bank Wood.
By 11.45 we were upright and mobile again, now heading north-easterly with a white, concrete Water Tower our next objective. Some fields had little mud, others had more than their fair share and at one point, with a stile and fence to surmount, there was a line of expectant, baying photographers, hoping to catch that special shot of someone falling headlong into the muddy slop. Some of us found some similarity as we remembered our Tale of Two Cities and that villainous tricoteuse, Madame Therese Defarge, cheering on each deadly drop of the guillotine’s blade, yet callously continuing her knitting without interruption. There was more mud ahead and slippery downhill sections where the unlucky could have come a cropper but nowhere else here presented easy opportunities for the photographers.
As we closed on the Water Tower ahead, the occasional glance behind revealed Emley Moor’s two transmitters, the permanent tower being internally re-engineered and the temporary replacement. Crossing the busy A637, we stopped to regroup and have a brief rest near the Water Tower before setting off again towards New Hall Prison and YOI (for women). Some prolonged road-walking was a welcome escape from water and mire, but just as we approached New Hall Farm with its extensive graveyard for redundant or abandoned equipment we had to dodge a huge pond. Once safely by, however, Middlestown came into view and a firm but uneven path, slightly downhill, sped us on our way. Emerging from Chapel Hill Lane, we turned left and soon saw our destination for our lunch and pub stop – The Little Bull. It was a little after 13.05. Many of us ate our pack-ups at the picnic tables in the Beer Garden/Play Area and then joined others inside, enjoying various beverages and/or chips at very reasonable prices. The service was friendly and swift and most of us were sorry to leave, not just because of the hostelry’s many attractions, but also because in the meantime, the sunshine had gone. The skies were grey and the winds were strengthening all the while.
All present and correct at 14.05, the merry band crossed over the road at the lights and began to climb the slope at the rear of the shops to reach Sandy Lane. A sudden right turn into a gap in a hedge led us down steps, then a muddy slope and more steps. Another stile took us into a field with a couple of four-legged friends and a large pond with quacking ducks. Duckboards provided passage across the swampy ground beside the pond, but alas the watery bog claimed a victim who misread the extent of the ooze. After genuine attempts to help our fallen colleague, we continued uphill to reach the backs of houses. When we reached Coxley Crescent, we were clearly in Netherton, scene of once profitable coal-mining. Crossing the road, the B6117, we walked into South Lane to reach Green Lane and thereafter it was a southerly set of paths to reach North Wood. Many stiles and bridges had to be negotiated. Some tracks had thorny hedges on the left and barbed wire fences on the right. Open fields were usually waterlogged, squelchy and uliginous.
On reaching North Wood, it began to rain and for a little while it threatened to be a downpour but, fortunately, it was a very short-lived threat but enough water fell on our heads and shoulders to meet the damp and mud that had been seeping up from our boots. Three stiles further and we briefly entered Stocksmoor Common Nature Reserve (Yorkshire Wildlife Trust), near Midgley. Then due south, we reached the A637, which, having crossed, we returned to Top Lane and our vehicles at 15.30. Hilda had completed a challenging walk with flawless navigational skills and in great style, her style being quiet care and authority with indefatigable attention to detail and her group. Warmest thanks, hugs, handshakes and kisses were rightly extended to our leader. Even the backmarker got some justifiable recognition for his cheery and considerate shepherding of the flock. The winds were quite strong and boisterous as we drove home, tired but pleasantly weary and with a sense that fresh air and exercise with engaging companions is hard to beat.
Saturday 15th February – Whitwell Wood to Shireoaks.
Last Saturday, mostly on the afternoon leg of our walk around Wentbridge, we experienced a few early, flirtatious caresses from Storm Ciara as she blew roundabout and tickled our fancies. Subsequently, wanton Ciara caused substantial damage, with gale-force winds and heavy rains saturating the ground and causing floods. Today, Storm Dennis’s opening, gnashing flourishes were already of a considerably more powerful order, with much stronger, gusting winds and the limited rain we endured looking like the precursor of something more menacing. The Met Office, from last Tuesday, has been giving regular Yellow and Amber warnings of extreme weather to come with Dennis. Many of us will have woken this morning to learn of road, rail, sea and air disruption, with hundreds of flights cancelled and the army called into West Yorkshire to help with expected flooding. Even the motorway information panels announced “Severe Weather Forecast Today.” Perhaps, therefore, what was surprising was that as many as ten ardent individuals turned out for the ramble in lovely countryside a few miles west by north of Worksop.
Our meeting point was an expansive lay-by, with its own tasteful and inviting Route 619 Diner, next to Whitwell Wood. Until about 09.40 the wind and rain were difficult to ignore with some of us thinking that we were going to be windswept and soaked as we put on our walking kit. Miraculously, there was an abrupt and unexpected lull, allowing us to get ‘suited and booted’ in near tranquillity. Our walk leader, Brian Unsworth, impressively pulled us together, like iron filings to a magnet, and then delivered a succinct and authoritative briefing in which he welcomed everyone, especially newcomers Chris and Dave and returners Pete and Denise. The route was outlined, timings were given and, amidst keen competition for the post, the backmarker appointed. What was notable was not just that a map of our circuit went with the backmarker position, but that the map was meticulously waterproofed and beautifully coloured with the outward track in yellow and the return journey in orange. Such careful, precise and creditable preparation was striking; we knew we were in safe and skilful hands.
It was windy, but it was still not raining as we set off into Whitwell Wood, a 420 acre ancient woodland of broad-leaved trees and other flora. An aerial view would suggest that the path configuration looks like a wheel, with a hub, an outlying concentric ring and various spokes running through both. With a flawless sense of direction and as sure-footed as a Theseus in the Labyrinth, Brian led us through various zigzags in the Wood on wide and narrow trails, some firmer for walking than others. At places, when the wind stopped rustling through the trees, it was quiet and peaceful, interrupted a little by the melodious hum of cheerful, chattering ramblers.
Leaving the Wood, we continued north into open countryside, along the edges of fields or between fields, where the path led us between rows of hedges. En route, we passed “Shire Oak”, allegedly marking the position where, in days of yore, the three shires of Derbyshire, Nottinghamshire and Yorkshire met. Then we reached a hedge-lined Whitwell Road (more a lane than a road) and were disappointed to see a lot of fly-tipped goods – sofas, cushions, clothing, Christmas wrapping paper, cans and bottles. Ironically, where this road met Dumb Hall Lane, there was a large warning sign advising that concealed cameras were watching and fly-tippers would be prosecuted.
Going left along Dumb Hall Lane, we arrived at Top Hall Farm and once we had diagonally (the wizarding world shops for many of their supplies, like broomsticks, in Diagon Alley) crossed a field, we found ourselves beside another method of reaching for the skies – various parked planes on Netherthorpe Airfield. The RAF took over the airfield in 1940 and two pill boxes remain. It 1961, long surplus to RAF requirements, it was returned to its original private status, under the ownership of Sheffield Aero Club. Through the twists and turns in Netherthorpe village, we stayed on our northerly bearing across and between two fields. A light drizzle decided to keep us company, then two playful dogs joined us for a while, taking our minds briefly off the unpleasant muddy conditions underfoot.
At Turnerwood we met the Chesterfield Canal and paused for our mid-morning break by some locks. Some found sawn logs to act as stools, others just stood to refuel and enjoy the brief rest. As we set off again along the Cuckoo Way, it was 11.25 but before we regained our momentum there was a fleeting concern for some ‘lost’ gloves. A fast search uncovered the ‘missing’ items and off we set again. The canal water was unattractively clay-coloured and one of the many locks was undergoing repair. Today the River Ryton was in fast mode as its waters passed under the canal. A little later we crossed Shireoaks Common, continuing our easterly progress by the canal. There we met a paddling of ducks and drakes (all mallards) and more and more locks. A fisherman was at work by one of these locks but rather than ask him what he was catching, we already knew the answer – chub! Before long, it was as clear as the grey water in the canal, we were in Shireoaks territory – Shireoaks Visitor Moorings and Shireoaks Marina providing clues – and after a little further walking, at 12.05, we reached bridge 40 on the canal and to our left we could see The Woodhouse Inn. We knew, because of our earlier briefing and from the walks booklet, we were in Rhodesia.
This Rhodesia has no connection with the former country of the same name in the south of Africa, other than both were named after a man called Rhodes. This Nottinghamshire Rhodesia is named after a GP Rhodes, once chairman of the local Shireoaks Colliery who founded this Rhodesia in 1920 to provide housing for miners. Some of us ate our sandwiches in the shelter from wind and rain provided by the A57 pillared overpass; others raced to the Inn where, in due course, we all met to share a cosy, comfortable confinement in a country hostelry close to the Chesterfield Canal and where we enjoyed cheer and conviviality. We were ready to resume our travels at 12.50 having completed a little over 6 miles (8.5 km) of our 10 miler.
We crossed the bridge to the other side of the canal and briefly journeyed west. A loop into suburban Rhodesia, along Royds Crescent and Boughton Road, took us under a railway bridge and, over various stiles, out into a succession of muddy fields. We met the River Ryton again, still fast flowing, and we crossed it by bridge. It was now generally wet, rain a frequent companion and the strengthening winds blowing us from side to side and from ahead, but never behind. Between Hall Farm and Dumb Hall Lane we encountered a long straight stretch, one rather lengthy patch of which was sticky, slippery mud and entirely exposed to the battering elements of rain and wind. The occasional rucksack cover came undone and threatened to develop into unplanned parascending. The force of the winds turned the rain into a free session of dermabrasion. When, eventually, we reached some hedges we soon discovered how much valuable shelter they provide. Relief was almost tangible. Equally, however, we learned that today being on the right of the hedges was the right place to be; being to the left of the hedging was the wrong place to be. Tiresome adverse winds and stinging showers are very tiring.
The firm tarmac of Dumb Hall Lane was most welcome, especially as we could see the Wood straight ahead. However, we walked north west, away from the Wood to the south. Back on Whitwell Road, we were on the paths we had trodden this morning, passing Shire Oak again and taking us into the Wood. We strode towards the hub of the spider’s web of paths, paused to enjoy the relative calm and beauty and then straight south back to our cars and the A619. There, Brian was the worthy recipient of much well-earned congratulation, compliments and gratitude. The backmarker got a share too. Then, given the weather conditions, as Storm Dennis was clearly revving up, we shuffled off to our motley motors and set off for home. It was 14.35. A very good walk spoiled only a little by Dennis, whose worst may still be ahead.
Saturday 8th February – Wentbridge to the Highs and Lows of Ackworth
We assembled today, just off the A1, about 5 km (3 miles) south-east of Pontefract in the quiet, little village of Wentbridge, so called because it straddles the River Went and a sizeable bridge connects the two halves. Many parts of the North East make various claims to the legend of Robin Hood and some people even fly from his original airport. Wentbridge, however, may have more right than most to assert a demonstrable association with “the prince of thieves”. There are a couple of medieval monastic deeds from the fourteenth century that refer to Robin Hood in the area. There are some local landmarks named after him – Robin Hood’s Stone and Robin Hood’s Well – and there are references in two very early ballads from the 1400’s. For instance, in Robin Hood and the Potter, Lytll John (Little John) says he met Robyn Hode at Went Breg (Wentbridge, obviously).
So, as we watched nervously for “men in tights” or anyone in ‘Lincoln Green’ (yes, even the “yellowbellies” get in on the act), ‘maids’ Liz and Lyn, our seasoned and accomplished leaders, called us together for the briefing. Warm welcomes were extended to all but especially to guests Denise, Pete and Jeremy who helped swell the overall number today to twenty two. Lyn outlined the walk, noting a climb to a nearby, limestone ridge, then road walking to East Hardwick, on to Ackworth and there would be mud, but some adjustments were being made to avoid the worst of it. Liz added she would back mark for a little while, then merry, yeoman Steven would take over that important responsibility.
