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.

Long Way to Heptonstall

A patchily sunny mid-August weekday, we walked a round-about way to Heptonstall.  Starting riverside, we picked the first blackberries of the year, then climbed Foster Mill Bridge and the slippery steps.  Garnished with Himalayan balsam, I carefully gathered a few pods on the way through Hollins.  A while since we travelled this route, we recalled the first turn up the woodland path onto Lee Road, but not the second and continued to Northwell Lane.

Attractively thin trees lined the crazy-paved cobbles, traversed by linear runnels and roots.  Mistakenly turning right at the next junction, the path narrowed, making pod-collecting easy as the balsam literally lay in our way, but navigation tricky, especially as our exit was hidden behind a thick trunk.  Squeezing past, we found a snicket onto Draper Lane.  Further up than intended, I suggested walking down to Tinker Bank Lane but Phil was in favour of carrying on, albeit uncertain of our location.  I assured him he’d soon recognise the route to the mysterious stones.  On reaching the telltale clutch of signs, we crossed Draper Lane (busier than usual due to gasworks on Heptonstall Road), and a stile into meadows.

Panoramic views revealed Hardcastle Crags, Shackleton and the line of Hebden Water.  Evocative-shaped clouds floated like candy floss in the azure.  Sturdy gateposts stood detached from drystone walling.  A pair of women and kids picnicked and a dog bounded up.  I was secretly thankful it was theirs and not an irate farmer’s!  St. Thomas’ church tower hove into view as we proceeded towards outlying houses. On Towngate, we entered The Cross Inn and took pints to the beer garden.  Two men hogged the only sunny table so we settled for shade  A cheery woman came out to remark “It’s lovely here” and take phone snaps.  Very chatty, she elicited the men were from Leeds and had been hiking in the crags.  She had come over from Sheffield for a mooch round Hebden before visiting the churchyard. “Did you see the grave?” “Yes, but that’s not why I came.” “Yeah, right!”  We discussed the increasing busyness of Hebden, house prices, brutalist architecture, upcoming daytrips and the grimness of her home town of Middlesbrough.

Phil bought more beer but as it became chilly, we headed out front where the sun still shone and perched on a wooden ledge enjoying early evening warmth.  Hungry and slightly tipsy, we walked down the closed road to observe the gasworks holes.  A couple strode past, sarcastically commenting it was coming on well.  From The Buttress, Phil detoured on an errand.  I was soon home, only to realise I’d forgot my keys and waited for him on the garden bench. The woman next door appeared and remarked “ At least you can rest.” “True.” 

Unsure if it was the prolonged pub stay, that night, I started to feel ill and spent a week in bed.

Up the Hill Backwards – Heptonstall Circular

Summer stayed with us into September.  My ankle not hurting for two days, I bravely agreed to tackle The Buttress, garlanded in leafy greens and balsam pink.  Taking it slow, we rested briefly in the small graveyard and picked blackberries on Heptonstall Road before crossing for another climb up the winding stone steps.

Required to move twice from the same spot as a man then a woman descended, I wondered why he hadn’t warned me they were a couple!  Side-stepping two more walking groups, I remarked it was like Piccadilly Circus.  We took the signed footpath up to Southfield, admired valley views from the playing fields and walked up Longfield.  Thistle down resembled cotton wool balls in the hedgerows.  Enlarged rosehips looked more like tomatoes.  Garden escapees made uncannily geometric shapes.  Red admirals grazed on lilac buddleia.

Phil inexplicably wanted to visit Sylvia Plath in the larger graveyard.  I waited on a central Phil inexplicably wanted to visit Sylvia Plath’s resting place.  I waited on a central bench in the larger graveyard for him to locate it and couldn’t resist a sneaky peek in turn.  Precious stones and trinkets adorned the headstone.

We crossed to St. Thomas’ churchyard where sharp shadows made black lines against the bright sky and a scattering of coins were left for David Hartley.  The practice of making offerings to the dead rather mystified us.

We took a breather beneath a shady yew tree before exiting via the top gate, heading back through the estate and down to the rockface.  Pausing at yet more bramble bushes, a quartet of women eyed us in a concerned fashion.  “Oh! You’re blackberrying. We were worried when we saw the ‘sudden drop’ signs.”  “We haven’t dropped off the cliff,” I laughed, “But watch your step!”

Down in the woodland, we were arrested by fly agaric.  Never previously spotting the iconic red and white toadstools locally, I later discovered they signalled the imminence of autumn.   Observing we usually walked the other way up the ridge, I said it felt as though we’d gone up the hill backwards.

Reverting to the usual way up the following year, we had another forage.  Avoiding geese which now often gaggled on our street, we ascended the Cuckoo Steps and Heptonstall Road.  Phil immediately started picking blackberries.  Concerned about traffic pollution, I waited until we turned onto the woodland path.  Up on the ridge, ripe wild apples added to the freebie food.  A spider used its woven string to angle for unsuspecting insects.  Strong sun necessitated a hat and water.  Shadier passing the old quarry, we paused at Hell Hole Rocks to observe posh boy antics.  “Rupert Climbs!” I quipped.  We found slimmer pickings at photo corner and proceeded along the narrow path to Southfield where butterflies greedily sucked from buddleia.  In the churchyard, we sat on the bench beneath the severely hacked yew tree.

A pair of women wandered about.  “Are you looking for Sylvia Plath?” “No. David Hartley.”  As a family group arrived to do likewise, a toddler amused himself picking up pennies scattered on the grave and putting them down again.  A museum sign announced coiners history workshops, explaining why the village was infested.  There’d be even more when the TV drama was broadcast!  Emerging from West Laithe, we headed down the main road where pipeline excavations made a right mess of the cobbles.  But at least the road closure meant we could gather yet more berries without fear of poison.  Striding hikers asked what we would do with our sizeable haul.  “Dunno, crumble?”  in fact, after baking a humungous berry and apple treat, we had sufficient for jam too.  Experimenting with liqueur in the last smidge, Phil declared he’d invented ‘Jambuca’.  Not quite, but I saw no evidence on google that anyone had tried it with blackberries.  I would heartily recommend it!