Outlook


A paradise at the back of beyond


PAUL WILSON visits Noah Dale, a place well and truly off the beaten track even for experienced ramblers.


ON New Year’s Day, in an effort to escape from the enforced jollifications, the deafening effervescence of Alka-Selzer bubbles, and the relentless telly-watch­ ing, we decided to defy the gloomy prognostications of the weather forecasters and set off in search of


solitude. We drove, via Haggate and Swindell Bridge, through a


.still-slumbering Worsthorne, on to that ancient trackway which for centuries past has linked Burnley and Hcbden Bridge, the Long Causeway. We parked by the side of the remarkable collection of abstract sculptures which adorn the summit of Pole Hill and


set off in search of Noah Dale. Now, few walkers may have heard of Noah Dale, but


many thousands are familiar with its stream for, in its lower reaches, it becomes Golden Water, and is crossed by the Pennine Way by means of a fine stone slab near Jack Bridge. This is indeed a charming spot where many a Pen­ nine wayfarer must have been tempted to bathe their tired feet in the soothing moorland waters. And, eastwards, all is sylvan beauty of a high order; 1


heartily recommend the walk through the woods beside Golden Water as it rushes through the gorge below Lumb Bank — once the home of the Poet Laureate, Ted Hughes — to join the Calder at Hebden Bridge. But follow the river westwards, up into its moorland


fastness, and the scene soon changes. From Pole Hill we follow Dukes Gut to its junction with Moorcock Road at Four Gayes End, where we' turned left along Noah Dale Road. Do not expect double-yellow-lines on any of these roads — they are merely moorland trackways, and Noah Dale Road itself is nothing more than a sketchy path next


to a tumbled wall. After a deal of bog-hopping, Noah Dale Water is reached


and crossed, and you follow the old lane between broken walls to the substantial ruin of Pad Laithe. We were surely Pad Laithe’s first footers. Once, this


must have been a thriving farm: now it quietly collapses, the roof-tree of its barn broken, a sad relic of better times mouldering among the sour grasses. We left Pad Laithe to its ghosts, and walked west to the


head of the dale, past the breached dam, and up what seems from a distance to be a path of Helvellyn propor­ tions, but is, in fact, an ancient boundary dyke, a broad strip dug between the enclosing walls of peat.


As Pad Laithe once had seen the noise and scurry of


human occupation, this lonely spot too was at one time a hive of industry. Here were the old lead mines, still marked on the map, still traceable if you seek them out amid the


rushes and the cotton grass. But now Noah Dale is the veritable back of beyond, the


original middle of nowhere. Only the grouse come here, and the occasional rambler drawn by a curious name on the


map. Many would find Noah Dale oppressive, a damp, dreary, desolate place. And so it is, I suppose. Yet it has its own austere poetry about it if you give it a chance, if you listen hal'd enough. It is wild, and wuthering and, for me, altogether wonderful. The line of the old boundary dyke gives splendid easy


walking, sheltered from the wind, up onto the summit of Black Hamcldon, that great, lonely, brooding mass that gazes impassively down on Burnley and all its doings. Only


a genius of incompetence could fail to arrive in due course at the trig point at Hoof Stones Height, at 1572 feet above sea level. It was here that the weather forecasters had their


revenge. We had been sheltered from an icy sleet-filled blast from the west which now hit us like an express train. The mist clamped down on us like a lid, a feverish struggle with map and compass followed. A bearing taken, we headed off in the teeth of a wicked gale, for the comforting strip of tarmac at Stiperden Bank as fast as we could stumble. The walk back to the car seemed longer than it is, but the


Sportsman’s Arms at Keb Bridge proved a welcome haven, despite being exceedingly busy. A pint of Ruddle's County made all the difference. As warmth returned to fingers and toes, a visit to Noah Dale seemed quite the best way to usher in 1991.□


Roy's Bronte book


MARGARET BOYS looks at a new book on the Brontes written by former East Lancashire man Roy Aspin.


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A NEW book, “The Parson on the Hill”, an account of the life and character of Patrick Bronte, the father of the Bronte sisters, has just been


published. It has been written by former Pendle man Roy Aspin,


who is well-known in the area. His mother Irene Aspin ran the ladies’ outfitters in Keighley Road, Colne, and his father had a tobacconist’s shop in Church Street, Colne. Roy was educated at Colne Grammar School and attended Dockray Street Congregational Church in the town. He left for London some years ago, to take up a career


in photography, freelance journalism and music, but still visits Colne and Barnoldswick at frequent intervals. Much has been written about the Bronte sisters but


little about their father, who has been thought of as a tyrannical and harsh man. This book, the result of careful research, reveals him as much concerned for the health and well-being of his family. His eccentricities are well-known, but not so well his


care for parishioners. Howarth in the early 19th century was not a healthy place and sanitary conditions left much to be desired. Medical care for those who suffered from tuberculosis was little understood. The book combines a very interesting picture of Patrick’s life as a clergyman, and within the Bronte


home, and the wider picture of social conditions in and around Haworth. It is a very readable book, attractively produced. “The Parson on the Hill" is published by Brent Publi­ cations. Price: £'-1.95. □


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