The Raikla runners ...

Next time you visit the Cartford Inn cast your eye across the river. You may see a few sheep grazing there. Most are gentle, thoughtful creatures who ask no more than to nibble the frosty grass and ponder. But not all … A Wyreside farmer was checking his flock a fortnight ago when he saw a group of 20 unfamiliar sheep at the far end of the field. They were Swaledales, or Sweddles as they're called in their native Yorkshire. He contacted a neighbouring farmer on his mobile and the two men set out to check the alien flock for identification marks. They were still 100 yards away when the sheep took flight – almost literally - soaring over a four-foot barbed wire fence with ease and racing away toward the horizon. Next day a farmer two miles up-river reported a similar encounter. He called on his sheepdog to round the visitors up but the dog was left standing as the sheep sailed effortlessly over a fence and a deep dike, a sort of Over Wyre Becher's Brook. Since then they've been spotted in Hambleton, Winmarleigh and St Michaels.

Where are they now? Who knows! Who owns them? Nobody apparently. They're the ovine outlaws, mean, lean and rebellious; the lambs that will not be Henried. So far no humans have been savaged, though last night a Scronkey sheepdog was found all-but sucked to death.

Beware the full moon!

The part-time feminist...

An icy sun glinted off the snow-ribbed Bowland panorama across the Wyre as Patty and I ushered Jan and Peter into the warmth and welcome of the Cartford bar. Jan, a friend of long standing, is a redoubtable lady with an independence of spirit that reaches beyond mere feminism. She and Patty make a formidable team. Knowing our place, Peter and I sipped our drinks and pursued our manly conversation in low voices. The choice of starter from the specials board was unanimous: queen scallops and cauliflower gratin served in a scallop shell. The scallops were plentiful and succulent, their subtlety enhanced by the 'au gratin' setting. I was about to lick the shell but met with Patty's disapproving eye.

By this time the restaurant had filled up despite the wintriness of the day, but the service remained as attentive as ever. Julie left her post behind the bar to chat with us briefly. Now Peter and I were faced with an unnerving trio of feisty lasses – particularly as Julie was wearing her scary specs. I did what any red-blooded Englishman would do – I defected. “Are you aware,” I simpered, “that we're sitting within 30 yards of a feat of 19^th century feminism?” I had their attention and grovelled on. “Oh yes. Over 150 years ago Squire Thomas Robert Wilson Ffrance ruled over a Fylde estate that included most of Little Eccleston, Out Rawcliffe and the Cartford Inn itself. In those days the only way across the Wyre here was by ford at low tide (hence Cartford) or by a tiny rowboat ferry ...”

At this point the main courses arrived: the chicken served with wild mushrooms, the fish pie and, for me, one of the Cartford's most imaginative creations, roast hake wrapped in Parma ham resting on fresh tomato sauce with roast peppers. Cartford dishes, with their matchless depth of flavour, don't lend themselves to idle chat, so little was said for a while. Eventually, after much yumming and ecstatic closing of eyes, I finished off the last vestiges of sauce whilst the others mopped up their lillet and the creamy winey nectar of the fish pie. Then the women chorussed, “Well, go on!”

“Well, the Squire had a wife, a quiet, gracious lady. One gusty day when the Wyre was flowing full and brown, the Squire brought her by pony and trap to catch the ferry to the Cartford. On its way to collect them, the tiny craft whirled, capsized and threw the ferryman into the river from which he barely escaped with his life ...”

Then came the puddings, a fragrant selection of figgy orange cheesecake with mascarpone ice cream, crispy creme brulee and peach Melba panacota. Again, for several minutes the conversation was restricted to appreciative grunts and murmurs of contentment. I smirked, enjoying the reflected glory due to a man who has just introduced his friends to the Cartford Experience. Then came the cry: “Well, go on then!”

“Well, the Squire's wife, having viewed the incident with horror, told the Squire, in her quiet way, she would never again cross the Wyre with him until he built a bridge.

'Hhmmpp!' blustered the all-powerful land-owning Squire. And 'Fiddlesticks!' His wife smiled and said nothing – but within a month the original Cartford Bridge was built, an enduring symbol of early girlpower.”

I smirked ingratiatingly around the table, basking in the smiles of my fellow feminists – whilst avoiding Peter's reproachful glance. A couple of coffees later Jan and Peter headed back to Scotland with Jan vowing to return soon, if only to sample the best crème brule she had ever eaten – must have been authentically crisped, she reckoned, with a blowtorch.

The hunter...

I was ambling down the garden when a shadow plummeted and alighted on a pile of old branches about eight feet away. It posed, wings half-raised, glaring at me with blazing yellow eyes. It was a sparrow hawk, a magnificent female, big enough to bring a woodpigeon down in flight. She held my gaze for about ten seconds. Then, quite nonchalantly, she spread her wings and drifted away over the hedge.

I love the sparrowhawks for their wildness and aeronautic skills. My womenfolk don't, citing the toll they take of the bluetit population. It's all a matter of opinion. Our sparrow hawk patrols Little Eccleston, much of Out Rawcliffe and, of course, the environs of the Cartford Inn. Keep an eye open for her as she swoops low and lethal among the trees and over the river. You'll recognise her by her stripy burglar's vest, long, yellow legs and the way the other birds shriek at her approach.

