Saturday Belles (Nutclough and Colden)

May started fine but health and commitments prevented outings until a damp and grey Saturday when we succeeded in a trip to Nutclough before more drizzle descended. Plenty of bluebells en route, a clump at the corner of Mason Street were particularly lovely, as we told the woman whose garden it was. On The Buttress, two women doing selfies were more interested in admiring each other than the blooms.

In the wood, lines of blue led up the slope where the bells mixed attractively with ivory garlic and cream anemones. The brook overflowing, we took the higher path, resplendent in acid greens. A woman inexplicably clambered alongside the opposite bank, making her sheepdog bark in alarm. We paused briefly at the stone bridge before going up to Sandy Gate and back down small steps between gardens. Reaching the other side of the clough, we braved the delta-like islands, searched for treasure, and hopped across makeshift stepping-stones. Valley Road teemed with weekenders. We veered onto the riverside path seeking to regain calm solitude but were scuppered by men peeing al fresco!

The following week, I missed several stunning days due to debilitating CFS. An attempted walk Friday ended up in the local pub and we resolved to get further on a glorious Saturday. Luckily, we were just in time for the 596. The bus was packed and we were subjected to incessant chatter from kids and yummy mummies on the ride ‘up tops’. We alighted at Edge Lane to be greeted by fields of gold before a quiet walk up the lane.

Lilac honesty clusters flourished in hedgerows. Heady scents and fluffy seeds wafted in a gentle breeze. Lambs mottled with white, black and brown, grazed behind wire, some boldly scrutinising us, others seeking refuge behind ewes. At May’s Farm Shop, a pied wagtail selected morsels near the bins. I rang the bell for a teenage girl to come and serve us. Waiting for warm pasties, I scanned the jarred sweets. My usual cough drops cheaper than pre-packed, I asked for ‘a quarter’. Very polite about my outdated terminology, she confirmed modern schooling didn’t include imperial measures. Fair enough I thought, but it seemed daft they omitted to teach miles.

A man entered, looking surprised to see Phil. “I take it you know him from The Store”, I laughed. “Yes, it’s odd seeing people out of context.” “He does get out from behind the counter sometimes!” Enjoying our lunch on a sun-drenched bench, the famous May stopped to exchange a few words. I commented on a piece in the local paper praising her community service – about time she received recognition. As if to illustrate the point, a young lad asked her which dog biscuits his mum usually bought. You don’t get that in the Co-op!

Refreshed, we made our way through the village. A pheasant call filled the air. Yellow cow parsley and dandelions studded curving green lanes. A barn remained ramshackle amid evidence of gentrification, the scaffolding impeding backward views.

At Jack Bridge, people drank outside the New Delight. Welcoming as the garden looked, I didn’t fancy beer two days’ running. We continued between profuse hedges on Hudson Mill Lane and descended narrow steps, flanked by burgeoning bilberry shrubs, to Hebble Hole. The makeshift bathing spot fully occupied, we stopped only briefly on the clapper bridge to marvel at the change in water levels after the short dry spell. Not that it had expunged mud from the clough paths. Tricky in places, especially wearing sandals, it was worth the effort for truly stunning sights.

Extending as far as the eye could see, bluebells carpeted fallow areas, invaded crannies between stones, overshadowed campion and celandine, and abutted spreading garlic, which also bloomed with ostentation. Hastening past the travesty of Lower Lumb Mill, we began to flag on the bridleway and waited for a pair of women striding purposefully and talking loudly, to overtake us. Slightly revived by the break and a swig of pop, the home stretch via the hot and dusty main road was still a schlep.

Ghosts of Eaves (Eaves Wood)

Thinking it would be quicker, we reverted to the tried and tested route for the usual Eaves Wood forage. But the going was slow, mainly due to strong winds. Climbing the ridge, clouds scudded and catkins prematurely came unstuck from swaying branches. I swayed almost as much while Phil tried out the video function on his new camera. We slogged up past Hell Hole Rocks and stood briefly at ‘photo corner’. A daffodil clump lent a hint of yellow to a drab vista. Behind us, empty garden swings moved back and forth as though occupied by ghosts.

