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.

Muted Reds (Lumb Bank and Eaves)

The gloom lifted for a cold but dazzling Tuesday.  A rare day off for Phil, he smiled on seeing the sun.  I suggested a walk to Lumb Bank, wrapped warmed-up pasties in foil and swathed myself in layers to insulate from the crisp air before we took the customary route via Church Lane and Eaves.  The climb to the first iron gate arduous, we continued up through the canopy where reds were normally guaranteed. The season’s foliage predominantly mellow due to the prolonged summer and late autumn this year, even here the colours were muted although emerald moss and jade lichen glowed. 

Forgetting to continue onto the next iron gate, we climbed further but soon realised we were mistaken (will we ever remember it’s up, down, up!)  After debating carrying on to the top, we decided to backtrack to the dicey Victorian job-creation steps.  The narrow treads slippery with leaves, I descended sideways.  We waited in a sunny patch near the garages for two men dawdling towards us, then headed straight onto the lesser-trodden Old Gate to the poet’s house.  Agreeing the adjacent cobbled path was the nastiest in the valley, we got hot from the effort and panted up Green Lane to the link path shortcut, noting it was newly fenced off in the second field – had someone been worrying sheep? 

Proceeding into Heptonstall, Phil’s colleague waited at the bus-stop.  As we stopped to chat, she conceded the bus wasn’t going to show, rang a taxi and offered us a lift.  “No thanks, we’ve got pasties!”  Finding a sunny spot in Weaver’s Square, we squatted on a low wall to eat. For dessert, Phil opted for a snowy Oreo while I chose a healthy apple, then my guts rumbled alarmingly.  Conscious of the man who’d appeared to fiddle with wires behind us, I whispered urgently: “I need to move.” Why? “Tell you later.”  Thankfully, no disasters unfolded as we wandered into the graveyard to listen to organ-twiddling from the church and search the ruin for the poshest grave near the altar (unsurprisingly, the inhabitants of Greenwood Lee).  We took the ridge path down via Hell Hole Rocks to enjoy misty views of Stoodley Pike, beautiful hues of green and gold, and the last of the afternoon light on the path along the ridge.

Threads (A Summer Forage in Eaves Wood)

The sudden appearance of brightness on a late July Friday afternoon prompted another forage.  On the familiar slog up to Heptonstall Road, brambles already ripened.  Eschewing them as polluted, we continued up to find the ridge slopes dominated by bracken and heather, rock-hard apples and only a smattering of bilberry shrubs.  We past a climber limbering up at Hell Hole Rocks onto the twisting stone steps and squeezed through overgrowth to the top path, bemused by two women doing a photo-shoot perilously close to the edge. 

Luscious scarlet clumps hung heavily from rowan trees (aka mountain ash).  On tasting a sharp sour fruit, I wasn’t surprised processing required mountains of sugar although it left a pleasant after-tang.  Hitherto avoiding mud, the descent into woodland was squishy in places.  Hunting for the broken wall, we were momentarily confused by the dry brook amidst a disappointingly wet summer.

.Certain it was the right place, I clung onto weedy branches and grabbed a felled stick for extra support on the dodgy descent.  A dog came along and nudged me, followed by another then a hiker. “Are you alright? She asked. “Yes; I’m waiting for your dogs to pass. Bad timing as I’m trying to go down this path.” “Is it a path?” “Depends on your definition!” 

At the bottom, a pale yellow garlic leaf signified the spot normally visited in April.  We turned left and perched on mossy rocks to be immersed in restful greenery and the sounds of leaves rustling and birds’ wings fluttering in the lush canopy.

We returned home via Eaves and Church Lane where bees infested balsam in full bloom.  I’d recently discovered from The Forager’s Calendar that they were edible and looked forward to adding the pods to curries – a much better way of expunging them than pointless bashing.

Barely enough bilberries for a small bowlful, we cooled down with choc ices to which Phil discovered they stuck rather well.  Rather luxurious for the post-apocalyptic world of Threads!*

*A BBC film from 1984

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.

A Whiff Of Autumn

After Phil’s early Saturday shift at the shop, we enjoyed an afternoon walk to Lumb Bank.  On the main road, berries clung to a spindly rowan as dusty traffic whizzed past.  Up Church Lane, we diverted briefly into St. James’ cemetery hoping for a different vantage of Colden Water.  Disappointed, we continued onto Eaves where the brook provided a noisy backdrop to lively hedgerows.  Cerise balsam nestled among deep greenery.  Flies and bees snacked on white ivy blossom.  We snacked on a few late blackberries.

