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.

A Picnic in the Crags

As the June heatwave continued, we set off on a midweek walk and picnic.  After visiting the store for pop, we proceeded to Foster Mill Bridge and down to Hebden Water.  May flowers fading, small white and pink blooms dotted a sea of emergent greens.

Crossing at the weir, birds hopped on dappled water.  As Phil lagged on the long steps, I waited at the top, transfixed by slender stems supporting fuzzy grass seeds and tiny flies.  On Midgehole Road, golden poppies and cerise foxgloves swayed gently at curiously-named Hob Cote.  A ridiculous plastic lawn formed the garden of a new house, seemingly built overnight.  We strolled down to New Bridge and squeezed through the snicket into Hardcastle Crags.  Nettles and brambles threatened to prick and sting on the overgrown path.  Getting hot in the uncovered picnic area, we were eager to move on after eating.  Phil suggested going to the actual crags.  A lengthy walk on the riverside path, we recalled a shortcut to the top track.  Hampered by a persistent sheepdog and heat, it took an age to reach Gibson Mill.

We continued past when I suddenly felt light-headed and came to a stop.  The pop hadn’t done the trick; I needed more liquid.  We headed to the café and browsed second hand books, spluttering at the prices.  Buying tea, we were directed to the milk.  Neither of us able to operate the jug, he joked we’d lost our coffee-cup skills!  We sat out back for shade, switching benches when my first choice wobbled alarmingly.  Phil toyed with his wooden spoon, balancing it on the side of the paper cup until a gust sweeping off the millponds, tipped it in.  Slightly recovered, we chanced going out front, finding a dappled waterside table to recuperate further.   I was still sleepy from heat exhaustion but at least we did the right thing, getting out of the sun and drinking magically restorative tea.  About to use the eco-loo, a couple stopped Phil for advice on the iconic millpond photo shot. “I could do tours.” Yes, people pay for photography walks.” “Mugs!”

Returning on the top track, ants scurried on cooling gravel.  We opted to return via Lee Wood Road where a squirrel pretended to be a branch when it saw us and laden shrubs held unripe berries.  Tree foliage creating welcome shade, a cool burst of air actually chilled me for a second.  Phil whinged as I started down The Buttress.  “It’s this or The Cuckoo steps.” “They go to our house.” “So does this. Be there in 10 mins.”  Methinks the heat affected his brain more than he cared to say!

Poppies and Irises

Phil worked throughout the Spring Bank holiday weekend so declared Tuesday 30^th May a leisure day.  The skies late to clear, we started a short afternoon circuit up Church Lane and down Saville Road.  Among plentiful Welsh poppies, purple campanula and cerise wild geranium adorned stone walls and fragrant hawthorn hung over Colden Water.

On Oakville Road, rays shone through papery yellow poppy petals while deep gold buds were yet to unfurl.  Returning via the towpath, marguerites mimicked the bright sun.  Rosy rhododendrons hung in ostentatious clumps.  Mauve and white cultivated irises resembled tricorn trumpets.  Having supplies with us, I asked if Phil wanted a pop stop or a beer stop.  “Beer!” he declared, and immediately sped up.  As I bagged a table at the canalside pub, he went to the bar and came back out to say they’d run out of cask ale.  We resorted to tasty but pricey lager.  On the homeward stretch, vibrant orange hawkweed lined the banks and cute goslings paddled in still waters.

Warm but breezy at the start of June, I fought indolence for the promise of wild irises in Nutclough.  On the way, my old art teacher waved at us from Northlights’ doorway.  We’d forgotten his exhibition and entered to peruse his interesting new work.  Up the shortcut, fancy poppies took the place of the Welsh variety.  On Foster Lane, fat bees hopped among pale pink dog roses and aquilegias.

The clough’s entranceway still blocked by vans, the gate was unusually locked.  I lifted the creaky latch on the side gate and we picked our way through the thickly overgrown side path.  A pair of crows squawked in overhead branches.  Worried they didn’t like us, I hurried through but Phil stood to laugh at them arguing with each other.  The top of the swamp even more overgrown, we forded the low brook to the islands to see a red dragonfly, creeping buttercups, pendulous grass delicate cow parsley and indigo alkanet.  The wild irises towered above all.  We crept close to the magnificent display of flowers embedded between spear-like leaves until impeded by squelchy ground.  A newly-placed bench and debris round the firepit created an eyesore at the waterfall.  We crossed the tree-bridge intending to squat in the sun but unable to get comfy, made use of the metal bench higher up for refreshment.  Apples crunched in our mouths.  Bees buzzed in laden shrubs.  Birds sang in rustling red and green beech foliage overhead. 

