Return to Pecket Well Clough

During a warm, sunny spring bank holiday weekend, we made a long-overdue return to Pecket Well Clough. I popped in the co-op for picnic food where a scrum in front of the meal deal shelf suggested it wasn’t an original idea.  Walking along Old Gate, the riverside steps on the opposite bank of Hebden Water were as crowded as the beach. 

We continued to Foster Mill Bridge onto the riverside path, assailed by scents of baking loam and vibrant flowers.  Wild carrot and bottle-brush docks bloomed on the water’s edge.  Pink anemones shaded between fading bluebells.  Creeping buttercup looked much prettier in its natural environment than in the garden. Dappled light made arty shadows on the weir.  Yet more families pretended they were at the seaside.

Climbing steps up to Midgehole Road, we found fields of emerald and gold blazing beneath a clear blue sky.   Just before Hardcastle Crags, we veered behind the toilet block and paused briefly at the edge of Haworth Old Road.  A lush lower Crimsworth Dean stretched northwards.  White wood anemones shone white in the hedgerow.  In the smaller clough, leafy boughs shaded us from the hot sun and the bluebells from premature bleaching.  Descending to the brook, felled trees cluttered a shingled shore we’d hoped to rest on. 

We squatted on Kitling Bridge to eat lunch and check the map for a route up to the monument.  Unable to discern a path, we proceeded upwards on the Calderdale Way and glanced back to see the structure emerge below.  Disinclined to back-track, we continued up Keighley Road to Pecket Well and found a free bench outside The Robin Hood Inn.  As we supped pints, traffic continually streamed in both directions.

The cycling couple on the adjacent table made a move to leave and we wondered how their small dog rode a bike.  They then put the pooch in a bag.  ‘Doggy bag!’  We struck up a conversation encompassing the joys of pet ownership, the state of the world and limited travel options, concluding there were worse places to be stuck.  As they headed home over Oxenhope Moor, I thought they’d have been better making the trip the other way round.  I needn’t have worried; electric bikes required minimal pedalling uphill.

Speeding vehicles, crash barriers and lack of pavement made the journey down the road trickier for us.  We took it steady and observed the surroundings.  I poured precious water on grey moss and watched it turn green in front of my eyes.  We tried to discern paths in the less-managed Spring Wood, stretching on both sides of the road to the edge of town.  A long flight of steps led down to Victoria Road.  I’d always assumed unusual roofs on the terraces had dormers added later but Phil informed me they were Dutch houses.  The longer day out in extended sunshine had been very enjoyable while stops for sustenance ensured against extreme fatigue.

Rawtonstall Fall

A rainy Saturday was superseded by a dazzlingly bright October Sunday.  The stunning early autumn colours sizzled in the light.  I commented some of the best trees could be seen out the window.  Nevertheless, we went out to explore others.  Using the erstwhile High Street as a shortcut to the Fox & Goose, we continued on the main road, inordinately busy with walkers and motorists.  We turned up Church Lane, veering left at the apex.  Previously approached from the top, we were unsure of the best way into Rawtonstall Wood.  A sign for Rawtonstall Bank told us we had reached the edge.   Noting the tiny Cat Steps were even more overgrown, a discarded sign further up discouraged their use. 

We took the next option into the woodland before it got stupidly steep.  Deep greens surrounded us on the gentler slope of Green House Lane.  At the top, The Hall was obscured by an assortment of vehicles and builder’s materials.  We almost walked into the next garden and back-tracked to find a yellow arrow signifying the public path.  A carved stone indicated the wall dated back to 1816.  Dark Lane, always muddy where springs sprung from adjacent meadows, looked foreboding.  I found a stick to help navigate the worst patches and bravely continued.  On drier ground, sheep looked obligingly picturesque, grazing against a backdrop of green hills with Stoodley Pike on the skyline.

Heading back down, a chicken coop formerly used as a landmark had been replaced by sheds making us hesitant until we came to a familiar stone arch, also date-stamped.  We rested on the memorial bench opposite.