Turning up the steep path for a whiff of autumn colour, trees held onto green leaves while others transformed into characteristic brash yellows, burnt oranges and fiery reds.  As we paused to allow a couple with a tiny dog to pass, we noted a variety of mushrooms in the mulch.  Brown saucers, lemon plates, ivory cups and white balls filled the air with earthy scents and bore signs of being chewed.  We then spotted the likely culprit.  Sensing our presence, a roe deer stood statue-like at the next gate before running for cover.

On reaching the old stone gatepost, we squatted gingerly on a damp, mossy wall, watching a squirrel scurry back and forth between boundaries and donkeys grazing slightly further afield.  Glossy coats suggested the beasts were well-kept but that didn’t stop a strong smell of rancid hay assaulting us as we approached.  Struggling up the nasty stony path, we were glad to reach firmer ground.  As I picked up a discarded beech sprig, a woman coming towards us made an unintelligible remark about gathering leaves.  We followed the marked bridleway down to Lumb Mill, marvelling at the never-ending development surrounding the hydro project.  Were they digging a new millpond or a swimming pool? Returning via Colden Road, views across the clough revealed the crowning glory of the woods we’d travelled.

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.

Copperopolis (Lumb Bank and Heptonstall)

Copperopolis November 2021

Being housebound for 2 weeks and eager to see trees before the lovely colours fell off, I suggested a short walk to Lumb Bank, always gorgeous in autumn.  Shortly after leaving the house, we stopped to look upon the Cuckoo steps, littered with orange, and bright lime leaves on the erstwhile High Street.  On the main road, fallen leaves were soggy due to the copious recent rain.  A group of young mountain bikers straddling the pavement moved aside for us and exchanged cheery words.  “lovely day, isn’t it?” “banging!”  Turning up Church Lane, a funny fat spider hovered an inch from the ground, suspended by invisible fine string.  Past the school, the stream gushed fiercely.  We took the first track up behind Eaves where the stunning scene didn’t disappoint in the afternoon sun. Fiery reds strew the path.  The colours of the rocks matched the foliage yet to fall, smudged in green, red, ochre and copper.

Copperopolis October 2020

Mis-remembering our usual route, we explored equally pretty options through the woodland.  A couple with a dog rested on jagged stones ahead of us.  We waited for them to clear the way, and continued up until we realised our mistake.  A flight of slippery steps enabled us to return quickly to the lower path.  Recognising the metal gate, we proceeded confidently up to the old gate post of the ancient trail.  Looking behind, the sun backlit a spectrum of greens and yellows.  A locked entrance meant we were unable to take our usual shortcut through the posh writer’s garden and were forced to climb up the horrid stony path.  At the top, Green Lane was very busy with walking groups.  We tarried near the wall adorned with tiny moss worlds, while they dawdled down.  Phil complained the incline never ended. “That’s right,”  I told him, “it goes right up to the sky!”

Large Orange Sheep

He’d forgotten about another shortcut, the link path through the fields, and balked at the large sheep painted orange that grazed there.  As another couple walked the other way, we used them as a barrier just in case. 

We proceeded to Heptonstall and stopped for a rare pint. I sat outside The Cross Inn while he went in to order drinks, brought out by the daughter of a friend.  I’d seen her Facebook post about leaving her old job after 16 years and asked why.  “Just  fed up, needing a change.”  Phi had trouble getting his card to scan on the hand-held machine so had to don the mask again and pay inside – at least they took cash too unlike some places.

Our catch-up was interrupted by a woman surreptitiously asking directions to Sylvia Plaths’ grave.  Why the secrecy?  We helped someone find it almost every time we visited.

Supping the beer, my hands got cold and I was glad of the gloves in my pocket.  Grey clouds threatened rain, then parted and it became bright again, albeit with not much daylight left. As the beer went right through me, It was my turn for the palaver of face-coverings to go to the loo.  We walked back quickly via Heptonstall Road and The Buttress, dodging more dawdlers before twilight set in. On the day the clocks reverted to GMT, a wobbly moon set behind the trees atop the hills, marking the start of a longer night.

Old Gate Post

Early November 2021 brought a different prospect.  With a lack of red this year, muted colours gleamed in bright sunshine.  We noted the maples near the Fox and Goose still sported greens as leaves fell to the ground.  “That’s that then!” laughed Phil.  Distracted by the ‘Mexican Garden’, we missed the first turning at Eaves and back-tracked to the upward track shaded by leafy boughs.  In the beech woodland, the canopy remained green but layers of copper created a rich carpet underfoot.  Twisted branches leaned precariously on the slopes.  Metal gates glimmered silver.