From the top path, we turned left to Hurst Road.  More aquilegia and marguerites, along with herb Robert, hawkweed and the first foxgloves of the season, inhabited the ridge.  Descending the concrete steps to Joan Wood, I slipped on round grit and hurt my knee.  Careful of my footing after that, I stared at a jackdaw for several seconds until a lack of movement indicated it was stuffed!  Fatigued, hot, hungry and thirsty, we took the riverside route into town.  Predictably rammed, we went home via the co-op for supplies.

May Belles

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.

Rare Sightings in Colden Clough

A wet March 2023 eventually gave way to a warm springlike day early April.  Waiting for me out on the street, Phil took photos of a brick wall, much to a neighbour’s bemusement.  Climbing the Cuckoo Steps onto the defunct High Street, exuberant pink blossom and dazzling dandelions reflecting golden sunshine, diverted our attention.  At the Fox and Goose, it was our turn to be bemused by a chalkboard sign – what on earth was scythe peening?*  At Eaves, fancy daffodils danced by Colden Water and a pair of kites danced in the air.  Painted plastic Easter eggs left discarded on the low wall of the small playpark, had obviously hatched early.

Pale green tree buds and catkins sprouted from spindly twigs along the Bridleway.  An impossibly deep blue sky was broken only by wisps of cloud floating above the valley.  Approaching derelict Lumb Mill, silvery torrents teemed in the brook, inundating tangled sycamore roots.  Elongated shadows stretched across redundant paving.  Spongy ground held star-like celandine captive as we clambered over the slippery arched stone bridge.

On the higher path, we waited for a hiking couple to pass the millponds before continuing.  Struggling when the path became steep and stony, we avoided sticky mud by detouring onto a hillock looking down into the glade.  Last autumn’s fallen copper beech leaves had transformed it from characteristic reds to less edifying browns.  Our efforts were rewarded by sightings of stately silver birch framing the route, a fly supping delicately on a rarely seen Greater Stitchwort and extended if undeveloped, ‘garlic fields’.

We began selecting sparsely from the young crop when I saw Walking Friend and The Poet resting in the near distance.  Phil continued picking while I went to confirm an arrangement with her.  The Poet joked he called the favoured picnic spot ‘Flat Rock’ because “it’s flat and a rock”.  “Or it’s a rock and it’s flat!” I countered.  Phil joined us to hear of their walk and ice cream stop at May’s before they accompanied us back to the garlic patch where they left us to more foraging.  Descending the clough, we caught up with them gazing into the stream.  Normally a good place for dippers, there were no sightings today.  Back on the Bridleway, Walking Friend indicated a bench we’d never noticed before, thoughtfully placed next to a pond, adjacent to a row of houses. Getting hungry, we bade goodbye and hurried home where I discovered my bag of leaves was weightier than Phil’s for once!

*Hitting with a hammer, I discovered later

Stumbling Holme

Depressed at a week bedridden with CF during a lovely early autumn, sun-drenched rainbow views were insufficient to cheer me.  Feeling hot even with the window open, I declared it too bright to be confined, and ventured downstairs for lunch and a short stroll.  We wandered aimlessly down the Cuckoo Steps, crossed at Bridge Lanes and walked onto Stubbing Holme Road.  Alongside the River Calder, diminutive lime green moss cushions topped lichen-strewn stonewalls.  Fading blooms drooped towards the shimmering water.  A white-bibbed dipper bobbed between dappled grey stones and a magpie foraged on a patch cleared of scrub on the opposite bank.  At the junction of Adelaide Street, we lingered on the small bridge where bright foliage and foamy swirls patterned the fast flow.

At Stubbing Drive, we headed onto the canal.  Resplendent in the afternoon glow, I remarked, “whichever scientist predicted muted colours this year due to the hot, dry summer, was talking rot.” “Experts eh? What do they know?”  Rays filtered through laden trees to paint milky stripes.  Mellowing leaves floated gently on stagnant stretches. Persistent sunflowers and mallows stood proud in garlanded beds.  We munched on unseasonal raspberries and moseyed on locks, mesmerised by the thunderous gush and assailed by noisome rotting vegetation.

Continuing to the park, we found a suntrap to perch in and threw mono-copters in the air, watching them fall to the ground with style. 