From the bridge, we set off north-west, past the Wentbridge House Hotel and up the hill, past some very impressive housing. At a green finger post, indicating not only a public footpath but also that it led to Went Hill and Moor Lane, we turned left into a wooded patch and a short but steady climb. Once we reached the top, the trees persisted for a while, but it was a flat, firm track on which we trod. Our views to the north and east opened up first, revealing what we agreed were the mighty Ferrybridge, Eggborough and Drax power stations on the horizon. Then, as we progressed into a Conservation Area via a kissing gate, the trees on the other side dwindled and disappeared, exposing even more familiar sights like the mast at Emley Moor. Quite spectacular views and with such nourishment for the eye, we had to take time to stand and stare. William Henry Davies would have been proud of us.
The path on the imposing ridge came to an end and instead we had follow the route downwards until we met Moor Lane and followed the tarmac to reach East Hardwick and the grounds of the church of St. Stephen where, in bright sunshine, we settled down for our morning break. The first arrivals on the scene nabbed the benches; the rest of us had to make do with resting on, or against, the low cemetery walls. Denise and Pete from Scunthorpe brought their own lightweight, very comfortable stools that they acquired in “Go Outdoors.” Just as we were readying ourselves for departure, the church doors opened and we were invited in for a swift tour and some information from three parishioners who were already inside.
Our thoughtful leaders, having extended our “elevenses” so those who wanted could have a look inside St. Stephen’s, gathered us together again. It was 11.30 and we made our way to Darrington Road where a very neglected old primary school, resembling a scene from Sleeping Beauty because of overgrown, thorny brambles, tall grasses and woody weeds, attracted our attention. We crossed the busy A639 to reach the quiet safety of Sandy Gate Lane and, passing the cricket ground, another finger post informed us that Hundhill Lane was 200 metres away, once we climbed a stone stile. Another stone stile allowed us access to Hundhill Lane and after about 150 metres we found another post indicating the way to High Ackworth. This route took us over lovely, sunny, open fields, a couple of foot bridges and an extensive muddy stretch that then led us to the main road, the A628, passing an impressive war memorial. Minutes later, at 12.15, we arrived outside the Brown Cow and, just a little beyond that, to a grassy hummock, replete with a couple of benches, one with roof cover. Most found space there or on the octagonal tiers of the mount for the village cross. Given continued sunshine, it was a pleasing location to watch nearby passing traffic.
Inside the Brown Cow we were made very welcome, a tangible example of which was a free and gratis selection of delicious sandwiches (we did a whip round to express our equally tangible gratitude for quite exceptional hospitality). Just after 13.00, with twenty two still present and correct, we set off once more. A short distance down the A628, we took an almost hidden ginnel that led to Hill Drive. Another snicket led us to towards some damp and muddy open fields to reach Low Ackworth. At Station Road, we crossed over to discover another ginnel, another stone stile and more damp, muddy fields. Some evasive swerves from one field to another, through one hedge to another, and back again saved us from some very sticky patches.
Near Low Farm, near Ackworth Moor Top, we were confronted with deep, gelatinous and very viscid mud either side of a stile. Here George embarked on a heroic rescue. One of the rearguard got properly stuck, ankle deep in the gooey mire. With no regard for his own safety, George was able to pull him free and the pair escaped a sticky end. After that, a kissing gate and a foot bridge delivered us to a point where, with a right incline, we were in sight of the railway viaduct and a long, muddy path, beside the River Went, unfolded before us. Whatever the Vibram soles claim as virtues for their design, it was impossible not to slip and slide and sway off-balance like drunks. In the circumstances, it was remarkable we had only one faller, whom Hilda quickly helped with tissues and sympathy.
The mud continued as we passed the sewage works. Foot bridges were covered in sludgy clay. Momentary respite came as we crossed the A639 but then, as we approached Thorp Marsh, it should have given us a clue about what to expect – some more mud. So mud-caked and bespattered, we climbed our final stile to join Wentbridge Lane (B6474) and, with solid tarmac under our feet, descend towards our cars. It was about 14.45 when we reached our starting point again. Our leaders and back marker, whose unflagging and indomitable spirits were comparable to that which prevailed at Dunkirk, were dutifully and deservedly thanked for their sound management, care and consideration throughout the day. As we exchanged tributes and goodbyes, even the sun was still shining, although the early signs of Storm Ciara were becoming evident in the blustery winds.
Saturday 1st February – Sturton le Steeple ( which, strangely enough, doesn’t have a steeple)!!
In dry conditions, a chilly breeze blowing, but under a blue sky dusted with light cloud, twenty nine ramblers assembled this morning, about six miles east of Retford and between West Burton and Cottam Power Stations, in Sturton le Steeple. There was a palpable buzz of animated debate and conversation about Sturton’s name and why, strangely enough, it didn’t have a steeple. If you eavesdropped, you could hear diverse discussions that it probably had a steeple once but it was presumably destroyed and then rebuilt with a (cheaper) tower. Fire, lightning strikes, earthquakes, poor building materials and bad workmanship or even Civil War damage were all credible suggestions but one small group was right. It would seem that the Trent Vale has evidence of human habitation over 8000 years and during the last two millennia Sturton (which means ‘homestead on the street’ where the ‘street’ was the Roman road connecting Doncaster to Lincoln) has undergone more than a dozen name changes. For example, in 1086 it was Estretone. In 1375 it was Neyerstretton. In 1509 it was Styrton. In 1640 it was Sturton cum Fenton. In 1823 it became Sturton le Steeple to differentiate it from Sturton-by-Stow (on the same Roman ‘street’, about seven miles away to the east), and the twelve pinnacles on the church tower, which could be seen for miles around, justified the claim to “steeple.”
The walk leaders, the estimable, experienced and unflappable David and Sonia Priest, put an end to the various ‘steeple’ ramblings when they gently launched into the necessary pre-walk information and arrangements. David, clutching a worrisome umbrella but with Oscar-worthy delivery in both speech and gesture, explained the route and the likelihood of much mud, having cordially welcomed everyone, including a long list of particular people – Mel (Retford), Sal, Richard and Marilyn (Scunthorpe), Lyn (recovering from knee injury) and Martin (Doncaster). We were also told about a ‘treat’ on our walk, with a guide who would explain ‘it’: timings might be a little fluid in consequence. Meantime, Sonia, who soon became our steadfast and conscientious backmarker, began counting the enthusiastic throng.
Leaving our cars to the east of twelfth century St. Peter and St. Paul’s church, we were led west towards the first of the advertised “broad, green lanes, unique to this area” in the shape of Springs Lane. We liked the firm, grassy track; little sign of sludge or mire as yet. We enjoyed the width, as it allowed fours and fives to walk abreast comfortably and share the chat. We were delighted that the weather was being so well-mannered – a really great day for walking. Some showed off their elation and high spirits even more when we walked into a tunnel under the railway, and they tested, in song, the strength of the echo. Then, having walked just over a mile, our considerate leader allowed a brief stop to take in the attractive surroundings and give those a bit further back the chance to catch up and catch their breath too.
High House Road, part of the Trent Valley Way, took us forward almost another mile before we turned south towards Sturton High House and Rathole Lane. We encountered our first significant mud and mucky ponds. A short turn west, at the railway crossing, took us into Clarborough Nature Reserve. Our leaders had cleverly reserved us some space there too, to allow us to sit or stand and enjoy a break for some refreshments. In conversation, some acknowledged they knew or cared little about any Brexit revelry the night before. Another of our number, normally reserved, retiring and reticent, shared his opinions about the horsemen of the apocalypse, noting how the world has had floods, fire and now pestilence (coronavirus) but maybe Brexit will save us from “a plague of frogs.” The temperature seems to drop during such intervals so, after about fifteen minutes, we began to put flasks and fodder away, ready to resume our excursion deeper into Nottinghamshire.
Having left the Reserve at 11.15, we continued our southerly trajectory, passing some pleasant woodland on our way, a brief change from the wide, open spaces. We then veered east to confront serious mire and watery potholes, but the sun came out again to cheer us on our way. We passed along Retford Gate and walked by Caddow Wood Farm. In the distance, on the right, the view of Cottam Power Station was imposing, impressive and panoramic. Before long, West Burton Power Station was also clearly visible to our left. Then another majestic, but much older, much smaller “power station”, hove into view – our ‘treat’, North Leverton Windmill. It was almost noon and we had covered about a further two miles since our elevenses. It was now time for lunch at the picnic tables with time too to explore the three-storied brick structure, coated in tar to keep the elements at bay.
About half of us took to the picnic tables first, perhaps attracted by the company of a couple of friendly chickens or the nearby loos. The rest were keen to inspect the windmill, whose origins go back to 1813. There was also the opportunity for a little retail therapy, a chance to buy oats, flour or eggs. Once we had all eaten our pack-ups, taken advantage of the facilities, played with the chickens and been inside the mill, our guide gave us all a short history of the premises and an insight into the engineering – French stones, tentering gear, the wallower, brake chain, fantails. The North Leverton Windmill Association deserve credit for preserving this valuable asset and active reminder of our not too distant past.
Eventually, we had to leave. We reconnected with the Trent Valley Way, unsurprisingly, on Mill Lane which led us into the little village of North Leverton with Habblesthorpe, where, shortly after we passed All Saints’ Church, we struck a path going north. Here we met a long stretch of treacherous, deep, squelchy mud and more watery holes, unforgiving traps for the unwary or unfortunate. Some intrepid front runners made it through. Others were sceptical and found a safer, diagonal route across some firmer, grassy fields which led to the welcome reunion of both groups. There was some more loose talk of “chickens” but, probably, people were already reminiscing, or were they?
This last significant obstacle having been overcome, our starting point could be clearly seen in the distance, encouraging us onwards. The homeward leg was mostly over open fields and good, solid ground. Hedges, on field boundary banks, revealed lots of burrowing badger setts The sun came out once more. Spirits rose again and remained high. The only minor difficulties were the soggy, muddy patches before and after the many kissing gates and occasional foot bridge. We passed Fenton and continuing north, it was not long before we were back on tarmac and walking west on Low Holland Lane, then Church Street and our transport home. It was 13.30. We had completed about seven very satisfying miles.
Perhaps it was this shorter than usual distance that attracted twenty nine walkers. Or maybe it was the relatively local, easily accessible and lovely location that we visit infrequently. Possibly it was the benign weather forecast or, feasibly, it was the well-known qualities of today’s leaders. Whatever the explanation for such a large turn out, today’s followers were not disappointed. Their gratitude for the leaders’ preparations for, and delivery of, a well-led, pleasing and entertaining walk was shown in the greatly deserved hugs and handshakes at the end. David and Sonia, thank you for leading and back marking with quiet skill and great style. It was, as Wallace and Grommit would say, a ‘Grand Day Out.’
Saturday 18th January – A Rossington Ramble
Given the general wet and windy weather we have endured on many recent Saturdays, it would be churlish to complain about today’s conditions which were calm, bright, sunny and, after scraping some early morning frost and ice from windscreens before driving to Rossington, acceptably clean and crisp for walking. In the context of clear blue skies and sunshine, one or two Panglossian optimists, (who had, in addition, obviously looked at photographs on the website showing early primroses and snow drops), were moved to speculate about the possible arrival of “Spring”. By contrast, the odd curmudgeon in our midst, with a hint of Weltschmerz, was not so easily convinced and made reference to the not so long ago “ Beast from the East.”
