Nature

Back to Bridgewater

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The half term holiday proved to be wonderfully hot and sunny. Here in the north west of England, an unusually cold and rainy start to spring finally gave way to a spell of glorious weather – 2 weeks and counting and with not a drop of rain forecast for the foreseeable. Progress in my own little garden is still behind where it usually is at this time of year, but it’s getting there. Perhaps perversely, I would welcome a downpour or two at this point, as thirsty plants mean nightly watering, which isn’t always such a Zen activity when I’m tired and have many other things to do.

Being a non driver and with arthritic legs that don’t work that well at times, I rarely turn down the offer of a drive out to some local (ish) beauty spot or garden that would otherwise be difficult or impossible for me to get to, so when some friends invited me last week to join them on a return visit to RHS Bridgewater, I enthusiastically accepted.

Joining us was Jim Bob, my friend’s guide dog. Although I recall seeing many dogs when I visited last August, it seems that they may only be allowed on site at certain times of the day, with the exception of assistance dogs like JB. He is always the star of the show anyway and enjoyed all of the extra admiration he attracted with no other canine competition around.

At the time of my last visit much of the early summer flowering planting had gone over, and though still beautiful, there was a tiredness to some of the flowers, which had started to mellow and fade into their autumnal hues. I was looking forward to experiencing the vibrancy and of June, especially in contrast to my still quite sparse little beds. I wasn’t disappointed.

For me, perhaps the highlight of this visit was the primulas along the stream leading to the Chinese garden. I could have been inside a Monet masterpiece, the wild, botanical vista winding away beyond the bridge and into the distance.

My favourite part of Bridgewater is the Paradise garden with its Mediterranean planting, intoxicating fragrances and lily pool.

Jim Bob leads the way through paradise

Impressive kitchen gardens were a hive of activity, with more interest than ever in growing our own food – though for most of us possibly not in such a large plot.

In recent years, horticultural thinking and UK gardening trends have leant towards wilder, less contrived spaces, friendlier to wildlife and, increasingly, including more robust planting which can stand the test of more extreme weather. Somewhat controversially, some of those plants we would formerly have identified (and treated) as weeds are now welcomed into many gardens, though not all. Bridgewater has an abundance of wild planting.

But still includes some more traditional formality

As the afternoon rolled on and the heat rose, the shade of the Chinese garden offered some welcome relief to our furry friend, JB, who was off duty by this point, it being too hot for him to work. The pool looked so refreshingly tempting as the afternoon temperature soared.

I’m already thinking about my next visit, whenever that might be, and contemplating the delights and surprises of another season.

November’s saving grace

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I am not a winter person, though I have in recent years become more appreciative of the season which is, perhaps for many of us, a period to be got through rather than to savour. I realised years ago that my mood can be greatly affected by natural light, or the lack of it, though thankfully not determined by it.

During my winter working week I leave the house before the sun rises and return after it has set, making those weekend day light hours all the more precious. I hope for bright, dry days and the opportunity to get outside, even if it’s cold, and even if it’s only in my own tiny garden.

My personal perception of when winter starts is more in alignment with the old Celtic calendar, beginning on 1st November when the temperatures drop and the first frost arrives (though this year has been exceptionally mild) and ending at the start of February when the earliest of spring flowers start to emerge from the still frozen ground and the world slowly starts to become green again. The midwinter solstice is a big clue to how our ancient ancestors calculated the seasons. So, in my world, we are already a month into winter, even if it’s still officially autumn.

It will get worse before it gets better. The lack of light, that is. As the weeks roll on towards the December festivities, the nights will draw in ever earlier, with lamps and candles being lit by mid afternoon, just to provide a comforting glow to defeat the gloom outside. Even though the days are shorter still by then, December is redeemed by the air of festivity, the bright twinkling lights and merriment, the general goodwill and coming together. January brings a sense of new beginnings, a new year on the calendar, starting again and time in reverse, visibly stretching out that bit longer. November has no such merit. It’s a no-man’s land between the splendour of October’s rich palette and lingering warmth and the primal energy around midwinter. The autumn colours have mostly faded, temperatures plummet, it rains – a lot- leaving the oppressive odour of dampness that penetrates wood and bone. All but the most valiant of the summer flowers have died back and faded away.

