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.

Mayroyd to Hawksclough

In a bitterly cold mid-January, the sun unusually shone into the afternoon.  Our first walk of the year began by getting pies from the bakers in the square and heading to the park.  Too many excitable dogs on the football pitch for my liking, we proceeded to Mayroyd.  Perturbed by a gaggle of geese on the canal, Phil advised they wouldn’t nick our food which we munched perched on a low wall above the stoneyard.  Augmented by a sturdy upper floor complimenting the newly-built watermill opposite, we remarked on its gentrification.  We continued on the towpath.  An immoveable lock gate painted a shadowy capital A on the scummy water beneath.  Mirror images of a steely blue sky, pink-tinted clouds and wispy smoke from barge chimneys floated by gently.  A soft breeze made ripples of reflected bare tree branches.

At Fallingroyd Bridge, we prevaricated before continuing to lock 8.  A pair of women encumbered by chic-chi shopping bags, took phone photos of yet another bevy of wildfowl. We crossed to Hawksclough and bemoaned unsightly bins and beer cans blighting the scene.  On Calder Brook, an oversized manoeuvring tractor pushed us into the gutter and heavy machinery resembled dinosaurs with their cabs up in the air. 

Exploring less-trodden muddy paths signed ‘Wood Top Circular’, we dithered at a junction.  Phil laughed at me snapping a makeshift notice about dog shit (for reference purposes)and strode ahead.  Stopping at the sight of a lone bird in the scrub, he helpfully informed me: “It’s a lady blackbird!”  It was my turn to chuckle.  A slippery descent to the green bridge, a frisky mutt scarily darted towards us but obediently heeded the owner’s call to heel.  Although not steep, I panted on the incline and remarked it was due to weeks of no actual walking.  At Wood Top Farm, we veered down to the station, admiring sunlit south-facing hills beyond.

Back in the park, we examined gnarly bark of cherry and sycamore edging the mossy riverside path.  Rings in varying shades of red adorned the former while myriad species of moss and lichen infested every nook and cranny of the latter.  Back home, I struggled to shed my clarted boots and collapsed on the sofa, reflecting it wasn’t quite the outing I’d intended.  But at least we got some fresh air and exercise, even if it was mainly confined to the shady valley.

Light and Dark

Utilising hot, dry July weather, we got on with DIY in the garden and made a couple of train trips but hadn’t taken any local walks.  Keen to get out after a period of debilitation and a wet start to August, we hoped the rain would hold off for a gentle walk along the canal.  We paused to pose on wicker chairs which residents of a nearby street had installed in front a sign proclaiming it a garden.

The towpath busy, a cruiser performing a 3-point turn attracted a small crowd.

Further down, the number of  posh barges had increased, some recognisable from a recent visit to Brighouse.  A shoal of barely discernible small fish pecked at flatbread on the dark water’s surface, giving the illusion of magically shrinking.  

Wildflowers provided lots of colour in the grassy banks.  Yellow ragwort, wild iris, orange corncrake, pink thistles and magenta willowherb held their own amongst pervasive Himalayan balsam.  A wooden hut looked as though a hobbit might reside within.  Sadly, it was just a shed.

At Fallingroyd Bridge, we navigated the dangerous stretch of road to turn right onto Carr Lane and crossed the railway line via the green bridge.  Ambling up the dirt track, no small birds could be seen or heard, in contrast to March.  We picked a few early blackberries on the way to Wood Top Farm.  We retreated from a brief by hastening up the grassy lane.  It promptly stopped as we stood aside for a group of mountain bikers.  Expecting they headed for the old quarry, the dank spot was deserted.  We rested on a relatively dry fallen silver birch.  Phil unable to find his baccy, he wasn’t sure if he’d brought it out and dropped it, forcing us to re-trace our steps.  Of course it was on the sofa where he’d left it!