Twenty one ramblers assembled where Bond Street and Radburn Road intersect. Dianne Scolari, our eminent, esteemed and experienced walk leader, summoned the serried ranks for a chef d’oeuvre of a pre-walk briefing. First, she warmly welcomed everyone, especially two newcomers, Peter and Pat: Kerry (an occasional fugitive from habitual Tuesday outings) was cordially greeted and then Phil and Maurice, both coming back after illness, were heartily saluted for their return to us and better health. Next, we were offered a choice of walks; we could select a “wet and muddy” walk or, if that was not to our tastes, we could have a “muddy and wet” walk! There were then some intellectual mutterings about whether this was Morton’s fork or Hobson’s choice. The leader had to restore order and her tactic was to mention “danger” as she alluded to some parts of the walk that might look like ground firm enough to support elephants but it was possibly a treacherous trough, like quicksand, where boots and more could be lost in the depths of the mischievous mire. That certainly got our attention and we listened conscientiously to the rest of the information. Against stiff competition, Trevor Jenkins was appointed back marker.
Off we set, south, to the back of the houses whose fronts had just seen us assemble: then it was west, into flat, open land at the rear of more houses. Initially the going was good to soft but, as we moved steadily in the direction of some grassy, elevated ground, we began to see some distant but obvious clues of potential difficulties ahead – multiple furrows of standing water and, nearby, swans and seagulls congregating playfully on an expansive pond not marked on the map. Our first modest climb up a foothill, a “slag heap” as some would call it but “spoil tip” as the cognoscenti would understand it, was followed by a steady descent towards the cemetery, two sides of which we successfully navigated. The size, slopes and character of the main “slag heap” were soon to be revealed for what they were, namely the decades-old, accumulated waste of shale, sandstone and other pulverised extracts and granular residues – but no slag - left over from local coal mining. Despite a large sign declaring this was “Private Property,” some of the wasteland, badly scarred and gouged by tyre tracks, was clearly the victim of off-road vehicular adventures. Worse for us, the leader’s forewarnings came true. What often looked like solid terrain was not. Instead, its solidity was deceptive, disguising depths of soft, sludgy, unforgiving mush. It was hard work climbing slopes and traversing tops but there was a reward; at the summit, there were some fine views, even sight of a glistening Cusworth Hall in the far distance.
Down from the ‘heights,’ we were gently led over a footbridge, spanning the little River Torne that wends its way to the Trent. A broad, pot-holed but reasonably firm path followed along Carr Bank, then left down Egg Lane, which gave way to a grassy stretch with a line of pylons to keep us company. We then trekked over various fields on muddy, slippery paths until a narrow, partly flooded, tarmac path led us to Wellingley Grange. There we veered south-west for a few hundred metres and at 11.25 the leader declared “Elevenses” and we shouted various “hurrahs”, “hoorays” or “huzzas,” the latter indicating there was a sailor amongst us.
At 11.40 the group arose from its brief rest and refuelling. Still on good tarmac, we strode in the direction of the noisy A1(M), passing Billy Wrights Lane on one side and Stancil Lane on the other. At Wellingley Farm, we could see, up close, just how big some farm machinery can be, some with tyres taller than us. A bridge over the A1(M) led onto Wellingley Lane and from there onto the Doncaster Road which offered a little road-walking as we headed towards Tickhill. The road also displayed some 30 mph signs which, while obviously irrelevant to us, seemed equally irrelevant to some motorists. As we turned right into Dadsley Road, we hoped we had left the busy road behind but no, several cars came our way, obliging us to seek safety in driveways. Our leader skilfully led us back to Doncaster Road, over to Common Lane for a short distance, then right towards Croft Drive and along public footpaths to Tithes Lane. By this time, it was 12.22 and our helpful leader outlined options for our lunch stop. There was the pub itself (The Scarbrough Arms on Sunderland Street), picnic tables in the pub car park, the Buttercross or some benches were situated nearby. While different clusters scurryied here and there, most ended up in the Arms, in the delightful snug with barrel-shaped furniture and a real fire. The welcome from the landlord was equally warm.
We foregathered in the pub car park about 13.10 and said our fond farewells to Phil, who, after his illness, thought it wise not to overdo things. Then, with the back marker successfully counting twenty souls, we retraced footsteps to Tithes Lane, from where we zigzagged our way past The Oval and over a number of little bridges. Soon we crossed back over the A1(M) by a bigger bridge and that led us into wide, open, flat, often watery green spaces again, courtesy of more muddy lanes, like Common Lane and Hopyard Lane, replete with many water-filled pot-holes. Leaving the lanes and crossing fields, some foragers began to spot and collect abandoned potatoes and carrots. The age of the hunter-gatherer lingers on. Another bridge, beside a large piece of pipework, provided passage over the Torne again only to open up about 150 metres of unavoidable, swampy bog. With the houses of Rossington and All Saints Academy to beckon us, it was a straightforward trek back to our starting point.
It was 14.45 as we congregated in an orderly queue to offer our wholehearted appreciation to Dianne for organising such agreeable weather and providing a memorable ramble, which she led in her customary, good-humoured, relaxed and faultless manner. We then had a little spell of various ‘goodbyes’ and ‘take cares’ before car boots were opened and muddy walking boots were taken off, destined for a good clean in readiness for next week’s five-six miler, starting at 10.30, prior to the afternoon SYNED AGM, from Victoria Methodist Church, Strafford Road, S2 2SE.
Saturday 11th January – The Beautiful Ewden Valley.
Today’s walk, as written in the programme, promised ‘impressive views.’ It delivered some spectacular vistas. The booklet also advised, following the tradition set by Hannibal when addressing his Carthaginian troops and elephants on the Roman Alpine frontier, it would be a ‘moderate to strenuous’ ramble with ‘some inevitable ups and downs!’ Those descriptions were equally honoured: there were even some flat stretches amongst the hills. The weather forecast said there would be cloud cover coming in from the north-west, leading to likely precipitation by late afternoon, but with some possible bright interludes and strong, gusting, blustery winds, especially on the uplands. That prediction was largely fulfilled as well: some hats blew off here and there but, happily, all were recaptured and returned to their rightful heads. By walk’s end, ten Doncaster ramblers gathered again near the village hall in Bolsterstone, tired, and some quite weary, but satisfyingly so, relieved that the rain had held off and with a gratifying sense of overall achievement.
The leader of this enjoyably demanding outing was the very experienced, highly respected and accomplished Margaret Freestone, whose knowledge of paths around, and understanding of, the Ewden valley is unrivalled. Indeed, it is said she knows the area like the palm of her hand; the fact that she was wearing gloves seemed to bother nobody. Perhaps, this was because, as we all assembled for the pre-walk briefing, it was so cold and blowy we were all wearing gloves and appropriately accoutred and clad for a wintry walk. Given the weather and the need to get moving, the briefing was both comprehensive and concise.
Enthused, excited and encouraged by our leader’s briefing, we set off from Bolsterstone in a south-westerly direction towards Broomhead Reservoir, downhill, along the pavements of newly resurfaced Yew Trees Lane, with woods either side. After about half a mile, we abandoned tarmac and turned left to join a softer, leaf-strewn and often muddy path, that stuck quite close to the water’s edge. That path petered out, however, and we had to reacquaint ourselves with the road, cross a bridge, and then rejoin the reservoir’s edge for a short while. Next we were in woods, with one stretch looking like the aforementioned Hannibal’s elephants had felled a couple of acres and left an untidy, dishevelled, decaying mess. While the paths were firm, their slopes were generally upward and, while the trees offered some shelter from the winds, the same trees seemed to amplify the sounds of the gusts. As we reached the junction of Lee Lane and Canyards Hills Lane, we took a little time to admire the scenery before further moderate ascents to Mortimer Road, some 370 metres high, and enjoyed a further pause to absorb the landscape below.
Our ‘elevenses’ were consumed at a wide open site with a bench, just off Mortimer Road. On a better day, views would have been breath-taking but today was very windy at this height. Segments of our leader’s chocolate orange, which she was generously sharing with us, nearly blew out of her hands. Some hats were blown off and retrieved; some hats were so insecure they had to abandoned to the safety of the rucksack. In these cold and blustery conditions, our break was curtailed a little and we returned to the road after fifteen minutes.
A nearby public bridleway led us over Cowell Flat, an open moor peppered with boggy paths and skinny, skimpy birches, many bent or leaning in the direction of the prevailing winds. We descended slowly and steadily, dropping down the contours by about 40 metres, to Smallfield Lane, which we crossed, all the while contemplating the challenging prospect, about which we had been forewarned at the briefing, of climbing a strenuous, very steep 70 metres of contours at Rocher Head. Friendly sheep bleated some encouraging “baa” and “meh” utterances that helped us overcome the demanding climb and at the top we had rewarding views of, among other sights, Agden Reservoir in the distance. The powerful winds prompted us to resume our trek. We were buffeted by strong, boisterous breezes as we headed towards Penistone Road, then benefited from some welcome shelter as the track, featuring roots, rocks and sludge, wound between wall and woods on White Lee Moor. Views over Broomhead Reservoir were spectacular. Soon we were descending further to Walker Edge, then up Canyards Hills Lane and down Dwarriden Lane, with another long section of felled, flattened or uprooted trees and shrubs on our left.
We continued down, sometimes on slippery slopes, to reach the broad, firm, popular path running east alongside the turbulent waters of Broomhead Reservoir. We walked part way over the dam wall to swiftly savour the attractive views in the direction of More Hall Reservoir, where we were to have our lunch stop. So we retraced our steps on the wall and re-joined the waterside paths that led down and then flat beside More Hall’s calm, quiet watery edges. We found a picnic table, bench and some level ground beside a Yorkshire Water building to eat, chat and rest ourselves, which took about thirty minutes before the cold and itchy feet took over.
With seven miles already under our belts and some refreshments in our bellies, at 13.45 we set off for More Hall’s dam wall, which we then crossed to head west along a broad, uneven reservoir road towards Ewden village. One talking point was our passing observation of a couple feeding a significant quantity of ducks with bread and whether or not this was good for the ducks. This led to heated discussion about ducks in general and some concern was expressed about what the collective noun for ducks was. Apparently, a flock is the word when the ducks are in flight. A raft, team or paddling applies if the ducks are on water. So what are they called when a group are on dry land?
The reservoir road and the debate came to an end at the same time, as we needed all our breath to climb once more, this time towards Ewden village, then up the increasingly steep New Mill Bank and Yew Trees Lane that led back to Bolsterstone, scaling some 150 metres in contours in the process. Our kindly leader allowed a few recuperative stops on the way. Just after 14.30 we were offering Margaret both well-earned praise and much deserved thanks for a lovely, flawlessly led walk and saying farewells to our other companions, without whose congenial company and stimulating conversation, any walk would be the poorer.
Saturday 4th January – Happy New Year from Lovely Longshaw
Perhaps it was ‘New Year resolutions’ to get outside more, or get fitter, slimmer or healthier, or perhaps it was the enticing prospect of a good 8.5 mile leg-stretcher in an attractive area not too far from Doncaster, or perhaps a mixture of these and other reasons, but, despite a grey, cold and overcast day with some hints of drizzle, twenty-six fairly sane and entirely sober individuals assembled in the Longshaw Estate car park. Most managed, though some needed help, to negotiate the complexity of the Pay and Display machine, which catered for coin payments or allowed National Trust members to scan their cards (with QR codes) and avoid the hefty fee. The group, many of whom enjoyed generous gifts of scrumptious cake from George James, then moved down from the car park, past the little Welcome building to foregather, after a few hundred metres, near the Longshaw cafe, shop and toilets.
