Saturday Belles (Nutclough and Colden)

May started fine but health and commitments prevented outings until a damp and grey Saturday when we succeeded in a trip to Nutclough before more drizzle descended. Plenty of bluebells en route, a clump at the corner of Mason Street were particularly lovely, as we told the woman whose garden it was. On The Buttress, two women doing selfies were more interested in admiring each other than the blooms.

In the wood, lines of blue led up the slope where the bells mixed attractively with ivory garlic and cream anemones. The brook overflowing, we took the higher path, resplendent in acid greens. A woman inexplicably clambered alongside the opposite bank, making her sheepdog bark in alarm. We paused briefly at the stone bridge before going up to Sandy Gate and back down small steps between gardens. Reaching the other side of the clough, we braved the delta-like islands, searched for treasure, and hopped across makeshift stepping-stones. Valley Road teemed with weekenders. We veered onto the riverside path seeking to regain calm solitude but were scuppered by men peeing al fresco!

The following week, I missed several stunning days due to debilitating CFS. An attempted walk Friday ended up in the local pub and we resolved to get further on a glorious Saturday. Luckily, we were just in time for the 596. The bus was packed and we were subjected to incessant chatter from kids and yummy mummies on the ride ‘up tops’. We alighted at Edge Lane to be greeted by fields of gold before a quiet walk up the lane.

Lilac honesty clusters flourished in hedgerows. Heady scents and fluffy seeds wafted in a gentle breeze. Lambs mottled with white, black and brown, grazed behind wire, some boldly scrutinising us, others seeking refuge behind ewes. At May’s Farm Shop, a pied wagtail selected morsels near the bins. I rang the bell for a teenage girl to come and serve us. Waiting for warm pasties, I scanned the jarred sweets. My usual cough drops cheaper than pre-packed, I asked for ‘a quarter’. Very polite about my outdated terminology, she confirmed modern schooling didn’t include imperial measures. Fair enough I thought, but it seemed daft they omitted to teach miles.

A man entered, looking surprised to see Phil. “I take it you know him from The Store”, I laughed. “Yes, it’s odd seeing people out of context.” “He does get out from behind the counter sometimes!” Enjoying our lunch on a sun-drenched bench, the famous May stopped to exchange a few words. I commented on a piece in the local paper praising her community service – about time she received recognition. As if to illustrate the point, a young lad asked her which dog biscuits his mum usually bought. You don’t get that in the Co-op!

Refreshed, we made our way through the village. A pheasant call filled the air. Yellow cow parsley and dandelions studded curving green lanes. A barn remained ramshackle amid evidence of gentrification, the scaffolding impeding backward views.

At Jack Bridge, people drank outside the New Delight. Welcoming as the garden looked, I didn’t fancy beer two days’ running. We continued between profuse hedges on Hudson Mill Lane and descended narrow steps, flanked by burgeoning bilberry shrubs, to Hebble Hole. The makeshift bathing spot fully occupied, we stopped only briefly on the clapper bridge to marvel at the change in water levels after the short dry spell. Not that it had expunged mud from the clough paths. Tricky in places, especially wearing sandals, it was worth the effort for truly stunning sights.

Extending as far as the eye could see, bluebells carpeted fallow areas, invaded crannies between stones, overshadowed campion and celandine, and abutted spreading garlic, which also bloomed with ostentation. Hastening past the travesty of Lower Lumb Mill, we began to flag on the bridleway and waited for a pair of women striding purposefully and talking loudly, to overtake us. Slightly revived by the break and a swig of pop, the home stretch via the hot and dusty main road was still a schlep.

Clapped Out (Colden Clough)

Despite achiness and fatigue, we embarked on our first spring forage on a rare dry and sunny March Sunday. Going to Colden Clough, we paused at Bankfoot. Moss lay in carpets on the turreted bridge over Colden Water. Mysterious holes pock-marked the abutting wall. Their original purpose was uncertain . At Eaves, a woman ushered a group of variously sized children from the playground up to the top track. A boy adoringly lifted the tiniest girl up the steepest steps.

