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.
Inspired by Walking Friend’s photos of fresh pesto on Facebook, we took advantage of a sunny Wednesday for a late March forage in Colden Clough. As I hunted for my walking boots, Phil loitered outside the house. Suddenly I heard distressed woofing close to the open door. Apparently, Phil had spooked a dog walking past with a hippy.
In contrast to the treacherous arctic conditions of February, we enjoyed a steady walk through Eaves and the deserted playpark, and up the steps to the bridleway. At Lumb Mill, we paused to admire dramatic lines created by sunlight behind trees. As we neared the upper mill ponds, the hippy with dog approached. On seeing us, he kindly attached the dog’s lead. Expressing thanks, I commented it was odd that his dog had been alarmed by Phil earlier, whom canines normally loved. Loose stones made the last upward stretch to the ‘garlic fields’ hard-going. We rested on a rock before getting to work. Early in the season, bright green leaves exuded pungency. Young buds had yet to flower. Declaring 2 carrier bags’ full sufficient, we headed back down the stony slope. From the higher vantage point, we espied portions of the path alongside the stream, once fully navigable. Tempted to explore, Phil was put off by a hippy woman performing extreme yoga by the mill ponds. Returning to the relatively flat bridleway, clumps of oakmoss seemingly reflected beams from an ivory moon rising in the east. After sorting half the garlic leaves, I collapsed on the sofa with back ache and fatigue while Phil almost fell asleep on the spot.
12 days of garlic-themed dinners and preserving ensued. Supplies exhausted, we embarked on a second foray on Easter Monday, this time taking the bus up to Colden. Although it had sounded quieter than the previous 2 days, when the town centre had been insanely busy, cars streamed on the main road. A traffic jam stretched to New Bridge. “That’s people not going to the virtual duck race!” I quipped. A few other passengers rode on the predictably delayed bus, all getting off in Heptonstall. We continued alone to the corner of the still-amusingly titled Crack Hill. Along the lane, arrestingly yellow gorse sprung out of hedgerows. Pheasants and sheep populated lush fields. New lambs gambolled, grazed and stared at us with curiosity. A merciless wind blew straight in our faces, negating the warming effects of the sun. It’s not called Cold-en for nothing!
May’s farm shop permitted only one person to enter at a time. I waited patiently in a small queue. We then stood in a patch of sun to sup pop, well away from a couple drinking beer on outdoor seating and a family picnicking on a slope beyond the farm buildings. A large sow snuffled at straw inside the barn. Suddenly, manic squealing started up A litter of piglets clambered and tugged at each other as they fought for mother’s teats. Mindful of social distancing, we in turn jockeyed for position as small children and a pair of women hiking past also peered over the metal gate to witness the spectacle.
With the strong wind behind us, we walked back along Edge Lane to the small path signed Pennine Way, crossing Smithy Lane and a stile onto farmland. As we climbed a second stile, ferocious barking assailed us. Expecting a dog to chase us from the other side of the wall, as had happened on previous occasions, two mutts bounded in our direction, threateningly baring their teeth. Phil shouted and made as if to flee. “Don’t run,” I implored, then turning towards the farmhouse where a woman could be seen calling to the dogs, I yelled: “this is not on! It’s a public right of way!” They made little sign of heeding her but luckily, we gained the third stile and got off their land before they got any closer.
Shaken by the encounter, we calmed somewhat at the sight of a flock of curlews wheeling above the meadow to our left. The paved section of the path became inevitably muddy as we navigated the last section and we hung back for a couple of doddery old men heading for the clapper bridge. On the top causeway, the curlews looked like dots in the sky. Tiny buds sprouted from stick-like trees. Late afternoon light effused the causey stones. On the path down to the garlic fields, we waited for a straggling group to vacate the area. We chanced a clamber further down the slope to gather another 2 bags full, then proceeded down the familiar route, entranced by soft shadows cast by towering copper beech trees.
Back on the bridleway, a horse rider thanked us as stood on the verge for her to pass. A woman accompanied by 2 kids and 2 spaniels walked the opposite way. “Oh no, it’s the stupidest, craziest of all dog breeds,” Phil tittered. One of the spaniels broke from the group and bounded towards us. Braced for another stressful encounter, it veered off the path, apparently chasing a deer. When we got within earshot, I suggested to the woman she put her dogs on leads. “What?” “You need to put your dogs on leads. There are deer here.” “I live here!” she responded. “Your dog just chased a deer!” “Ooh, scary!” she laughed. Angered by the incident and by inconsiderate dog-owners in general, I asked Phil: “I live here? What the hell does that mean?“ “That she owns the place? “Well, she should care more about the bloody wildlife then, shouldn’t she. Cold-hearted bitch!” Thinking of the horse and rider passing shortly before, I wondered if dogs should be kept on a lead on a bridleway. Apparently not, but owners are required to control them so they didn’t intimidate animals, or people for that matter, on any public right of way.
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