Our leader was the very accomplished Diane Smith, whose reputation for finding majestic routes and guiding walkers with care and consideration was greatly enhanced by today’s activity. During the pre-walk briefing, she wished everyone a Happy New Year, congratulated Dave King and George James on their recent birthdays, welcomed everyone (including Tilly, the well-behaved dog, and newcomer, multi-national Nicki), outlined the walk’s highlights and nominated, as backmarker, the reliable and encouraging Peter Miller, who knew the route and, despite wearing mittens rather than gloves, could still count to quite a high number.
Leaving the Longshaw cafe and shop, where some trees have been felled to allow for new building works, we headed north, crossed the B6521 and quickly found ourselves confronting our first stretch of rocky, boulder-strewn, boggy and muddy, open moorland, running parallel to the A6187. Subsequently, after a left turn, entry to a clearer path and crossing a bridge over Burbage Brook, we began a slow, steady climb in the direction of Carl Wark, that well-known scheduled monument and promontory on Hathersage Moor. After a brief encounter with a friendly Highland cow (other cows were available but breed and degree of amicability were unknown), we reached the univallate hill fort and, after further ascent, enjoyed our elevenses sitting inside its protective environs. For additional sustenance of body and mind, Diane kindly supplied ‘exceedingly good’ Bakewells while reciting iffy poetry from a different Kipling, with well-chosen lines like “ Or walk with Kings – nor lose the common touch.”
Descent from the Iron Age fortification led us along some soft, squelchy paths with imposing Higger Tor on our right. Before long, we were walking south and soon scaling rocky paths in biting, icy winds as we approached Over Owler Tor, whose summit, at over 380 metres, afforded panoramic views. The Breedon Hope Cement Works at Castleton were a delight to behold. With the wind chilling any exposed flesh, we descended onto Little Moor and then, under strict instructions to form up and keep in single file, we walked down a short section of busy road. A twist and turn later, we were gazing at the Millstone Country Inn on the A6187. The picnic tables in the Inn’s car park provided the venue for our lunchtime sandwiches, after which there was a mass migration inside for various beverages. Not only was the landlord hospitable and a quick server, but many of our tables were close to a large, welcoming log fire.
About 13.15 we had to leave our cosy surroundings and enjoy the fresh, clear air once more. We walked downhill, towards Hathersage, on the pavements for a short while. Then, sharply turning left into some fields, we soon descended a very steep, grassy, slippery stretch and crossed the railway line to reach the River Derwent, alongside of which there was a flat tarmac path that soon gave way to clay tracks. Sheep, obviously released from their Yuletide Nativity bookings, bleated supportingly as we passed them in the fields. All was blissfully bucolic and beautiful as we passed through Harper Lees and Coppice Wood. A short climb took us to a bridge over the rail track and then began a testing series of demanding, lengthy ascents, followed by rather short but fleetingly restorative flat sections. Stands of skinny, silver birches eventually greeted us on flattish terrain before we encountered various reflecting pools at the feet of impressively high, cliff-like walls of gritstone, the remains of Bolehill Quarry, from which about a million tons of the stone for the Howden and Derwent Dams were extracted.
Inevitably, after the quiet magnificence of the atmospheric, disused Quarry, there was another climb but, once again, with rewarding views, this time with a reddening glow to the grey, cloudy sky on the horizon, Mam Tor in the shadowy distance and Win Hill and Lose Hill seemingly not that far away. Picture postcard scenery and quite breath-taking for those who stopped to stare. Unfortunately, there was not long before we had to resume our trek, walking parallel to the A6187 to reach Owler Tor, a popular site for clambering and overlooking Padley Gorge. Someone had left a bunch of flowers by the plaque in memory of Richardson Evans who gave the 25 surrounding acres for the public to enjoy “that they may build from age to age an undefiled heritage.”
From Owler Tor, we could see the distant Longshaw Lodge and its attendant buildings but before reaching our return destination, we had to go downhill towards babbling Burbage Brook. Arriving at the brook and a footbridge, we headed upstream. There were plenty of other people doing the same thing and, unsurprisingly, the partly paved path was covered in generous helpings of slippery mud. We passed a weir and then reached another footbridge, where there was a pause for the mandatory group photograph. Innocent bystanders waited patiently, perhaps wondering if the little bridge could bear the weight. Shortly thereafter, we were back on the Longshaw Estate, heading for the Lodge or the car park. It was about 15.30 as we congratulated and thanked Diane for leading us on a lovely walk with such assurance and watchful care. A great day out was had by all.
Saturday 14th December – Christmas Ramble and Lunch at Clumber Park.
Although the weather forecasts mentioned wet, windy and wintry conditions, no fewer than twenty five turned up for the ramble and an additional two attended for lunch. It was indeed very cold as we arrived at the Muthu Clumber Park Hotel car park, but the mood warm as the “Christmas spirit” had clearly taken hold. Christmassy hats and jumpers were on display. Raffle prizes, colourfully wrapped in bows and ribbons were delivered to the organisers’ cars. Christmas cards, festive hugs and seasonal greetings were excitedly exchanged. Some were even singing carols. The odd one furtively munched a mince pie and it wasn’t raining. Even better, some of those who decided to go into the hotel for an early coffee, found themselves, accidentally, of course, in the breakfast area where residents could help themselves from the self-service machines. So a few ramblers benefited unintentionally. When even more ramblers appeared, however, the staff smelled a rat and the largesse came to an end. The question is, who was the smelly rat who gave the game away?
The clever and talented organisers of today’s outing were experienced and well-regarded walk leaders Liz Slack, Lyn Roe and Steven. Like herald angels, they called the disparate groups together for the briefing which was meticulously delivered and covered all the necessary topics with great style. Steven was volunteered to be backmarker, a duty he discharged with rare distinction and enviable good humour.
From the car park, our first hurdle was to cross the bustling A614 and, having succeeded, we entered a long, straight stretch of tarmac that, fairly quickly, led us to our first sighting of the 87 acre serpentine lake, around the circumference of which would be the basis of our 6 mile walk. The sun was shining, albeit weakly, and there were lovely blue patches in the skies; the trees helped subdue the winds and, while it was cold and crisp, with layers of slippery leaves cushioning our feet, the beautifully changing landscape and views were impressive. Postcard worthy was our early, magnificent encounter with the Gothic revival Chapel and the walled garden, which we saw from the opposite banks of the lake. The House that was the seat of the Dukes of Newcastle for over 300 years had to be demolished in 1938, after a series of fires, but the Chapel and gardens certainly gave a flavour of its probable stately splendour.
We soon crossed the lake over an elegantly grand bridge, looking rather sorry for itself because its beauty was hidden by fencing and scaffolding. Under repair, it was not looking its best. The Grotto was our next interesting feature. Some stopped to see if Father Christmas was around, but others read the notice relating the facts that it was built around 1765 and by the late nineteenth century it housed a water turbine which allowed it to exploit a metre difference in the lake level created by an artificial weir nearby. Apparently, in times of power failure, the turbine can still be used. The Turning Yard came next, a large grassy space with a welcome array of toilets, cafe, shop, plant sales and an imposing clock tower. Opportunities for elevenses were explained and as individuals headed off in various directions, the rain came on. The sky grew darker and blacker; the wind whipped up and drove the rain from the vertical to the near horizontal. What a cloudburst it was, but after fifteen to twenty minutes it was over. The skies cleared and the sun, once again, had its hat on.
Since, grounded by the downpour, we’d been unable to explore the area, our ever considerate leaders allowed us more time to visit the attractions and facilities. The National Trust, who took over the park in 1946, had a well-stocked shop that tempted many of us to visit and spend. Packets of attractive Christmas cards on a “three for two” offer were hard to resist. The spending frenzy, however, stopped as word spread that the walk was about to resume.
The return leg of our ramble took us close by the handsome Chapel, then along the lakeside with views across to where we had been walking earlier. The recent deluge had swollen the waters passing over a ford, but luckily not high enough to swamp the footbridge that we walked over. Some wet and muddy, open country paths followed and, with nothing to diminish the force of the wind, ears and cheeks grew numb. Fortunately, it was not long before we were back at the A614 and, returning to the car park, some dramatic changes from rugged rambling clothing to merry, light-hearted attire took place.
The hotel staff were very welcoming and we were soon shown to our private dining room, festively decorated and with tables adorned with crisp white linen, gleaming cutlery and crackers for all. Before you could try to name all Santa’s reindeer, raffle tickets were on sale and such was the skill and speed of the organisers – Liz, Lyn and Betty – the winning numbers were being announced. Prize-winners were giddy with anticipation and excitement. The next numbers were announced. Squeals of delight followed and so it continued until all the many prizes had been won. Voices were hoarse and croaky after so much shrieking and screeching. Hands were numb after so much applause. Nearly fifty pounds, probably destined for Edale Mountain Rescue or Air Ambulance, were collected.
For those who failed to win anything, some consolation was to be found in the delicious food and quick, attentive service that followed. Most agreed that the salmon or turkey for our mains were creatively arranged, hot on delivery to the table and toothsomely scrumptious. Dessert choices were either panacotta or traditional Christmas pudding. Either choice was pleasingly palatable.
Shortly after two o’clock, most were satisfyingly full and, as the tables began to be cleared of remaining plates, glasses and cutlery, thank-yous, goodbyes and various seasonal wishes could be heard all over. The thank-yous were obviously directed at some of the servers in the room but mostly at Liz, Lyn and Steven who had organised the entire event, starting way back at the start of 2019, when “recces” and provisional bookings took place. Today’s outing was immensely pleasurable, and the fact that it all worked so smoothly and seamlessly was down to the aforementioned, hard-working trio. They richly deserved our sincere appreciation of their many efforts. Not that many things beat a short, brisk walk, a good meal and good company in comfortable surroundings. Again, many thanks.
A Merry Christmas and a happy, healthy and prosperous New Year.
Saturday 7th December – “It’s all Dutch to me.”
As we drove the dozen miles along the B1396 to Westwoodside from Doncaster, many of us had to scratch our heads in wonderment. The sun was shining, blindingly bright and low on the horizon. What to do? Reach for the rarely used sun visor, of course, which made a wondrous change from our prolonged, recent habit of having our windscreen wipers going at full speed. What was even better, we could subsequently dispense with overtrousers, waterproofs and umbrellas, and, as it was relatively mild, the sun shining, off and on, until early afternoon, many were able to shed a few layers along the way. There was some talk about applying sunscreen but clearly those individuals were already suffering from the unaccustomed heat.
Eighteen of us assembled outside the The Carpenter’s Arms in Newbigg. Possibly out of concern for their safety or just to satisfy their curiosity, some of the friendly local citizenry, on their way to the nearby convenience store, questioned who we were and why we standing as if waiting for a bus when clearly there was no bus stop. Replying that we were members of Doncaster Ramblers en route to Epworth and back, brought a number of sympathetic and knowing looks together with polite expressions of “That’s nice for you” or “Good luck with that.” One shopper piously hoped, in view of recent, incessant downpours we could all swim and regretted she did not have the telephone number for the RNLI.
Our walk leader for today’s eleven miler was the very experienced and highly esteemed Ash Wilson, with a very colourful, festive elfin top and seasonal hat. He gathered us together for the obligatory briefing which was very comprehensive and included a very cordial welcome to Steve, Tom and Peter. He also promised us “the Wesley experience” in Epworth, which was to include a tour of St.Andrew’s Anglican church. There would be no stops before that destination, as a guide would be there waiting for us. A backmarker was selected from hordes of volunteers and off the group went, first onto Brethergate and then up and over Gollands Lane, before slowly descending again onto the wide, flat, open spaces that the Dutch engineer,Vermuyden, drained and reclaimed almost 400 years ago.