November also brings some sadness, a time of losing loved ones, human and furry friends, memories of other dark, rainy days when the sun never really came out.

If you are still reading at this point, not yet discouraged by the miserable tone of this post thus far, please take a second to look back to the title. Feeling a tad guilty about my maligning of November, and a touch unappreciative of this dull and unremarkable time of year, I embarked on a little reflection and a very short walk close to home to rediscover November, which, I gladly concede, has a certain grace and its own subtle appeal.

The bold and bright petunias, lobelia and marigolds are long gone, but the ivy, in new hues of pink and pale green, is offering its exquisite winter display. Even the flowerless stalks now have a new form, different but no less engaging. The last of the flowers appear even more resplendent in their scarcity.

Nature keeps on giving.

A perfect antidote to grey sky, an abundance of bright and lustrous berries hang heavily from trees and shrubs, not only a joy to see but providing much needed nourishment to feathered neighbours.

…and snails in trees

When, perhaps more than any other time of year, there is little new growth, it is even more exciting to come across an unexpected surprise. A flourish of delightful pink roses, still faint with perfume, pushes through a fence to exhibit its last flush to an appreciative audience, all the more wonderful in the month of November.

For me, getting outside, regardless of the weather, is a necessity. Fresh air and movement. Observing and taking part. Appreciating the beauty in the mundane. It’s there if we want to see it.

On those days when going out isn’t an option, it’s no coincidence that so many Scandi-Noir have been filmed or are set in November: bleak, Nordic days when the sun never shines, providing a tense and angsty backdrop for a chilling crime. Keep the lights low, make a hot chocolate and enjoy the season.

Ruminations

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Colours of the sun

Welcome again to the little garden. Autumn has arrived, bringing the great harvesting of summer’s abundance, before the gentle time of falling and fading as the earth prepares to rest and recharge through the dark months.

The garden still has much to offer at this time of the year; colours intensify, offering a shock of late summer splendour against a backdrop of grey sky.

Little creatures dart from flower to flower, hunting and competing for the ever decreasing supply of sustenance.

The morning and evening air is colder now, though the days are still beautifully mild.

Enjoy the words of mediaeval Persian poet Jamaladin Rumi, who had much to say about gardens.

‘Beauty surrounds us, but usually we have to be walking in a garden to know it.‘

‘Beauty is the garden scent of roses, murmuring water flowing gently. Can words describe the indescribable?

‘My heart rushes into the garden, joyfully tasting all the delights. But reason frowns, disapproving.’

‘Raise your words, not your voice. It is rain that grows flowers, not thunder.’

‘Be crumbled, so wild flowers come up where you are. You have been stony for too many years. Try something different.’

”True beauty is a ray that springs from the the sacred depths of the soul, and illuminates the body, just as life springs from the kernel of a stone and gives colour and scent to a flower.’

‘No more words. In the name of this place we drink in with our breathing, stay quiet like a flower, so the night birds will start singing.’

‘Every tree and plant in the meadow seem to be dancing, those which average eyes would see as fixed and still.’

Thank you for reading.

Stirrings

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During these months of short days and long nights I only get to see my garden at the weekends. Leaving for work and returning home in darkness five days a week allows little opportunity to observe the very gradual changes that are taking place in the awakening earth.

True, there is little pleasure to be had in the winter garden anyway, for me; there is beauty in all seasons and glistening evergreens and frosty blades can be as lovely in midwinter as on a summer’s day, but it’s too damp to sit out for too long, even wrapped up warm, and there is no work that can be done.

The first day of February is the day of Imbolc the ancient Celtic beginning of spring, marking the first signs of new life. We are a few days off yet, but I think the shift has come a little early this year. There is still a way to go before I open my curtains to the bright sun and not a dazzling moon, but the land is stirring.

The very welcome sight of new shoots emerging from the cold ground, and the promise of dormant bulbs soon to be transformed into the first vernal blooms, never ceases to bring me joy.

The dwarf rhododendron is always the first shrub to flower at the beginning of March. The buds are ripening in readiness. However, this year there is a surprise.

Cat mint doesn’t usually reappear until well into March. Yesterday, I decided to chop down the old stalks that I had left over winter and Paddy and I made a discovery.

