Aira Force

Aira Force waterfall and woodland, Cumbria


Foss, meaning fall in Old English, has morphed over time into Force; the spot where the River Aire tumbles gloriously over the rock face into the gorge below. This stunning spray is hidden deep inside woodland not far from the shore of beautiful Ullswater Lake. The landscape was once the playground of landed gentry, developed in the 1800s and covered with specimens of trees from all corners of the empire for the pleasure of a few. Happily, Aira Force and surrounding woodland is now a place of delight for thousands of visitors to the Lake District National Park.

Aira Force  DSCF3970

The approach from the road leads through a hive of activity. Families sprawl on the grass or sit at picnic tables in conference over well used maps; routes are plotted, laces tied and rucksacks packed in preparation. Well trained dogs sit patiently, tethered to table legs; perhaps like their people they are appreciating time out from a long trek. The National Trust shop is doing a brisk trade in bottled water and visitor guides, whilst the refreshments van dispenses hot chocolate and cheer to weary walkers.

Walking away in the direction of the woodland, the grass gradually becomes longer and untamed. A gravel path crunches underfoot, forking off in different directions. Laughter comes from the river bank and a bright-eyed dog suddenly comes into view, vigorously shaking water from his coat before turning back.

Which way should I go? I’ll follow the sound of the water.

Sinuous roots rise up from beneath the ground. Trees so high, their tops seem lost. Deep green pine and fir perfume the damp air with the heady scent of resin, conjuring memories of childhood Christmases. Olfactory sensors prickle and drink in the woody aromas. Myriad shades of green, layer upon layer, merge to create a leafy collage. The earth is soft and springy beneath the tramping of hundreds of feet, eager ears focused in the direction of the gushing water in the distance. We are drawn to water; a primal call that pulls us towards the life force. Feathery ferns and winding hemlock glisten as the sun highlights the beads of rain water on their lustrous leaves.


Steep and uneven, a red earth path leads upward and onward. Still out of sight, the roaring water can be heard in the distance. Next, a flight of steps, hewn from the rock, steep and mocking challenges all except the young and the fit; more will follow, steeper and harder as we climb higher towards the peak. With some trepidation and with heart in mouth I look down into the gorge hoping that feet and path will not betray me. Eighty feet below me the rocks are edged like knives. A long way down, a small crowd is gathered on the wooden footbridge, eyes wide and cameras clicking, sharing the view. I continue my ascent.



The majestic waterfall cascades over grey boulders, frothing white and forceful. The clear beck follows its course over the cobbles and rocks. Children, noisy and exhilarated, clamber over the stones, revelling in nature, splashing and laughing in the shallow water. Dogs, released from their leads, frolic and roll, happy to cool down. Even in the shade of the woods the day is humid and takes its toll.

Felled tree trunks fashioned into benches provide respite and an opportunity to imbibe the beauty of this place. Signs relate interesting facts about some of the other inhabitants of the woodland; no red squirrels are around to greet us today, but maybe they survey us from the safety of the tree tops, curious about the human visitors; or maybe they’ve seen it all a thousand times and have better things to do.


The path down presents another challenge. Muddy in parts and uneven, it requires careful footing. It’s a long way down! Eventually I get to the bottom with calves aching but mind invigorated.

DSCF3827An enormous monkey puzzle tree fascinates those who gather at its base, curious fingers exploring the ridges of its exotic trunk. Cypress and Oak stand proud nearby, each a labelled exhibit in this green gallery. The strange stump of a Douglas Fir twinkles as sunlight dances across the edges of the silver coins embedded in its surface; a years old tradition.

Onward again into the daylight, I choose my  path and continue my journey.





Heysham Village and St. Patrick’s Chapel


Heysham is a coastal village in the north-west of England, just a few miles from Lancaster and from Morecambe. It has a ferry port and the Isle of Mann Steam Packet Company operates  daily between Heysham and the Isle of Mann, 66 miles off shore. It is also, in my view, one of the most stunning locations in England. I am not on my own in holding that opinion: British artist JM Turner painted a view of Heysham in the early 1800s.