Our paths north towards Epworth proved how successful Vermuyden and his drains and dikes had been. Most of the grassy tracks were firm underfoot, with only occasional ponding or standing water where large tractor tyres had gouged out deep troughs that were full of watery, muddy traps for the unwary. The tarmac, foot bridges and cinder sections were equally solid and, as the sun shone brighter, the temperature rose, so some had to stop to thin out their garments. Another unexpected feature on our northward trek was the appearance of unusual signage - white arrows on a red background, together with frequent strands of tinsel – presumably for some Christmassy human or equestrian event. It was quite sad when, moving east, as we approached Epworth, we and the tinsel parted company.
Crossing the busy A161 to enter Blow Road was a challenge but it took us into Epworth at 11.30. Up Queen Street, then Market Place and we arrived at St. Andrew’s, which revealed its Saxon origins when underfloor heating was installed a few years ago. Our astute and discerning leader had arranged for the church to be open for us and a guide to show us various artefacts.The church, despite all its architectural and other merits, is better known as the home of the Wesleys. Samuel Wesley, the father, was Rector for forty years, up to 1735. His sons, John and Charles, were born and raised in Epworth. The children were baptised in the font and received Communion from a chalice still used on special occasions and which our guide kindly allowed us to see. We also saw the Mowbray shield, Susanna Wesley’s chair and a huge storage chest with three formidable padlocks, made in 1564 from Baltic pine and poplar. John Wesley was a curate at St. Andrew’s for a while. So church and town together are regarded as “the birthplace of Methodism.”
Those who enjoyed the full, absorbing church tour emerged outside at 11.55 and joined the others who were finishing their elevenses near the children’s play area. One of the group who was still hungry wished for a Snickers bar and, appropriately, a shop over the road was called The Wishing Well. The wanderer returned happy, a half eaten bar proudly held aloft. Our earlier steps were then partly retraced back along Queen Street. Mowbray Street and Rectory Street led us to the Old Rectory, the Wesley home for decades, and we paused briefly for a group photograph in bright sunshine.
Almost immediately opposite the Old Rectory, we took the Peatlands Way south in the direction of Low and then High Burnham. It was here we understood the relevance of the leader's briefing information that our paths north were over sandy terrain and reasonably dry, while our paths south were mostly on clay and inclined to be watery. Crossing wide open field after field, often zigzagging, we had lots of fun in the mud, of the sticky, claggy, clarty and mucilaginous variety. Before long, however, we had reached Fields Road and that took us into East Lound about 13.15. Our leader showed us a couple of bases where we could have lunch. Most chose the pinfold, where, in earlier days, straying livestock were rounded up and released upon payment of a fine.
At 13.40 we gathered together our belongings and then set off for our return route to Newbigg, a distance of about 2.5 miles. At first, we trod west on the solid pavements beside Brackenhill Road. Then we veered north on pleasant, firm, grassy or stony bridleways and footpaths passing farms or open fields with wide skies into the distance, by-passing Haxey. In less than an hour, we were back at Upperthorpe, Gollands Lane and Brethergate. There had been no rain at all throughout the walk. By 14.40 we were saying deserving thank-yous to our estimable leader, who guided us flawlessly and considerately all day. We also paid tribute for “the Wesley experience.” Farewells were also exchanged, with many hoping to meet up next Saturday at Clumber for the Christmas ramble and lunch.
Saturday 23rd November – ‘Brodsworth calling Danny Boy’
One of the various obligations walk leaders accept when submitting a walk for the programme is to give their walk a name. Inevitably, some titles are easier to understand than others but, perhaps, we’re often too shy or uninterested to ask the question. Today was different. The issue was raised. “How come you chose that description?” “You sound Irish. Are you Danny Boy?” The explanation was, in fact, roughly this.
Many of us, too young to experience or remember the Second World war, were often “entertained” in the decades that followed by popular books and films about the conflict. One such best-selling novel was the 1967 “Where Eagles Dare,” by the prolific Alistair Maclean. He also wrote the screenplay for the equally successful film of the same name that came out in 1968. The film is now regarded as a classic and is shown on TV as a special treat for bank and other holidays. The main commando characters, played by Richard Burton and Clint Eastwood in the film, are sent to Schloss Adler to rescue a captured American general who might, under brutal interrogation, reveal vital D-Day secrets to the Germans. Burton and Eastwood use the radio call sign “Broadsword” in communication with their UK base “Danny Boy.” The call sign became a catchphrase in the 1970’s and stock material for Burton impressionists. The catchphrase was even used as a code during the more recent News International phone-hacking scandal. It was an easy swap, for today’s walk, to substitute Brodsworth for “Broadsword.”
Before heading to Hull with grandchildren, Liz Slack joined us for a little while to collect remaining menu choices and monies for the Christmas lunch at Clumber Park. Undeterred by low-hanging clouds, drizzle and rain, and having been granted prior permission so to do, fifteen other ramblers congregated in Brodsworth Hall car park in cheerful, noisy anticipation of a leisurely ten mile circular. This erstwhile merriment, however, partly subsided when, Trevor Jenkins, the walk leader, as he went through the required pre-walk briefing schedule, had to apologise for the fact that many muddy paths and claggy fields lay ahead, and even worse, there would be no pub stop.The Pickburn Arms – despite information on the web indicating refurbishments and investments – was still closed. The Hostel in Hooton Pagnell did not open Saturday lunchtime. The group’s disappointment was almost tangible but no one left. Two people were then thought to have volunteered to be backmarker and when the first to have raised an arm was duly appointed, there was a swift, firm and solemn abjuration. Apparently a serious muscular spasm had caused an arm to rise unintentionally. By contrast, George James graciously and gallantly honoured his fractionally slower offer to back mark, a position he carried out very effectively and with constant courtesy.
Given the bad weather and the bad news about ground conditions and pub unavailability, the group moved towards Church Lane in subdued mood, but spirits quickly soared as someone began to whistle Colonel Bogey – a very apt choice because the large pond we had to cross to reach the Lane looked as if it could do with a bridge. A left turn into Brodsworth Road, followed quickly by a right turn just before the bus shelter, took us then northwards along grassy paths and reasonably solid terrain towards Windy Mount and a small wind farm of four turbines. Next, we skirted the perimeters of Hampole Wood, a wet route but still fairly stable underfoot. However, as we began to criss-cross some fields on our way to North Field Road, the slippery, sludgy, sticky mud began to clutch our boots and weary our muscles. After three miles, ‘elevenses,’ in a convenient, slightly sheltered lay-by out of the sludge, provided a welcome rest and a chance to refuel. The mysterious appearance of lemon drizzle cake that we all could share was rather appropriate as it blended in with the continued rain and mizzle.
‘Elevenses’ lasted all of thirteen minutes. The whip was cracked. Another sludgy field, made worse by many equine hoof prints from, as one rambler rather rudely described them, “donkey-wallopers,” was slowly crossed to reach North Field Road, then down Stanwell Lane to Moorhouse Lane and some firm tarmac. A hop and a skip later over another field oozing mire and muck, we walked onto a dismantled railway track south west towards Doncaster Road and Elmsall Lane, where we did a sharp right turn to cross more fields and water-logged grassland that took us to Hooton Pagnell Wood. Sodden tracks with slippery leaves, fallen trees, overhanging branches and muddy morasses were just delightfully exciting parts of this sylvan adventure, after which we emerged onto an open, flat stretch that fetched us, once over an awkward stile, onto Clayton Lane and our way to Hooton Pagnell. The ‘Hooton’ part refers to the hill, some eighty metres above sea level and the ‘Pagnell’ part derives from the Norman, Ralph de Paganel, who was granted the land by William the Conqueror. We discussed the rights and wrongs of Norman history and the ins and outs of Norman genealogy as we sat down to eat our pack-ups, in the light drizzle, around the war memorial. This sombre pillar commemorates eight who fell in the Great War and four who gave their lives in the Second World War. It was arrayed with recently laid wreaths from the primary school, the Lord Lieutenant, the Legion and the village.
The lunch stop was a short affair of about twenty minutes. The wet and miserable weather was one reason but, with no prospect of a pub stop, there were also audible, teasing murmurings from some quarters, rather like Captain Bligh experienced on HMS Bounty. So, to avoid being set adrift by idle hands, the walk leader resumed the active ramble and very shortly we were back on North Field Road, and after a right turn, walking over the very straight, half mile long Broad Balk. This led us south to Lound Lane and then east around Lound Hill, a location that reminded one rambler, with some thirty years’ standing, of very enjoyable, former New Year’s Day Hangover Hikes. It was then a trek of about three-quarters of a mile, slightly downhill, towards Pickburn, before we reached a point where, with no pub to encourage us to walk further, we were soon retracing our steps down to Brodsworth Road and then back to the car park. With just over nine miles completed, we reached our starting point again a little shy of 14.00.
Despite the wet, the mud and the let-down over the pub, the customary, comradely civilities of handshakes and hugs followed and declarations of gratitude and farewells were exchanged. We all knew that, irrespective of the conditions, our nine miler had provided many individual and collective benefits. Walking in a group provides good company and friendships as well as good exercise that, in turn, improves stamina, burns calories and makes hearts and circulation healthier. When we next find a pub, let’s drink to that!
Saturday 16th November – Rivelin Valley Re-visited
At the start of a walk from Market Rasen on 22nd October, Tony Marsh had a fall and suffered significant injuries to nose, shoulder, elbow and various vertebrae, resulting in hospitalisation, considerable and ongoing pain and further hospital visits since. Typically, as soon as he knew he would be unlikely to lead today’s walk, he began to search high and low for an suitable alternative. In the end, he had to make do with Trevor Jenkins whom he knew was normally of sound mind, fairly hale in body and gives a good impression of knowing what he’s doing. The aforementioned substitute was subsequently well briefed at Marsh headquarters, given detailed maps of the thoughtfully prepared route and politely asked to report back after the “recce” with any questions, queries, comments or observations. This was duly done and further encouragement was generously given. Even so, an “Alert” went out on the internet, advising the world of the change of leader!
Two “recces” and many inches of rain later, the locum leader welcomed “Archie” and another twelve familiar faces in the small car park on Rails Road. (Where all their guardians and attendants in white coats were hiding no-one could tell as visibility was restricted by mists, drizzle and low clouds.) The briefing, covering all the usual points, was slightly longer than usual owing to a commercial break to advertise, on behalf of long-standing Ramblers member, Owen Evans, a Victorian Christmas Evening on the 11th December at the Mansion House. Once a back marker – reliable and experienced Peter Miller – volunteered for the position and was gratefully accepted, the excitable group walked out of the car park, turned left and enjoyed a steady climb up the road, followed by a short, steep pull up a grassy embankment. A short pause, to allow some catching of breath, was soon over and the route west turned flat and over a well-defined, often water-logged and muddy track. This led us to Rivelin Rough, aptly named as it involved some rough, overgrown, saturated terrain, which, in turn, led us down to the A57 and the Rivelin Dams.
As we trod along the tarmac path over the Lower Rivelin Dam in light rain, the photographers stopped to record their pleasure at the sight of a large expanse of calm, dark, glassy water reflecting the surroundings like a mirror. Those, without cameras, played a game of exchanging random facts about the dam. One exclaimed that “it was built in 1845.” Another, an obvious mathematician, declared that “it contains roughly 175 million gallons.” A third, clearly from farming stock, calculated the acreage at about 30 and so it probably would have continued had we not arrived at Wyming Brook, only to be confronted with signs saying our route was closed owing to the recent, prolonged weight of water damaging some of the bridges and sweeping away another. The expectant group looked to the leader, asking about “Plan B”. Embarrassedly, the locum had to reveal he had no such instantaneous “Plan B”. It was then that Diane Smith, always the diligent student and carrier of a large map of the area being walked, miraculously revealed that there could be a “Plan B” by walking on a bit further and then taking a broad path to the car park on Redmires Road, our erstwhile objective had we had access to the paths along Wyming Brook.
