The
rain beat hard on the windscreen as we sailed north on the M6. ‘It’s not that heavy, it’s just the speed
we’re going,’ suggested someone optimistically.
It was still raining as we pulled into the muddy car park at Leighton
Moss. Alan and Eric were already there
as Martin, Alec, Ray and I emerged from the car and started pulling on our wet
weather gear. No one seemed too
interested in my maps so I set out to lead the way.
Although
we were at the RSPB car park, we weren’t really going into the reserve. However, there is a public hide by the
footpath that leads between two areas and we called in here to look at the
ducks somewhere far out in the pools.
Tall reeds grew all around and covered most of the view from the path,
except for the odd beaten-down section.
It was one of these clearings that Alec and I took advantage of for a
quick natural break. But Leighton Moss
is a waterland reserve, as Alec soon found out when he began sinking into the
mire. Luckily he quickly got himself
out, at the cost of a water-filled boot and a soggy sock.
The
weather was feeling kind to us and the rain slowly petered out into
nothing. Being a fairly mild day we were
soon stripping off the Gore-Tex for more comfortable layers. This was particularly necessary as we climbed
up through the woods from Yealand Storrs, passing limestone outcrops. Some of the rocks we had to walk over proved
treacherously slippery on the way.
Pleasant
and very quiet paths led us down to Yealand Conyers and up a wide track towards
Warton Crag. The trees in this heavily
wooded area were full of dazzling autumn colours, blazing like flames. Amidst the rocks on the crag were yew trees,
in contrasting green, spreading low and twisted branches in a sprawl around
their core. Beech trees grew closer to
the path and showed signs of coppicing, being clusters of slender stems growing
from a low stool. At the summit, the
larger trees fell back to leave stubbier coverage: brambles, bracken and
blackthorns bearing a few dark sloes.
The rocky lip at the top of the escarpment gave brilliant views across
the whole of Morecambe Bay, from Heysham power station in the south, round past
the Kent estuary and out to Walney Island in the grey distance. A bench should have provided a place to sit
and take in the scene but some empty-brained clods had smashed it apart and
partially burnt it. Presumably they
thought that that was the ideal way to celebrate a nice walk in the
countryside.
After
ticking off the trig point, which sat beneath a beacon, we dropped back down in
the direction of the sea. Beyond the
railway – which must be an enjoyable journey to take along the littoral – a
clear route took us in a loop along an embankment above the low-lying
floodplain. Alan, however, said that the
right of way was in a more direct route across the field and so, after a short
debate, we set off this way. Much joy
and mirth was felt when we arrived at the far side to find no stile and no
gate. Being blokes, we weren’t going to
go back and so we hopped over the fence and carried on, hoping for some luck
further up. As we clumped through the
field, on the wrong side of a barbed-wire fence, another bloke was walking the
other way on the nearby embankment. In a
typically British way, we just said hello to each other rather than, ‘What are
you doing in there?’ or ‘How do we get out of here?’ In the end we found a precarious stile, with
more barbed-wire, and a small ditch to leap over to get us back on track.
We
were now at the sea-front itself, though the sea was long gone, far out there
in the direction of the Isle of Man, and we walked along the beach. I say beach but it was a mixture of grass,
stones and thick, slippery mud that stuck to your boots and dried like
clay. A path above the beach featured
sections of limestone which had the frictional grip of lightly greased soap. Martin did some impressive splits while Eric
disappeared into the bushes and got into a tangle of brambles, from which Ray
pulled him out.
With
a bit of road walking, we came into Silverdale.
Alec and I were at the front and I pointed out the Silverdale Hotel,
just round the corner. It was two-ish
and we had plenty of time. The others
joined us and by a kind of unspoken consensus, we found ourselves in the
pub. The barman was a young lad with a
flop of hair on the top of his shaven head, a number of earrings dangling from
his lobes, and a spatter of tattoos on his arms. He slowly poured our beers then switched the
dancing lights of the electric fire on, though not the fire itself, thank
goodness, as it was far too warm for that.
Deep and low settees cradled us in front of the waving red tongues of
electric light as we sank back and sank our beers. The place was fairly busy with families,
couples and groups coming in for food and drink. One lad in a baseball cap stood at the bar,
the better to show off his loose and colourful trousers. They looked rather like pyjamas.
It
was the Rugby World Cup semi-finals later that afternoon so I was on a bit of a
mission. After one beer I was ready to
go. Alec and Ray weren’t bothered about
the match and said they would stay for another pint before finding their own
way.
The
last mile or so was an easy stroll and we were soon back at the cars. Eric and Alan went to have a look round the
reserve while Martin and I set off for Arnside.
The hostel reception wasn’t open until 5:30 so we parked up and walked
into town. Our timing was pretty good as
we walking into Ye Olde Fighting Cocks just as South Africa v New Zealand was
kicking off. It was a good game and the
Thwaites’s Wainwright went down a treat.
Alec and Ray called in briefly before heading up to the hostel. By the time the match finished, it was a bit
too close to our table booking time of 6:30 to do the same, so Martin and I
just kept our walking gear on for the night and carried on drinking.
One
of the ex-Strollers, another Eric, had moved to Arnside and he had booked the
table in the pub for us. I didn’t know
him and so hadn’t known that the bloke sat at the big table was actually our
man. Haydn had joined us by now and we
all settled round for a convivial meal.
The food was decent enough, and my steak and ale pie was very
satisfying. As was the Wainwright (one
round of which failed to make it to the bill at the end of the night).
A
lad had set up some speakers and other equipment and this was blasting out
Motown and the like. A poster in the
gents said that ‘Sandra’ would be singing for us – we had just missed the
legendary Pete ‘Lakeland Trails’ Lashley a week or two earlier – but some
barrel-chested bloke in a tight shirt stood up to the mic instead. He proceeded to do terrible things to more
soul classics and various country songs, intermixed with a bit of Neil
Diamond. His style was an unironic
tribute to Vic Reeves’s pub singer.
Local
Eric had long gone, our Eric and Alan slunk out for an early night, while
Martin and I made a quick dash for the Albion up the road. We left just before some lasses, up from
Yorkshire, grabbed Alec, Ray and Haydn for a bit of a dance. The Albion was busy but more sedate. We drank a brew named after the tidal bore
that rushes past the window up the estuary and chatted to a girl from Chepstow
who was on holiday for her birthday.
‘How old do you think I am?’ ‘Um,
21,’ I said, hoping my obvious insincerity would go unnoticed. ‘Oh, that’s very kind of you.’ We also chatted with a barman who in his spare
time does professional recordings of jazz singers. He recommended some people, none of whose
names I now remember. The landlord was a
friendly chap who tried to encourage us to come to the restaurant. The game pie and the rabbit casserole were
certainly tempting.
At
about 11:30, the pub was closing, so we made the dark walk up the path back to
the hostel. The lads had given us the
PIN to get through the front door, although there was a bloke behind the
reception desk anyway. We mumbled our
apologies for getting in late and lugged our bags upstairs. The door to the room I was sharing with
Haydn, Alec and Ray was open and I sorted myself out as quietly and discreetly
as I could. In other words, I crashed
about like a dizzy hippo, giggling and cursing alternately. The fellas had kindly made my bed for me, but
had somehow twisted the duvet around in its cover so I crashed about some more
straightening it out. Goodnight all!
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