The first snows of winter have fallen. The Howe Gills. Rounded. Rugged. The Coniston
Grit separated from the jagged volcanic peaks of the Lake District by a geological fault
line, creating the loon gap. Nudging on the eastern edge, the limestone slopes of the
Yorkshire Dales. Naked and windswept. The Howe Gills, so beloved by the intrepid
doyen of hill-walking Alfred Wainwright. Here are the beginnings of one of the most
beautiful and placid rivers in the north of England. On the northern slopes, close
by the 605-metre peak of Greenbell is Dale Gill, the true starting point of the
River Loon. Becoming Greenside Beck, it passes close by its first village,
Raimstone Hill. The heritage of Britain is being continually eroded, disappearing
through short-sighted developments, but it is in our ancient churches that the
whole spectrum of building and social history can be found. In the Loon Valley
there are many, many historic churches hiding and preserving over a thousand
years of history. St. Oswald's Church, whose tower was built in 1738, is a
delight. The church still has its original sundial and triple-deck pulpit, and most
unusually, pews which do not face the altar. Behind it are the twelve-century
remains of a Gilbertine monastery. The George II coat of arms looks down on a
beautifully preserved church, with stained-glass windows dedicated to St. Aden
and to King Oswald. But it is another window that attracts most of the attention.
It's dedicated to Elizabeth Fothergill, who came from the nearby hamlet of
Brownborough, and was the last woman to be burned at the stake at Tyburn in
London on the 4th of October 1685. Burned alive, she had been a kindly
woman who hid a religious revel after the Monmouth Rebellion in 1685, but who
was then betrayed by him to the notorious Judge Jeffries. Brownborough is
still tiny, but it retains its 17th-century tower house and ancient farms.
The village of Ravenstonedale is not strictly under the loon. It's scandal
begged that runs past the historic King's Head Hotel, which is built in 1627,
and which over time has been not only a courthouse, but also the local jail. But
following our infant river loon, we come to the ancient village of Newbighin on
loon. It's old enough to have appeared in the Doon's Day book, but was not
included because at that time the Scottish King Malcolm Canmore ruled the
area. It didn't become part of England until William the Conqueror's son
Rufus pushed the Scots further north to establish the present Anglo-Scottish
border. It is so full of history. Newbighin means New Settlement, and if you look
closely at many of the houses you'll see arched entrances by some of them. These
lead to yards where the yeoman, the farmers, would drive their animals to
protect them when raiders, or reavers as they were called, came down from the north,
looking to steal cattle, and as many virgins as they could find. This ancient
area was famous for its wool and knitting from the end of the 17th century,
and there are rooms in the houses where the smelly wool fleeces were stored until
it was time to move them to the spinning galleries. Here, ladies and girls in the
house would use their spinning wheels to prepare wool for knitting. There are a few
places in Britain where you can see intact spinning galleries like these. The
Silurian rocks of the Howe Guilds formed the southern edge of the Loon Valley for
quite a while, and have been cut deeply by the many becks and streams which feed
the River Loon. A feature of this area are the magnificent stone walls that
cover the hillsides. Painstakingly built over the centuries, they stretch for
miles, a paradise for photographers, but they're in constant need of repair. Many
local farmers have had this skill passed down to them from father to son. For
those hill walkers who freely roam our countryside, it might be well to remember
that one dislodged stone can soon lead to a wall falling into disrepair. The walls
not only mark the hill farm boundaries, but also do have a real function by
keeping the different flocks of sheep apart. On the northern slopes of the
valley above Brownborough, I came across a young shepherd and his dogs bringing in
his flock. It was a moving site, man and dog working in harmony. It was a site
that I would see many times, many more times on my journey down the Loon. It might
be pretty for the tourists to see, but let's not forget just how hard it is
being a hill farmer. The limestone fells to the north around Sunbigin Tarn, a
bleak and desolate, but from here they present a magnificent panorama of the
Loon Valley and the Howe Guilds to the south.
