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.

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Midsummer Jumble

Sunny for once on midsummers day, we caught a bus ‘up tops’.  Quite a queue at the stop because of the train strike, almost everyone got on two big buses arriving simultaneously, leaving us and one other passenger.  A little bus approached and turned up to the estate.  Ours arrived shortly after.  The gesticulating driver asked: “Did another bus just go up? My ticket machine isn’t working. I need that bus!”  We waited onboard until transferring to the alternative and enjoyed a lovely ride up to Blackshaw Head.  A croaking side gate led into the chapel grounds.  As we ate a picnic on a bench overlooking the more recent graves, a magpie hopped in the shorn grass, too proud to beg for crumbs.  Insects settled on truncated daisies and clover.  Clattering tractors intermittently disturbed the peace.  Lost in the surroundings, I didn’t notice the man checking us out through the chapel window until we made a move.  A veritable crop of orange and yellow hawkbit sprouted between older graves.  On the other side of the far gate, telegraph lines and road signs cluttered the corner.

We crossed to the Calderdale Way to be startled by a barking dog – thankfully behind a high garden wall.  Initially presenting a chocolate-box aspect, the path narrowed at the next bend.  Myriad grasses overflowed from farmland to prick at our legs and obscure the paving.  Gossamer seedheads wavered in the light breeze and a sole windmill gently whirred.  A series of cranky stiles guided us between fields.  A tinkling channel sparkled into a rusty trough adorned with emerald ferns and tiny lilac stars.  At the first farm, an issue with Phil’s camera necessitated a lengthy pause.  The farmer emerged on the way to water her sheep.  “Where are the alpacas?” I asked. “The next farm.” She replied amiably.

Mostly shading in the barn, one squatted between gateposts and obligingly looked my way.  At the next homestead, renovation was evident with mounds of building material and machinery.  Somebody obviously thought Darth Exca-Vader an hilarious pun!  We clambered over strewn cement bags to turn left.  Saplings cordoned off a patch of the previously open pasture.  I searched fruitlessly for harebells among dense meadow grass and flowers.

Heading down to Jumble Hole Clough, we stopped on the bridge to marvel at mirror pools and circular holes carved by merciless torrents before crossing.  Enormous ferns gave a primeval aspect to the deserted woodland.  At Staups Mill, we noted a fence fashioned from knotted branches deterring exploration of the dangerous ruin.  We then opted for the lower path where boulders served as way-markers.  A vaguely remembered route to what we called the ‘pixie bridge’ obscured by vegetation, we carried straight on and soon found ourselves on an unfamiliar dark path.  Littered with stones and red leaves, it might have been spooky if we hadn’t detected signs of civilisation nearby.

Bizarre steps led across a small stream onto the Pennine Bridleway.  We tripped down the concrete track to Cow Bridge for a refreshment stop.  Behind us, the brook tumbled over neat square stones topped by diminutive islands of tall kingcups.  A robin briefly perched on the wooden signpost directly in front of us.  Continuing to Underbank, the long-derelict houses were so overrun by a jumble of trees and weeds, not even Phil ventured inside.

Towards the bottom, flurries of creamy garden escapees acted as a larder for bees.  At the bottom of Jumble Hole Road, we walked alongside the main road to Callis and headed over to the towpath.  Struggling with dehydration in a fierce blast of sun, I rued the decision and left Phil at the co-op to flop on the sofa and gulp water.