Silver Gate

This time, we remembered to pass two gates before ascending to Lumb Bank.  Mud suggested the path had been a stream in recent rain.  We picked our way throng squelchy bits and sough a dry spot of wall near the old gatepost to squat and eat pastries before we continued.  Blossom and fruit simultaneously sprouted from a quince on the corner of the treacherous  stony path.  My weak ankle aching on the first climb, it fortunately held out. 

We turned right onto Green Lane and almost missed the stile across fields.  No fellow walkers to protect us from the huge sheep, Phil started up a ‘desire path’ and I felt compelled to follow.  A locked gate necessitated an inelegant clamber onto the road.

Props

In Heptonstall, we had a gander at a new ‘pub’ on West Laithe – more likely set-dressing for the upcoming TV drama the Gallows Pole, guessing from old barrels and other distressed props. 

We continued down past Hell Hole Rocks.  In this part of the woodland, strong afternoon sun highlighted shimmering golds.  “That’s better!” Phil declared. “What are you on about? It’s all been lovely. It’s more yellow and orange this year but you knew that already.”  Very warm on the ridge path, by the time we got home, I had backache, fatigue and felt overheated.

Shimmering Golds

Rawtonstall Fall

A rainy Saturday was superseded by a dazzlingly bright October Sunday.  The stunning early autumn colours sizzled in the light.  I commented some of the best trees could be seen out the window.  Nevertheless, we went out to explore others.  Using the erstwhile High Street as a shortcut to the Fox & Goose, we continued on the main road, inordinately busy with walkers and motorists.  We turned up Church Lane, veering left at the apex.  Previously approached from the top, we were unsure of the best way into Rawtonstall Wood.  A sign for Rawtonstall Bank told us we had reached the edge.   Noting the tiny Cat Steps were even more overgrown, a discarded sign further up discouraged their use. 

We took the next option into the woodland before it got stupidly steep.  Deep greens surrounded us on the gentler slope of Green House Lane.  At the top, The Hall was obscured by an assortment of vehicles and builder’s materials.  We almost walked into the next garden and back-tracked to find a yellow arrow signifying the public path.  A carved stone indicated the wall dated back to 1816.  Dark Lane, always muddy where springs sprung from adjacent meadows, looked foreboding.  I found a stick to help navigate the worst patches and bravely continued.  On drier ground, sheep looked obligingly picturesque, grazing against a backdrop of green hills with Stoodley Pike on the skyline.

Heading back down, a chicken coop formerly used as a landmark had been replaced by sheds making us hesitant until we came to a familiar stone arch, also date-stamped.  We rested on the memorial bench opposite.

Squeezed between a couple of ornamental evergreens, it was barely big enough for two.  As we enjoyed views across the valley, we exchanged cheery greetings with a woman we knew passing by with her daughter.  “She’s grown.” Said Phil.  “That’s because we haven’t seen them for ages.”

We wended down Turret Hall Road, where zingy oranges capped deciduous emeralds.  An uphill cyclist informed us that the colours would be “even better in a couple of weeks.”  Well, the grass is always greener, as they say!   On reaching Oakville Road, we returned to Burnley Road where a late middle-aged couple asked us the location of the Fox & Goose.  It was just as well, seeing as they were going the wrong way.

Crossing at Stubbings, we took the towpath for the home stretch.  A woman stopped to enquire if I was ‘the lady’ who wrote the walking articles in Valley Life.  “It’s really good!” she enthused.  So far, positive feedback had come from friends and acquaintances.  Praise from a total stranger made my day!

Puddling in Colden Clough

A bright but breezy start to March prompted us to re-visit another familiar haunt.  Getting ready seemed to take ages, making me quite impatient.  Finally, we left the house and walked westwards up the main road.   Several cars parked on the pavement at Bridge Lanes made me wonder if they had different laws in those parts.  Seeing a woman come out of one, I was about to have a go when she said hello.  It was an ex-neighbour, laden with groceries, poised to cross the road. On enquiring about the pavement parking, she suggested it was for unloading purposes.

Past the Fox and Goose, the cold wind blew straight in our faces.  Feeling buffeted, we wondered how long we would be out.  But it eased off as we turned into Church Lane.  We took the easy way up to Eaves, via the play park and steps to the bridle track.  Already, my legs began to tire.  Hearing me sigh, Phil said “don’t start getting grumpy.”  To which I retorted, “what do you mean start? I already am grumpy! I haven’t even taken any photos yet!”  He chuckled and challenged my claim that I had not yet seen anything inspiring.  Then, I noticed reflections in the puddles occupying every pothole.  In small watery worlds of black and blue, branches and sky appeared trapped, framed by displaced hardcore.