The newly offered “Plan B” was quickly, joyfully and thankfully adopted, and, as we had “elevenses” en route, we could see that Wyming Brook was no babbling, gurgling beck but a gushing, thundering torrent with one wooden bridge beached about thirty feet from its normal location. From the car park, we emerged onto Redmires Road and then took a sharp south-easterly turn to enter Redmires Plantation Works. From there we walked beside the Lower of the Redmires Reservoirs and on to Soughley Cottage. Having then diagonally crossed a very soggy field behind the cottage, we surmounted a stone stile or passed through a gate to connect with Redmires Conduit, a well-maintained, level and fairly dry route that took us past Redmires Camp Plantation and to Lodge Moor with another water-logged set of fields. The Three Merry Lads was our next destination, which we reached at 12.30.
This fine Georgian pub, with a wide selection of beverages, a good menu and a beer garden with superb views if weather had better permitted, offered us a very warm welcome and a room, with a notice saying it was reserved for a “private function,” had been set aside for us. It was difficult to withdraw from such cosy premises but we did at 13.15, leaving the back of the pub to head east, towards Allen Sike Farm, just beyond which we encountered another “brook” and negotiated our way carefully over some stepping stones. Fox Hagg Nature Reserve was pleasant walking that led us to Lodge Lane and another climb to an impressive viewpoint before going into Blackbrook Wood, where a steep descent to another “brook” (can you guess its name?) demanded due care and attention. A lengthy stretch of very captivating, autumnally dressed and undulating terrain, close to and often parallel with Hallamshire Golf Club, followed before a welcome, steady, then suddenly and steeply stepped, descent to the A57.
Proof than humans are rarely ever satisfied for long, a little, hard tarmac trekking not only provided some brief, pleasurable relief from soft, soggy, slippery, leaf-strewn grass paths, but also led us in the direction of Den Bank, then onto Hagg Lane and into wet, attractive woods and allotments. More wet and very muddy paths then took us downward to the A6101 where we swiftly joined a clearly delineated trail that took us west along the River Rivelin, a distance of nearly two miles to return to our starting point. On this return leg, it was easy to see why so many people regard the Rivelin Valley as a strikingly picturesque and beautiful place with various water courses, stepping stones, huge boulders, huggable trees, quiet pools, bellowing weirs and lively waterfalls. Once it was a hub for water-driven mills, first for corn, then cutlery and later on, paper. Names for some of these powerhouses include Spooners, Upper Cut, Wolf, Swallow and Plonk.
It was just after 15.30 when we returned to Rails Road, pleasantly tired after completing this ten miler. The rain reminded us it hadn’t entirely gone away but it didn't dampen the effusive exchanges of thank-yous and goodbyes. Many were kind enough to acknowledge that the walk itself had been really first rate for variety, scenery, excitement and interest. For all the research and preparation of this premier league route, the thanks are due to Tony Marsh, to whom we wish a complete and speedy recovery. You were missed and should have received the deserved accolades in person. However, the substitute leader and conscientious backmarker were not averse to a little basking in the reflected appreciation for and enthusiasm about today’s damp but very enjoyable outing.
Saturday 5th October – Heath to Hardwick Hall
Fourteen ramblers made the rather overcast and misty, thirty mile journey to Heath - four to five miles south-east of Chesterfield - and park successfully in the environs of All Saints Church. Our leader for today was the highly experienced and much-respected Joyce Gubbins who has led many appealing walks in this lovely area before. Uncharacteristically, there was a evanescent moment of panic as she rummaged in vain for her compass but then, highly relieved, found it just as quickly. The reason for needing the compass so much was that, because of a very wet and muddy recent “recce” and further heavy downpours since, Joyce wanted to make various last-minute adjustments to avoid the worst waterlogged and paludal areas, thereby demonstrating a praiseworthy concern for, and tenderness towards, her walking companions, who shouted “Hooray!” at the revelation, during the pre-walk briefing.
As the last bell struck ten, we set off north, crossing the A617 by a handsome bridge. Then, heading west and parallel to the road for a short distance, we turned north-west, helped by various arrowed roundels, on posts, directing us to Sutton Scarsdale. There was mud and some slippery slopes, but nothing too serious, yet. We also noticed a number of blue, plastic barrels set out to feed pheasants and throughout the day we could hear shotguns being discharged in the distances. A very alert rambler came across a dead, but still warm, example of one of these game birds – introduced by the Normans, in the eleventh century, no doubt to make a challenging change from chasing mere peasants - and amazed us all by the speed with which a plastic bag was produced and how quickly our feathery friend was discreetly scooped up, ready for an impending casserole.
Often the fields we crossed were rather bare, having been recently harvested or re-sown, so fields of head-high maize were an interesting diversion as were the various short stretches of woods we encountered. Emerging from one such wood, we paused for a few minutes to see if we could avoid diagonally crossing another squelchy patch of open field. We could. We did. We reached the road leading into Sutton Scarsdale and the sun had come out. With dry feet and the sun on our faces, we walked through the village, turning right when we reached Hall Farm, one of whose workers was very noisily sand-blasting what had been a rusty girder. As we carefully approached the worker, he kindly stopped to let us pass and we continued east, soaking up, with delight, the sudden panoramic vistas that opened up towards the M1 and beyond. We stopped at the ha-ha by Scarsdale Hall for our mid-morning, sunny rest and refuelling. We could not help commenting on our majestic surroundings.
The village of Sutton Scarsdale was mentioned in the Domesday Book of 1086 as being worth twenty shillings. The Book also indicated that thirty years before this, under the Saxons, the village was worth forty shillings. Scarsdale Hall, however, is the Georgian gem of the area. Built in the 1720’s, on a sumptuous scale and on a par with Chatsworth, it is now reduced to existing as an imposing and impressive shell of an erstwhile major mansion. Roofless since 1919, its many interiors were asset-stripped by new owners to sell mainly to Americans, including William Hearst. The nearby, large spread of a yellow-flowering crop occasioned the botanists among us to scratch heads in puzzlement. A subsequent search online supplied the suggestion that it was winter canola.
Twenty minutes having passed, at 11.15 we resumed our walk eastwards, to meet a road whose bridge took us over the M1, past Deepdale Farm and past the River Doe Lea, all the while allowing us ever closer views of Bolsover Castle on the skyline. We next turned south to follow a goodly part of the Stockley Trail, created for walkers, cyclists and horse riders on the route of the former Glapwell Colliery railway line. At 12.30, we reached The Plug and Feathers public house and eatery at The Hill on the western outskirts of Glapwell. We did not stop. Instead we walked along the road, in the direction of Bramley Vale, where we saw the winding gear memorials to Glapwell Collieries and Bramley Vale Drift Mine.
Our seasoned leader navigated her way through Bramley Vale and Hucknall Wood and by 13.10 we were settled and having lunch around the entrance to St. John the Baptist Church in Ault Hucknall, which claims to be the smallest village in England. The church has the tomb of seventeenth century philosopher, scientist and historian, Thomas Hobbes, famous for his book Leviathan and who died in Hardwick Hall in 1679. If you have ever wondered where the phrase, “Knowledge is power”, originated, then think of Hobbes. The church also displayed various pre-Norman stone engravings of the struggles between “good” and “evil.”
After about forty minutes or so, and re-energised, we left the church grounds, walking east. We concluded it was a very small village indeed – a church and a few houses – and as we passed the last house, we had to diagonally cross two claggy, sludgey fields.This was the type of gummy, gelatinous mud that sticks to boots making you inches (centimetres) taller but pounds (kilograms) heavier. On reaching the road leading to Hardwick Park, our manic gyrations to rid our boots of this adhesive mud, would have appeared to the unworldly observer as some form of mass hysteria, a group neurological convulsion or disorder.
Inside Hardwick Park, we were on safe, tarmac paths. By the time we ramblers, with dirty boots and rucksacks, approached Hardwick Hall and its close neighbour, the Old Hall, we were confronted with crowds of normal visitors and a significant amount of annoying vehicular traffic, all of whom had come to see how, through four marriages, Bess of Hardwick had accumulated land and wealth to become the richest woman in England after Queen Elizabeth I.
By 14.20, we arrived at Hardwick Inn. It was a welcome stop, offering the usual range of beverages, food and facilities. We sat outside at the picnic tables, enjoying the pub fare and the fair weather, for about forty minutes. Once again, there were some readjustments to our route, to minimise contact with the stuff hippopotamuses love. So, we trekked north for a little while, then under the motorway, to continue north a little more, after which we turned east towards Astwith. This involved our first serious gradient of the day and, once at the top, we returned to our northerly quest as we progressed through a gate to meet a few cows and calves at the entrance of their field. They eyed us up and down. We chose to outflank them but had to walk into further tracts of waterlogged grass, more mire and treacherous cow pats. Uphill into Stainsby by road was our next success. Again, after some recalibration of our route was undertaken, we proceeded north-west, mounting stiles and crossing fields, some downhill, until we reached a stony and muddy path that led us, uphill, to the A6175. Gallant George helped us safely cross this hazard and before you could say,“She sells seashells by the seashore” perfectly, we were back to the Main Road in Heath. The various artistic representations at the Holly Barn detained, delighted and puzzled us for a while, but shortly after 16.00 we had returned to our cars.
We waited in turn to thank our ever thoughtful and considerate leader, Joyce, for her skilful management today and for all the pre-walk preparations. The ramble was through varied, attractive and historic countryside which we all found, at different times, absorbing and satisfying. Yes, there was mud, but without the accomplished re-routing here and there, it would have been much worse. We were also spared further rain on our travels today and for that we were also grateful.
Saturday 28th September – Dale Dike Drama
Just inside the north-east boundary of the Peak National Park lies Low Bradfield where our walk began today. It may be a small village, which developed long ago around its mill, where Agden Beck and Dale Dike unite to become the River Loxley, but it is renowned for its location in very scenic, hugely attractive, undulating countryside despite being only about six miles from the centre of Sheffield. Many landmarks and buildings, including the mill, were affected in “an awful thundering” – the Sheffield Flood of 1864 – when the newly built Dale Dike Dam, above Low Bradfield, gave way. Low Bradfield had one fatality but the Loxley and Don Valleys lost another 250 souls as the flood water swept down. A new Dale Dike Reservoir, smaller than before, was built in 1875 and holds about 450,000,000 gallons. After the downpours we endured this morning and into part of the afternoon, it probably holds a few more now.
As we gathered in the car park, it was still reasonably warm though there were warning spits and spots and a bit of a breeze. Our walk leader, Margaret Freestone, pre-eminent in her knowledge and experience of this and other wide geographical areas, east of Sheffield, called us together for our briefing. She gave us all, twelve in number, a warm welcome, but singled out newcomers Colin, Mari, Steve, Joseph and a very well-behaved Cocker Spaniel, Joe, for an even more fulsome greeting. The route to be taken on this strenuous, thirteen miler was outlined with great clarity and enthusiasm and Diane Smith, with a waterproof map and experience from the ‘recce’, was the wise choice for backmarker.
Low Bradfield boasts a fairly large, centrally located recreation area, with its own cricket square and an all-weather tennis court which always seems busy. Moving south-west out of the car park, we crossed the green, grassy bits to reach a little foot bridge leading out to the road, Fair House Lane. A few steps further and we could see the confluence of the beck and dike, replete with various representatives of the feathered community, mainly ducks. Over a road bridge, the signs of our first gradient became clear. Our kindly and considerate leader spoke highly of, as she pointed to, The Plough as a possible, thirst-quenching hostelry for when we returned in the afternoon.