All three of the nepeta are already rejuvenating. The winter has been fairly mild so that could be a factor. I didn’t tidy the bed as I usually do, so the old wood may have provided some protection from the frost. Or maybe it’s all down to global warming. I hope this early growth is not too soon and that February is kind.

Buds are appearing.

This fern, planted last year, spent the spring and summer in shades of russet and gold. I wondered about its health. When autumn arrived, the other ferns faded and then shrivelled, whilst this one turned green and lush. Unexpected and wonderful!

These resilient herbs have kept both colour and scent through the winter, even the lavender. That’s a first for my garden!

And the fennel smells as gorgeous as ever as new shoots make their way towards the light.

As another week of short days passes by, I’ll secretly ponder the changes that are taking place above and below the soil and happily anticipate next weekend’s revelations.

Shepherd’s Delight

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It’s almost 10 pm and the sun is setting on another gorgeous July day. The sky is a delicious blend of burnt oranges, pinks and corals: red sky at night, shepherd’s delight. Tomorrow looks promising then. Through the still-open window I can hear the faint and exotic sounds of a bamboo wind chime in a neighbour’s tree, gently animated by a cooling breeze. Muted conversation and laughter is carried on the air from nearby gardens. At the end of a magnificent week of scorching sunshine, today’s slightly lower temperature has been most welcome. We can be such a contrary lot where the weather is concerned, craving to be baked and sweltered, but soon needing respite before yearning for the next heatwave.

The little garden is a joy to behold, bursting at the borders with tecnicoloured blooms. I’ve never seen as many bees as this year, which is what it’s all about for me. It took a long time to get going after an exceptionally cold and rainy May, but the plants have forgiven and forgotten and have made up for lost time.

Here are some of the most vibrant and gorgeous that give me so much pleasure. Apparently, lots of people dislike orange flowers, but they never fail to make me smile. Tigger appreciates them too.

Having had mixed results from new plant varieties I have added this year, it’s been wonderful to see that once again the cosmos, calendula and nasturtiums have done me proud. Seed harvested last year was roughly sown straight into the soil in April and the flowers are thriving, needing very little care. There’s a lesson there, I think.

The light has faded since I started writing this post, and in the darkness the garden has another kind of magic, fairy lights and lanterns picking out the shapes of tiny bats as they flit above, looking for insects or heading back to their roosting places. It’s time for music and wine and thinking up plans for a new day. Have a great weekend!

June in bloom

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May was very wet and cold here in the north of England, and the garden has taken much longer than usual to get going. Except for the ever-dependable cat mint, determined to push through and show off in pride of place, the flowerbed seemed quite a sad little spot last month. Some of the herbs pots have been thriving since April, but I have been longing to see some colour. June arrived, bringing glorious sunshine, day after day, and temperatures into the twenties. At long last, the first flowers have started to push through to greet the sun.

Last year I dabbled more with seeds than ever before because the garden centres were closed in the spring. I was so delighted with the results that I decided to carry on this year. The results so far have been variable. I started most of my seedlings indoors inside propagator trays and started transferring them outside from April, potting them on and leaving them to grow on the nursery shelves. Heavy rain throughout May meant covering the shelves with plastic sheeting much of the time. Many perished, battered by wind and rain when I wasn’t able to cover them, or rotted in too humid propagators. Nothing has been planted out yet but some cosmos and a few sunflowers are doing well and should be big enough to go into the flower bed in a couple of weeks. There are also some newly germinated nasturtiums, varieties I haven’t grown before and which I am so happy have come through.

Last summer, I sowed some calendula seeds directly into the ground and lavished time, effort and compost nurturing others from propagation. The results were identical, so this year – yes, you’ve guessed it – all have gone straight into the soil and all are doing well, considering recent weather.

It was the same story with nasturtiums last year, some shooting up in the poorest soil, between flags and stones or gate crashing in other pots, all performing as well as their pampered relations. They are classed as annuals but some have decided to come back. Wonderful!

For the first time I’ve decided to try growing some veg. I’m starting small. Very small. In this hanging basket I’m growing cucamelons, which I have never tried before, and chard. I hope they’ll be safe from slugs up there. There are more chard plants on the shelf. I have never been interested in growing fruit or veg up to now and this is just for fun. We’ll see.

I plant herbs for their aromas and leave them to flower for the pollinators, only sharing the chives, fennel and parsley which I love in salads.