Squeezed between a couple of ornamental evergreens, it was barely big enough for two.  As we enjoyed views across the valley, we exchanged cheery greetings with a woman we knew passing by with her daughter.  “She’s grown.” Said Phil.  “That’s because we haven’t seen them for ages.”

We wended down Turret Hall Road, where zingy oranges capped deciduous emeralds.  An uphill cyclist informed us that the colours would be “even better in a couple of weeks.”  Well, the grass is always greener, as they say!   On reaching Oakville Road, we returned to Burnley Road where a late middle-aged couple asked us the location of the Fox & Goose.  It was just as well, seeing as they were going the wrong way.

Crossing at Stubbings, we took the towpath for the home stretch.  A woman stopped to enquire if I was ‘the lady’ who wrote the walking articles in Valley Life.  “It’s really good!” she enthused.  So far, positive feedback had come from friends and acquaintances.  Praise from a total stranger made my day!

Autumn Symphony – Slack Top to the Crags

We managed one more walk before the end of October.  I had suggested a trip to Hardcastle Crags which strangely, we had rarely visited in autumn. Following some route-finding, we embarked on what we hoped would be less of a slog to get to Gibson Mill.  This entailed catching the 596.  Due to roadworks, the bus shelter had disappeared to be replaced by a temporary sign.  As we waited, a chilly wind made me cold and I worried I might not be warm enough.

We rode up enjoying the scenery in the beautiful sunshine.  We got off at Slack Top, immediately crossed and began walking up Widdop Road.  To our left, a different aspect of Popples Common revealed its true size.  A cobbled lane suggested an old packhorse trail.   To the right, large gardens housed annoying yappy dogs. Farmhouses revealed ancient horse steps, auxiliary servant’s quarters. multiple chimneys and peafowl – the latter populating the grounds of Greenwood Lea (a historic Yeoman’s house dating from circa 1712).  A few sheep and ridiculously cute Shetland ponies grazed in the fields.  Across the valley, trees displayed a plethora of colours with emerald evergreens interspersing a variety of deciduous hues.

The road dipped slightly and after a small bend we espied Clough Holes carpark.  As work was underway, a sign announced ‘footpath closed’.  “Oh no!” I exclaimed, then realised it meant the path to the carpark.  Alongside, a tiny step stile led down to a picturesque path following the line of a small brook, punctuated with idyllic cascades.  A second stepped stile marked meadows giving way to woodland.

Looking back, sunlight glinted on leaves of orange, yellow and green with branches stretching towards a pale blue sky.  The path became a mix of rough cobble and hardcore as it continued to wind down.  Just before the stone bridge, a tree stump resembled a teddy bear.

A couple of families had followed us down; a reminder it was half-term.  I hoped we would not be overwhelmed with school kids at Gibson Mill.  In spite of the family-friendly activities and several groups making use of the café facilities, I managed to find a vacant table.  We had brought our own butties.   Phil wanted a brew to go with them and disappeared inside the Weaving Shed for what seemed like an age!  Eventually emerging, he said it had taken so long because of the umpteen variations on offer including flake in coffee – is that a thing now?

Both the walk down and lunch had taken considerably longer than anticipated.  Having originally planned to go quite a bit further up, we figured there was insufficient daylight remaining.  We agreed to at least walk a little way beyond the mill.

Among the mill ponds, impressive fungi were the size of dinner plates.  The brook we had walked alongside on our descent culminated in a torrent teeming down the rocks.  A large party of elderly hikers came towards us, necessitating a precarious step off the path at the water’s edge.

A few ducks pootled about on the pond surface amidst floating oak leaves.  Below the water line, bare branches created black reflections while frondy pond weeds of bright green swayed gently. Facing the actual crags, I remarked that I’d only recently realised  they were the exact focus of Victorian jaunts.  Lovely as they are, I was somewhat bemused by its specific popularity; the whole Calder Valley is characterised by such features.