Toll Tales...

Just learnt a new phrase from a Cartford resident: The Cartford rush-hour. It involves the massed ranks of vehicles (well, a dozen anyway) queueing to cross the bridge at six-fifty-five am – minutes before the toll bridge's custodian comes on duty.

A cautious spring...

These days everybody knows that St Valentine's is the birds' wedding day, but it wasn't always so. Apparently this custom travelled up from Sussex (where, I'm told, they'll believe owt). All we adolescent country lads knew about St Valentines day was that it was the unofficial start of spring, a season that invariably made our pimples shine more brightly.

Well, given a bit of imagination, last weekend was spring-like. The sun warmed our faces, the first celandines shone like gold coins along the wayside, and morning bore hints of a dawn chorus around the Cartford. As yet the principal players have been the robin, the wren and the bluetit. The real heavyweight songsters, thrush and blackbird, will join in and the chorus will swell toward its climax around the beginning of May. Meanwhile, the geese are heading north to their Scandinavian breeding grounds, along with the fieldfares and redwings. Within weeks the caravanners will arrive, and the first swallows will be swooping under Cartford bridge.

But don't shed the long johns yet.

Bonny Bowland...

The view of the Bowland Fells from the Cartford Inn dining room is magnificent. On a clear day, from left to right, you can scan Clougha Pike (behind that stand of feathery poplars), climbing to Grit Fell and Ward's Stone (at 1840 feet the highest point in Bowland, with a wind-blasted summit as remote as the surface of the moon). To the right and closer to home are Hazelhurst, Holme House, Fairsnape and Parlick. The ancient Trough of Bowland road – the last illusion of freedom for the Pendle witches on their way to trial and execution in Lancaster - winds between the two ranges. Crouching in the lee of Fairsnape is the Bleasdale Bronze Age circle, constructed over 3000 years ago, its origins shrouded in mystery.

Beyond lie miles of wilderness, jutting crags and deep, seductive bog. Fiendsdale, Castle of Cold Comfort and Dead Man's Stake Clough roll off the tongue but can be unsettling on a solitary ramble with only the mist and the weeping curlew for company. Wolfhole Crag's ornately figured rocks were carved by unknown hands - or maybe no hands at all. The Whitendale Hanging Stones mark the exact centre of the British Isles, and Brennand Tarn, windswept and secretive, is said to protect a legendary treasure casted into its depths by the monks of Whalley Abbey as they fled the attentions of the Henry the Eighth.

Tempted? It's only half an hour away from the comfort of the Cartford, but you'll need your boots, map and compass - and maybe a stick from the Cartford collection.

Pampered...

January 25. 

Outside, the snow was piling up. Indoors, the seasonal bills were doing the same. We sighed. What we needed was some quality pampering at affordable rates – and we knew the very place.

Despite the weather the Cartford Inn was busy as we stamped the snow from our shoes and walked to the bar, but our welcome was as warm and unhurried as ever. Ushered to our chosen corner within hand-warming distance of the famous log fire, we savoured our Pinot Grigio and fell under the 'just relax now and leave it all to us' spell that the Cartford evokes. After much sipping and debate we made a leisurely start, sharing the olive mix and the salmon fishcakes in lemon butter. Across the way a family reunion party spanning three generations were taking time to catch up on events between courses. Another party, a dozen strong, arrived amongst consternation and cries of, 'I thought you'd booked the table,' and, 'No, you said you'd do it.' They were settled down and served with drinks whilst the Cartford team unobtrusively rearranged the furniture and conjured up a table for twelve.

Just for once I spurned my habitual favourites and chose the fresh hake korma with poppadums, mango chutney and minted yogurt (exotic stuff by my standards.) The delicacy of the curry complemented rather than obscured the hake's flavour. It was delicious, but not, Patty claimed, as delicious as her roasted breast of Goosnargh chicken with wild mushrooms and a delectable Lillet cream sauce.We exchanged forkfuls and agreed to call it a draw. But what was Lillet? Simple country lad that I am I had to enquire of the ever-obliging staff. It's a French aperitif wine.

During that blissful pause between main course and much-anticipated pudding, we strolled into the big riverside room to greet a couple of friends. Beyond the picture windows great curtains of snow swirled and drifted along the banks of the Wyre only feet away. Thinking about our walk home, I weighed up the clump of walking sticks in a corner, crafted and offered for sale by a local farmer. Not for the first time I pondered how much they resembled my fellow diners. There was the sturdy, no nonsense, agricultural type, and the smooth, sophisticated city street version. And there was the tall, slightly stooped and careworn model, the very image of a country writer with daughters. And that thin-as-a-wand, flexible one at the back. Who did that remind me of? Could it be Julie in Miss Whiplash mode? Steady Benson. You're curdling your Talisker.

An hour later, living on the memory of those bumper helpings of orange-spiced fig cheesecake with home-made pistachio ice cream, I started to waddle up the snowy hill like Fat King Wenceslas, Page Patty walking in my footprints. A car slid to a halt. It was Patrick in the Beaumemobile. Would we like a lift home? Now that's what I call pampering.