‘Flood management’ at Lumb Mill resulted in hacked trees and a collapsed wall next to the chimney. Dismayed by the scene, we splashed through water over the small arched bridge, then slogged up the stoney path, squelched in a mire and crunched through copper beach leaves striated with sharp shadow lines near the hermit cave.

The wild garlic patch had expanded but most plants grew down the precipitous slope and could not be safely reached. As the leaves were quite small this early in the season, we picked sparingly from those that could and found we had enough energy to continue walking.

A pickle of tumbled stone momentarily confused us at the tree root steps. Golden celandine, buttery catkins and a bright new wooden fence gleamed in the light, guiding us to Hebble Hole. On the clapper bridge, we noted repairs were now undetectable. Resting on a rock, we were enjoying the quiet company of the tripping brook when a couple turned up. After allowing their dog a quick dip, they departed, to be replaced by a bemused spaniel searching for his human until he hove into view.

To avoid the worst of the mud on the return, we used the top causeway, where bare trees still exuded a wintry feel despite clear blue skies overhead. As stamina dissipated, we felt clapped out and plodded along the last stretch home.

Hot Birthday in Colden

My birthday fell on what turned out to be the hottest September day ever.  Early afternoon, we assembled goodies and caught the Colden bus. Detoured due to a road closure in Heptonstall, we were unsure if it was due to roadworks or filming for ‘The Gallows Pole’.

We alighted at the corner of Edge Lane and strolled upwards.  Tall grasses soared into azure.  A scarecrow hid behind bushy privets.  Helpful signs indicated May’s Farm Shop.  After buying pop, we considered a shortcut through a snicket but not sure where it would take us, we proceeded down familiar lanes deserted apart from a delivery van.  On the other side of Colden village, grass, gravel and stone walls lay in near-parallel lines.  Across Smithy Lane, we wondered when Slade Tavern had stopped pulling pints and why The New Delight displayed a ‘no food’ sign.  It seemed daft given the attached campsite provided a captive audience. Maybe there were staffing issues.

.  On Hudson Mill Road, floating willowherb fluff and the aniseed scent of angelica assailed our senses.  We walked the precarious small steps down to Hebble Hole.  Kids and dogs commandeered the favoured paddling and picnic spot.  We proceeded to the nearby flat rock and ate our packed lunch before proceeding down the clough, waylaid by a variety of fungi crazily sprouting from rotting trees, earth and wooden steps.

We lingered at Lower Lumb Mill for a photoshoot near my favourite sycamore before going onto the wide bridleway and through the playpark at Eaves to avoid a steep descent.  Burnley Road blisteringly hot, I struggled on the last stretch home.  I declared: “I’m dying for a wee.” “so am I.” “I’m too hot.” “so am I.” “I’m putting a dress on.” “So am I.”  “Well, you could wear your sarong. But we’re going to the Thai place tonight so they might think you’re taking the mick!”  After changing, I lay on the bed in a stupor then got cleaned up and revived with coffee and eclairs for a dinner treat with Walking Friend.

In more affluent times, I used to insist on going away for birthdays.  But why go anywhere else when you can have it all in Yorkshire?

After frequent spring forages in the clough, it was 9 months until our next visit to May’s.  I left Phil faffing to anxiously await him at the bus stop.  He arrived just as a small bus appeared.  I should’ve known it was going to Eaves and the Colden bus would come a few minutes later.  A group of earnest hikers proceeded us up Edge Lane while we took our time to drink in the splendour of colourful foxgloves against a backdrop of fair-weather whisps in bright blue skies. 

Suddenly peckish, we bought cheese pasties from the farm shop.  A couple vacated a picnic table in time for us to eat in comfort and enjoy the hilltop breeze tempering the high summer heat before watching piglets in the adjacent barn scrumming to feed from the massive sow.  Having learnt where the path through the snicket emerged, we started to ascend but put off by livestock in the next field, reverted to the lanes where small birds and butterflies flitted among tall grasses.  In the village, water trickled in rusty troughs.  Glimpses of Stoodley Pike were visible through the unglazed window of a deserted cowsheds.  A ‘residents only’ parking sign made us chuckle – who lived in a shack like that? 

