Unearthing the Past: A Pilgrimage Through Overlooked English Towns

The final installment in this captivating series on England’s underexplored, overlooked, and bypassed towns embarks on a personal journey, revisiting three locations inextricably linked to different chapters of my life. Relocating, in its initial stages, often feels akin to a grand-scale vacation; for a precious few months, a new place shimmers with the freshness of discovery, untainted by the mundane filters of habit or the biases of prior experience. Yet, returning years later is a more complex emotional tapestry – a blend of pilgrimage to what once was and a quiet funeral for what has irrevocably changed.

Harrow: Echoes of an Ancient Hill in London’s Metro-land

The very lexicon of suburbia – commuting, dormitory towns, cul-de-sacs, and ubiquitous privet hedges – often suggests a landscape designed for not seeing, for passing through rather than dwelling deeply within. In the densely populated expanse of north-west London, uncovering the occluded past of a place like Harrow requires a deliberate excavation, employing not just the keen eye, but also the insights gleaned from books and the physical exploration afforded by boots on the ground.

Harrow’s history stretches back far beyond the commuter trains of the Metropolitan Line. In a 767 charter, it appears as "Gumeninga hergae," a name that evokes a primeval landscape: "the heathen temple of the Gumeningas [tribe]." The modest yet distinct hill, prominently marked on ancient sketches, served as a natural focal point for early worship, a sacred site in an era when such "harrows" (from the Old English hearg, meaning a heathen temple or shrine) dotted the English landscape. This pre-Christian significance hints at a deep spiritual resonance long before the arrival of organised religion. Later, the area transitioned into a significant part of the Archbishop of Canterbury’s sprawling estate. By the time of the Domesday Book in 1086, Harrow was far from a rural backwater; its detailed entry records 70 ploughlands, a substantial 117 households, 102 villagers, two cottagers, three knights, two slaves, and a priest, indicating a sizeable and economically active settlement for its time, with a population likely in the hundreds.

For centuries, nature reigned supreme. Trees vastly outnumbered people. The medieval manor of Harrow boasted a magnificent 100-hectare (250-acre) deer park in nearby Pinner, a testament to the area’s rich biodiversity and its appeal to the landed gentry. The very name Harrow Weald derives from the Old English for woodland, a direct reference to the ancient Forest of Middlesex, a vast, unbroken canopy that once stretched from Houndsditch in the heart of the City of London, through what are now Highgate and Mill Hill, reaching these then-outermost reaches. This forest was not merely a wild expanse; it was a vital economic resource, providing pannage (the right to pasture pigs in woods) for an astonishing 20,000 pigs, illustrating the scale of its ecological and agricultural importance.

The 16th and 17th centuries saw Harrow’s fortunes rise further, attracting gentry seeking both the tranquility of the countryside and convenient access to the court and parliament, easily reached by coach and four. This influx of wealth and influence culminated in the founding of Harrow School by the wealthy landowner John Lyon, established by royal charter in 1572. The school, which would go on to become one of Britain’s most prestigious public schools, cemented Harrow’s reputation and ensured a degree of exclusivity and development distinct from its future suburban neighbours.

Remarkably, an 1868 map reveals Harrow on the Hill as little more than a scattering of houses, still largely enveloped by parks, groves, and the expansive school fields. The only significant transport link was the London and North Western railway, a main line arrowing away to industrial hubs like Birmingham and Crewe, rather than primarily serving local commuters. The area’s natural beauty and relative isolation endured well into the early 20th century, inspiring figures like the Harrovian Tom Harrisson – later a key figure in the groundbreaking Mass-Observation project – to publish "Birds of the Harrow District" in 1930, chronicling the abundant greenery and wildlife that characterized the locale.

However, the relentless march of "Metro-land," a term coined by the Metropolitan Railway to market its new commuter estates, would, by the 1950s, dramatically transform the landscape. The hill and its environs were submerged beneath a tide of housing, lassoed firmly to London by the ever-expanding Underground network. This era spawned the numerous sub-districts like North, West, and South Harrows, creating suburban living for over 200,000 people. It was a more populous, less idyllic, and certainly less planned version of this commuter-belt vision that greeted me when I moved there in the summer of 1987, preparing to travel, as John Betjeman famously put it, "Smoothly from Harrow" on the Metropolitan line "fasts" to a dreary office job in Blackfriars.

