Rushing headlong into the wind on a late April Friday, we barely stopped to greet new people moving into the street or admire the profusion of riverside spring flowers. On reaching Midgehole Road, the gusts dropped and the sun blazed, necessitating the stripping of outerwear. Taking the top track to Gibson Mill, we gauged the distance slightly more than the proclaimed mile from Hardcastle Crags’ main gate. Seating occupied, we squatted on a hollow tree stump to eat butties before approaching the mill building.
Project workers welcomed us to the Land Marks exhibition preview and our workshop leader directed us to the middle floor where we found our group’s photos and poems adorning the outer walls of small sheds. Unfortunate window reflections impaired photography. We exchanged a few words with fellow participants and politely extricated ourselves from an over-friendly acquaintance. Of other group displays, children’s print work stood out. We congratulated the friendly printer responsible. I loved that one kid made a print of Blackpool; nothing says nature like Blackpool!
Further up the track, outdoor installations featured groupwork of wood, natural paint and ceramics. Hanging from a gnarly spruce, they twinkled and tinkled in the breeze. Art appreciation over, we lingered to peruse a downcast wicker shire horse, a dead trunk defiantly sprouting fresh sprigs and children building woodland dens.
On the other side of the track, a signpost indicated ‘ The Crags’. Realising we’d never investigated the actual crags before, we ascended the steps. Turning from wood and gravel to stone, the path climbed between spindly silver birch, leafy fruit shrubs and carefully curated millstone grit. The Victorian curious ended in a dicey overhang. Boot prints on the polished grey surface hinted at past feats of daring.
We returned to the mill for facilities and pop before embarking on a protracted route back alongside Hebden Water. Tall firs made avenues of rusty tracks. Wood anemones looked freshened by gushing springs. Twisty trees were mirrored in bankside hollows. Profusive wild garlic carpeted the slope. Flagging in the heat, we rested on a bench to recover. With very little back support, I thought we’d chosen poorly until a flash of white in the river drew my eye. Phil said I imagined it when a heron stealthily hopped among the rocks toward the weir in search of prey.
Several ups and downs involving steps and tricky slopes, the walk took much longer than anticipated. As the picnic area signalled journey’s end, Phil complained we still had to get home. Passing the small bridge pleasingly decorated with violas and squeezing through the gap in the wall, we climbed the small path up from Midgehole, much steeper and muddier than last time we used it. On gaining Lee Wood, he conceded it was quicker overall. From The Buttress, I hurried home to unshod hot, tired feet. Phil went to the shop, where he ran into the over-friendly acquaintance again and bought yet more half-price Easter eggs and extra garlic.
Cool Places - Our Back Yard 