Up the tarmac of Plumpton Lane we trod. Next it was a grassy, partly wooded trail, with Dale Dike steeply on our right, that took us to a stile and then south-west along Blindside Lane, with a teasing, prolonged slope. An unexpected right turn delivered us over another stile and a public footpath into very pleasant woods. Downhill next towards Dale Dike Reservoir and we picked up a path that kept us very close to its banks. Joe was keen enough to have a few dips en route. After a rather pleasant walk by that reservoir, we found ourselves just below Strines Reservoir, at Brogging. Then we strode downhill to Mortimer Road, past Brogging End and on towards Foulstone Road. Here a small gate linked to a large gate engaged our brains and brawn. Brawn and further reinforcements failed to move the little gate but brains (Colin) opened the large and this let us through. Light but persistent rain was about to change.
The heavens opened just as we were having our mid-morning stop. You’ve probably heard the expression about “it raining cats and dogs” but this downpour included the hamster, the guinea pig, the rabbit and any other domestic pet you care to add. Elevenses had to be curtailed. It was better to walk and be soaked than sit and be submerged. It was difficult to see much of Brogging Moss on our right or Foulstone Moor to our left. Misty low clouds and heavy rain dogged our path all the way.
At Bradfield Gate Head, we encountered a small group of fellow walkers and we briefly exchanged opinions about the unfavourable weather. Each assured the other of sunshine just around the next corner! So, in search of sunshine and unicorns, we turned south along Derwent Edge. Some people pay fortunes for facial treatments; today we had microdermabrasion treatment for free. The wind gusted and blasted the rain against what we had left exposed of our faces and hands. We had to shout to be heard in conversation. Plans to have a lunch stop at the Cakes of Bread were abandoned as there was no shelter to be had. Instead, with perspicacious decision-making, our leader, putting her foot down with a firm hand, advised us to wait until we reached the grouse butts which might afford some better protection from the wind and rain.
So, on any other day, it would be fairly easy walking with great views as we passed various landmark boulders such as Dove Stone, Salt Cellar and Wheel Stones. We subsequently reached a path, going east to Moscar, that was awash (almost literally) with grouse butts. We stopped. The rain had eased a notch or two and there was a little brightness, even a little blue, in the clouds. The rest and refreshment, after about twenty minutes, were quickly over, for it was still somewhat wet and windy. Our ever cheerful and thoughtful leader blew her whistle to bring us together and off we set to find ourselves striding up Sugworth Road. At the entrance to Sugworth Hall, we climbed an elaborate stile to access a public footpath, which, as it fetched us closer to the Hall, was diverted so that its privacy was maintained. Then, emerging from this rather dark, rhododendron hedged diversion, we entered a bright clearing, to the left of which was the landmark 45 foot high (14m), crenelated Sugworth Tower, also known as Strines Tower or Boot’s Folly, financed by Charles Boot of Sugworth Hall in 1927 as a job-creation scheme for his estate workers.
Quite soon we were trekking along the Sheffield Country Walk, which ran past Strines Reservoir and then parallel to, but higher up than, this morning’s route overlooking Dale Dike Reservoir. It continued to drizzle as a goodly number of foot bridges allowed us to safely cross various brooks before arriving, after the woods, at Blindside Lane once again. This time it was downhill for a while but, essentially, we were retracing our footsteps from this morning and soon, by 15.15, we had reached The Plough. Many of us were wet through and tired after our strenuous efforts. The prospects of hot baths and showers at home outweighed the delights and comforts The Plough might offer. No one entered. Instead, passing the disused pumping house, within a few minutes we were back in the grassy recreation area in Low Bradfield and saying the first of our thank-yous and farewells, which then continued into the car park.
Margaret led a wonderfully varied walk with constant authority and expertise; her cheeriness and encouragement, despite knee pain as the miles passed, were remarkable. The bad weather was, obviously, not in her control. Our copious expressions of gratitude were sincerely meant and richly deserved. Diane, as backmarker, was also praised and thanked for her quiet, dependable and friendly shepherding of the flock throughout what had been a challenging day. Maybe, if the walk is offered again, it will be dry, warm and sunny?
Saturday 21st September – Around Knaresborough
Today’s starting point for a moderate 12 miler around Knaresborough was Goldsborough, which was known to the Romans, has a brief mention in the Domesday Book as Goldeburgh, and then, as now, is situated about one mile east of Knaresborough. Goldsborough Hall is an impressive Jacobean manor house, dating from 1620, set in 12 acres of private land and is currently a five star luxury hotel. In the last war, the area housed some forty cold stores, some of which still remain in use. The Harewood family used to own the village but it was sold in 1958 for £4,200. In the mid-1980’s and early-1990’s some TV filming for The New Statesman (Rik Mayall was the star) took place in the vicinity. This morning more history was made as, having motored ten junctions up the A1, or about forty five miles in as many minutes, 14 Doncaster Ramblers assembled excitedly outside the four hundred year old Bay Horse Inn on Main Street.
Our walk leader was the venerable, highly-experienced Peter Miller who gave a sterling pre-walk briefing while dodging peevish vehicles that seemed to resent his temporary presence just off the pavement. In between these momentary vehicular encounters, Peter was able to inform us that the forecast was for temperatures around 26°C and he anticipated many of us would be taking our clothes off as it became hotter! He also explained, in an enviable French accent, about the Union Cycliste Internationale Road World Championships taking place over nine days in Yorkshire (every race finishing in Harrogate) and how there might be some road closures or other restrictions here and there as we closed on Knaresborough for lunch. Dave Nicholson, equipped with maps, including one for Sherwood Forest, kindly agreed to be backmarker.
Promptly at 10 am, we were on the move, heading west out of the village, then picking up the Knaresborough Round tarmac track going south. Tarmac gave way to grass and then a left turn took us out of the bright sunshine and cloudless skies into a series of woods – Great Wood, then Pikeshaw Wood and next came Parsonage Wood - where various individuals showed off their arboreal and birdsong knowledge and the shade was not unwelcome. Our considerate and conscientious leader insisted that great care was taken when we had to cross the York-Harrogate railway line and the same strict standards of watchfulness were demanded again when, a little later, we had to cross the busy, bustling A59 York Road.
Once over the A59, and it was about 11.10, we stopped for elevenses in what looked like a cherry tree orchard on the fringes of the former Flaxby Park Golf Course, which we learned had gone into liquidation a few years ago. It was a very agreeable spot, many of us taking advantage of a individual tree trunk against which to sit and rest. Our personal provision for refreshment was made the more pleasurable when our philanthropic leader shared some delicious squares of dark chocolate – Nespresso - with us. Twenty minutes passed quickly and we afoot once more.
We followed a path west and parallel to the A59 for a while, then turned north to walk a track bordering the lane into Flaxby, where appealing windfalls from an apple tree demanded our widespread attention. Still on the Knaresborough Round and on our way to Coneythorpe, we had to acknowledge a considerable amount of path improvements had taken place: new, bright and shiny galvanised steel gates were abundant, steps had been made and filled with hard core ready for further infills and there were a few stretches of newly constructed boardwalks too. After a brief consultation with his map, our leader led us to Clareton Moor Farm, where we turned west towards The Hollies, then, as we turned south to Hopewell House, the foragers could not resist another find - a fruitful tract of blackberries. The smack of firm leadership was required to wean them away from blackberrying and return them to rambling.
Past Hopewell House, we trod along mixed terrain on very discernible paths and tracks leading to Hazelheads Lane, and, not much further than Little Pasture Trekking Centre on Bar Lane, a small navigational recalibration was implemented. A stile took us downhill into some woods, with a sizeable body of water to our left. Signs prohibited us from fishing, so we walked on, over another stile out of the woods and into large open, grassy fields. Two spires from nearby Knaresborough could be seen in the distance. Greatly encouraged by thoughts of lunch, we emerged from open countryside sprinkled with livestock into a relatively new housing estate. Somebody with a financial and historical background must have helped name the streets – Sterling Chase, Mint Garth, Sovereign Fold, Maundy Grove, Half Crown Way, Guinea Croft and Florin Drive. We soon entered Halfpenny Lane and then turning into Halfpenny Close, we walked along various trails and paths, generally following the line of the railway, until we reached High Street and could see groups beginning to cluster in readiness for the UCI cycle race. It was about 13.25 and the leader offered a choice. Those who wished could stay to watch the forthcoming spectacle in the town centre; the rest would press on to The Half Moon and nearby riverside terrace for refreshments. All were to rendezvous at 14.45 at The Half Moon.
From Hilton Lane, down Gallons Steps linking Kirkgate to Waterside, we caught a glimpse of the iconic multi-arched railway stone viaduct. The walk by the river Nidd towards Abbey Road and our lunch stop was very engaging and almost continental with its bright and noisy cafes with outside tables, ice cream parlours and parasols and with the odd busker providing music and song. At Low Bridge, there was a choice of venue. The Half Moon was open for beverages and food; down by the river there was a patch of green with garden and seats, ideal for home-made snap and sandwiches. Initially, most ventured onto the sunny, grassy fold and then later joined chums in, or outside, The Half Moon, an independent free house, tastefully restored with bare brick walls, large Victorian mirrors, elderly advertising posters, real fireplaces and a very welcoming, hospitable atmosphere.
The morning’s ramble was a very pleasing salmagundi of almost ten miles. The afternoon, return leg of roughly three miles was another satisfying smorgasbord of mixed scenery - riverside and countryside, farm and caravan park - a jumble of ups (one quite serious) and downs, a blend of sunshine and shade, an assortment of narrow paths and wide, open fields as well as a medley of stiles and kissing gates. On our way south, from the post-lunch paths along the Nidd, up the serious slope towards Birkham Wood, we encountered a mischievously inquisitive herd of cattle, gathering together to probe our strengths and see what sort of mettle we trespassers had. Despite their intimidating numbers and gathering speed as they rushed roughly in our direction, we proved generally indomitable.
A little later, we caught a fragment of the cycle race. At first we heard an intermittent whistle and then saw police who were blocking off stretches of roads. Our leader approached the ‘boys in blue’ for advice on where we could ramble and they allowed us to walk along a bit of the A658. The periodic whistle was generated by a woman standing at an island before the roundabout waving a yellow flag from left to right; the whistling was a warning of the obstacles ahead and the flag waving advising that the obstructions could be passed on either side. The cycles some of us saw passing in the blink of an eye were three-wheelers.
Off the A658, we turned left down a bridleway and crossed a bridge where we were advised to “keep to the centre.” The bridge spanned the Nidd where a large weir had been created to help generate power and there was also a fish and eel pass. We passed Goldsborough Mill Farm, travelled along Mill Road and then passed the spot where, in the morning, we had joined the Knaresborough Round. A hop, skip and a few further paces took us back to our various parking places. It was 15.50 when we began conveying our sincere thanks and appreciation to our attentive and confident leader and backmarker. Together they steered us successfully on a long and absorbing walk, considerable parts of it close to or along the River Nidd, which, as we all know, gets its name from the Celtic word for brilliant. Today’s walk, in lovely sunny weather, with jolly companions, was Nidd. Many thanks and we look forward to the next.
Saturday 14th September – Welbeck Stroll
With a forecast promising warm and sunny weather and an alluring walk starting at Cresswell Crags, not much more than half an hour down the motorway, it was not surprising that we had twenty five, and Archie, the well-behaved Spaniel, in attendance for today’s outing. Those who arrived early at the car park found that the pay and display device was inactive but, just as the joyous, potential beneficiaries were completing their cartwheels and back-slapping celebrations, they learned that the machine was not broken; it did not start accepting money until 09.45. The sobbing and weeping that followed caused serious concern from innocent bystanders, including a scout group, who rushed over to assist. When these latent first-aiders found out what had happened and that the weepers and wailers were from Yorkshire – the clues were the whippets, flat caps, and ferrets - they walked off knowingly.
