The after-effects of bad colds lingered into early May. However, we were inspired to make an effort Tuesday, by Ray Mears extoling the health benefits of woodlands on breakfast telly. As grey skies brightened in time for a late afternoon walk, we set off for Nutclough, detouring on Valley Road to watch falling cherry blossom before heading along Foster Lane to find hidden gammon enclaves, cluttered ginnels, clay animal ornaments, and flowers springing from every crack.
Roofing underway on the old tavern, building material strew the clough’s main entrance. Anxious to escape the noise and dust, I hastened past the creaky iron gates into the quiet oasis. Curly ferns bedecked mossy walls. Fluorescent lichen covered rotting stumps. Beech babies sprouted from layers of decaying leaves. Bees feasted on bright yellow dandelions and celandine, shiny wood anemones and ultra-violet bluebells.
The water copious, it was hard to imagine we’d walked up the dry brook only last summer. Able to reach ‘the islands’ in stages, we enjoyed an extensive pootle among deep green wild iris yet to bloom and spongy earth, spotting a yellow wagtail perched on a rock and picking a few garlic leaves.
We then hopped back to ascend the higher path and wait for a man to move off the stone bridge, only for him to plonk on the bench to read. Stymied, we continued to Sandy Gate and rested on the wall opposite Hirst Meadow. Newly-planted trees held out a future promise of free fruit and nuts. Cutting through the small steps at Birchcliffe, white bells and primroses looked stark against dominant greens and blues.
Too nice for a boring shopping trip as intended Wednesday, we opted to stay in the valley. Hoping for lunch at May’s Farm Shop before a downhill walk, we waited at the bus stop where Walking Friend’s neighbour fed posh bread to the geese. The bus then sailed past displaying ‘not in service’! Anxious to get home, The Neighbour rang a taxi but with a longer wait than for the next bus, we wished her luck. Getting hungry, we abandoned our plan, scanned diminished pie supplies in Saker and went in the co-op for meal deals. Taking backstreets to the towpath, we gawped at a bloke stupidly teetering on the aqueduct wall on the way to the park. Eating on wooden seating beside the café, we shielded our food from roaming dogs before walking on the back path and up to the station, diverted by ivory nettle and garlic blooms, trumpeting cowslips and candle-like laurel blossom.
On the Sustrans Path, we eschewed a garlic forage and continued to a meadow of emerald grass and perky dandelions. Crossing Carr Lane Bridge, I struggled on the upward stretch and stopped for a closer look at pungent herb Robert, and again at the corner of Wood Top where clumps of indigo forget-me-nots and bluebells fed the ravenous bees. From the lovely grassy lane, we took the path atop the old quarry and Crow Nest Wood, gorgeously smattered with flora dancing beneath twisty trees. In the wood, we perched on deadwood opposite the small waterfall, revelling in quietude and solitude before crossing the stream to be surrounded by bluebells.
Hearing the bleat of new-borns, Phil clambered up to the field wall and I peered over the next stile. Neither of us sighting lambs, I lost sight of him. No answer to my calls, he eventually hove into view, saying I’d missed him falling on his arse: “Most undignified!” “There’s nobody here to see!” The downward path tricky with felled trunks and thick mulch, we held back at seeing a sheepdog scampering at the bottom before proceeding to Palace House Road. Approaching home, we noted the splendid hawthorn at the top of the street. Having walked past it the previous day, the Mayflower was better admired from afar.
Sunday, we wandered into town via Oldgate, where emerging golden poppies and dandelions going to seed, wafted in the warm breeze. The centre rammed during the extra bank holiday weekend, families crowded on the wavy steps, kids paddled in Hebden Water and reddening drinkers spilled from pub patios to pavement. We escaped down Dickensian Garden Street, peered at the mysterious well and used an overgrown shortcut to Albert Street. Feeling hot, I rued bringing a coat and sympathised with an old mate, also over-dressed. After a chat, we left her to her errands and headed for the riverside path. Resplendent in foliage, the familiar blue and white bells were joined by pale pinks.
Fairly busy with walkers, the pebbly beach was deserted, allowing us to drink in the restful rippling water reflecting leafy branches above red-iron stones. As fish leapt to snap at insects, a primitive dragonfly leapt from stone to stone, attempting to take flight. At the bowling hut, we crossed onto the CROWS path for a shady return. The old mill ruins garlanded with anemones and creeping buttercup, unreachable wild garlic spread unmolested in the swamp-like ponds.
Alighting in the village, Phil stood in a patch of sun and declared he was stopping there. I laughed. We walked up Towngate and turned right.
I had expected to go more or less straight down to Midgehole but hadn’t factored in the steep cliff-like drop, hence the path travelled westwards as it descended, until it met with the bottom of Northwell Lane.
Just before Foster Mill Bridge, we stopped to examine a dilapidated cart in front of a wood-fronted garage, surrounded by frosty leaves and grass.
Large stone blocks were strewn either side of the narrow path, suggesting that it had been a vehicle track, lined by walls at one time.
A sunny mid-July Tuesday, I arranged to meet Marisa for a long-overdue trip to Gaddings Dami. We caught a bus to Todmorden bus station and had a short wait for the Mankinholes circular. Initially, the tiny bus took us the way we had come but then turned right to climb Shaw Wood Road. Round the houses, through Mankinholes, past the Top Brink Inn, we arrived at Lumbutts. We alighted opposite the Shepherds’ Rest and went through the gate. Marisa consulted me on a choice of three paths up. She was not keen on the straightest and most popular option, heading steeply upwards and I did not fancy the ’quarry path’ which she informed me was quite a bit longer. We settled on the third option, taking us along an ancient saltway. Old stone paving became rough gravel further up.
A Wednesday in June, the weather was not as good as forecast, but warm and sunny in places. Phil had been working at home and having been glued to the computer, late afternoon we eventually left the house. With no aim in mind we wandered up to the top of the road onto the buttress. As we climbed, I tried not to slip on the cobbles which never get the sun.
At the top we sat briefly on the wall to catch our breath then continued along Heptonstall road thinking about going to Lee Wood. Instead, we headed down the next path which I thought might lead to Moss Lane but as we descended, I realised it would end up at Foster Mill Bridge. As we approached, we headed left to go through Hollins and into Hareshaw Wood.
Over the stone bridge, we walked along the river towards town, crossing back at the next bridge to the sunny side. Pausing for a bit of beachcombing, we spotted a bike and I said “You always find something on this beach!” (although it was obviously not detritus).
Cool Places - Our Back Yard 