Understanding, even belatedly, these deep historical layers helps to explain the still tangible, almost sacrificial feel of the place; the amorphous sensation of inhabiting a populous nowhere, where ancient spirits of the Gumeningas now share space with countless commuters. Yet, beneath the suburban veneer, the echoes of a rich and varied past persist for those willing to dig.
Things to see and do: Walk section 9 of the Capital Ring for panoramic views and green spaces; explore Harrow’s past at Headstone Manor Museum, a medieval moated manor house; admire the adaptive reuse of the former Art Deco Ace Cinema, now the impressive Zoroastrian Centre, a vibrant community hub.

Clitheroe: A Ribble Valley Resilience

A visit to Clitheroe is best approached slowly, allowing ample time to absorb its dramatic setting. A deliberate walk into town offers the opportunity to admire the formidable Clitheroe Castle, perched atop its steep-sided lump of limestone, and home to the "second smallest surviving stone keep in England." From the summit of this ancient stronghold, the views are nothing short of uplifting, a panoramic canvas of Lancashire’s rugged beauty: the shifting weather systems rolling in from the west, the majestic Bowland Fells stretching into the distance, tantalizing slivers of Yorkshire’s iconic Three Peaks, and the brooding presence of Pendle Hill, steeped in history and folklore.

The arrival of the A59 Lancs-Yorks trunk road bypass at the end of the 1960s marked a significant shift. Before then, a constant stream of cars and vans chugged laboriously up Moor Lane and along Castle Street, sections that, despite the bypass, remain the traffic-cluttered arteries of the high street. The narrowness of these thoroughfares and the charming, low-slung 17th and 18th-century shopfronts evoke, in a peculiar way, the historical continuity found in towns like Totnes, which boasts a largely Tudor streetscape. This speaks to a continuity in urban design that persisted into the modern era, a pattern often warped by the redbrick Victorian pomp of industrial expansion and, tragically, shattered by the 20th century’s brutal "raze-and-redevelop" wave of shopping precincts, many of which have since been condemned as architectural failures.

In many respects, Clitheroe stands as an archetypal Lancashire town, yet one that has weathered the storms of industrial change with remarkable resilience. The struggling, once-booming textile towns to the south of Pendle Hill serve as stark reminders of the profound impact of industry’s rise and the devastating consequences of offshoring. Clitheroe, relatively speaking, remains intact, its historic core largely preserved. This suggests that older places, with their deeply ingrained character and robust historical foundations, often prove more adept at weathering economic booms and busts. The injection of new money, of course, also plays a crucial role in such revitalization.

Indeed, Clitheroe was not immune to the industrial revolution. Its own factories, particularly in textile production, played a vital role in its past. Today, two former spinning blocks, a weaving shed, and associated offices have undergone a creditable and transformative makeover, giving rise to Holmes Mill. This impressive complex now functions as a combined deli-cum-bar, a "luxury" cinema, a working brewery and alehouse, a hotel, and a wedding venue. It successfully ticks the aspirational boxes for affluent Lancastrians and visitors alike, representing a modern repurposing of industrial heritage that contributes significantly to the town’s contemporary appeal. Alongside this new vibrancy, lively local boozers remain dotted throughout the town, serving as popular haunts. CAMRA (Campaign for Real Ale) groups are arguably Clitheroe’s most enthusiastic excursionists, testament to the town’s strong real ale scene. The New Inn, for instance, offers a riotously cosy atmosphere, while establishments like Georgeonzola cater to a burgeoning interest in artisan cheese and wine. The presence of at least three cocktail bars further underscores Clitheroe’s evolving social landscape – a far cry from the stereotypical image of clogs and caps.

I reside a couple of miles outside Clitheroe, and it’s sometimes a strange thought to consider it part of the same county as St Helens and Warrington, where I was born and raised. Locals often specify "Pennine Lancashire" to distinguish it, and indeed, I come from the "Plains." The rain here is undeniably more persistent, and the wind can be truly evil, but this north-facing town is a genuinely likable knot of streets and stonework, continually offering new discoveries.
Things to see and do: Enjoy Edisford Bridge, a popular swimming spot in summer; embark on invigorating walks up Pendle Hill or along the scenic Ribble Way, ideal for winter rambles; visit the historic Whalley Abbey, easily accessible by bus or train; or take the No 11 bus into the heart of Bowland for walks towards Pen-y-ghent.

