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.

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.

Blossoming Out (Wood Top to Mytholmroyd)

Realising roadworks would make for a slow ride, later in May, we again ditched the idea of catching the Colden bus, bought co-op meal deals and proceeded up Fountain Street awash with poppies, to the towpath, awash with marguerites.  Painter Friend strolled over Blackpit Lock. “Have you finished early?” I asked. “Yes; I started early. Six hours painting windows – boring!” “I know. I’ve been doing it in our bathroom.” “I’m going to sit in the sun now.”  She meant the pub.  We sat on the centre cube opposite the café to eat and watch the park antics.  Excited kids licked ice cream.  A hippy spent an age erecting a pop-up tent.  Too lazy to return a stick to its owner, a sheepdog crouched on the grass.  We walked up to the station where wild geraniums outshone cultivated flowerbeds.  Taking close-ups, I noticed a desire path down to the river but thought better of exploring.  On Wood Top Road, the concrete surface was patterned with misty shadows of fern and leafy beech.  At Wood Top Farm, grass and buttercups swayed in the meadow and goats the size of small cows grazed the hedgerows.

Continuing to turn left at Wood Hey Lane, leading to Park Lane and onto Nest Lane, splendid hawthorn and blackthorn blossom created garlanded arches.  White ransoms, wood anemones, pink herb Robert and violet alkanet enjoyed the shade of the dark green right-hand verge.  On the left, cow parsley wafted in bright sunlight.  Hikers were dissuaded from supposed public footpaths by signs warning of dogs.

In Mytholmroyd, we visited the Shoulder of Mutton.  Newly painted by the new owners (and twinned with its namesake in Hebden), food serving times were extended.  A pity they weren’t updated on google as we may have had a pub lunch instead of butties, the landlady told us they currently offered a limited menu, but it would improve following an upcoming midweek closure.

We took pints outside to make use of extended seating alongside Elphin Brook.  As miniscule brick mites and beetles crawled on the table, a fly landed on Phil’s eyelid.  Below us, insects skimmed the water and a variety of wildflowers populated the bank.  Unfortunately, a safety window mitigated against photos of a passing duck family consisting of a dozen adorable ducklings.

Walking through the village centre, we made a small detour to examine a wrecked house, concluding it was probably demolished for the flood defences.  On the busy, noisy main road, Phil nipped in the crap Sainsburys before we escaped up Acre Villas back onto the canal for a welcome return to quiet greenery and blossom scents.  A woman fed bread to a pair of Canada geese in hot pursuit.  “You’ll never get rid of them now,” I laughed. “Yes, they’ve been following me all day!”  Nearer home, we paused to admire raspberry-coloured rhododendron, which looked very tasty but probably weren’t!

Crow Nest West to East

On a mid-May Saturday, we made our way up to Palace House Road to wend up pretty paths.  Even the racket emanating from an event in the park didn’t spoil our enjoyment of the resplendent floral display.  Golden poppies reflected the bright sun, bluebells drooped in the heat and dandelions were heavy with seeds.  Careful of our footing over the pesky old round beech nuts, we braved the tricky west end of Crow Nest Wood and clambered up to New Road. 

Catching sight of the new lambs we’d heard bleating from the other side of the wall on our last walk, we stopped to watch their gambolling when a woman strode purposefully up to the honesty box.  “What have they got?” asked Phil. “Eggs and ice cream, as usual.”  She nodded then moved off the bench, allowing us to rest and refresh with apples and homemade pop.  Seeing the bottle was leaking from a thin crack in the plastic, I double-wrapped it and stuck it in the front of my rucksack so it didn’t sully his new utility bag.  Passing the ever more elaborate expansion of Old Chamber, we crossed a cattle grid to get closer to a larger flock of adorable lambs before continuing down Spencer Lane to spot the cutes of them all being nudged away from us by its mum.

.  At Wood Top, delicate cuckoo flowers swayed in the gentle breeze.  Unidentified yellow flowers resembled tiny stars.  We headed into the dodgier end of the wood.  The copper path as appealing as last May, bluebells danced in dappled light beneath impressively tall beeches.  Zig-zagging over felled trees on the slope to Crow Nest Road, a duck couple, wisely avoiding the noise, paddled contentedly in the ditch.  We continued to Mayroyd Lane and onto the canal, where downy goslings ate daisies lining the bank.  The park quieter as the event packed up, we hurried on past a screeching busker at Blackpit Lock.