Scabiosa is such a resilient plant, as well as gorgeous and attractive to butterflies and bees. They never fail to delight.

Salvia is another perennial favourite for me and the bees. I have bought a couple of new plants which will remain in pots, where they seem to do best in my garden. The bees are happy!

I tried to grow yarrow from seed but not one little shoot emerged. Imagine my delight when I found mature plants on sale at a good garden centre. The first florets are opening and I hope the pollinators will enjoy the feasting.

I picked up two Lady’s Mantle plants from the Pound Shop, both on their last stalks, yellowing and looking doomed. I was moved to try to rescue them. For weeks they seemed to be clinging on but showed no signs of growth. Earlier this week they were replanted together and the transformation has been astonishing. Within a few days they have turned from puny stumps to lush, green pot fillers, soon to be separated and given more room to spread.

Another new addition and a first timer in my flower bed is this delphinium, buds about to open as she rises above the cat mint. I planted three but only this one has succeeded. I can’t wait to see the flowers.

The little California poppy is ready to open again. I sowed some more seeds around it for company but it looks like it will be on its own again.

The fastest mover has been another new plant, this gorgeous erysimum, Bowles Mauve. It has thrived from the moment it was planted out and is a real bee magnet!

It’s such a joyful thing to be able to take pleasure in a garden, especially one as small as mine where every plant counts. Next week is looking lovely, if not so hot, and I’m looking forward to my morning pottering as my coffee brews and my evening cup of tea as the sun goes down. I wish everybody a lovely week!

A local walk

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A recent visit to the GP about something unrelated (and which thankfully was nothing to worry about) revealed the alarming news that my blood pressure is higher than it should be. If I am not able to reduce it myself through ‘lifestyle changes’ I may be looking at medication in the future. This news has motivated me to make some positive changes to my now very sedentary lock-down, home-worker life, including becoming more active. It’s the old chicken and egg scenario: I started walking less as my arthritis pain worsened, which probably led to me becoming even more unfit and putting weight on, which undoubtedly has made the pain worse, and so on. Having now to sit at my desk all day, five days a week, has not helped matters. Although these are proper reasons and not just excuses, I am still set on taking action to improve my health in whatever way I can.

We are back to walking locally again, though for me that never changed during the few months’ interval between lock downs; I have only been out of town once in the past 10 months and have become something of a contented recluse. This morning, however, the bright sunshine and dry sky tempted me out into my locality for a bit of a brisk stroll. There are some great places to walk within the wider township, but I would need to get a bus there. On my own doorstep, options are very limited. Nevertheless, off I set in pursuit of fresh air and exercise and with camera at the ready.

Westwood Flash

I live in an area which was heavily mined when Coal was King in Wigan. Although the collieries are long gone they have left a legacy of flashes – lakes formed on sites of mining subsidence. There are eight flashes in total within the nature reserve. The Leigh branch of the Leeds & Liverpool canal cuts through the bodies of water and these days is extremely popular with walkers, cyclists and boaters.

Three or four anglers were in situ, one with a very bored looking child who was distracting himself by rolling about in the mud whilst the female companion of another looked like she would rather be watching paint dry. I was much more interested in the wild fowl amongst the reed beds.

There were lots of people around, mostly walking dogs and mostly very friendly. I turned around to look for the speaker of “Long time, no see,” to find a man who daily used to travel into town on the same bus as me, also now a home-worker. I don’t know him, other than as a fellow former member of the 07:24 bus micro-community, but it was strangely uplifting to meet again somebody who seems part of a distant and strange past, and to be reminded that we will hopefully return to those banal but now welcome routines.

A lot of money has been spent on improving accessibility to this area in recent months, partly to mitigate the presence and associated noise, visual and environmental pollution from a pointless new dual-carriageway, nick-named locally the road to nowhere, because, being part of a much longer link road whose other parts have not yet been constructed, it really doesn’t go anywhere. It’s a relief to see that wildlife still seems to be thriving, post road construction.

Two men, one in a bizarre, possibly home-made, face covering which looked like it had been fashioned out of several plastic bottles, asked for directions to the canal tow path. I indicated the way that I was myself headed. By this time, the route was really quite busy and it was sometimes necessary to stand to one side to let people pass. It’s a pleasant walk, more so since the improvements, and I regretted that I hadn’t been walking here more often.