Our leaders for the day were Angela and David Nicholson, a well-regarded, conscientious and experienced team. The pre-walk briefing was textbook. A special welcome was extended to three guests – John from Sheffield, Phil’s brother, Mike, from Liverpool and Christine from Chesterfield. The rest of the group were regulars and a couple of occasionals. Peter Miller, who knew the route, having helped with a “recce,” swiftly agreed to be backmarker. So, without much further ado, we gathered behind the leaders and set off on a broad, grassy path eastwards towards the A60.
Once over the road, the path took us to Oaksetts Lodge, then a very modest climb. A sharp turn north revealed an immaculately cut, large expanse of lawn, which may have belonged to Welbeck Defence Sixth Form College. A little further on, and then briefly through various patches of woods, we crossed a bridge with Gouldsmeadow Lake to our left and Shrubbery Lake to our right, before reaching a lovely, open stretch of Robin Hood Way. An OS map will tell you that this path has tunnel skylights and you could deduce, therefore, that underneath there are tunnels. So, what’s the story? The very wealthy and eccentric fifth Duke of Portland ran the Welbeck estate from 1854 until 1879. He was often referred to as “the invisible prince.” Interestingly, for ramblers at least, he tried to close all the Rights of Way over his lands, but failed. Whether he valued his privacy above all else, or was an extreme misanthrope or withdrew from society because of disfigurement from some skin-disease like leprosy or some other reasons, he displayed some strange and enigmatic behaviours. His enormous bedstead, for instance, was completely surrounded by doors. His principal apartment had trap doors to enable whimsical arrivals and impulsive departures. He communicated with his servants in writing, with the papers posted through a letterbox. His London home, Harcourt House, had a garden with a screen eighty feet high to protect him from the public gaze. It was this unconventional, erratic duke who built underground apartments like the picture-gallery or ballroom as well as the tunnels, one over a mile long, some wide enough for a horse and cart to drive through with ease, one with a narrow gauge railway. The skylights provided illumination during the day and gas lights for the night. The financial costs were colossal and 1500 construction workers were employed for over twenty years.
We passed South Lodge, gatekeeping an impressively grand tunnel entrance, as we continued to follow Robin Hood Way, part of it named Drinking Pit Lane, into a long tract of woodland. On the way, we walked through a striking, tree-lined, red stone gully much scored and incised by passers-by who had gouged out their initials in the soft sandstone. Next, we were greeted by a very noisy, crowing cockerel and a barking dog as we approached another lodge, one of fifty that once peppered the estate, by which time it was a little after eleven and, as if by magic, a small semi-clearing appeared, ideal for our mid-morning stop for rest and refreshments. Bananas figured prominently.
Our considerate leaders gave us fifteen minutes at leisure, then it was back to the pleasing, soft path heading east through the woods. Himalayan balsam made an appearance in the undergrowth. A “Caution Road” sign at the end of this path was enough to warn us that a significant thoroughfare lay ahead. It was the B6034 (Ollerton Road) and, crossing over, its narrow footpath took us, in a northerly direction, towards Worksop. We crossed back again to walk through the delightful Hannah Park, on an escarpment overlooking the town, then Sparken Hill, with one school nursery advertising “cherubs attend here.” Some distance later we arrived on Park Street and it was our lunch stop, by which point we were about half way round our ramble. One immediate destination for ten of the group was The White Lion. The remainder walked a few further paces to be welcomed by St. Mary’s and its burial grounds, around which sandwiches and other delicacies were convivially consumed before moving across the street to the picnic tables of the pub, where further beverages were drunk and chips were shared. Some, in possession of the latest gadgetry, were also able to share the Fifth Test cricket score.
At 1 o’clock we were rounded up again, ready for the afternoon’s return leg of our walk. Escaping the pleasant suburbs of Worksop and crossing the busy A57 were our first objectives and soon we were back among the wide open spaces, stiles, blue skies, warming sunshine, stiles and relative tranquillity of the countryside. Then “beasts from the east” appeared; a small multitude of curious heifers (inquisitive rather than freakish) began to get closer and, in the process of getting nearer and nearer, engendered some genuine alarm amongst our group, an alarm made more palpable after some recent injurious, even deadly, encounters between bovine, canine and human. There was a mild standoff today.
More stiles and the odd foot bridge followed. Then a pattern seemed to be forming as we walked over various sizeable fields, having entered each one through significant gaps in hedges. We crossed the A60, then navigated a series of kissing gates that gave entry to further large fields, some grassy, some harvested, some with sugar beet. We walked along Broad Lane for a short distance, then headed towards Hall Leys Farm and the pattern of fields and gaps in the hedges reasserted itself. Crossing Station Road led us into Belph and on one large field we encountered a massive machine whose multiple circular cutters seemed to be designed to remove the stubble, shred it and then scatter the remains back onto the ground – a very dusty process today. Next, we passed a limestone quarry with cement works behind. Soon we were walking parallel to the B6042, which we crossed to reach a soft, grassy path that led us towards the A60 again and the short return track to the car park and Visitor Centre, complete with shop, eatery and toilets.
It was a lovely eleven miler today, in a variety of attractive and absorbing landscapes, with good weather throughout and our leaders were given much deserved thanks for all their hard work preparing the route and for leading it so skilfully and attentively. The backmarker was also thanked as he discharged his manifold duties with equal care and consideration. Altogether, a ramble to fondly remember. Many thanks.
31st August – Wetherby to Spofforth
For hundreds of years, Wetherby has been an important market town and crossing point on the River Wharfe, its number of former coaching inns bearing witness that it was a key stopover for horse and human on the road between London and Edinburgh. The Scots have often raided and plundered it (but not recently). The sixth Duke of Cavendish sold it in 1824 to finance building work and repairs at Chatsworth. Railways came to Wetherby during “railway mania” in the 1840’s, and, the old Harrogate to Church Fenton line survived until the Beeching axe brought its demise in 1964. Today’s advertised walk invited us to park and assemble at a familiar Wetherby site, a former train station just off the Linton Road. However, no one had foreseen that today that road would be closed and access denied; it had just been resurfaced and today was the day the staff who paint the white lines and other road information were in control until 1600 hours.
A new plan was devised, by the roadside, when our veteran and venerable leader, Ash Wilson, arrived and was briefed on the changed circumstances. Parking and meeting would be relocated to the car park on the other side of the bridge, at Bridgefoot, and the start would be delayed by fifteen minutes or so. A new route would be designed from that new location. A small party would wait at the entrance of Linton Road and direct later arrivals to the new parking place. Another small party would walk up to the old parking place to explain what was happening to those who might have been able to assemble there. Three enterprising individuals, wearing clever clogs, were found there, having artfully approached the old station car park from the Linton end.
All the hurried rearrangements clicked serenely into place. Composure and control were regained. Fourteen gathered in the new car park and, by 10.15, the unflappable leader was in expansive and informative pre-walk briefing mode, emphasising that the revamped route might require some further tweaks and additional review. A backmarker was selected from a gaggle of eager competitors and, in warm but breezy conditions, the group set off in good humour, in high spirits and confident that the day’s adventures had just begun.
The newly revised route took us left, out of the car park, along the elderly Wetherby bridge, the first dating back to the thirteenth century but this one painted by Turner in 1816, and then up Lodge Lane to the Wetherby Leisure Centre and diagonally we crossed various playing fields. A kissing gate took us to a path by the river and there was some early hope that a bridge would lead us over the river and close to our original starting point to pick up our earlier advertised route. We had, in fact, overshot the footbridge but when the leader was about to turn back to find it, a persuasive voice was heard to claim that a bridge had been seen in the direction we were already walking. (An appointment with Specsavers has been arranged for the owner of that voice.) So, we trod on, very close to the river in places, with Wetherby Golf Club on the far bank, and soon found ourselves walking by Collingham Parish Church, where spits and spots began to fall and a bell-ringer brought both energy and cacophony to their task, perhaps practising for a wedding that was scheduled for 1 o’clock.
A little further on, through a lovely little park, then an orchard garden, past the tennis club and beyond a group of houses and over Collingham Beck, we encountered Collingham Methodist Church whose notice board announced, for reasons of punctuation and relevance that were unclear, it was “A Rambler’s Church.” On we strode along Linton Road, passing Beck Wood, and we found a magnificent bridge at Linton that allowed us to descend to the River Wharfe, providing a scenic opportunity, with picnic tables, to enjoy our mid-morning rest and refuelling from 11.15 to 11.35. As we sat and chatted, there was much favourable comment about the bridge’s rock-faced stone: there was considerable admiration for its three basket arches, approval of its parapet terminating in square piers, respect for the rounded cut waters and great merit was accorded to the rusticated voussoirs, but, here, it has to be admitted, there was some very heated argument about whether it was built in the early or mid-nineteenth century and whether or not it deserved its Grade II listed status.
After we crossed the beautiful bridge, we took pleasure from the fact that it was no longer spitting and spotting and, as we turned left into Linton Common, we took further delight in admiring the long row of very fine houses, with their elevated views over woods and river. Unexpectedly, at the end of the row, there was a sudden right turn uphill that led us into a short stretch of trees and then some tarmac which we had to share with various vehicular and some
equestrian traffic. We turned right at Wood Hall and the Carmelite Monastery (home to an order of nuns). Fields of sugar beet and oats, a long hedged path and a stony lane led us to a fleeting engagement with a tractor and a very large trailer of round hay bales. Some more tarmac and fields, it was 12.35, we had just reached the outskirts of Sicklinghall and the heavens opened. We were hugely lucky that we were very close to St.Peter’s church and that some of us could find sanctuary from the lashing rain in the small porch: others sheltered under trees or under umbrellas. Our collective belief, given the leaden skies and volume of rain, was that this was going to last a while and so we had our sandwiches.
Our repast over, our leader announced a change of plan. We had walked a little over six miles and if we proceeded to Spofforth, the miles would exceed the advertised eleven. He was aware of his potential liability under the Trade Descriptions Act. So, instead, we would head towards Stockeld Park and after a pub stop in Kirk Deighton back to Wetherby. However, as we were passing The Scott’s Arms, in Sicklinghall, a traditional village pub and restaurant with parts dating back to 1685 when it would have been a coaching inn for people travelling to and from Harewood House, the sagacious Dave King suggested we should stop. Sensitive to the popular mood, the leader nodded approval and a pleasant forty-five minutes was spent in very comfortable and hospitable surroundings.
At 1.45 the ramble recommenced. We walked through the lovely grounds of Stockeld Park, then over the busy A661 Harrogate Road, through the various fields of Stockeld Grange to reach the Harland Way, where we had a little rest and water stop. Then we headed straight over the Harland Way towards Kirk Deighton. On our way, we crossed a lot of fields, some flaunting their maturing sugar beet, some waiting expectantly to be harvested, others proud to have given up their crops, still others laying fallow or left wild. The imposing spire of All Saints’ Church hove into view and a few minutes later we were, once again, enjoying sunshine as a tarmac path led us into the village, past The Bay Horse, and out again. A short while later, we re-connected with the Harland Way, where another short pause was extended by our considerate leader. A signpost indicated it was three-quarters of a mile to Wetherby, but before then, at a fork in the Way, we had to say our farewells to the clever clogs who had parked their cars in the place originally designated. The remainder continued on the left-hand path to reach Deighton Road, then North Street and High Street and we were at Bridgefoot again, where an ice cream van was waiting in the car park. Only a few resisted.
It was day of unexpected challenges but we proved resilient, flexible and resourceful. This was particularly true of our leader, whose adaptable outlook and considerate disposition, earned him enormous respect and appreciation for the way he led today’s outing, overcoming many difficulties with forbearance and good humour. Ash, you fully deserved our thanks, pats on the back and handshakes. Well done, lad.