Princetown: Dartmoor’s Bleak Heart

Devon, for all its beauty, is arguably the least bleak county I know. It conjures images of balmy summers, rolling pastures of red earth and verdant grass, a coastline intricately serrated with charming coves, picturesque hamlets, high hedgerows, and winding lanes, an ecclesiastical city in Exeter, a maritime powerhouse in Plymouth, and generally mild winters. Princetown, however, stands as its singular flirtation with true grimness. Tourists do venture here, perhaps not as seldom as to other forgotten spots in this series, but they frequently emerge from their cars or dismount their bikes with expressions of palpable shock, confronted by the stark reality of the place.

The imposing granite-grey structure of HMP Dartmoor utterly dominates Princetown, and indeed, the prison is the very reason for the township’s existence. In the early 19th century, Thomas Tyrwhitt MP, a far-sighted landowner, secured a parcel of land from the Duchy estate of the Prince of Wales with the ambitious vision of establishing a "depot" for prisoners of war captured during the Napoleonic conflicts. The chosen site was remote enough to deter all but the most desperate escape attempts and sufficiently inhospitable to serve as a formidable deterrent. The sheer isolation and harsh climate were considered integral to its design as a place of incarceration.

The first prisoners arrived in 1809, and it wasn’t long before Princetown prison became notoriously overcrowded. When American prisoners from the War of 1812 began arriving, conditions deteriorated rapidly. Diseases such as pneumonia, typhoid, and smallpox became alarmingly prevalent, effectively serving as "natural" death sentences for many. The lack of sanitation, inadequate nutrition, and the unforgiving Dartmoor weather took a devastating toll. The Depot mercifully closed when the conflicts ended, but its penal destiny was not yet complete. It reopened in 1850 as a penal establishment for "common criminals," a role it would maintain for over a century and a half. Over time, its formidable walls held a diverse array of individuals, from the future Irish premier Éamon de Valera – imprisoned for his role in the Easter Rising – to Fred Longden, a conscientious objector and later Labour MP, and Reginald Horace Blyth, the influential Zen poet and scholar. These notable inmates underscore the prison’s long and complex history within British justice and political struggles.

Sir Thomas Tyrwhitt, as he became, was also instrumental in Princetown’s development beyond the prison walls. He commissioned the construction of a pioneering railway line, initially conceived to transport quarried granite down to the port and, in return, bring essential farm produce, coal, timber, and lime for fertiliser back up to the isolated moorland community. This railway, known as the Plymouth & Dartmoor Railway, served both prisoners and passengers at various times, a lifeline to the outside world, until its eventual closure in 1956. The prison itself faced a contemporary challenge in 2024, when it was temporarily closed due to "higher than normal" levels of radon, a cancer-causing gas naturally formed by the decay of uranium in granite rocks and soils, a stark reminder of the unique geological environment.

Today, the old railway line has been repurposed into a popular track, along which runners and cyclists hurtle, often eager to escape Princetown’s distinctly anti-twee, anti-wild camping, and at times, seemingly anti-tourism vibe. It’s a place that, despite its population size, often feels more like a village in its character, though certainly not in its forbidding looks. The literary giant Sir Arthur Conan Doyle famously stayed at the Duchy Hotel, which later became the main Dartmoor National Park visitor centre, though it too closed its doors in October 2025. Doyle masterfully incorporated the prison and the bleak moorland into his iconic Sherlock Holmes novel, "The Hound of the Baskervilles." An escaped convict, Selden, plays a pivotal role in the narrative, and Doyle’s evocative description of the landscape – "Between two farmhouses called High Tor and Foulmire and the great prison extends the desolate, lifeless moor. This, then is the stage upon which tragedy has played, and upon which we may help to play it again" – perfectly captures the enduring, unsettling atmosphere of the area. For the modern, leisure-age gaze, the moor is a celebrated wild camping backdrop, a place of vital airy solitudes; but HMP Dartmoor in Princetown, emptied for now, remains its undeniably tragic set piece.
Things to see and do: Cycle the challenging yet rewarding Princetown to Burrator Reservoir mountain bike tracks, following the old railway line; delve into the grim history at the Dartmoor Prison Museum; explore the eerie beauty of Foggintor Quarry, a dramatic relic of Dartmoor’s industrial past.

Chris Moss’s latest book, Lancashire: Exploring the Historic County That Made The Modern World, is published by Old Street Publishing at £25. His book based on this series, Where Tourists Seldom Tread, will be published by Faber in 2026. This article was amended on 24 February 2026 to clarify that the Dartmoor national park visitor centre in Princetown closed in October 2025. Also, an earlier version incorrectly referred to Fred Longden as "Frank". Lancashire by Chris Moss (Old Street Publishing, £25). To support the Guardian, order your copy at guardianbookshop.com. Delivery charges may apply.