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I brought my Alzheimer’s Memory Walk forward three days and managed just five miles before I felt my dodgy hip playing up. It’s 68 years old and creaking a bit, but then again, my other hip is exactly the same age and doesn’t hurt at all. However, I had an enjoyable walk for an extremely worthwhile cause.

A massive thank you to all those who donated. In a country controlled by those of privilege, wealth and greed, it is so gratifying to know generous and thoughtful people like you are around and willing to contribute towards helping the not so fortunate.

At the time of writing, my Just Giving page had registered £470 in donations which is fantastic. It’s still possible to donate at https://www.justgiving.com/fundraising/paul-jackson121

I walked on my own and was glad I did. It was a time to reflect on times with my sister (see story below) – and indeed my brother, who died of cancer in 2012. Back then I took part in a McMillan fundraiser in his memory. It was a longer walk where I was part of a group of around 30. Although a fine and worthwhile event, I felt like I was part of a procession. Some of the lovely participants seemed to have their heads down most of the way, talking about what colour curtains they would be having in the back bedroom, while I wanted to enjoy the scenery and think of the good times with my brother.

I’m more one for halting to watch a pair of butterflies, gawping at the view, pondering over ancient barns and walls or stopping for a photo break. So I’m probably not the best walking companion.

Why I did the walk
My sister is a dementia sufferer and it breaks my heart to think about her lost in a fog of memories. The last time the two of us properly connected was five years ago when we walked together from Langcliffe beside the Ribble to Stainforth Force, up to Stainforth village, returning via the Hoffmann Kiln and the river to Langcliffe mill pond. We shared some laughs clambering over stiles, I held her hand when she was wary of entering the dark kiln – a lovely day which (hopefully) I will never forget.
I walked roughly the same route again only the other way round, and after a rest took to the hills around home to view the route from above.

• Every three minutes someone in the UK develops dementia. That’s the equivalent of around 225,000 people every year. Just Giving sends donations directly to the Alzheimer’s Society.

Top cartoonist Tony Husband with whom I’ve worked on many occasions, is also a tireless dementia campaigner, helping many charities and causes. His book, Take Care Son, brings me to tears every time I read it:

(TEN DALES PHOTOS) A few weeks ago the Ribble was as low as I’ve seen it in a long, long time. I walked beside it from Stainforth Force to Langcliffe weir and was surprised at how many places I could easily have crossed the river without getting my feet wet. Since then we’ve had snow, frost, sunshine, storms, thunder and lightning. I might have a small wager on there being a plague of frogs before June.

If you know where to look there are always some larger expanses of water along the river’s course, especially along the section of the Ribble Way between Horton and Helwith Bridge. Above is a favourite spot of mine near Cragg Hill Farm. Here I watched hundreds of tiny fish darting around a pool. If I was clever I’d tell you what they were.

Talking of Horton … I’ve also seen hundreds of humans heading up Penyghent or attempting the Three Peaks in the last few weeks. It’s no wonder I’ve seen the helicopters buzzing overhead so often – either picking up crocked walkers or delivering aggregate for worn-out paths.

As I strolled through this small wood, cold but not unpleasantly so, the setting Sun silently disappeared over a golden horizon. A gust of wind from the moors entered my seclusion and shuffled the jigsaw of fallen bronzed leaves. Slim birch trees swayed briefly but nothing else seemed concerned by this brief, breezy intrusion.
The wood sits several hundred feet high above a flickering distant river and has survived far greater threats from fierce gusts whipping the dale. Debris from past encounters with stormy days and nights is scattered around. Branches lay randomly at my feet. Moss-covered drystone walls surrounding this wooded island stand semi-demolished, crushed by toppled tree trunks.
Roots don’t penetrate far enough into the shallow soil here, they must find strength between the clints and grykes of a limestone bed. Distorted shapes show which way the wind blows round here.
Lower down the hill, nearer home, I would now be enjoying the evening chatter of dozens of smaller birds. Not here. There are rooks, bickering before settling down for the night. Other life in this little oasis are waking for nocturnal foraging, undetected by my weak human senses. Leaving them alone to their nightly chores as the light fades, I take a final sniff of that distinctive earthy odour and thank Nature for allowing me to share in its private beauty.