On Smithy Lane, a partridge lay low in a meadow and across the road, colourful flowers adorning stone walls gave a cottage garden aspect to the scene.  At Jack Bridge, the road was cluttered with parked cars.  Were they all in the pub or at Hebble Hole?  In the shade of Hudson Mill Lane, fat seedheads looked fit to burst and silhouettes of ferns decorated the gravel.  Dark purple jewels studded wimberry bushes.  Quite a rarity to be in the right place at the right time, we stopped to pick the vitamin-packed morsels until the juices stained our fingers.  Finding the steps down to Colden Clough flanked by the shrubs, Phil paused to pick more while I selected the ripest to pop straight in my gob.

The swimming hole not as busy as we’d feared on such a glorious day, a couple of family groups sunbathed and paddled, accompanied by guitar-strumming hippies. We commandeered a rock for a comfort break.  Taking the lower route through the clough, sunlight filtered through exuberant leafy growth, making uncanny shadows on stony ground and wild garlic going to seed exuded subtle scents.

Hidden Gems in Colden Clough

The last Sunday of September, brightness prevailed throughout the day.  We started out on the familiar route via Eaves, crossing the road briefly to notice a peculiar ‘Mexican garden’ for the first time.  Filigree archways, decorated with an eclectic selection of mementoes, entwined with bindweed.  Ferns grew on unkempt paths.  Snails half-hid between leafy cracks in the adjoining wall.

Passing through the play-park, shadows of deserted swings lay stark on vivid astro-turf.  Up the dark steps onto the main track, a large family group with a pack of dogs straddled ahead of us, forcing us to slow our pace.  The crackle of dry branches emanated from trees on the left where a large Alsatian alarmingly bounded out to join them.  Warily, we continued to Lumb Mill and dallied amidst a veritable forest of wild carrots, the sun illuminating their jewel-like seeds.  Fungi thrived in the shade of tall trees, now almost obscuring the chimney.

Upwards on the rough path, we retreated to higher ground in the shady glade allowing some distance between ourselves and a dawdling small family.  Further on, men waded in the stream while one selected stones to place in his rucksack, for some unfathomable purpose.  On arrival at Hebble Hole, the small family occupied the oasis.  We waited near the clapper bridge in the brilliance of a sunny patch before they vacated the rocks overlooking the silvery water.  As more small groups arrived from both sides, another couple hung round by the bridge.  Our turn to give way, we ascend to the top causeway.  The less-travelled track was so overgrown, the causey stones had all but disappeared underfoot.

We dropped back down to the ‘garlic field’s, where no sign of the late spring crop could be seen, and stopped again in the shady glade.  Not visible from the opposite direction, miniscule mushrooms grew in tightly-packed ivory clumps on the north-facing felled trunks.

Towards home, Phil headed for the shop.  I started to follow then changed my mind.  The beautiful afternoon out provided a healthy dose of fresh air but left me exhausted with back ache.

Jack Bridge Circular

 

During the the hot August bank holiday weekend we repeated a walk from two years ago, starting with a bus ride to Jack Bridge. As we walked up the lane, boisterous Scousers occupied a holiday home garden interrupting the otherwise peaceful scene.  Thistle fluff, beech nuts, and bright berries adorned the hedgerows, with glimpses of  a bright blue Colden Water beneath.

Now a familiar landmark, I spotted Strines Bridge quite early on and as we neared, we took the dark narrow path into private gardens to get nearer.  Infested with nettles and rather slippy in places, I trod carefully alongside the brook and managed not to get stung or fall which was quite a feat.  Passing through the small gate, the old packhorse trail was discernible as a delicate shade of green among a field of reds and pale yellows. We braved the tussocks and barbed wire to get a better view of the sparkling water.  As I crossed the bridge, a perfectly formed dandelion clock seemed to dwarf the diminuitive stone curves.  We mused about where the path led on the other side but deduced it would be quite a short walk to the village.

