Witch way from here? 2

By now it was late afternoon and the light was mellowing. The sky was still clear, a breeze tickled the leaves of the oak tree and swallows swooped about. We had camped near a tiny brook and a tree on the other side was breaking down with apples.

A couple of kids splashed around in the stream, picked some apples, chased the hens, played ball and generally made a nuisance of themselves. Despite this, I willed them on, hoping they would overexert themselves, collapse in heap come nightfall and sleep in until at least 6 or 7 the next morning.

As for us, it was time for the Calf’s Head pub, about a mile back down the road in Worston. A wedding party was in full force and we had to give our names to the chap on the door to wait for a free table in the dining room. This gave us time to walk around their extensive gardens which had a tremendous view of Pendle Hill lit by the setting sun
 
and a family of ducks paddling in a stream out back (mother duck had  about ten ducklings in tow).

The pub had four real ales on tap (Black Sheep, Jennings, Brains and Moorhouses at the time) and the wine list touted a dozen English varieties. The food on offer was classic pub grub: meat pies, burgers, lasagne, etc. They had sold out of the turkey, leek & stilton pie so I had steak & mushroom pie instead while Christian had the lamb shoulder. Both came with peas, carrot mash and steamed new potatoes. We struggled to finish our huge portions. It was delicious and we certainly got our money’s worth, well recommended!

By now it was completely dark outside, although we managed to pick out the outline of Pendle Hill against the orange glow of the towns behind it. We fired up our £1 torch and followed its dim beam down the back roads, dodging fresh cow pats and keeping an eye out for any deranged ghosts of Pendle witches.

This is when the dreadful realisation kicked in, that this was it: this square bit of stretched nylon in a field was to be our home for the night.

It took some acrobatic manoeuvrings in order to get into our sleeping bags. My pair of earplugs which I had carefully set atop my pillow had disappeared and no amount of LED light from the wind-up lantern could pick them out. The pillow turned out to be as substantial as a ball of lint. The sleeping mat provided all the comfort of corrugated cardboard. I must have passed out from sheer exhaustion at some point, because I remember being wakened by a gale whipping through the trees. Sheep bleated, dogs barked and before we knew it, dawn broke.

The toddlers in the tent across the way were up with the larks, stomping about and whining like a right pair of candy-asses. About half 7 and the sun hit our canvas so we had to get up or else be steamed alive, thanks to all the condensation dripping off the nylon. Dew dripped off the tent ceiling and down our necks as we performed more gymnastics in order to get dressed. We unfolded our spoons and ate our muesli.

Time for a morning constitutional, which turned out to be a 5-mile stroll. This time we went over the lower slopes of Worsaw Hill to the village of Chatburn,

crossed fields to a fairytale packhorse bridge,

returned to Downham and followed back roads to the campsite.

By now it was warm, sunny, but hazy. We dried off the tent, packed up, managed to fold everything back into our rucksacks and loaded everything up onto our backs. It was then a 3-mile walk through cow pastures and across the highway into Clitheroe where we caught the train home with seconds to spare. A rough idea of that morning's 8 miles of walking is here.

Maybe we were delirious from the fresh air, maybe it was the delicious crumble we made from the apples we’d nicked, but despite the sleepless night we decided to give camping another go. Click back soon for our Yorkshire adventure!

Witch way from here?

Trapped on a hillside in the pitch blackness, the wind whistling through the trees, surrounded by wild animals, with nothing between us and the vermin but two layers of fabric: yes, we had gone CAMPING!

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.