So, I mentioned that we'd popped in at Glossop on our way up the country to the Isle of Man. The next stop was Clayton-le-Moors, where we spent Sunday night.

Clayton-le-what? It's a great name, isn't it? A mixture of Old French and Old English, it means what you think: A settlement on clay soil situated on a marshy, barren upland. Once upon a time, according to the Lancashire Telegraph, it was known as Clayton Super Moras, which sounds even grander.

That same newspaper article also serves as a mine of information about the place we were staying, the Mercure Dunkenhalgh. Dating in parts back to the 13th century, this was the former residence of one Judge Walmesley (who died in 1612), and then of the influential Petre family. It remained a residence until 1947, and is reputed to be haunted by the ghost of a former French governess. We didn't meet her...





We really liked this place, and would definitely stay here on our way up to the Isle of Man on future occasions. Good food, good wine, a spacious and comfortable room, and friendly staff: What's not to like?

After breakfast on Monday, there was time for a quick explore of the neighbourhood before we headed off for the boat.

We started by walking a little way along the Leeds and Liverpool Canal. Remember the Petre family? Well, Lord Petre was up in arms when they started to build the canal, because its towpath gave poachers access to his land. So he insisted the towpath be moved to the other side... Oh, these aristocrats...

Anyway, it's a very pleasant little stroll (although you're never unaware of the presence of the big road nearby):











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It was an easy journey to the ferry. The only issue was the rain. It always seems to rain when we're on our way to the ferry...

But we shopped for a picnic lunch to take on board; queued up with the vast hordes waiting to board (it was a full boat, as they were still mopping up passengers whose sailings had been affected by Storm Amy at the weekend); went through the security stuff (we always seem to be among the randomly chosen...); and scouted out a seat in the Niarbyl Lounge. A class of primary school pupils were occupying the far corner, and they chattered, budgie-like, all the way over. But apart from that, all was well.

We're staying in Ballabeg (meaning, in Manx, "little farm or little village"). Our accommodation is a converted farm outhouse. What we assume is the former farmhouse is now a bigger rental across the courtyard.

There's still a bit of agriculture visible, though. Every now and again, a guy rolls up, yelling "Yo..." at the top of his voice. At which signal, from across our neighbouring field, the cows arrive lickety-split for feeding.



Just walking out of the door brings you to beautiful views of hills and sea. This is why I love this place...

Here's just a bit of what we saw on today's walk:





It lifts the heart...