A few weeks before we had been in a shop and noticed a sale on tents and sleeping bags ahead of the music festival season. We crawled into the tent they had set up on the floor, checked it for ventilation and ran our fingers over the waterproof seams. Maybe it was the factory-fresh fumes from the new nylon, but we decided to give it a go.
Of course you need more than a tent and a sleeping bag. It turns out you also need folding chairs, a wind-up lantern, sleeping mats, backpacks, compasses, collapsible cutlery, pillows and plenty else besides. We found ourselves trying on waterproof fleeces and debating the merits of plastic vs metal tent pegs. Word got out amongst our friends, so there was no turning back, especially when one offered to give us a lift to the campsite.
And so that fateful August weekend we found ourselves on the lower slopes of the reputedly haunted Pendle Hill in the wilds of Lancashire, setting up camp with a few other deluded souls in the back pasture of a remote farm, Angram Green.
Wonder of wonders, the weather was superb and it was the first proper sunny summer weekend we’d had all year. There was not a cloud in the sky. Despite its infamous reputation as a place for witchcraft, Pendle Hill looked green and content for a change, so we embarked on an afternoon ascent.
The sun was bearing down hard as we clambered up the side of a chasm and tackled the slope up to the moortop.
The ‘summit’ was flat and almost featureless except for some cairns and a high-walled stone ring where walkers could take shelter from the wind.
We soon regretted having a full English breakfast that morning as the bacon had left us gasping.
A simple stone marker stood at the highest point of the hilltop, over 1800 feet up, overlooking the towns on the other side while a few clouds dappled the farmland and reservoir below.
The hill fell away below us, the steep escarpment funnelling air straight up the cliff and into our faces with hurricane force. With a parasail, we would easily have been airborne (maybe next time, let’s see if we can survive a night of camping first).
It is here in 1652 that George Fox was inspired to found the Society of Friends (the ‘Quakers’):- “As we travelled, we came near a very great hill, called Pendle Hill, and I was moved of the Lord to go up to the top of it; which I did with difficulty, it was so very steep and high…. From the top of this hill the Lord let me see in what places he had a great people to be gathered.”
We began our descent, negotiating a steep hillside path that curved west towards the village of Downham. Once on level ground it was a lovely walk through grassy fields, along shaded groves and past old farmhouses.
We reached the village post office with seconds to spare before it closed and had enough change between us for a couple of cold lemonades out of their fridge.
We popped into the church next door,
checked the time on the sundial in the cemetery
and walked the length of the village down to the brook that runs along the bottom.
Downham sits on a private estate and is one of England’s best preserved old villages with hardly any trappings of the modern world. There are no road markings, no traffic signs, no pylons, no aerials and no satellite dishes.
Leaving the village behind it was an easy stroll through more fields past the round limestone mound of Worsaw Hill
and into the next village along, Worston. We decided to leave the pub for later in the evening and headed back the campsite. The loop was about 6 miles and you can get an idea of the route here.
No sign of any Pendle witches or Satan worshippers! Not yet.
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