Returning to the lane, we continued until we found the stile into the meadow.  The diagonal path was edged with tiny purple flowers and seed heads resembling pennies.

We proceeded through the woods and rickety gates and back onto tarmac near Land Farm.  What sounded like a combine turned out to be a lawnmower – what a racket! It was so distracting I almost missed the pixie castle, obscured as it was by vegetation.

I had forgotten about the climb up School Land Lane, and paced myself, picking the odd blackberry for sustenance.  At the top, posh new signs indicated local landmarks.  We turned right on Edge Lane  and chanced the grassy path to High Gate Farm.  Even more overgrown with nettles, this time I suffered several stings!  May’s Farm Shop looked  busy.  As a family ate ice creams, the holidaying Scousers turned up, chugging beer, and left with crates of the stuff.  After a lunch of pies and soft drinks, we decided to top the meal off with  lollies.  We discussed options for our return route and agreed to go via Colden Clough rather than Heptonstall.  Enjoying the cooling lollies as we walked downwards,  I observed we had never eaten ice cream on a  country walk before – a definite highlight!

Luckily, we located a slight detour avoiding the stingiest path and proceeded to Colden village.  Opposite an old barn, I observed the ‘junkyard’ had been cleared quite a lot.  We turned right at Smith Lane, taking us back to Jack Bridge, where we walked up to Hudson Lane and down into Hebble Hole.  New steps were framed by fading heather.  I expected the beauty spot to be packed  but only one extended family occupied the area and I realised it was teatime already.  A woman swam with a dog  hindering views downstream.  We crossed the clapper bridge onto the lower path, and stopped on the flat rock for a short rest.  Littered with beach nuts, we joked about harvesting them but they didn’t look tasty.

Up the steps, red leaves littered the ground as sun rays beamed through tall branches.  In the ‘garlic fields,’ the rotten stump now resembled bare legs.  Unusual porcelain mushrooms grew on nearby tree trunks, where the bark had been stripped.  At Lumb Mill, I was slightly upset to see my favourite sycamore  almost bare. Blighted leaves littered the ground.  I had not noticed this elsewhere but Phil said he had and that it was not only affecting sycamores.  On the last stretch along the rough track, it started to feel very humid making me sweaty and tired.  Back home, I collapsed on the sofa while Phil made coffee. I had now completed a walk two days’ running without an ankle bandage which was good going although it did  ache a bit prompting me to take it easy for the next couple of days.

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Jungly Jumble

The last Thursday of July was the hottest day of the year so far although tempered somewhat by a few clouds and an occasional breeze.  We decided to spend the afternoon among trees and flowing water and caught the bus upwards.  Unusually quite full, several people stayed on beyond Heptonstall to alight at the New Delight (for Hebble Hole).  We continued to Blackshaw Head and went down the small lane beside the chapel onto Badger Lane.  I spotted a couple ahead of us consulting a guidebook of some sort.  We followed the familiar route signed Calderdale Way.

The narrow path was extremely overgrown requiring careful footing to avoid being stung by nettles, scratched by thistles or sinking into marshy spots.  It seemed to take longer than I remembered to reach the trough; often surrounded flowers, today mint dominated.  After Apple Tree Farm, where we only saw a few alpacas and no babies, chickens scratched about in the gravel. 

We turned left through the wooden gate, walked along the top field boundary to the signpost and could just make out the grassy path leading downwards, although Jumble Hole was no longer signed.

Delicate pale blue harebells dotted the meadow, their distinctive star-shaped heads bobbing in the gentle wind.  We settled on the excellent flat rock to eat a leisurely picnic lunch.

A woman with three dogs appeared.  I shouted “help!” but she managed to stop them jumping up for our food.  They bolted straight for the water, chasing a ball.