Cheered somewhat, we continued to Lumb Mill and explored the ceaseless torrents, almost full-to-bursting streams and derelict ponds. Underground gurgling indicated yet more water beneath our feet.  We started to climb up to the higher path.  Pausing at the top of the small arch, I  spotted a smaller path behind the chimney.  Having tried it from the top end in autumn, I wondered if we may have more luck from this end.  I stepped in the stream without thinking, making the bottom of my jeans sopping wet.  The path came to an abrupt end just beyond the chimney where a chunk of earth had fallen.  Thwarted, we at least gained a different perspective.  Tall thin trees stretching up to the sun way overhead created ebony shadows on the yellow stone.

We returned to the standard route which  proved hard going.  Large rough stones were replaced further up by the remains of dead trees and deep patches of sticky mud, requiring several small detours off the path.  above the glade, we climbed a strange mound which Phil comedically named ‘the ‘escarpment’, for a higher vantage point.  Square stones,  that had tumbled from the raggedy cliffs opposite, so long ago that they were now adorned with thick green moss, lay stranded amidst a permanent carpet of scrunched copper beech leaves and discarded nut husks.

Proceeding, we descended the steep wooden steps to land in the worst patch of mud so far.  Carefully picking our way through the earth and debris, we stopped on the flat rock to fend off dogs while we ate the wraps we’d brought with us.

As it had taken almost ninety minutes to get that far,  I guessed we only had an hour of daylight left.  We called it a day to get home before dark.  It was only then that I noticed that as well as being soaked through, the bottom of my jeans also had gravel caught up in them!

More photos at: https://1drv.ms/u/s!AjkK19zVvfQti9tvFGnnr5q8QZCxXw?e=Fsf6pZ

 

Springing up in Colden Clough

 

Following a week and a half of being bedridden with sinusitis, I recovered somewhat to enjoy the mini heatwave in mid-April.  We made the most of it with our first spring outing to Colden Clough, first visiting the healthy bakers for veggie pasties and posh pop.  We walked up the main road towards Mytholm, navigating the extensive gas roadworks.  We turned right at Church Lane and again at the school, to take the shortcut across the playground and up a short flight of steps (looking very dark and broody).

On the track, we competed with each other to take the best possible photos of tiny things such as buds and lichen, which we continued throughout the walk.   I think he won the contest but I spotted the most interesting mystery feature; a round brown ball in a small bush.

Approaching Lumb mill, Phil decided to descend down to the stream and try and go under the low bridge.  I waited for him near my favourite tree, enjoying its company as I would an old friend.

He appeared quite a few minutes later having given up the quest – a sudden drop where the water became eight feet deep had put him off.  We rested awhile before climbing up to the garlic fields.

Although still not fully grown as spring is so late this year, we filled a couple of small carrier bags.  It had taken an inordinate length of time to get this far, which I put down to a combination of recent illness, a lack of uphill walking and lots of stops to admire the new growth.  We installed ourselves on the nearby flat rock to recover, ate our pasties and whittled sticks on the quartz granite.  I joked that we should keep them to use for calligraphy.

Both still tired after all the climbing, we considered turning round until I remembered that the clapper bridge had been damaged during the infamous ‘beast from the east’ storm.  We made the effort to go the short remaining distance to Hebble Hole, noting ‘danger signs en route’ (obviously installed when the authorities came to survey the rights of way.

On reaching the bridge we saw immediately that one of the four pieces of stone forming the walkway had collapsed in the river, split in two.  The tree that had crashed onto it causing the break stood on the nearby bank, also injured.  Wooden planks and metal rails had been put up so it could still be used.  We crossed to the other side for all-round views.

Coming back, we noticed a few bluebells in flower as we climbed up to the top causeway, enjoying being level with the tree tops.

Pussy willows and catkins surrounded us, dangling from branches and littering the causey stones.  Bright green hawthorn sprigs adorned the dry stone wall.  Phil yet again tried to persuade me there were tasty but I maintained they tasted of ‘leaf’.

We descended to arrive back in the garlic fields and took the quickest way back.

He suggested a drink in the Fox and Goose.  However, I felt exhausted and as we past the pub, I spotted a group of rowdy young men in the beer garden so that clinched it – no chance of a quiet pint!

More photos at: https://1drv.ms/f/s!AjkK19zVvfQtivdeUC2sldpeMizeVg