As Phil nipped in the co-op, I continued homeward to find a bee struggling on the roadside.  Failing to tempt it onto a leaf, Phil caught up and used larger ones to gently place it onto a weed growing in a pavement crack.  Though ready to collapse with backache and jelly-legs, the short outing lifted my spirits.

Rawtonstall in Bloom

Managing to get insect spray on my hands and having to go back for a sunhat, it was a bit of a palaver before we set off on a hot may Saturday walk.  We wandered down the Cuckoo Steps, along the main road and turned up Church Lane.  To our right, wild carrots bloomed on the shady downward slope and on the left, bright yellow poppies sprung from cracks in stone walls to dance in the sunlight.  Embarking on the steep climb to Rawtonstall Bank, the poppies vied for attention with dandelion clocks and star-like garden flowers.

Although CROWS had cleared The Cat Steps somewhat and reinstalled the sign, they still looked dodgy so we continued on roadway, retreating into hedgerows as weekend traffic threatened to mow us down.  Turning up Green House Lane, we moved from stippled shade to brilliant sun, making the ascent hard-going.

Unlike the last visit in autumn, we remembered the turn at Rawtonstall Hall up to Dark Lane where we unusually discovered not a scrap of mud and plentiful May flowers.  The dandelions not yet turned to seed here, we giggled at neat lawns behind alarmed fences, with no trace of yellow.  Why move to the countryside and constantly fight nature? 

Ewes and lambs (our first of the year) munched contentedly in the fields, beyond which trees grew within a broken-down farm building, giving the impression of an organic roof.  Proceeding through the gate to Winter’s Lane, an elderly man donned in overalls mowed overgrown grass.  As he cheerily greeted us, I expressed concern at his manual labours in the heat.

At the next junction, we started to head down.  Wood anemones joined the Welsh poppies and bluebells to adorn hedges with a riot of colour.  We squeezed between 2 leylandii, to eat an overdue picnic lunch on the 2-seater memorial bench.  We would normally joke about the lovely view of the sewage works but today it was obscured by blossoming trees.  Zig-zagging down Turret Hall Road, jays squawked and small birds hidden in leafy bowers sang their hearts out.  The drainage channel devoid of water, there was no electric bray to marvel at.

I took a shortcut to avoid yet another sharp corner as Phil proceeded on tarmac.  The spread of bluebells already overwhelming, a particularly striking sea of dappled cobalt had caught his attention.  On Oakville Road, a post-box picturesquely leaned at a jaunty angle, mysterious insects lay in wait among the tall grasses and poppies turned from yellow to orange.  The previously peeling gate to the railway line had a dismaying fresh lick of paint.

Crossing the main road at Stubbings Wharf, the aroma of sticky gloss emanated from the pub, undergoing redecoration.  On the towpath, a misplaced swan glided among the geese.  Daisies thrived on the canal bank.  As I paused for a closer look, a possible celeb smiled at me then pretended to check his phone as he realised I wasn’t  taking pictures of him.  He shall hereafter be known as NOT John Cooper-Clarke!

Nipping in the co-op for a couple of items, we noted barbecues were almost sold out on the first proper hot day of the year.   At the top of the steps, I waited for Phil to open the front door and charged through a swarm of midges.  Overheated, lightheaded with awful tinnitus and filthy feet, showers were in order.

Heptonstall to Hollins

A Tuesday outing starting later than planned, we wandered aimlessly up the cul-de-sac and onto The Buttress. On the upward slog, garish celandine reflected sunlight.  At the top, an unfamiliar small bird squawked in a tree and magpies seemingly laughed back.  We chuckled in turn at the ‘deer slow’ sign – when had you ever seen a slow deer?  We crossed Heptonstall Road to climb the steps.  As I struggled, Phil awaited me on a fallen tree, declaring it an excellent pixie look-out. 

On the way to the village, we paused at the sight of curious curly lichens imitating autumn leaves and pearl-like snowdrops being visited by an early bee.  At the main junction, new signs were installed in readiness for the likely tourism onslaught when The Gallows Pole drama hit TV screens, while props were dismantled and buildings made over after use as film sets. 

In the graveyard, a man wandered about, no doubt searching for famous graves.  Interminable organ-playing emanated from the church.  We sat under the yew tree to picnic and puzzle over the European Larch resplendent in diminutive pink roses turning to masses of lime green cones.  On the lesser-seen side of the ruin, ivory primrose joyously bloomed.

