T’other Way (Eaves Wood Forage)

A warmer but cloudier mid-April Sunday provided another free food gathering opportunity.  Having leafed through ‘The Forager’s Calendar’ beforehand, we agreed to stick to wild garlic.*

Going the other way round to the favoured spot in Eaves Wood, we headed towards Eaves and onto leaf-strewn paths.  As we trudged upwards through layers of dead foliage, squirrels scampered among bare branches while pale green moss and gnarly roots punctuated the omnipresent reds.

I dithered at each junction but Phil confidently proceeded upwards until we reached the one where we thought the less-trodden paths led into the more neglected woodland.  However, we misguidedly ended up clambering a tricky slope.  As Phil continued striding, I had difficulty navigating large boulders.  Unable to reach anything to hold onto, he came back to rescue me.

At last we regained the path proper.  On safer ground, we paused to regard the tangle of deadwood, shrubs bearing unripe berries, striated rocks and cavernous fissures.  Delicate shoots protruded in unpromising brown earth.  Worried we might not recognise the garlic patch from the wrong side, the shiny leaves were hard to miss.  Not yet flowering, a smattering of celandine broke the monotony of dark green.  After a half hour carefully picking from different parts of the spreading patch, we took a rest.  A couple approaching from the other direction offered a friendly hello.  I wondered if it was as tricky further on as Phil suggested. They didn’t seem to think so.

Arguably, it was harder climbing up over the broken wall than down it as we normally did, but at least a dry spring didn’t add to the struggle.  The higher path muddy, daffodils faded to white to be overtaken by a riot of dandelions, providing fodder for bees.  As we paused on the flat overhanging rocks to gaze down on the still-brown canopy of Colden Clough, curlews rang out from the grey skies above.

Further down, climbers, off-roaders and makeshift campers enjoyed weekend recreation. Silver birch made an avenue of the final slope.  Bluebells emerged at the top of the Cuckoo Steps.  Settling down for a late lunch and iPlayer viewing, the ‘woke’ ‘Saving Our Wild Isles’ took some finding. “It’s a conspiracy!” joked Phil.  But it did solve the mystery of why gull-like curlews visited us in spring (to nest on the uplands).

*The Forager’s Calendar, John Wright

Return to Pecket Well Clough

During a warm, sunny spring bank holiday weekend, we made a long-overdue return to Pecket Well Clough. I popped in the co-op for picnic food where a scrum in front of the meal deal shelf suggested it wasn’t an original idea.  Walking along Old Gate, the riverside steps on the opposite bank of Hebden Water were as crowded as the beach. 

We continued to Foster Mill Bridge onto the riverside path, assailed by scents of baking loam and vibrant flowers.  Wild carrot and bottle-brush docks bloomed on the water’s edge.  Pink anemones shaded between fading bluebells.  Creeping buttercup looked much prettier in its natural environment than in the garden. Dappled light made arty shadows on the weir.  Yet more families pretended they were at the seaside.

Climbing steps up to Midgehole Road, we found fields of emerald and gold blazing beneath a clear blue sky.   Just before Hardcastle Crags, we veered behind the toilet block and paused briefly at the edge of Haworth Old Road.  A lush lower Crimsworth Dean stretched northwards.  White wood anemones shone white in the hedgerow.  In the smaller clough, leafy boughs shaded us from the hot sun and the bluebells from premature bleaching.  Descending to the brook, felled trees cluttered a shingled shore we’d hoped to rest on. 

We squatted on Kitling Bridge to eat lunch and check the map for a route up to the monument.  Unable to discern a path, we proceeded upwards on the Calderdale Way and glanced back to see the structure emerge below.  Disinclined to back-track, we continued up Keighley Road to Pecket Well and found a free bench outside The Robin Hood Inn.  As we supped pints, traffic continually streamed in both directions.

The cycling couple on the adjacent table made a move to leave and we wondered how their small dog rode a bike.  They then put the pooch in a bag.  ‘Doggy bag!’  We struck up a conversation encompassing the joys of pet ownership, the state of the world and limited travel options, concluding there were worse places to be stuck.  As they headed home over Oxenhope Moor, I thought they’d have been better making the trip the other way round.  I needn’t have worried; electric bikes required minimal pedalling uphill.

Speeding vehicles, crash barriers and lack of pavement made the journey down the road trickier for us.  We took it steady and observed the surroundings.  I poured precious water on grey moss and watched it turn green in front of my eyes.  We tried to discern paths in the less-managed Spring Wood, stretching on both sides of the road to the edge of town.  A long flight of steps led down to Victoria Road.  I’d always assumed unusual roofs on the terraces had dormers added later but Phil informed me they were Dutch houses.  The longer day out in extended sunshine had been very enjoyable while stops for sustenance ensured against extreme fatigue.