On my computer, I made the mistake of looking up loan options for someone. Now my Facebook page is awash with adverts from lenders I’d never heard of. Okay, I can click on each one and block them, but that’s not the point is it? Facebook is spying on my computer and it makes me very angry and worried.

I was staring rather aimlessly at the shelves in the food cupboard. My eyes were drawn to a patriotic-looking bottle of HP Sauce. The red, white and blue label featured an illustration of Big Ben… ‘HP Sauces commemorates the 160th anniversary of Big Big’ it states, while the small label around the bottle’s neck is emblazoned with a royal crest and the words ‘By Appointment to Her Majesty the Queen’. I imagine some Little Englander brimming with pride while splashing this stuff over a pork pie and singing Land of Hope & Glory. Then I read the small print on the label: Made in The Netherlands.
Ah well, there’s always that tin of Amy’s Hearty Organic Rustic Italian Vegetable Soup. It’s more expensive than your bog-standard tinned soup, but hey, it has ‘plant based’, ‘gluten free’, ‘no GMOs’ and ‘vegan’ printed on the countryside-green label wrapped around the environmentally ‘widely recycled’ tin. It also states ‘non BPA lining’ (whatever that means – but it must be good for me or they wouldn’t put it on the label, would they?). I don’t know who Amy is, but every Amy I’ve met has always been very nice, so I bought the soup. While opening the tin, I spot the small print: ‘Made in USA’. So my green, conscience-saving eco-friendly soup has travelled more miles to get to my kitchen than I’ve covered in several years. It could do with a touch of Tabasco sauce to liven it up … I dare not look at the label.

I received a Covid self-test pack this week … made in China. A box full of un-recyclable plastic. Anyway, I logged on to register my negative result and was informed I had to allow access my medical records. ‘Sod you’ I told my screen. Our NHS is already being taken over by pharmaceutical giants, despite what this government promised. I’m not handing over my details without resistance.

How come when we’re confined for doing something wrong, we’re locked up, but when we’re confined because of a pandemic we’re said to be in lockdown? And when I lose my keys I’m either locked in or locked out?

As the Sun sets on another year – a pretty awful one for most people – at least I can flick through my photo diary and take comfort from the fact that the local Dales landscape and Nature have provided me with many high points.
I’m a lot more fortunate than millions of others. How lucky I am to live in a small village in the Yorkshire Dales and not trapped in a tiny flat in some high-rise city building. This part of Ribblesdale has just moved into tier 3 but I can still exercise locally and enjoy sights and sounds in some gorgeous countryside.

I thought I’d use this end of year blog to post a selection of photos which I don’t think I’ve published either here or on other social media. The places will be familiar, though, as they are within a few miles of home – regular ports of call as I stroll and drive aimlessly around the dale.

My dodgy knees prevent me from tackling longer walks and more difficult ascents nowadays, but there’s still plenty of scenery for me and my camera to enjoy.
I started to make a list of some of my favourite things about living in upper Ribblesdale – it turned out to be a lot longer than my Christmas shopping list …

Wild flowers, the curlew calls;
high peaks and waterfalls.
Drystone walls, abandoned barns;
charming churches, ancient farms.
Skies threatening or clearest of blue;
sculptured clouds, changing hue.
Sunsets and sunrises, a golden glow;
trees tall or gnarled, bent like a bow.
Hedges and bushes with colourful berries;
hidden paths where no one hurries.
Birds with attitude, sweet songs they sing;
painted butterflies, bees on the wing.
Lambs playing in packs until dusk;
their mothers fretting while mowing the grass.
The river Ribble when slow and calming;
or rushing by, impatient, alarming.
Quirky hamlets asleep so it seems;
cottages huddle, crooked doors, curved beams.
Steam engines huffing, causing a fuss;
respectfully crossing that great colossus.
Autumnal tints the woodland bring;
buttercup meadows, welcoming spring.
Signposts and stiles, all sizes and shape;
walkers instructed to ‘Please Shut the Gate’.

I’ve just completed a first Christmas alone (which was actually fine, but it’s not the same without the warmth of a family around you). But I have plenty of photographic reminders of our festive past. I found this picture of my son taken around 25 years ago, dressed in his new Huddersfield Town shirt. I had to clear every bit of furniture to accommodate that train set. It might have been extremely early Christmas morning but I enjoyed playing as much as he did.

Have a better new year and thanks for reading the blog