We ascended the cute stone steps onto the wooden bridge.  Below us, foamy water tumbled over flat stones resembling paving.  On the other side, we proceeded to Staups Mill.  The man I’d seen earlier was coming the opposite way, still lost and consulting his book.  He said they had somehow missed the first path down and thus bypassed the mill, arriving at the next bridge, where his girlfriend was waiting,.  I gave him directions for proceeding down the clough (noting that a map to accompany the walking guide might be an idea).  I realised later that they must have taken a second path from the meadow, leading straight down to what we call ‘the pixie bridge’.

A profusion of opportunistic tree growth rendered only parts of the grey mill walls visible from above.  On getting closer, we discovered that trunks and branches had been placed around the ruin making exploration annoyingly impossible.

Agreeing to stay on the straight-forward route, we used the ‘most obvious paths’ (as the man’s walking guide called them).   In places, large ferns made the wood more like a primevil jungle and we joked about dinosaurs lurking in the undergrowth.  Just before the larger bridge, the lost couple re-appeared, again coming a different way, and dithered at the junction signed Penning Bridleway.

We pottered about among flattened mill remains.  The top of a mill pond had become visible due to low water levels.  The thick dam wall housed tiny arched doorways.  A smaller arched bridge upstream of the big one was obscured by fallen branches.  Structures jutting out over the stream suggested the location of a watermill.

We rested briefly on the low wall of the bridge, enjoying the cooling effect of the waterfall behind us with a view of the curve. Two young boys rode dangerously standing up on the back of a flatbed, shouting with glee.

We then continued down the Pennine Bridleway where the leafy canopy provided total shade. Tumble-down houses were as equally inaccessible as Staups Mill due to the encroaching trees.  Approaching Underbank, we messed about doing ‘selfies’ in a convex traffic mirror.  Outside the converted workshop a man cut stone, creating a lot of noise and dust. I  said it was too hot for that type of thing.

On reaching Burnley Road, we stuck to small paths behind the pavement and emerged near Callis Bridge.  We crossed onto the canal.  Making a slight detour through the community garden, we had to clamber over chopped-down trees to get back onto the towpath.  At Stubbings, the sun became fiercer.  I nabbed the only free table with a parasol while Phil bought beer.  I suddenly felt very hot and sweaty .  I went inside with the intention of putting cold water on my face to find the sink taps ran hot.  So that didn’t help much!

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Rainy Birthday

Changeable weather threatened plans for a day out on Phil’s birthday.  We prevaricated but eventually decided to go for a walk anyway.  Donning suitable gear, we set off mid-afternoon towards the bus stop, chatting to a acquaintances en route.

On the journey upward from Heptonstall, the skies seemed to clear so we stayed on the bus to Blackshaw Head.  We stood at the corner for obligatory views before going down the side road with the chapel on our right to Badger Lane then immediately over the stile onto the Calderdale Way.

The wind blew on our backs as we traversed the sheep fields.  I wished had on a warmer layer under my anorak.  Yellow arrows on each gate or stile indicated the way until we came onto the track forming part of the Pennine Way and stopped again to enjoy the vista.  Phil pointed out the small valley up to the left of Colden village in front of us.

I recognised Strines Bridge thus realising the vale became Colden Clough further down, which later reminded me of an ill-fated quest for the source of the Calder!  Behind us, graduating stone steps and a granite post punctuated the surface.  Normally easy-going, mud made the hard-core surface rather tricky.  What first looked like red clay, turned out to fine sand feeling squelchy underfoot.

Further down, we came across a wall covered with a variety of moss and lichen.  Zooming in, I spotted a miniscule raindrop hanging from a pixie cup and a tiny fly sporting whitish grey wings and dots.  Not for the first time, I marvelled at the microscopic worlds that we are usually unaware of.

Approaching the corner, boisterous dogs could be heard.  I hung back until they came into view.  Said dog bounded up towards us but soon scarpered when the owner called it back, leaving us unmolested.

At Hudson Mill Lane, we turned right.  Pussy willows bloomed in profusion.   Raindrops hung like jewels from the silky surface.

Tiny buds started to emerge heralding spring.  We took the small steps down to Hebble Hole where Colden Water resembled a torrent and made a racket to match!