Exiting onto West Laithe, we wandered up and down the village then cut through the grounds of the octagonal chapel onto Tinker Bank Lane.  No sign of the guinea fowl, an uprooted tree blocked the bottom.  A makeshift path roughly hewn round the roots embedded in stone, we wondered if the landowner found it too difficult to move the impediment.  Across the road, we squeezed through a tiny hole in the wall and teetered down small steps into the woods.  Bright green holly and moss stood out against a backdrop of beige leaves and nasty-looking fronds of grey fungi.  The hamlet of Hollins somewhat brighter than usual, violets poked out of hedgerows.  Sycamore bark lay paper-like on the stone cobbles of the wide steps down to Foster Mill Bridge.  Dehydrated and fatigued, I needed to rest on the nearby bench.  Lush greenery on the riverbank preceded a profusion of daffodil yellow destined to appear a fortnight hence.

Late September grey, Phil reckoned it’d brighten and suggested we go on a planned walk to Heptonstall.  Setting off in sunshine, vivid copper beech leaves scattered The Buttress.  From the small graveyard, tall garden conifers gardens and Midgeley Moor heather set the hills opposite ablaze above a still-verdant valley.  As we foraged acorns on the steps up to Heptonstall Road, a villager friend sauntered down.  She bemoaned the state of the world but remarked we were lucky to live in a beautiful part of it and asked were we going to the tearoom?  Yes, how did you guess?  Assuring us it wouldn’t rain, a shower promptly descended, making us hurry on.  Crossing the road, we climbed the path to Southfield, drank in the views from the higher vantage point and searched for a Southfield address to pay off a debt.  Hard to find, I began to flag.  Phil volunteered to seek it out.  Chunks of old wall served as a makeshift seat at the corner of Longfield.  As I rested, the returning sun required the removal of outer layers.  A  young mum strolling with a pram remarked it was a good place to sit.  Having literally gone round the houses, Phil eventually re-appeared.  Back on the main thoroughfare, we found a few conkers and crossed to Towngate Tearooms.  From a tiny table in front of the counter, we ordered tasty fare from the friendly staff who allowed Phil a full English even though they’d technically stopped serving it.  The majority of patrons, on first-name terms, opted for take-away morsels.

On emerging, it was raining again.  We lingered under the awning before talking the path down the side, past the old co-op buildings and the penfold.  Next to the garage, contradictory signs warned of a guard dog and invited us to take fresh eggs.  Rusty drain covers and machinery drew our eye to the dungeon, previously unnoticed.  A hole in the wall housed a jumble of rusty tools and China cups (possible offerings to local gods?)  Courgettes bloomed yellow and a frog pond lime green.  A clutch of chickens raced towards us.  Wary of my legs being pecked, they just expected to be fed. 

Tinker Bank Lane extremely overgrown, we squeezed past the  majestic solitary oak.  The felled tree at the bottom that impeded progress six months ago hacked, the bodge job made reaching Draper Lane easier.  Straight across, we squeezed through the tiny gap where I sneakily popped a couple of still edible blackberries in my gob before Phil noticed.  In Hareshaw Wood, we filled pockets with acorns and beech nuts on the way to Hollins, where an actual craftsman fixed roof tiles – a rare sight!  Towards Foster Mill Bridge, plump rosehips and inedible but enticing berries gleamed scarlet.  More palatable redcurrants sprouted from communal raised beds on Victoria Road. The Little Park truncated for extension of the care home, nearby workmen larked about in a van.  They assured it was innocent fun. “We’re not judging!” I laughed.

Nutclough Melt

During wintry showers mid-February, icy lumps formed on telegraph wires and evaporating snow created vapour which reascended as liquid.  We felt we should do something active and not just sit looking at it through the window!  Luckily, the sun came out and unable to type in the brightness, we went for a short walk.  We waded down the slushy street where half-frozen puddles held fallen leaves captive and snowmelt deafeningly dripped from the mill conversion roof.  Taking the lower route to Nutclough, we paused at the bridge near the sheltered housing where ripples sparkled in the fast-flowing Hebden Water.  Trees on a small island upstream conjured holiday memories.   After climbing the steps onto Foster Lane, the pavement was rather slippery and I got anxious having to dodge a huge family and speeding traffic at the corner of Unity Street.  Spotting a pink bird in high branches, we later identified it as a wood pigeon.

In the clough, the colours were stunning!  Globules splashed in the blue swamp.  Copper leaves curled in the sky.  Yellow narcissi buds sprung like nuggets from spongy ground.  A fat red robin posed in a shrub.  Silvery light shone on inundated islands, marooning the faded jade sunken bench.  Too wet for sitting, we walked down Keighley Road into town.