Pilgrim’s Progress (Horsehold to Beaumont Clough)

Easter Sunday 2023, Phil suggested a pilgrimage to the cross, freshly installed on Good Friday.  Making steady progress up steep Horsehold Road, wraith-like trees twisted with the curves, chestnut buds emerged from twiglets and emerald gems bedecked mossy walls.  A clump of daffodils marked the entrance to a ‘hillside dog park’.  What on earth did they need that for?  Towards the top, we detoured through a diminutive wooden gate to reach the cross.  Imbibing the panorama, the bench was welcome on the rocky outcrop to rest aching legs although I wasn’t, strangely, out of breath – possibly due to a recent climb up The Buttress for the traditional Pace Egg.

Returning to the road, we turned off cobbles at the bend onto the link path.  Alongside the top of Horsehold Wood, curlews cried in the moorland breeze.  Celandine carpeted the verges.  A bee fed from a dandelion.  A young lad raced past to splash in the runoffs – was he training for the Olympics?  Squeezing through a stile, grass banks littered with the small yellow flowers stretching down to the stream, demanded attention.  In Beaumont Clough, the cute stone arch bridge provided an excellent spot to snack on hot cross buns.

Perching on the edge, muddy blue waters reflected green rocks below us, as desiccated leaves leant a red contrast to the banks.  Soothed by the gurgling, a sheepdog made me jump as it repeatedly approached then scampered back to the accompanying woman.  Misinterpreting my edginess, she thought Phil’s rucksack was another collie which her dog wanted to play with.  “I see. I’m a bit nervous of dogs.” “Okay, I’ll keep her well away. She’s harmless but very lively. “Yes. I bet she keeps you fit!”

We progressed up to the Pennine Way, noting that what was previously a detour through Callis Wood, now cheekily formed part of the main route, marked by new wooden steps and signage.  We wended through the trees down to a narrow bridge and crossed to the towpath, dotted with daffs and primroses.  Among derelict barges, a large one was done up as a posh Air BnB.  Not hankering for beer, we decided against a drink at Stubbings and as it was grey and cool by the time we reached home, didn’t regret the opt-out.  Although noisy, the canal geese weren’t yet nesting but a pair of whites seemed to be considering the co-op carpark as a nesting site.  We hoped they realised it wasn’t a good idea.

Bush and Brushes

Hampered by the weather and a flare-up of Phil’s back problem, we were confined to the valley bottom for the latter half of May.  Tempted out by brightness on the last Friday afternoon of the month, it felt cold in the biting wind.  Walking on relatively mild roadway, we made a dogleg to the towpath via Fountain Street where Welsh  poppies reflected the light as they swayed manically.

A variety of daisies usurped the canal bank and bizarrely appeared to grow from the water itself.  Canada geese watched over their growing goslings as they pecked the grass between.  Nettles threatened to overrun distressed barges.  Hawkbits sprouted from the wall near the stoneyard, aristocratic slim white pigeons pecked at unseen food and a sticker portraying a fox was mysteriously stuck to a lamppost.

At Mayroyd lock, we sheltered briefly behind the converted mill when an elderly man emerged from a his funny old souped-up car.  We asked him of its provenance – a combination of a VW and a Ford with a hand-made chassis.  Impressive, but why?  Phil conjured images of a geriatric F&F, with OAPs racing in the deserted early morning streets.

Continuing on a desire path, the route was so overgrown it resembled the bush.  Wandering buttercups vied for space with spreading shrubs and humungous dock leaves as stick-like saplings stretched into the breezy air.

Back on the towpath, trefoils of wild iris towered above ferns.  We briefly digressed to the original ‘path to nowhere’ which we had long since realised was one of many created by anglers along the riverbank.  No sign of the fishers, pale pink bottle brushes interspersed lush greens. 

On reaching Fallingroyd, we ascended to the main road where clumps of clover sizzled low to the ground.

Wary of speeding traffic and overhanging branches, we proceeded on the narrow kerb to reach the Sustrans Path.  The wider section allowed hawkweed to flourish amid burgeoning brambles.as the path narrowed,  late weedy garlic hung on in the shade.

