A Picnic in the Crags

As the June heatwave continued, we set off on a midweek walk and picnic.  After visiting the store for pop, we proceeded to Foster Mill Bridge and down to Hebden Water.  May flowers fading, small white and pink blooms dotted a sea of emergent greens.

Crossing at the weir, birds hopped on dappled water.  As Phil lagged on the long steps, I waited at the top, transfixed by slender stems supporting fuzzy grass seeds and tiny flies.  On Midgehole Road, golden poppies and cerise foxgloves swayed gently at curiously-named Hob Cote.  A ridiculous plastic lawn formed the garden of a new house, seemingly built overnight.  We strolled down to New Bridge and squeezed through the snicket into Hardcastle Crags.  Nettles and brambles threatened to prick and sting on the overgrown path.  Getting hot in the uncovered picnic area, we were eager to move on after eating.  Phil suggested going to the actual crags.  A lengthy walk on the riverside path, we recalled a shortcut to the top track.  Hampered by a persistent sheepdog and heat, it took an age to reach Gibson Mill.

We continued past when I suddenly felt light-headed and came to a stop.  The pop hadn’t done the trick; I needed more liquid.  We headed to the café and browsed second hand books, spluttering at the prices.  Buying tea, we were directed to the milk.  Neither of us able to operate the jug, he joked we’d lost our coffee-cup skills!  We sat out back for shade, switching benches when my first choice wobbled alarmingly.  Phil toyed with his wooden spoon, balancing it on the side of the paper cup until a gust sweeping off the millponds, tipped it in.  Slightly recovered, we chanced going out front, finding a dappled waterside table to recuperate further.   I was still sleepy from heat exhaustion but at least we did the right thing, getting out of the sun and drinking magically restorative tea.  About to use the eco-loo, a couple stopped Phil for advice on the iconic millpond photo shot. “I could do tours.” Yes, people pay for photography walks.” “Mugs!”

Returning on the top track, ants scurried on cooling gravel.  We opted to return via Lee Wood Road where a squirrel pretended to be a branch when it saw us and laden shrubs held unripe berries.  Tree foliage creating welcome shade, a cool burst of air actually chilled me for a second.  Phil whinged as I started down The Buttress.  “It’s this or The Cuckoo steps.” “They go to our house.” “So does this. Be there in 10 mins.”  Methinks the heat affected his brain more than he cared to say!

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.

The Hidden Gorge (Nutclough)

Busyness and heatwaves put a stop to visiting our favoured haunts for a couple of weeks.  Cooling slightly mid-August, we embarked on a short walk to Nutclough.  Arid conditions rendered the swamp a muddy quagmire and parched the brook to a barely-discernible trickle.  Clambering along the dry riverbed was like exploring a hidden gorge.

The dearth of water exposed a jumble of hewn stones, long-forgotten rusty machinery parts and  disgusting fungi.  Filthy flies and strange shrimp-like beings swam in small rockpools.  A deep puddle in a dip prevented us getting to the arched bridge.

Making our way back to the glade, we side-stepped out of the watercourse and planned to rest on the felled tree-bridge.  Put off by a melting mushroom resembling a dripping turd and smoke from the firepit where a 3-gen family toasted marshmallows, we settled on a cut trunk on the islets, surrounded by interesting pot fragments.

Climbing up the top path, we tip-toed cautiously to the edge, attempting to pinpoint how far we’d got along the bottom.

On reaching the bridge, we discovered we could walk underneath it from the other side where we enjoyed a novel perspective and Phil imitated a troll.  We continued upstream to examine a thick stone wall until our path was blocked by the family paddling in a larger pool.  The next morning, Phil was covered in itchy bites.  “That’s why I always use insect spray” I told him, “those pesky critters get everywhere!”