Proceeding along the flat tops, the invisible gusts became more violent and may have blown us off if they were easterlies. I clutched spindly heather well away from the edge waiting for a walking group to pass. Calmer in Eaves Wood, the spring gushed like a tap. Phil hesitated at the squelchy slope. I grabbed a stick to test the ground and help us reach the garlic.

Backs aching from picking, we walked on the middle path to our preferred sitting rock which was piled with detritus. We chose a mossy stone as an alternative and took in the restful scene. Fungi decayed on silver birch. Slender trunks vied for light. Stoodley Pike appeared wraith-like between monochrome trees. The peace was disturbed by a small dog bounding and sniffing at us before impatiently herding a lagging couple.

As we continued down the long stairway to Eaves, brightening skies highlighted surreally vivid mosses and emerging bilberry blossom. Based on last July’s failed expedition, we guessed the deer who haunted the place would get the berries before us.

Clapped Out (Colden Clough)

Despite achiness and fatigue, we embarked on our first spring forage on a rare dry and sunny March Sunday. Going to Colden Clough, we paused at Bankfoot. Moss lay in carpets on the turreted bridge over Colden Water. Mysterious holes pock-marked the abutting wall. Their original purpose was uncertain . At Eaves, a woman ushered a group of variously sized children from the playground up to the top track. A boy adoringly lifted the tiniest girl up the steepest steps.

‘Flood management’ at Lumb Mill resulted in hacked trees and a collapsed wall next to the chimney. Dismayed by the scene, we splashed through water over the small arched bridge, then slogged up the stoney path, squelched in a mire and crunched through copper beach leaves striated with sharp shadow lines near the hermit cave.

The wild garlic patch had expanded but most plants grew down the precipitous slope and could not be safely reached. As the leaves were quite small this early in the season, we picked sparingly from those that could and found we had enough energy to continue walking.

A pickle of tumbled stone momentarily confused us at the tree root steps. Golden celandine, buttery catkins and a bright new wooden fence gleamed in the light, guiding us to Hebble Hole. On the clapper bridge, we noted repairs were now undetectable. Resting on a rock, we were enjoying the quiet company of the tripping brook when a couple turned up. After allowing their dog a quick dip, they departed, to be replaced by a bemused spaniel searching for his human until he hove into view.

To avoid the worst of the mud on the return, we used the top causeway, where bare trees still exuded a wintry feel despite clear blue skies overhead. As stamina dissipated, we felt clapped out and plodded along the last stretch home.

Unnatural Beasts (Canal to Mytholmroyd)

A midsummer day in 2023 did not start well. Tempted outdoors by afternoon sun, we dawdled eastwards on the towpath. Early teasels and thistles paraded fifty shades of green. Ivory blackberry blossom presaged juicy fruits. A small duck family glided on the water. A discarded iridescent lizard leg and curious skeletal figures of mice looked incongruous alongside the natural beasts.

Hot and thirsty when we reached Mytholmroyd, we refreshed in The Dusty Miller’s astroturf beer garden. It may not be eco-friendly but at least it replaced tarmac rather than a real lawn. The pub frequented by notorious coiners, we discussed the recently aired Gallows Pole drama, caressed by a warm breeze. Returning via the Sustrans path, brambles vied with equally ubiquitous balsam. Having recently discovered the non-native species was edible, I considered harvesting the pods when they ripened.

Geese gathered at Hebble End where, early January 2024, dippers dipped. Further on, ripples in the gorged canal lapped at dilapidated houseboats. Truncated tree roots stubbornly grew through the wall at Mayroyd. Mirrored reflections of trees and sheep added an other-world feel. Too dingy and cold for beer stops, we headed straight back on the Sustrans, but flagging, briefly rested on a suspiciously regular-shaped rock.

A sodden winter segued into a wet spring. The first dry day in memory, clouds and a keen wind made it chilly, especially on Black Pit Aqueduct where we leant over to see flowers sprouting from stone, buds sprouting from trees, a football trapped in weeds and the intriguing carved head.