We returned home via the park and Hebble End where white geese squawked at traffic to make them stop and allow them to cross the road.

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.

Crow Nest Easterly

Early May 2022, we headed straight for the middle of Crow Nest Wood.  On the way up, wayside poppies, dandelions and bluebells gave a hint of what was in store.  On the steep woodland path, our boots sank in deep layers of crunchy leaves.  Seeing a small family clamber down over felled trees, we detoured onto hillocks where the stench of sulphur from rotting stumps and acrid fungi filled our nostrils.

Our efforts were rewarded by a sea of lilac at the top.  Even taking into account the rainy conditions of last May, the spread of bluebells was incredible!  Proceeding east, a thick seam of beech nuts obscured the path and verdant trees obstructed the view.  As the almost-dry waterfall looked uninviting, a makeshift camp opposite provided an alternative resting place.  Squatting on worm-riddled branches, bees and dragonflies buzzed low to the ground.

Climbing up above the old quarry, we found the bluebells had migrated.  Alone apart from a scampering squirrel and flitting butterflies on the way down to the grassy lane, we attempted a spot of tree blossom identification.  I managed to discern oak and chestnut from the leaves.  Across from Wood Top Farm, goats watched over gambolling kids and ignored lamb-less munching sheep.

Starting down the lane we noted a lesser-trodden path by the side of an old gatepost.  We explored the more overgrown section of the wood.  Yet more bluebells created a dingly aspect until the path abruptly stopped. 

Crow Nest Road in sight, we braved the slope.  I was about to clamber over deadwood when Phil spotted a deer path.  The dark red road edged with oddly-shaped rocks and tall trees aping animals, Phil indulged in spooky antics.  Towards the station, a thick coating of green slime languidly floated on drainage swamps.  Waxy mushrooms grew from dumped straw bales.  Sturdy walls hinted at bygone Victorian industry.  We solved the mystery of ‘Crow Nest annexe’ as it followed the line of the railway sidings after Crow Nest Cottage and Crow Nest House (the station master’s house).

On the bridge near the stoneyard, people with a dog stood close to the river as a yellow ball floated downstream.  The pet looked forlorn at seeing its plaything sailing out of reach. 

As I stared into pool-like reflections of the canopy above the weir, I was startled by an approaching couple enquiring if it was worth going up tops.  I began to describe the layout when they considered their footwear dubious and settled on a canal walk.

Making our way home on the towpath, a Pair of Canada geese herded their cute, fluffy brood of goslings.

West to Eastwood

Late March, we attended an event at Bridgeholme Cricket Club.  With a half hour wait for a bus back and an apparent break in soggy snowfall, we used a shortcut through a small back gate to the towpath.  Over a funny stone bridge spanning The River Calder, flowers bedecked moorings and a mixed duck paddled: “Mandallard!” we declared.  As squally showers resumed, we hurried on, lamenting a lack of opportunity to fully appreciating the canalside delights of Eastwood.

Birds tweeted in the grey pre-dawn light of Easter Sunday.  Feeling dull-headed, I wondered grumpily what they had to be so cheerful about.  I turned over until hazy sunlight made sleeping in impossible.

We took a more leisurely stroll westward on the canal to refresh our fuddled brains.  On the edge of the towpath, showy tulips trumpeted their magnificence and narky geese trumpeted alarm as we skirted round their roosts.  At Stubbing Wharf, we stopped to chat to a friend outside his houseboat, complementing the restoration of his granddad’s plane – they don’t make tools like that anymore!  Towards Callis, an errant duckling darted among the geese while barge-dwellers gardened and supped cups of tea, serenaded by ambient music.

Holding our noses passing the sewage works, the smell became even worse at the chicken farm.  A sign at the honesty box helpfully informed us turkey eggs were like hens eggs but bigger!  Apple blossom partially concealed the fowl’s cages but not the squawking.

A boy and girl enjoyed trespassing in the Forest School site.  Stymied by a tricky latch, he complained he was stuck. “You’ll have to stay in there.” I joked.  “Yeah, you will!” his sister gleefully agreed.  Encouraged by a notice promising refreshments, we stepped onto the diminutive stone bridge to the cricket club.  No match on, the pavilion was closed and the pitch occupied only by a man weeding.  Seeing us approach, a small dog bounded over and poked its head between the gate slats.