Arriving at the towpath, I decided that as a re-introductory amble I had gone far enough for today. I spent a few minutes watching the swans and having a short chat with another person I knew in the old life.

Lost in my own thoughts and camera lens, I was momentarily startled when a woman asked me if I put photos on “that website”. “What website is that?”, I replied, wondering if this humble domain had come to her attention. It had not, of course. It was something else entirely that I have never heard of.

I spotted a few people in the wood on the other side of the water where I had thought it was inaccessible. More to investigate on another walk.

And in the other direction lies the largest of the flashes and walks that I haven’t done for years.

As others have written, it is easy to forget the green spaces that are close at hand. I’m looking forward to renewing that connection.

A lesson in patience and seeds of change

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So, here we are on the last day of September. The hours of daylight and darkness have passed their balancing point and we move slowly towards the dark and the cold. Figuratively speaking, we are, and will be, living through darker times than usual this year. But those long months of shorter, colder days offer hope of renewal and regeneration when the warmth returns.

There have been some frosty mornings of late. I have opened the back door to look at the slivers of dawn light and to observe my misty breath in the air. As the garden dies back and slowly goes to seed there is still a lot of colour to take pleasure in, and there is even new growth.

Back in early spring, unable to source any plants, I picked up a few packets of seeds from the supermarket, amongst them some blacked-eyed Susan. Unlike some of the other more vigorously sprouting seedlings, the Susans were very slow to emerge from their little plug pots and, when they eventually did, seemed to be stuck, no bigger than tiny cress stalks, for a long time. I almost gave up on them, planning more than once to throw them into the composting bin. With nothing to lose, I moved the little pots one late July day to a slightly sunnier spot. Their transformation into robust little plants was fast and furious, as if seizing the moment and making up for lost time. I planted them, still doubtful due to their relatively small size, into a bed. Happily, they took hold and went from strength to strength and their sultry shades of ochre and golden-brown keep the spirit of summer alive for a bit longer.

Calendula and nasturtiums are still flowering. Every time I think I have dead-headed for the last time I spot a tiny bud or two.

Roses also continue to bloom, hopefully for a few weeks yet.

The cosmos seeds I potted in April were the first and fastest to grow, feathery stems reaching for the sun. The baby plants were the first to go into the ground and they continued to shoot up and up, lanky and eager. But there were no flowers for the longest time. I gave up on the idea. I pulled up some of the plants which were blocking the light and putting other plants in the shade, stunting their development. I want my garden to be a food source for pollinating creatures; I couldn’t spare the space for anything that provided neither beauty nor nourishment. I left a few of the smaller specimens there, including a sad little thing in a small terracotta pot. To my surprise, they have produced a small number of flowers in white and vibrant pink, a joyful late summer gift, long after I gave up on them.

I adore the muted pink leaves of this honeysuckle plant which I had forgotten about. The pot, invaded by moss and in an inhospitable shady corner, was nearly recycled months ago. Moved into the sun to serve as a stand for a solar battery, the plant awoke again, returning to a long- forgotten splendour. I bought it on the same day as its cousin below, now well over two metres tall and one of my favourites, its pink and purple berries succulent and splendid. They were 50p each on the half- dead rejects shelf.

Nigella have grown in my little garden for about four years now. My first pack of seeds was shop-bought, but for the past three years I have gathered the brown seed heads in September and October, releasing the black seeds, each a potential new flower in the next summer. I move them around the garden, this year planting in perhaps too sunny a spot, shortening their season. Some seeds found their way, on the breeze, to a shady place beneath an over-hanging tree. They have done much better, new flowers still appearing. There is a lesson there.

One of my favourite shrubs is the heavily fragrant caryopteris, Heavenly Blue. It is a bee magnet from May to early September, but its season is nearly over.

Last year I added another caryopteris, White Surprise. It didn’t seem to thrive in its original spot so in early spring I moved it next to its relation, not knowing if it would take root. There was some growth but no flowers. I decided it would have to give up its prime position to a newcomer next spring, but it could stay put for the time being. Over the last few weeks I have not been disappointed. A profusion of lavender blue flowers have taken over, a nectar fest for the insects. I see it from my kitchen window and take great joy in watching the feasting. To think, I might have dug it up, not knowing it was a late summer bloomer!

