The Quiet Paths

1st November 2026

Sunday morning dawned.

And then, rather inconveniently, passed.

We were a little later than usual setting off for our big Sunday walk, largely because the previous evening had been something of an ordeal for a certain small dog.

Halloween in Helmshore is apparently no longer content with pumpkins and the occasional ghostly visitor. There are fireworks too, which Pepper regards as an entirely unnecessary assault on her peace and quiet.

The evening had been spent alternating between a trembling Border Terrier hiding beneath the duvet and a furious little guard dog barking at every knock on the door.

I always put a pumpkin outside on Samhain, a little nod to my Celtic heritage and the old tradition of warding off wandering spirits. Unfortunately, the local children seem to interpret this ancient custom as an invitation to come and demand chocolate.

Usually, I’m quite happy to oblige. A bucket of goodies, a friendly greeting and a little admiration for the costumes.

Not this year.

I’d intended to attend the annual Rock It Hootenanny, which Mark was hosting to raise money for Prostate Cancer, but with Pepper so distressed by the fireworks, leaving her wasn’t really an option.

So we stayed home.

The blinds were closed, the knocking ignored and I settled comfortably into my emerging role as a grumpy old lady.

I think I may be rather good at it.

A Walk Without a Plan

On Sunday morning, while waiting for Pepper to emerge from her duvet, I lay in bed considering our options.

Mary’s Wood? Crow Trees? Alden Ratchers? Perhaps Holcombe Moor and Peel Tower?

There were plenty of possibilities.

Eventually, I decided to let Pepper choose.

There was just one condition.

We were absolutely not climbing Musbury Tor.

We’d done that on Friday and my knee was still making its displeasure abundantly clear.

Just before nine, we finally set off.

I gave Pepper a little encouragement towards the farmers’ market, where she inspected several stalls with considerable interest. Thankfully, we made it through without her helping herself to anything.

A small victory.

Then we headed up onto the old railway lines and I handed over responsibility for navigation.

Pepper’s nose took charge.

Kingfisher Corner

Our route took us towards the first reservoir, where I was reasonably confident of finding some bird activity.

Unfortunately, the fishermen had beaten us to it.

A competition was underway and the birds, displaying considerably more sense than the humans, had apparently decided to spend the morning elsewhere.

We continued around the water towards the far end, where the second reservoir flows into the first.

I call this spot Kingfisher Corner.

Not because kingfishers are particularly reliable visitors, you understand, but because I saw one here once.

That is quite sufficient justification for naming a place, in my opinion.

I had hoped to pause at the little bridge, wait quietly and perhaps catch another glimpse of that wonderful flash of electric blue.

Pepper had other ideas.

Stopping was not on the itinerary.

We had places to be.

Apparently.

So onwards we went, following the path up through the fields.

At this point I confess to a little interference with our democratic navigation arrangements.

The old tramway lay ahead, climbing steeply towards the quarry. It is considerably steeper than the ascent to Musbury Tor, and my knee was already beginning to express some concern.

I gently encouraged a left turn.

Pepper obliged.

Unfortunately, the alternative route involved a particularly boggy stretch of path.

Squelch.

My beloved walking boots, faithful companions over hundreds of miles and countless adventures, finally admitted defeat.

Cold water seeped through.

I have been ignoring the warning signs for some time, but there was no escaping the truth.

They are not going to see me through another winter.

A sad moment.

Particularly for my socks.

Birds Above the Reservoirs

As we approached the third reservoir, I encountered a couple of fellow birdwatchers and stopped for a chat.

Above us, fieldfares and redwings were moving in flocks, wonderful winter visitors that have begun arriving from their northern breeding grounds.

Their presence is one of those unmistakable signs that the seasons have turned.

We exchanged notes on recent sightings while watching a buzzard circling overhead. Every so often it drifted towards the trees, sending a great flock of woodpigeons bursting into the air in noisy protest.

Eventually, Pepper decided that the conversation had gone on quite long enough.

We continued towards the quarry tops.

As we began climbing, the woodpigeons erupted from the trees once again.

But this time something larger and grey was moving amongst them.

A sparrowhawk?

Perhaps a goshawk?

I managed a few photographs, but nothing sufficiently clear to confirm an identification. The bird looked rather chunky to my admittedly untrained eye, which made me wonder about a goshawk.

One for further investigation.

At the top, Pepper finally agreed that a pause was acceptable.

And what a reward we had.

Across the heather, a roe deer was running headlong over the hillside, while far beyond it a short-eared owl quartered the moor, hunting low over the vegetation.

We stood watching for a while, the wind moving across the open hillside and the valley spread beneath us.

Then my phone buzzed.

A message from the birdwatchers we’d met earlier.

Ring ouzel!

They had spotted one on the path below us.

Oh, how exciting!

Ring ouzels are birds I’ve long wanted to add to my sightings, but despite keeping a careful watch as we eventually descended, the elusive visitor remained unseen.

Another day, perhaps.

The Beast of Musbury

I thought we were heading home.

Pepper thought otherwise.

After a brief cooling dip in the pond — Pepper, obviously, as my boots had already provided me with quite enough water for one morning — she took a determined right turn towards Little Owl Quarry.

There were no little owls in residence today, although plenty of meadow pipits were flitting amongst the stones.

But we did discover something rather extraordinary.

A footprint.

Not just any footprint.

An enormous paw print pressed into the soft mud.

It dwarfed Pepper’s own little paw.

Clearly, something monstrous had been roaming the hills.

A wolf?

A bear?

The legendary Beast of Musbury?

Pepper, newly promoted to Detective Chief Inspector of Rural Crimes following her recent investigative work, examined the evidence.

I took photographs.

The creature itself remained at large.

I suspect it may have been a rather large dog, but I see no reason to let such a mundane explanation spoil an excellent mystery.

The Last Butterflies

Eventually, after two and a half hours and 5.3 miles of wandering, we made our way home along Musbury Brook.

A few roe deer crossed our path, providing one final wildlife encounter before we returned to civilisation.

We arrived home muddy, tired and thoroughly satisfied.

Pepper retired to recover from her exertions.

I headed for a hot shower, followed by a wonderfully restorative mug of matcha.

It was only later, sitting quietly and reflecting on the morning, that I realised something.

We hadn’t seen a single butterfly.

Not one.

Only a few weeks ago, the paths were alive with them, flitting between the late flowers and basking in the sunshine. Now the air belongs to winter thrushes, the moors to hunting owls, and the last butterflies of summer have quietly disappeared from view.

November has arrived.

The days are shorter, the paths wetter and the familiar hills are beginning to settle into their winter rhythm.

There will be plenty more walks before the year is out, of course.

Although I suspect the next one may require new boots.

And perhaps, just occasionally, I might be allowed to choose the route.

But I wouldn’t count on it.