Walk to Maiden Castle

Part II


From the entrance to the Bolesworth Estate, the road goes ever on and on...

and up.


Lesser Celandine hide in the grass and nettles in the verge, like sparkles on water.


My mum used to say that you can tell the moment when spring really starts. For weeks the dark brown bulbs of chestnut buds have been forming and growing. Then one morning, they leaves have all flopped down and it has begun.

Jews ear fungus. Edible, I discovered, and I think popular in the Far East where it is sold dried.


Sat on a stump at the top of the hill behind the Bolesworth Estate, looking back whence I had come. You can make out Tattenhall in the distance, but more important, the weather catching up to me. The hills in the far distance are Wales.


...and up and up...

The woodsy bits at the top of the hill are the crest of the Sandstone Ridge. A morraine of rock and rubble pushed up by the thousand foot-high ice sheets that once covered the Cheshire plain. (No photo of latter, sorry). The ice is responsible for much of the shape of the terrain here and for the type of things that can be grown. It picked up boulders and rocks from miles away in Cumbria and Scotland and left them desposited all over. Some of them are local landmarks and some, it is said, were the site of pre-Christian ritual sacrifices. The ice also carried with it lots of smaller bits of rubble that its great weight ground down to a very fine powder which was deposited all over the plain. This formed a clay that still prevents drainage, which is why the fields are often flooded and where the meres and pools come from.

Oak wasp galls.


Very unusual to find farm buildings of wood here. Almost all the farm outbuildings are solid brick or sandstone. The feeling it gives is one of great permanence and dignity, something I always found lacking in Canadian rural areas, other than Quebec. These people have lived here a very long time and clearly intend to remain another thousand years or so.

A case in point. This little barn was clearly expanded at least twice. You can see the places where the newer brickwork was added to the older building in two stages.

Being chased by the weather as I climb higher up above the plain. Gorse bushes always remind me of the Winnie the Pooh story where Bear tries to get to a honey bee nest with the help of a balloon lent to him by Christopher Robin. The plan failed when Bear found that, although he could see the bees and smell the honey, the necessity of holding onto the string meant that he could not reach it. The problem of how to get down became serious. Christopher Robin was, sadly, forced to shoot the balloon, which deposited the hapless Bear into a Gorse bush.

We have to go up there?!

Yes. But not before we get a pint.

Some of the farms on the way to Burwardsley.

Other walkers, complete with all the Walker Geek Gear, looked decidedly long-nosed at me in my sturdy tweed skirt and wellies. I let them get well ahead before I started talking to myself again.

It seemed like miles and miles. One of the things about walking everywhere is that it gives one a deep appreciation of the seriousness of the land. In a car, one just whips past it, careless and unheeding like Toad in his automobile. Walking forces one to take seriously the distances and matters like food and water, tired feet and hills to climb.


Burwardsley cottages.

Everyone was out digging the gardens.

Many cottages have brightly painted doors. Often this particular shade of blue or bright red. And don't you love the name?!

Daffs are everywhere.

I fell instantly in love with this cottage. The chap who lives there sold me ten bags of fire logs at 50p per bag less than I was paying. Delivered the next day.

The last stretch of the hill before gaining the top of the ridge. But not yet. Onwards, to the Pheasant!


The seething core of metropolitan Burwardsley. The shop was closed (Sunday), but it had a lot of useful and interesting notices and a nice bench to sit on for a rest.

This little cottage, just before the Pheasant, was once a Methodist chapel. So many of these are now converted into flats or cottages, one wonders if there are any Methodists left. The one in Tattenhall has been changed into very uncomfortable looking flats and it makes me sad when I remember that it was once host to the great John Wesley himself who preached in the village in the late 1700s.

1843

The Pheasant at last. My mum's favourite pub in all Ynglonde.

The walker's reward. I ate my tongue sandwich, cheese and sausage rolls, but it was too cold and windy to stay on the patio. I moved inside where the pub was full.

The next stile is the entrance to the Sandstone ridge and the beginning of stage two.

Walk to Maiden Castle

Part I


I simply can't resist a stile. They are symbolic, somehow. When I climb over a stile, the modern world just goes away and stops bothering me for a while. Closest I've come to the door to Narnia. This stile is the closest one to the edge of the village on the east side, towards Beeston. At night, it is an eerie place to approach since the road is only lit about as far as this stile. After that, the light stops at what looks like a cave of blackness as the road winds away into the countryside. Actually, it is quite dangerous to walk on the lanes at night. They are only about 15 feet wide, less in some places, and there is no pavement (that's a "sidewalk" to Northamericaners). The verge is often only about two feet wide and sometimes less. And the corners are blind. There is only room for one car at a time and no place to jump when they come. You just listen very carefully, (easy because of the total silence) and press up against the hedge when a car comes.

Off in the distance, you can see the hills where I'm heading. That's the Sandstone Ridge. Historically, shelter for Celts, Cavaliers, gypsies and hermits, all seeking refuge from detection. If the door to Narnia is anywhere...

On the other side of the stile

the sheep fields (looking back toward the village,) stretch ahead. Despite the word "sheepishness", the sheep are actually quite protective of the lambs so it's a good idea to give them plenty of room. They certainly look at you very sternly and usher you on your way quite brusquely.

My kit-bag

with Beeston crag, ever looming, in the distance. The weather is pretty changeable this time of year. It was a very warm day, in general, but up on the ridge, I was very glad to have my wooly cardie.


The sacred earth. How long has this particular patch of ground been tilled, every spring (or every other, being left fallow in between)? I like that the farmers are so careful not to plough up the footpaths...there's probably a fine.

Sometimes you have to do a little creative interpretation of the right of way laws


it really makes one appreciate the great Wellington Boot


Every inch of this country is cultivated, cared-for and jealously watched-over. The English have turned their island into another Eden.

This little wood is at the end of the fourth field along from the lane. It surrounds a pair of still ponds, full of newts, frogs, ducks and coots. I go in there when I'm looking for kindling sticks and at Christmas for pine cones and holly, and I always wonder how long it has been there.



There's a funny thing about cows. I don't know why, but if they see someone walking across their field, they become very agitated. Even when they see people walking along the lane next the field, they will come crowding around, often clamouring over each other to get close. I don't know how to interpret this. Are they defending their territory? Or do they think it's feeding time? I don't know anything about cows and have no idea why, but they do go all wiggy when they see someone crossing a foot path. It's why it's a good idea to take along a pair of binos. When you come to a stile, it's good idea to check to see if there are cows at the other end who aren't held in with a line of fencing. And if there are, to find another route.

At the end of five fields from Tattenhall, towards Bolesworth Castle, we come over an other stile to Dark Lane.

go down that lane for quite a while, and you will come to the road up to Burwardsley, and a place called Cheshire fishing where people go to practice with their rods. It doesn't seem like real fishing to me. More like kids playing at fishing in a pond that has been deliberately stocked for the purpose. But that's probably just the Canadian in me. There isn't any wilderness here, and hasn't been for a very long time.

The other direction, you can see, is the road to Bolesworth. This is the back gate to the estate. When I came here, this cottage was empty and I had a poke around the back. It's lovely, and the garden is well-kept. That's Bolesworth. They have a very good reputation here as excellent landlords.



more to come...