Another new addition is the pink buddleia, bought from a pound shop. It has grown quite a lot and its big candy-floss display enchants me, though it doesn’t seem to attract the butterflies. I haven’t seen a single one sampling its supposed delights. I am still in two minds about its future prospects, but I won’t be rash. Perhaps the right butterflies haven’t spotted it yet.

When is a weed not a weed? This geranium Robert has the most wonderful aroma, like parsley. I leave it alone to do its thing.

In this mellow season of winding down, decay has its own beauty.

I have bought some spring bulbs to plant at the weekend. They will rest in the cold winter earth before energising and bursting forth to surprise and delight on a March morning. Hope springs eternal.

Bright and Beautiful

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Back in May when we baked and sweltered in days on end of glorious sunshine it was said -only partly in jest – that this was summer so enjoy it while it lasted. It feels now like that was true. I can count on one hand the number of days in July when it hasn’t rained here in north west England. Grey, miserable, wet and even cold are not adjectives that normally are associated with summer, and the season has been hugely disappointing so far.

On a more positive note, wonderful things have been happening in the garden. When I last posted on the subject a few weeks ago everything was pastel and purple, which was lovely, but I was eager to see some bolder colours bursting forth. Well, burst forth they have, and they have been the perfect antidote to the wet and dreary days of late. This afternoon has been sunny and warm for a change so I sat outside with a book and a brew and Tiggy the cat for company.

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Tig having a nap

In the spring when it became clear that garden centres would not be opening any time soon I decided to buy some seeds. Previous efforts at growing from scratch had, in the main, not been successful, but undeterred I bought a few packets from the supermarket and I set about sowing. My biggest success story has been calendula.

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These joyful yellow flowers have grown effortlessly and have been a surprise and a delight. I’ll definitely be growing them again next year

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Their sunny faces always make me smile. The bees love them, too.

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I sowed some seeds directly into the ground and planted others into plug cells, repotting a couple of times. There has been no difference in size or vitality. I even scattered a few randomly and they have grown just as well, including in the little herb bed where I’ve allowed some of the chives to flower for the insects to enjoy.

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Nasturtiums have been another triumph.

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I sowed all of the seeds directly into pots, some with host plants such as winter jasmine which won’t flower until November, and mainly into old compost. Nasturtiums were the first of my seeds to shoot, and they continue to thrive.

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Like the calendula, nasturtiums are so joyful and sunny and their brightness is such a tonic. I’ve learned that they grow even better when planted into the ground so I’ll try that next year.

For the last three summers I have grown Nigella and have collected the seeds each autumn. They have not let me down this year either. They grow anywhere and everywhere in my garden; some have even returned where they were planted last year, even though they are supposed to be annuals.

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My poor little purple scabiosa always starts off well but no matter where I move it to it always withers as surrounding plants overshadow it. I have a plan to move it again. I was given a white scabiosa which seems fearless, standing proud, keeping the cat mint at bay and pulling in the bees.

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67AC5C3B-FD21-41EC-869C-4DE98437C465In February I dug up some roses which were in the wrong spot. They were spreading onto the little path and plucking my clothes whenever I walked past. I transferred them to very large pots and crossed my fingers. After a slow start, all have taken to their new homes.

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This year has also been a time for making the most of what I already had. I divided a pot-bound and poorly-flowering fuchsia into three new plants, all of which are flourishing.

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I adore the smell of caryopteris Heavenly Blue, another favourite with the bees. Planted about four years ago it has spread beyond the bed, but I just leave it.

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The cat mint and banana mint are going strong and providing food for bees and butterflies.

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I had hoped for another Painted Lady invasion like last year, but I’ve had very few butterfly visitors this year, sadly. When they do drop in they prefer the verbena like this tortoise shell.

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The Met Office has promised some proper summer weather tomorrow and especially on Friday so I’ll be out in my unruly little garden enjoying the bright and the beautiful. Happy days!

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Nostalgia, rediscovered

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Today, I had arranged to visit an elderly member of my family who lives in one of the more rural parts of town so I decided to combine the visit with a short walk in her locality, an area I know well – or thought I did.