We dodged crowds in the park by taking the far path, garlanded with garlic flowers. More ransoms on the Sustrans, I carefully selected a few leaves, disturbing microscopic insects in the undergrowth. A small landslip created a small cave nearby. Ducks circled for crumbs as a couple ate butties. The woman kindly invited us to sit but we left them in peace to enjoy the soothing sounds. As the path opened out, bees supped from gaudy dandelions studding lush grass.

At Carr Lane, we ascended a steep muddy path and descended near an arched railway bridge where we stood in the mire to peer up Stubb Lane. Uncertain of a way through, we turned left alongside Calder Brook which disappeared beneath a tiny bridge to be carried underground to a river outlet. At Hawksclough, we debated the provenance of a converted barn and adjacent house. Now known as Hawksclough Farm, the old stone bridge was built to serve the one-time manor house. We waited for a gap in traffic to explore The Square, an attractive enclave set back from the main road.

Diminutive cherries guided us onto the towpath. Daisies dotted the banks. Canada geese nested opposite. As the sun made a fleeting appearance, we squatted on Broadbottom Lock to warm our faces before continuing onto Mayroyd. Machinery for investigating the lock floor lay idle at the blocked waterway leaving Strontium, appropriately also known as the growler, churning up water like an avaricious yellow beast.

Approaching Victoria Bridge, hybrid daffodils and tulips lined up to show off to the growing number of strollers. We avoided congestion by heading down Holme Street and across Pitt Street bridge.

Sticky Spring (Common Bank to Old Town)

As we set off on a bright Saturday late February, I stopped down the road to chat to an elderly neighbour sweeping outside her house and Phil craned to watch rooks flying overhead. We then proceeded through the heaving town centre. Red faces festooned the pub in the square, implying an early start to weekend drinking.

At the top, we lingered to look at the stone trough and bricked-up doors in the wall opposite before crossing Keighley Road and climbing the cobbles to School Street. Hoping for a closer view, the sharp incline of Bankside took us behind Stubbings School. Unfamiliar with the back alleys, we escaped via a snicket and wended to Common Bank Wood where barriers signified fiddling was still underway.

Shadows spiralled up bare trunks of drastically thinned out trees, their skeletal branches fingering Fairweather clouds. The paths sticky with mud and stepping-stones impeded by deliberately placed sticks, I became anxious and froze before managing to jump over the small stream by grabbing Phil’s hand.

The path to Dod Naze also squelchy, I stuck to the side and pulled myself along wire running atop the fence, noting no lambs only rams in the fields. Hot and tired from the effort, we rested on the bench at the corner, surrounded by vibrant crocus and valley views, and stripped outerwear. A man with a very small child, much faster than us despite small legs, overtook us. Up the steps to Rowland Lane, panoramas of Heptonstall and Old Town fanned upwards, the horizon dominated by Old Town Mill.

Utilising the shortcut from Lane Ends, stones on the path kept mud at bay as we mused on the provenance of old-sounding names such as Foot Kiln, Top Oth Croft and, on Billy Lane, Top Oth Hill. We rang a friend’s doorbell but getting no answer, continued to Old Town Post Office. The young man at the café counter informed us there was no sandwich bread because the cyclists ate it all. The substitute sticky ginger cake proved delicious. Phil commented it was like being on holiday. “It always is round here,” I replied, “There are pros and cons.” We cleared our pots to the counter, complemented the cake, browsed the shop where we learnt three curlews had just flown over the moor, and asked to use facilities. Locked as the café prepared to close, they gave us the key to the loo in the garden from where we heard the curlews. They had obviously decided it was spring.

The temperature dropped beneath ominous skies shrouding Stoodley Pike as we exited onto Billy Lane and down Sandy Gate. We made brief stops to redon layers, laugh at more dubious-sounding names, make small-talk with an art acquaintance, and examine a curious mix of winter and spring flora. Withered roses shared thorny stalks with fresh-looking rosehips while green moss conquered deadwood. We took the shortcut at Birchcliffe and avoided the busy town by taking back routes home.