We retreated to cross an equally picturesque bridge near the lock for a much-needed rest.  Serving also as a crossroads for a number of paths, an arrow indicating Warland inspired Phil to invent a film plot wherein villagers refused to accept the civil war was over.  Returning to Stubbings, we switched from canal to riverside.  A heron eyed up a large brood of ducklings.  Not all matching, we wondered if the mother had kidnapped some, leaving one behind on the canal.

Canal-side Adventures

After over a week of debilitation, I agreed to a small walk along the canal for which I thought it safe to wear shorts and sandals.  On the towpath, we stopped to check progress of the anti-flood works and watched a baby jackdaw hilariously trying to jump from a slagheap through a fence.  Giving up after several attempts, it noisily begged food from mum.  Bees hovered among purple blossom.  Geese on the scrounge approached..

We proceeded westwards, side-stepping inconsiderate cyclists not ringing warning bells.  Barge cruisers, strollers and al-fresco drinkers created a holiday air.  A skull and crossbones had us joking about pirate boat trips.  Seeing The Biker on his houseboat, I gave him the photo prints I’d stuck in my rucksack beforehand.  Further down, flowers rioted in front of picturesque cottages.  Dock leaves had been munched to nothing.  I sat briefly on a bench and set my gaze upon water gurgling from the end point of the brook opposite into the sedate canal.  Just beyond the basin, strange pipe parts on a building site resembled pottery.  Very hungry, we returned home quickly, detouring down Adelaide Street where opportunistic Welsh poppies sprouted from nooks and crannies.

In search of further clues to the mystery of stones, we started a mid-week walk up Horsehold Road.  Mostly shaded from the bright sun, it was still a slog in the heat.  We took it slowly until we reached the right-hand path to the top of the outcrop where the cross normally stood. Resting briefly on the bench, fluffy clouds hovered over the valley and a sunken Heptonstall. 

Proceeding into Horsehold Wood, it appeared very different from our usual autumn visits, although reds still predominated.  Searching for signs of strange stones, we noticed a broken one underfoot, seemingly carved with Medieval markings.  Further down, we paused amidst beeches apparently planted concentrically.  In light of recent discoveries, we considered it highly likely that the nearby large slab had once served as a sacrificial altar.  I almost asked the half-naked hippy squatting nearby if he knew anything.

In the picturesque clough, diminutive star-shaped flowers of yellow and pink poked through huge ferns.  Low but fierce water raced over mossy stepping stones.  Tributaries tripped down weed-clad fissures.  We perched near the edge of the brook listening to the constant sounds of the falls and the occasional bird call.  Totally alone, it seemed incredible we were not far from civilisation.

Continuing up Callis Wood, we were about to take our usual route down to the canal when Phil suggested we follow yellow arrows signifying an eastward path.  Initially good going, gentle undulations led to the bottom of brook.  Geese scarpered from flat stepping stones as we approached.  It seemed odd to think only 4 days ago, I’d sat looking at the scene from the opposite bank with no clue of what lay beyond.   We’d often wondered but never explored until now.

We then came across yet more unexplained stones.  Large square blocks with round holes and pyramids stood among the neglected woodland floor.  A carpet of tinder-dry leaves and branches snapped and crackled under our heels as we sought a closer look at the unmistakable features of a face carved into a particularly striking red sandstone.  Was it the effigy a pagan god?

After that, the path became less distinct and trickier.  Upwards seemed a better bet but required to descend again, we both slipped on our arses.  As the dodginess continued, I got scared and panicked.  There was nothing for it but to bite the bullet and slide down.  An opportune tree prevented an undignified dunk in the canal. It occurred to me it might be a ruse to lead us back to the sacrificial altar.  After all, it was almost midsummer!

However, we avoided further mishaps, reached a familiar railway bridge and followed the railway line until a small gateway signified the end was in sight.  A gravel path led through a small field and emerged at Stubbing Brink.  Narrow steps edged with poppies and foxgloves led back to terra firma.  We crossed the bridge and walked home quickly via Adelaide Street.  We made sure to change our filthy jeans before sitting down to much-needed coffee (glad I’d worn them and proper shoes this time rather than sandals and shorts).  Hot and exhausted, it felt as though we’d been on an expedition!