It seemed incredible that the tiny stream became such a force at this point; a result of numerous springs and underground tributaries flowing down to this point.  The drizzle returned as we admired the colours.  Vibrant green moss carpeted boulders. Pale ochre catkins almost touched the water’s surface, churning brown, white and grey.

We crossed the restored clapper bridge, and took the upward route along the old causeway.  The rain became more insistent as we climbed up towards Heptonstall.  Thankful for our waterproofs, we continued doggedly, managing to locate all the right turnings to the village outskirts.  I remarked it was the first time we had walked all the way from Colden to Heptonstall on small paths alone.

We entered the White Lion pub for beer. The room with the coiners’ display was being prepped for a function so we sat on the other side and looked at photos of Dawson City.  As we did so, the man at the bar related interesting facts.  Drinks finished, we walked down the road.  At the corner of Lee Wood Road, we double-backed to the Buttress and descended the wet and slippy cobbles with care.

Over the Packhorse Bridge, we made our way round to the new Indian restaurant.  Someone shouted “happy birthday!”- a group of friends stood outside the club across the street.  The food was delicious.  We couldn’t understand the mixed reviews – five stars in my book!  We waddled home feeling extremely full but found room for coffee and cake.

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Ice Cold in Colden

An icy cold day in January, we were eager to enjoy the crisp wintery scenes.  We caught a bus towards Colden and alighted at bottom of Edge Lane.

Stark shadows cast from hedgerow trees intersected snowy white lines on the tarmac where the sun never shone.  To our left, smoke rose slowly casting a haze towards Stoodley Pike.  To our right, an archetypal character strode between nearby fields where fat sheep grazed.

The door to May’s shop was bolted.  Phil said “It’s shut.”  Don’t be daft,” I replied, “It’s never shut.” I started to undo the bolt when a woman appeared to serve us.  I asked for cheese pies.  Shock horror!  They no longer stock them (apparently they came from the historic Granma Pollards’ in Walsden, now closed down).  Instead, we bought ‘sausage croissants’. Thinking we might find a patch of sun to sit in, we asked for tea in take-away cups but we settled instead on the trusty bench facing back out to Edge Lane, sadly in the shade.

Feeling rather frozen, we walked back down the lane enjoying the sun on our faces, as far as the ‘Pennine way’.  I had noticed on the way up that the path appeared less treacherous than alternative routes.  At the bottom, we crossed Smithy Lane and followed signs onto the boggy field skirting the large house.  Thankfully, ice kept the mud at bay.

As we went through the last gate, we stopped to take photos of the almost-full moon in the east, as a clock of crows flew by.  A pair of dogs could be heard barking wildly.  I turned to see them running in our direction and became anxious.  Phil reminded me that it had happened before and they didn’t go any further than their own field.  Although the paved path proved easy-going, the steps down to Hebble Hole were inevitably flooded at the bottom.

We turned right towards the recently restored clapper bridge.  On closer inspection, we could hardly see the join where the broken slab had been fixed. Over the bridge, felled trees had created fertile ground for clumps of orange mushrooms.  Frosty grass edged the narrow ‘desire paths’.  Ripples of pink and silver gently glided on the stream.  Amber sunlight filtered through trees on the skyline.

Crossing back, we took the lower path down into Colden Clough.  As we came to the area known as the ‘garlic fields’ in spring, I felt tired, out of breath and dehydrated.  I rested briefly on a severed trunk to muster the energy to clamber over another one blocking the path.

Descending further, frozen water globules rested atop mossy cushions resembling miniature worlds.  We followed the line of Colden Water, still dumbfounded by the needless warning signs.  At Lumb Mill, I noted yet more chopped-down trees.  I hoped that my favourite sycamore (aka ‘twin trees’) would not be next.  Phil capered about doing his gnome impression beneath the arching roots.  We squatted on stones at the foot of the tree until our rest was curtailed at the sound of yet more loud barking.  We moved onwards, taking the quickest way home.   I felt exhausted and footsore, after the longest walk so far this year, but glad we had got out during daylight.