Wood Top Heritage

A patchily sunny mid-February Sunday, we walked through the park beginning to bloom with almonds and cherries, up to Wood Top, in search of new lambs. On the ascent, recent research enabled us to place the long-gone Victoria Mill and the station warehouse and further up, to speculate on the origin of the farmhouse.

Date stamped 1657, tall arched doors either side signified it started out as a laithe house before it became the site of one of the many dyeworks and finishers in the area. Established by William Barker in 1860, it was fed by the millpond we’d noticed 3 years back in the field alongside Spencer Lane. We paused on the climb to retrace its lines, noting the brighter aspect of the other side of valley, making the grass literally greener. ^*

Too early for lambs, pregnant ewes munched grass and gnarly turnips scattered on the pastures. Seeing a heap of them at Old Chamber, Phil joked: “You laugh now but when the UN start delivering them, you’ll be fighting for the Brexit turnip!” Barking dogs lurking in the barn made us eager to move on. Thus I forgot to look for old bank and ditch remains (evidence of a historic enclosure). The honesty box shut, we continued onto New Road, resembling a stream. We searched for treasure only to find broken pot shards before the flow was channelled downhill at the sharp bend.

Remarking a line of dilapidated shacks may denote a poultry farm, we giggled at the end one labelled Weasel Hall Farm – could it be The Old Chicken Shed Airbnb? We passed the hall (rebuilt by The Leeds and Manchester Railway Company circa 1840) and two broken gates to squelch down the muddy path to Palace House Road, amused by the pointless pedestrian crossing.

We detoured down cobbled steps to the ruins of Calder Bank and onto the canal opposite converted Edwards Mill. Near the runoff, water gushed into the river and nascent yellow of celandine and daffodil buds studded the banks. We crossed Blackpit Lock into town on an errand and regarded the sad state of the old civic hall, now known as the Crown Inn or ‘R  N IN’ , as the sign on the dilapidated edifice now read.

* See ‘Turning Seasons Up Wood Top’, February 2021

References: The West Yorkshire Woods Part 1: The Calder Valley, Christopher Goddard

The Medieval Park of Erringden, Nigel Smith

From Fulling to Fustianopolis: https://www.fromfullingtofustianopolis.co.uk/page.php?id=10

Old Lanes (Tinker Bank, Northwell Lane and Heptonstall)

Walking Friend recently gave me several local interest books plus access to her veritable library so I could borrow more. As the winter of 2023/24 brought a series of health and household travails, the kindness was well-timed. Together with wet weather, we’d had few chances to get out and about and I immersed myself in the literature, noting oft-visited areas worthy of more attention and others to explore in future.

After Phil recovered from an operation and me from a bout of sinusitis at the end of January, we set off on a jaunt to Heptonstall via Tinker Bank with renewed interest.

Walking to the riverside, we joked about everything in town turning into an Airbnb when we saw the decrepit old workshop near Foster Mill Bridge had been sold. Development underway, we wagered it was destined to become yet another holiday let. Taking care on slippery steps up to Hollins and slippery mud in the wood, we ascended to the top and crossed to Tinker Bank Lane. Amidst the felled trees carpeted in emerald moss and decayed vegetation, we paused to examine the stone which once formed the base of a medieval wayside cross. Further up, we waited for a flock of chickens to cross the road (ha, ha!) into Pinfold Lane and proceeded to the Octagonal Chapel. Afternoon sunlight bounced off the crags opposite, made harsh geometric shadows on the iconic building and emphasised the tips of obelisk monuments to the worthy dead.

Across Northgate, we scanned the entrance to Whitehall Farm but were unable to determine the starting point of the railway to Blake Dean, and the plaque marking the location of the 16^th century Cloth Hall. At the junction with Towngate, we wended between the Tudor Stag Cottage (formerly part of the ‘Sign of the Stag’ pub, now a holiday cottage) and the fisheries, then down enclosed steps to the old co-op buildings to be waylaid by an elderly character telling us how he’d restored an old header tank, on display as a planter.