A very busy and noisy main road cuts through Heysham and it appears, at first sight, to be a quite ordinary sort of place: a doctor’s surgery; an assortment of takeaways; a hairdresser’s; a Co-op – all the usual suspects are in situ. Rows of neat but modest terraces back onto the sea wall, a curved buttress to protect against winter high tides. The port and dock can be seen in the distance; hardly the seaside idyll. But there is more than meets the eye in Heysham. Turn off the main thoroughfare and a hidden gem is waiting; a village within a village in another place and time.


‘The village’, once a cluster of fishermen’s cottages typical of many dotted around the British coastline, now looks like a scene from a vintage chocolate box. This could be Midsomer or St. Mary Mead. I half expect Miss Marple to emerge from one of the picture pretty cottages to water an effusive hanging basket or wave to a genteel neighbour. There is still a slipway in the village but the fishermen are long gone. There is the unmistakable aroma of affluence, potted and climbing the bourgeois trellis. As the super-sleuth does not make an appearance I continue to explore the village alone.

Heysham village has been claimed, not reclaimed. One cloud on the otherwise perfect blue horizon is that few local people would be able to afford property prices here. Gentrification and the housing market have made this location – and may others like it – desirable residences now priced beyond the pockets of most whose roots lie in the local soil. Two tea rooms – one of them particularly characterful – an excellent pub offering great food, an ‘antiques’/bric-a-brac shop, a visitor centre and an out-of-place hair salon at the bottom of the cobbled the main street sums up the world of village commercial activity. There is no cash machine. It is notable and significant that this tiny hamlet boasts so many places in which to sup and dine, a testimony to the village’s popularity with visitors.

Most of the houses have character, clearly treasured by their lucky inhabitants. Homes in this village tend to have names rather than numbers. Explosions of vibrant flora burst forth from containers and beds, stopping visitors in their tracks. I take a photograph of a particularly enchanting garden but it feels wrong to do so; I am taking a liberty. An elderly couple sits on a bench behind me and I make an admiring comment. The woman replies that she lived here as a child when  the place was different, a simple fishing village. The family moved to Morecambe when her father stopped going out on the boat and had to find factory work. She would not be able to live here now and is visiting with a small coach party for the afternoon.


So why do these visitors come? This quaint chocolate box location, despite winning the prestigious ‘Village in Bloom’ award twice in recent years,  does not in itself pull in coach parties. There is more…………

At the edge of the village the headland overlooks the poetically named Half-Moon Bay. There stands the remains of the 8th century St. Patrick’s Chapel, reputedly built by St. Patrick and his religious community when he arrived across the sea from Ireland bringing with him Christianity. Not much of the chapel is left, but it stands as a reminder of the importance of Lancashire and Cumbria in the story of early Christian spirituality. It retains an aura of mystique, enhanced by its magnificent surroundings. It is also a wonderful place to sit in peace and quiet. Alongside the chapel are the mysterious barrow graves, more of which can be seen in nearby St. Peter’s church yard. These ancient tombs speak of the lives and deaths of those ancient communities for whom that desolate craggy point was home and centre of spiritual life. Archaeological excavations have uncovered stone tools and grave goods indicative of much earlier settlements at Heysham.  The site is now cared for by the National Trust.





The headland is a beautiful place to walk and sit, to look out to sea and down to the beach below. The cliffs along this stretch of coastline form a cove, private and sheltered. It is unsurprising that in the 18th century Half-Moon Bay served as an ideal location for smugglers bringing ashore their illicit wares on the low tides, in the dead of night, by the light of the moon. It’s easy to imagine it.

A down-hill walk back through the village leads to the beach. It is small and mostly quiet. The promenade along the south end borders a stretch of sand favoured by families building castles and paddling at the water’s edge. Cyclists and hikers pass by en-route to Morecambe or the Lake District beyond. The north end of the beach offers a different vista: a backdrop of cliffs, sea-weed covered shingle and a plethora of rock pools to sit amongst for an hour or three, undisturbed and solitary.




The tide rolls out towards the ’emerald isle’ revealing a dense green carpet of sea plants on the beach and the white-winged birds circle above to feed on the fruits of the sea, oblivious to property prices and closing times. To them all is open all the time and they are free.