A Walk from Bowland Bridge

Across the Winster Valley to Whitbarrow Scar.

A hot Saturday afternoon, towards the end of April. TBH and I escaped for a short stroll around the Winster valley.

Eastern Fells from Raven’s Barrow.

Raven’s Barrow isn’t really a summit, just a bump on the edge of sprawling Cartmel Fell, but it has a huge cairn (with a seat built into it) and superb, panoramic views. We found a place to get out of the wind and sat for quite some time. With a brew, of course.

Whitbarrow from Raven’s Barrow.

Looking South from Raven’s Barrow.

With annotations – what do you think?

Hmmmm – not sure that I agree.

I like the idea of footpath signs with a quote. I always like to know where quotes originate, but couldn’t track this one down. I did find this…

“I will not follow where the path may lead, but I will go where there is no path, and I will leave a trail.”

…which seems to be often wrongly attributed to Emerson, but is actually the work of Muriel Strode, ‘the female Walt Whitman’, who I think may repay further investigation.

St. Anthony’s Church.

Whitbarrow Scar again.

River Winster – looking South.

River Winster – looking north.

Raven’s Barrow from the edge of Colehowe Wood.

Cowclose Wood.

Cowclose Wood bluebells.

Nearing the top of Cowclose Wood.

The bluebells in Cowclose Wood were fantastic. I’m afraid, as usual, my photos don’t begin to do them justice.

Pool Bank.

Pool Bank is a tiny hamlet, full of charming old buildings.

Fox’s Pulpit Pool Bank – another place where the Quaker founder preached in the open.

Descending towards Coppy Beck accompanied by Blackthorn blossom.

Cowmire Hall and the northern end of Whitbarrow Scar.

The Hare and Hounds – back in Bowland Bridge.

I think the battery on my phone died at Pool Bank. From there we followed the path through Broomer Dale to near Lobby Bridge, then another path to Scale Hill, then back along the minor lane we had started on.

Simple Curiosity (or Another Easter Miscellany)

“It is very simple to be happy, but it is very difficult to be simple.”

― Rabindranath Tagore

Heald Brow primroses.

Heald Brow Cows. (Belted Galloway?)

“The cure for boredom is curiosity. There is no cure for curiosity.”

–Ellen Parr

I think this might be the caterpillar of the Lesser Yellow Underwing Moth. It was in our garden. I’m not aware that I’ve ever seen an adult moth of that species in our garden, I shall have to keep my eyes peeled.

This is the Green Hairstreak butterfly in Eaves Wood which I mentioned in my recent post about Whitbarrow.

A high tide at The Cove. Grange has almost disappeared in the haze – it was warming up again.

On a visit to Lambert’s Meadow I saw loads of Peacock butterflies. Last summer, I was a bit concerned about how few of them visited our garden, so I was doubly delighted to see so many.

There were Brimstones about too, but they wouldn’t settle for a photo.

Cuckooflowers.

Pheasant.

At Myer’s Allotment there were several piles of felled logs. They all seemed to have attracted vast numbers of flies…

…I think they might be Lesser House flies.

Violets.

I was rather taken by these tiny flowers, growing on an Ant mound at Myer’s Allotment. It’s taken me a while to identify them, but I’m pretty sure that this is Rue Leaved Saxifrage.

The small three-lobed leaves and striking red stems seem quite distinctive.

When I took this shot…

…I wasn’t actually after the Violets, but rather this bumblebee…

…which toured a large patch of Violets whilst I struggled to get a photo. Mostly, when I did have it in frame, I ended up with shots of it hanging upside down below the flowers  to feed…

It’s colours suggest that it’s probably an Early Bumblebee.

Leighton Moss from Myer’s Allotment.

Cowslips.

Hoverfly.

Vespula vulgaris – the common wasp. A whopper. Apparently only queens fly in spring, seeking a site for a nest, so perhaps this was a queen on just such a quest.

New oak leaves.

Long purples – Early Purple Orchids.

I noticed several wild rose plants with new buds and leaves affected by some sort of orange growth – I assume that this is a ‘rust’, but have to confess that I’m decidedly clueless about precisely what rusts are.