We perused the Great Well, dungeon doorway and the stocks before heading for Northwell Lane to see the latter’s original location. The carved post rested incongruously on someone’s drive. Continuing down, we pondered on the length of the driveway from the signed gates to actual Northwell House. We crossed Lee Wood Road and made our way on squelchy, winding woodland paths, past the horse farm and onto the riverside path near the bowling hut. We stopped briefly on the way home to observe the expanding collection of zany figurines and budding snowdrops near the allotments.

Burnished (Rawtonstall)

A rare crisply sunny day mid-November, we aimed to ride up to Blackshaw Head and return through Rawtonstall.  Google informed us a bus was due but the bus-stop displayed only services to Eaves and Smithy Lane.  Resigned to foot-slogging, we walked up Bridge Lanes, peered over walls at unofficial allotments eyed by a robin perched on the rickety fence, and crossed near the Fox & Goose.  Soggy fallen leaves became drier towards Church Lane.  Revelling in the warm sun on our faces, a man strode up from behind, agreed it was the best sort of autumn day, enquired about our destination and helpfully described alternatives.  I assured him we lived locally so knew the area.  We exchanged names and continued companionably until reaching his house.  The postie strode downhill, greeted us and chatted to our new friend at the corner of Saville Road.  Hot and breathless from the steep ascent, we paused at intervals, forced from watching chimney smoke wreath the treetops, by a gas engineer complaining his van couldn’t round the sharp bend.  Phil reckoned the relentless two-way traffic was a result of people driving no further than the shop. 

On Rawtonstall Bank, the Cat Steps appeared newly cleaned up and signed but still dodgy.  We opted for the usual route up Green House Lane.  Going slowly to conserve energy, we admired exuberant moss and ferns and lean trees converting to gold.  Their thin shadows criss-crossed lines of gravel and tarmac.  At the top, we awaited a couple and accompanying dog to pass. “He’s a bit muddy and might jump on your legs.” They informed me. “I don’t like that!” 

Venturing onto Dark Lane, the world suddenly became quiet.  Birds flew among fair-weather clouds and settled on telegraph wires above fields dotted with brown and white sheep.  A hazy Stoodley Pike matched the pale sky.  Blues turned a murky green on the sloping hillside while copper highlights burnished nearer foliage.  Tackling the sticky ground, we side-stepped onto uneven verges when a woman riding a horse, followed by a man and child on bikes, tootled past.  Mixed transport!  Noting yet more changes at the corner of Long Hey Top, we hesitated but soon found the bench between the cypresses to rest, snack and gaze upon resplendent views.

On both sides of the valley, fifty shades of red vibrantly stretched to the vanishing point.  Phil remarked it was once possible to take panoramic photos before the trees grew taller. “We came out to see the trees; now you’re complaining of too many!” I laughed, “and they hide the sewage works.”  Down Turret Hall Road, we dodged walking groups and mountain-bikers, re-examined the miracle of the ‘electric bray’, and caught glimpses of the sinking sun between leafy greens and gleaming tones towards Oakville Road.  A Santa bag was dumped at the corner of the main road – someone had already had enough of Christmas!  Phil paused opposite Stubbings. “Pint?” “Not bothered.” “You don’t get enough entertainment.” ”This is my entertainment, no need to spend money.”  As if to underline the point, I indulged in a good run of kicking crunchy leaves on the Old High Street, thinking they made an excellent film sound effect.

Muted Reds (Lumb Bank and Eaves)

The gloom lifted for a cold but dazzling Tuesday.  A rare day off for Phil, he smiled on seeing the sun.  I suggested a walk to Lumb Bank, wrapped warmed-up pasties in foil and swathed myself in layers to insulate from the crisp air before we took the customary route via Church Lane and Eaves.  The climb to the first iron gate arduous, we continued up through the canopy where reds were normally guaranteed. The season’s foliage predominantly mellow due to the prolonged summer and late autumn this year, even here the colours were muted although emerald moss and jade lichen glowed. 

