Under close questioning, I’ve sometimes struggled to describe the Forest of Bowland. Apart from anything else, it’s not even a forest: the word, in this instance, is a reference to the royal hunting ground it was in medieval times. Explain to uninitiated that this remote part of Lancashire – a glorious, 312-sq-mile expanse of fells, moorland and farmland – is bordered by Lancaster to the north and Blackburn to the south, that it is quite near Burnley and even closer to Clitheroe, and expressions will inevitably remain blank, not to say disbelieving. By now, I know exactly what people are thinking, which is that the realm I describe is the product of some crazed hallucination.
But then, perhaps it is. Drive into the Forest of Bowland, and the feeling creeps over you: here is a secret world, a parallel universe straight out of a children’s book, or an ancient episode of Doctor Who. If it is beautiful, it’s also spooky. Down the years, I’ve so often got lost trying to find my way to the famous Inn at Whitewell, which looks over the River Hodder and is the greatest place to stay – though this is, of course, one reason why I favour it. Unlike the Lake District and the Yorkshire Dales, the Forest of Bowland is not a national park (it remains a mere area of outstanding natural beauty); it enjoys no association with the likes of Beatrix Potter nor William Wordsworth (though its enchantments may have moved JRR Tolkien, who went to school at nearby Stonyhurst College, to create Middle Earth). Nothing about it is obvious and, thanks to this, it remains empty of both cars and people. You’ve really no choice but to discover it for yourself. Even your mobile is useless here, as anyone who saw Steve Coogan in the first series of The Trip will know (he had to climb a hill to get a signal).