Blackbird with worms on the fringes of Bank Well.

Bank Well.

Marsh Marigolds.

In amongst the reeds at Bank Well there was a Moorhen nest. Moorhens are very attractive birds, in my opinion, but their chicks are much less handsome. I took a few photos, but my camera struggled to focus on the birds because of the intervening reeds.

One final Peacock butterfly.

More new oak leaves, with flowers.

“Instructions for living a life.
Pay attention.
Be astonished.
Tell about it.”

– Mary Oliver

The Road to Happiness

A family of six goldfinches occupied one of our garden feeders for quite some time on Saturday. Whilst all are clearly goldfinches, the four juveniles lack the characteristic markings around their heads and have more a tawny back.

I think it’s true to say that goldfinches are now more commonly seen in our gardens and that can only be a good thing as far as I’m concerned. I think they’re irresistible.

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A colleague prefaced telling me about a forthcoming local charity book fair by saying “I’m not sure whether you will be interested in this, but…”

Of course I was interested! (And I think that she knew full well that I would be.)

She also offered, in case I couldn’t make it in person, to look out for any particular titles which I might want, if I provided a list. But half of the pleasure of second-hand books is in the browsing. Another friend was telling me recently that she will soon be switching over from books to Kindle, but then: no searching through tables piled high with fusty old books, one of which might be an unexpected gem. It’s nice to find a book which is on your wish-list: I picked up ‘The Road’ and ‘Wolf Hall’ for a song recently – but I had known that it was only a matter of time before that happened. If the book is something I’ve wanted to read for a while then the find becomes a little more exciting – I’ve just bought ‘The Snow Leopard’ for less than the postage on Amazon Marketplace would have been, for example. But the books which aren’t on my wish-list because I don’t know about them are the principle reason I will hope to get to that book fair next weekend.

Recent purchases of this type include ‘Fresh Woods’ by Ian Niall which I’ve posted about before, ‘Cockley Beck’ by John Pepper, which I’m very much looking forward to reading, and ‘Between Earth and Paradise’ by Mike Tomkies which I have just finished reading, and which I enjoyed immensely.

Another recent find was ‘Portraits from Memory’ by Bertrand Russell. I’ve read and liked some of his essays before, and I was recently lent ‘Logicomix’ which is about the search for certainty in mathematics and is absolutely fascinating. What a treat then to find some autobiographical material by Russell. Scanning down the contents, an essay entitled ‘The Road to Happiness’ sprang out as an appealing place to start.

This was partly because there was an article by Adam Phillips in the Guardian Review recently about ‘the happiness myth’. (You can read it here). It left me somewhat bemused and confused: what is the central argument – that the unbridled pursuit of pleasure is a bad thing? I imagine that thousands of Guardian reading, hell for leather, break-neck hedonists were moved to pause and consider whether they should change their ways over their early morning snifter of cocaine on that particular Saturday. The article was thought provoking and I particularly liked the quote, from Larkin’s ‘Born Yesterday’:

……a skilled,
Vigilant, flexible,
Unemphasised, enthralled
Catching of happiness…..

But I find that I am much more in sympathy with what Russell has to say. You can read the entire essay here, but the following passages from near the end of the essay struck me as particularly relevant to this blog:

It is the simple things that really matter. If a man delights in his wife and children, has success in work, and finds pleasure in the alternation of day and night, spring and autumn, he will be happy whatever his philosophy may be.

Man is an animal, and his happiness depends upon his physiology more than he likes to think. This is a humble conclusion, but I cannot make myself disbelieve it. Unhappy businessmen, I am convinced, would increase their happiness more by walking six miles  every day than by any conceivable change of philosophy. This, incidentally, was the opinion of Jefferson, who on this ground deplored the horse. Language would have failed him if he could have foreseen the motor-car.

Mike Tomkies – who’s observations on wildlife on a island of the west coast of Scotland has gripped me over the last week – was troubled terribly by loneliness in his simple remote home. I think that he might have picked up some good advice on striking a balance between work and play, seriousness and fun, if he had read Russell instead of Gavin Maxwell and Thoreau.