Forgetting to continue onto the next iron gate, we climbed further but soon realised we were mistaken (will we ever remember it’s up, down, up!)  After debating carrying on to the top, we decided to backtrack to the dicey Victorian job-creation steps.  The narrow treads slippery with leaves, I descended sideways.  We waited in a sunny patch near the garages for two men dawdling towards us, then headed straight onto the lesser-trodden Old Gate to the poet’s house.  Agreeing the adjacent cobbled path was the nastiest in the valley, we got hot from the effort and panted up Green Lane to the link path shortcut, noting it was newly fenced off in the second field – had someone been worrying sheep? 

Proceeding into Heptonstall, Phil’s colleague waited at the bus-stop.  As we stopped to chat, she conceded the bus wasn’t going to show, rang a taxi and offered us a lift.  “No thanks, we’ve got pasties!”  Finding a sunny spot in Weaver’s Square, we squatted on a low wall to eat. For dessert, Phil opted for a snowy Oreo while I chose a healthy apple, then my guts rumbled alarmingly.  Conscious of the man who’d appeared to fiddle with wires behind us, I whispered urgently: “I need to move.” Why? “Tell you later.”  Thankfully, no disasters unfolded as we wandered into the graveyard to listen to organ-twiddling from the church and search the ruin for the poshest grave near the altar (unsurprisingly, the inhabitants of Greenwood Lee).  We took the ridge path down via Hell Hole Rocks to enjoy misty views of Stoodley Pike, beautiful hues of green and gold, and the last of the afternoon light on the path along the ridge.

Canal Transitions

Amidst an early September heatwave, Saharan dust coated cars and hot air made for squiffy guts. Instead of a planned outing further afield, we opted for a canalside amble and pub lunch.  A patch of wildflowers swarming with bees and spiders enhancing Bridge Lanes, they positively festooned the towpath. 

Vibrant orange, yellow, scarlet, cerise and violet distracted us from scummy brown water.  At Stubbing Wharf, we  grabbed the one free canalside table but sitting in full sun a bit much, moved as soon as a shaded alternative became vacant, to the chagrin of the waitress.  After eating our fill of steak and chips, we supped a second pint and watched a small girl in a pushchair behind us trying to read words.

The parents oblivious, dad suggested she look at the pond (meaning the canal) and the swans (meaning the geese). “She’s not being hot-housed!” We giggled.  Unwilling to smoke near the child, we retreated to the nearby low wall, glancing back to see mum lighting up.

The sunny stroll was a stark contrast to the next westerly foray.  Finally transitioning from summer to autumn, outdoors looked uninviting on a cold, dank late November Sunday, I hoped a walk would warm us up.  Heading for the Cuckoo Steps, I was alarmed by a mountain biker preparing to descend. “Can you not find anywhere better?” I demanded of the woman poised to video the escapade. “Yes but we’ve been all round Hebden; this is what he does.” ”Putting people at risk? How stupid!” I marched up to Bridge Lanes, down Robertshaw Road and onto the towpath where we ventured over lock number 10. 

Arcs of melting ice lay atop the steely surface.  Reflections of bare branches plumbed the murky depths.  Copper leaves drifted as though attached to spindly twigs then clumped at the banks.  Never previously attempted, we bravely picked our way along until we reached a tree allowing us to gain a foothold to higher ground.

Denuded fence posts created a slalom on the very narrow path leading to a flight of steps a short distance from lock number 11.  We lingered above the scunge for different views of the old lockkeepers’ cottage before crossing back to the safer side.

Continuing west, we paused to marvel at pontoons of floating leaves, decrepit barges somehow staying buoyant and denuded cottage gardens. “Where have all the flowers gone?” Phil wondered. “Nobody knows!”

Gingerly crossing the gushing overflow, I espied delicate flowers poking through railings and a heron patiently waiting in treetops overlooking the river.  We rested near the basin, pondering what we call the ‘pipe museum’ (a storage area for flood defence parts).

Growing colder in the failing light, we hurried back, eschewing an al fresco pint in favour of bargain treats from the co-op’s reduced section.