Seeing a modelled red snail, I didn’t think anything of it until we spotted another the on the side of the White Lion.  Was it a snail trail?  We noted that with the Letters half gone from the sign, it’d be quick work to turn it into The White Gammon!  The centre quiet, I remarked it only took a week of storms to clear it!  Collapsing on the sofa with an achy back and legs, I reflected on the effort after a week and a half in bed.

Hot Birthday in Colden

My birthday fell on what turned out to be the hottest September day ever.  Early afternoon, we assembled goodies and caught the Colden bus. Detoured due to a road closure in Heptonstall, we were unsure if it was due to roadworks or filming for ‘The Gallows Pole’.

We alighted at the corner of Edge Lane and strolled upwards.  Tall grasses soared into azure.  A scarecrow hid behind bushy privets.  Helpful signs indicated May’s Farm Shop.  After buying pop, we considered a shortcut through a snicket but not sure where it would take us, we proceeded down familiar lanes deserted apart from a delivery van.  On the other side of Colden village, grass, gravel and stone walls lay in near-parallel lines.  Across Smithy Lane, we wondered when Slade Tavern had stopped pulling pints and why The New Delight displayed a ‘no food’ sign.  It seemed daft given the attached campsite provided a captive audience. Maybe there were staffing issues.

.  On Hudson Mill Road, floating willowherb fluff and the aniseed scent of angelica assailed our senses.  We walked the precarious small steps down to Hebble Hole.  Kids and dogs commandeered the favoured paddling and picnic spot.  We proceeded to the nearby flat rock and ate our packed lunch before proceeding down the clough, waylaid by a variety of fungi crazily sprouting from rotting trees, earth and wooden steps.

We lingered at Lower Lumb Mill for a photoshoot near my favourite sycamore before going onto the wide bridleway and through the playpark at Eaves to avoid a steep descent.  Burnley Road blisteringly hot, I struggled on the last stretch home.  I declared: “I’m dying for a wee.” “so am I.” “I’m too hot.” “so am I.” “I’m putting a dress on.” “So am I.”  “Well, you could wear your sarong. But we’re going to the Thai place tonight so they might think you’re taking the mick!”  After changing, I lay on the bed in a stupor then got cleaned up and revived with coffee and eclairs for a dinner treat with Walking Friend.

In more affluent times, I used to insist on going away for birthdays.  But why go anywhere else when you can have it all in Yorkshire?

After frequent spring forages in the clough, it was 9 months until our next visit to May’s.  I left Phil faffing to anxiously await him at the bus stop.  He arrived just as a small bus appeared.  I should’ve known it was going to Eaves and the Colden bus would come a few minutes later.  A group of earnest hikers proceeded us up Edge Lane while we took our time to drink in the splendour of colourful foxgloves against a backdrop of fair-weather whisps in bright blue skies. 

Suddenly peckish, we bought cheese pasties from the farm shop.  A couple vacated a picnic table in time for us to eat in comfort and enjoy the hilltop breeze tempering the high summer heat before watching piglets in the adjacent barn scrumming to feed from the massive sow.  Having learnt where the path through the snicket emerged, we started to ascend but put off by livestock in the next field, reverted to the lanes where small birds and butterflies flitted among tall grasses.  In the village, water trickled in rusty troughs.  Glimpses of Stoodley Pike were visible through the unglazed window of a deserted cowsheds.  A ‘residents only’ parking sign made us chuckle – who lived in a shack like that? 

On Smithy Lane, a partridge lay low in a meadow and across the road, colourful flowers adorning stone walls gave a cottage garden aspect to the scene.  At Jack Bridge, the road was cluttered with parked cars.  Were they all in the pub or at Hebble Hole?  In the shade of Hudson Mill Lane, fat seedheads looked fit to burst and silhouettes of ferns decorated the gravel.  Dark purple jewels studded wimberry bushes.  Quite a rarity to be in the right place at the right time, we stopped to pick the vitamin-packed morsels until the juices stained our fingers.  Finding the steps down to Colden Clough flanked by the shrubs, Phil paused to pick more while I selected the ripest to pop straight in my gob.

The swimming hole not as busy as we’d feared on such a glorious day, a couple of family groups sunbathed and paddled, accompanied by guitar-strumming hippies. We commandeered a rock for a comfort break.  Taking the lower route through the clough, sunlight filtered through exuberant leafy growth, making uncanny shadows on stony ground and wild garlic going to seed exuded subtle scents.