The walk uphill from the Jubilee Tower on the Trough of Bowland road isn’t steep but it can seem relentless. The call of red grouse accompanied my heavy breathing. The grouse fly low over the ground and as they land they appear to scold, ‘Get back, get back!’ A snipe rushed out of the longer rushes as we unknowingly disturbed it. This is the Forest of Bowland, almost tree-less high moorland that is managed for driven grouse shooting.
Reaching the bump of Grit Fell, we turned towards Clougha Pike and stomped across the flank of the fell, stepping over heather and bilberries towards the quarry. Here we stepped over broken stones, stopping when we reached the debris that has been organised into art.
The work of artist Andy Goldsworthy, three boxes of stone were built between 1999 and 2001. Each has an opening with pointed ends and inside Goldsworthy has created curving internal walls. The openings are the perfect size for an adult human to stand in and people often use the step by each shelter to do just that and pose for a photograph.
The temperature was just below zero and the boggy ground of the moors was irregularly frozen, the white ice highlighting the intricate details of green mosses. Black patches of un-walked peat were as hard as tarmac. From the quarry we were briefly blessed with an easy-to-walk track; this is how the wealthy arrive here to kill grouse. Elsewhere I watched where I placed my feet, constantly on the look out for thin coatings of ice over chilly water.
Around us was rolling heather-covered peat moorland, an occasional gritstone outcrop of broken stones creating an unexpected event in the landscape. We stood silently watching a pair of red grouse shambling among the heather nearby, staying close to each other and unpeturbed by us.
Walking towards an old wall on the horizon, I was reminded of the paper doilies my grandma used to serve my birthday cake on. Against the light, the crumbling wall appeared frilly around the edges and the low and feeble November sun glimmered through the many gaps in the stones. I wondered if the wall had been built with these holes and did they make for a stronger wall? Or is the wall gradually decaying from within and merely waiting for the next storm to tumble into a pile of stones?
The wind was coming from the south-west bringing slightly warmer weather. Returning from Clougha Pike in that direction, it blew into my face [the only part of me exposed] and my frozen blocked nose dripped as I concentrated on breathing through my mouth. We passed a small pool reflecting the blue sky in crackly ice.
The view took in the whole of Morecambe Bay, from Barrow, to Arnside over Morecambe and Heysham to Fleetwood. The expanse of this feature that we live alongside can really be appreciated from these high viewpoints. Blackpool tower punctuated the horizon, a white Isle of Man ferry was just reaching Heysham and the River Lune slithered to the sea at our feet.
Back on the road again 