Bretton Clough Farms are ruins now, a heap of stones topped with shrubby trees. They occupy a rise above a stream that after recent rain was crashing through its steep-sided valley. It is raining as we arrive, slopping down the hill on an old cart track, but then a huge window of blue opens from the south-west and the slopes around us catch fire, with coppery bracken and yellowing oak leaves.
There were once two farmhouses here, semi-detached, built most likely in the 17th century. They’ve had various names through time, Bretton Twin Farms being self-explanatory. Another was Fairest Clough, sometimes Fairies Clough – just right for a place whose harmonious flow and tangled woodland has magic in it, especially on such a day of sunshine and showers as this.