Early lock- down restrictions led to a lot of people exploring their local areas and finding walks and green spaces that had hitherto been unknown to them, or which would previously have been eschewed in favour of more exciting destinations. Unfortunately, options close to my own home are very few so I haven’t been out and about for quite some time. Travelling still has its complications and limitations, especially for users of public transport. Before the pandemic, it wouldn’t have crossed my mind to set off on today’s walk, but an unexpected feeling of nostalgia and a desire to be near to water enticed me quite literally down memory lane.

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My walk started at Hey Brook where it runs under the main road at the boundary of the villages of Abram and Bickershaw. Back in the 19th and early 20th centuries this was coal mining country, an area of heavy industry, but the pits are long gone, leaving behind what I remember as a wasteland where once had stood giant winding gear, mountains of coal and railway tracks. The sign for a caravan site points not in the direction of a place for holiday-making, but to a notorious travellers’ camp. The road is the start of a short nature trail to Low Hall Park, about a mile and a half away, and not my destination today.

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Not many people head that way because of the travelling community’s very aggressive dogs, which roam freely around the site and onto the public footpath. A couple of terrifying childhood encounters on that path, including an incident where a cousin’s clothes were torn by one really vicious hound, left me frightened of dogs for many years. Needless to say, it’s not the fault of the animals, and I love dogs now.

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Somewhere along the path is a memorial plaque which marks approximately the place where on 30th April 1945 an entire train – locomotive engine and 13 wagons – disappeared into the New Zealand shaft of Low Hall Colliery. Without warning, a huge chasm opened up where the shaft had been filled in in 1932. The body of the driver, 67 year old Ludovic Berry, was never recovered and remains 150 ft below ground with his beloved  train, Dolly, which he had driven for 35 years. I would have liked to seek out the plaque but I confess I’m not courageous enough to risk another encounter with a travelling dog.

Back across the road and through the kissing gate I was on another path which I hadn’t been along for 35 years or more. Behind me, a section of Hey Brook emerged as a trickle beneath the bridge where a large amount of litter had accumulated, and then twisted to the south on its course towards Pennington Flash in nearby Leigh.

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My surroundings, lush and green, a plantation of young oak and beech trees and wild vegetation, were nothing like the barren landscape I had walked over with friends and cousins in the 1970s and early ’80s. Known as the ‘rucks’, a local word for the site of a demolished colliery, it stretched out for miles, still littered with bits of mining detritus and the masonry of smashed-up outbuildings. We used to walk that way to get to a small flash – another word from the lexicon of coal mining – a lake created where water had filled an area of mining subsidence. That’s where I was headed.

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I hoped I would still be able to find my way there and that the path had not been rerouted.

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The transformation from industrial desert to botanical haven was truly wonderful.

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Pollinators’ paradise

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Tracks led off in other directions but I had the main path to myself, and it felt a little surreal to be in a place both familiar and unfamiliar.

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I felt like I could have been in an art- house film; no sound except bird song and the camera lens focused on flora and fauna.

There were no trees when I was last here, but now there is a woodland in the making.

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The path ended in another place that I knew, yet didn’t know. Last time I was here it was open and bare, but instinctively I knew the way.

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Polly’s Pond to me, or Kingsdown Flash to give it its proper name, came into view. I remember a friend’s grandma telling me that when she was young it used to be known as Auntie Polly’s. Nobody knew why, or who the mysterious ancient aunt was.

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The sky was mostly grey but emerging patches of blue were reflected in the water. Families of ducks swam in formation, approaching fishermen and walkers, clearly used to being offered food.

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Back in the day, kids used to launch dinghies and kayaks onto the pond. Staying at the water’s shallow edge, I remember wading in up to my knees and examining tadpoles and frog spawn and trying to avoid leeches, not always with success. Algae on the surface was known as Nanny Green Teeth, the malicious old water spirit who would suck children under if they got out of their depth and gave her the chance. Today, this seems to be the domain of anglers –  and their very patient dogs.

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I took a stroll on the gravel path. Trees screened the flash from view for the most part, and many openings were occupied by fishermen. Not all though.

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I retraced my steps along the green path, encountering a group of beautiful horses along the way, they and their riders more than happy to pose for the camera.

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This short and very humble walk gave me immense enjoyment, not only because it was an opportunity to be out in nature again, but because it was a lovely example of environmental improvement and enrichment at a time when so much green space is being lost to development. Here, the trend is very much reversed. I have rediscovered a place from my past as a new place that will be part of my future.