Up Hawkshaw Lane

My friend Frog was up North recently. Here is her account of a walk in the hills. Enjoy the discoveries she made; I surely did.


In the Writing Garden

Evening walk up Hawkshaw Lane in a warm breeze.

A few blackbirds perched on the lines sing the day’s lullaby. It was a summer’s day, a blustery and dazzling day, full of kites, cotton-grass and buttercups.

Holcombe Hill cotton-grass

Now there are only two of us, and we leisurely follow the lane up towards the rounded heights of the moors. It looks and feels like the Yorkshire Dales, with large tree leaves fanning a powdery twilight, and rolling hills all around us. We almost never get the chance of a tranquil evening stroll nowadays, which for many years was part of our daily routine. Peace lays its wings on our shoulders, our chests, our hearts. Our breath deepens and something of a smile of true joy blooms somewhere within.

Up the lane, we meet a road which imposes a choice. It is, L. says, the old road to Haslingden. We…

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