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Springing up in Colden Clough

 

Following a week and a half of being bedridden with sinusitis, I recovered somewhat to enjoy the mini heatwave in mid-April.  We made the most of it with our first spring outing to Colden Clough, first visiting the healthy bakers for veggie pasties and posh pop.  We walked up the main road towards Mytholm, navigating the extensive gas roadworks.  We turned right at Church Lane and again at the school, to take the shortcut across the playground and up a short flight of steps (looking very dark and broody).

On the track, we competed with each other to take the best possible photos of tiny things such as buds and lichen, which we continued throughout the walk.   I think he won the contest but I spotted the most interesting mystery feature; a round brown ball in a small bush.

Approaching Lumb mill, Phil decided to descend down to the stream and try and go under the low bridge.  I waited for him near my favourite tree, enjoying its company as I would an old friend.

He appeared quite a few minutes later having given up the quest – a sudden drop where the water became eight feet deep had put him off.  We rested awhile before climbing up to the garlic fields.

Although still not fully grown as spring is so late this year, we filled a couple of small carrier bags.  It had taken an inordinate length of time to get this far, which I put down to a combination of recent illness, a lack of uphill walking and lots of stops to admire the new growth.  We installed ourselves on the nearby flat rock to recover, ate our pasties and whittled sticks on the quartz granite.  I joked that we should keep them to use for calligraphy.

Both still tired after all the climbing, we considered turning round until I remembered that the clapper bridge had been damaged during the infamous ‘beast from the east’ storm.  We made the effort to go the short remaining distance to Hebble Hole, noting ‘danger signs en route’ (obviously installed when the authorities came to survey the rights of way.

On reaching the bridge we saw immediately that one of the four pieces of stone forming the walkway had collapsed in the river, split in two.  The tree that had crashed onto it causing the break stood on the nearby bank, also injured.  Wooden planks and metal rails had been put up so it could still be used.  We crossed to the other side for all-round views.

Coming back, we noticed a few bluebells in flower as we climbed up to the top causeway, enjoying being level with the tree tops.

Pussy willows and catkins surrounded us, dangling from branches and littering the causey stones.  Bright green hawthorn sprigs adorned the dry stone wall.  Phil yet again tried to persuade me there were tasty but I maintained they tasted of ‘leaf’.

We descended to arrive back in the garlic fields and took the quickest way back.

He suggested a drink in the Fox and Goose.  However, I felt exhausted and as we past the pub, I spotted a group of rowdy young men in the beer garden so that clinched it – no chance of a quiet pint!

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Bluebells and garlic

 

Despite feeling tired and achy, we resolved to enjoy a beautiful sunny May Sunday.  We bought supplies form the local bakers before walking up Bridge Lanes.  Crossing at the Fox and Goose, we took the small path up towards Colden clough.  We made frequent stops to admire flowers of all colours amidst ferns and trees in shades of green.

Just before Lumb Bank, we perched on a small stone wall near the old gatepost which Phil persists in calling ‘the magical stone’ (well, it is in his photographs!).  Taking a shortcut through the writer’s garden to avoid the painful climb, we continued into the clough.  Our ramble was frequently arrested by the sight of bluebells, looking especially picturesque against the white flowers of the garlic fields.

Although late in the season, we found a few leaves and flowers to pick.  A little further on, we sat on a flat rock to enjoy cake and pop, before walking on to Hebble Hole.

 

We crossed the clapper bridge to watch sparkling water beneath us before starting our return.  A climb up to the causeway allowed us to enjoy warm sun on the tops for a while until we took the next path back down above the flat rock, traversing again the garlic fields.  As we came alongside the stream, I paused to look for the dipper and an elderly man who was passing stopped to discuss the glorious day.

 

At Lumb Mill, we took the slope downwards and crossed the floor of old stone flags to the main track.  It amazed me how it took two hours to get to the top of the clough via the small paths compared to a speedy 50 minute return!

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