We continued a little further where the scene took on a more forested aspect.  Assorted mushrooms brought renewed life to dead wood.  Soft russets reflected in the silvery steam.  I lingered on the edge of Hebden Water to take in the gorgeous symphony of colours and sounds.

Returning, we took the top track for a faster walk home, edged with fading ferns, spindly saplings and older majestic trees marching up the slope.  On the last stretch of the riverside path, we stayed on the left side to laugh anew at the swamp.

At the end of Valley Road, Phil detoured to the shop while I headed home, stopping briefly to chat with a friend.  I slumped on the sofa, recovered slightly with a drink of water but felt in need of a proper lie down.

More photos at: https://1drv.ms/u/s!AjkK19zVvfQti9RkfZatqiLCPQD4XQ?e=3ctubM

A Rare Visit to Gibson Mill

It is a rare thing indeed for us to purposefully visit Hardcastle Crags in summer.  Almost as rare (apart from holidays), we set off at 1 p.m. on a mid-July Sunday to catch Gibson Mill’s opening hours.

We took the most direct route via Hangingroyd Lane and the riverside path.  New rock art stood in the centre of Hebden Water, where the banks were adorned with green and white flourishes.

At the bottom of the steps up to Midgehole Road, loud barking caused me to jump out of my skin.   A large dog leapt up from behind tall grasses.

Phil let out an involuntary shout.  Two women appeared, along with a smaller dog causing more commotion.  The women apologised, saying it was a rescue dog responding to our fear.  That sounded reasonable, except I hadn’t even seen the mutt, so how could I be fearful in advance?  Later, Phil felt sorry for shouting at a rescue dog but I said (not for the first time) that dog owners should control their charges when they are likely to come into contact with other walkers.

On Midgehole Road, signs declared the Crags car park full.  We weaved between parked cars and clumps of irritatingly slow people to the main gate.  Staying on the top track, we walked speedily to Gibson Mill.  We immediately entered the building and climbed to the top floor to be met by the sight of a Victorian-era kitchen.  An iron range arrayed with a selection of contemporaneous cooking vessels stood against the back wall. To the right, a shallow Belfast sink perched on brick legs.  Around the cracked windowsill, peeling whitewash revealed fading yellow paint.

Through a door on the left we found a larger room with tungsten bulbs suspended from a high ceiling.  The ample space was occupied by Yan Wang-Preston’s ‘Forest’ exhibition, the main object of our visit.  I had expected arty photos of trees.  It turned out to be a project documenting the uprooting of mature trees in China and transplanting them to concrete cities where of course they die.  Utter madness!  Why can’t they grow new trees?

Downstairs, we made our way to the café for freshly-made sandwiches and tea.  We chose a table on the terrace and got a different view of the mill pond.

From the upper floor, I had noticed small splashes hitting the water’s surface.  What had looked like raindrops, I now realised, were being made by small fish.

After eating, we went out front to finish our drinks.  On the surrounding tables, yet more barking dogs threatened to cause alarm but thankfully, they were kept at bay.  I spotted an acquaintance sitting nearby with a friend.  We exchanged greetings before they entered the mill to peruse the exhibition.

We took the slower, but less populous and pleasanter riverside route back to the main entrance.  Tall pines stretched into the summer sky, the canopy giving respite from the muggy afternoon heat.  Impossibly large stones punctuated the paths and stream, some sporting strange holes.  Foliage made attractive greyscale patterns on eroding surfaces.  At the almost-dry weir, dippers dived among square paving rendered visible by the low water level.

As we rested on a nearby bench, I heard something drop to the ground.  At first, we could see nothing.  Then Phil realised it was his phone.  The screen had cracked (For the third time.  Luckily, he has since discovered he can buy the parts to fix it himself).

On reaching the end of the crags, we continued on the riverside as much as possible, staying on the left-hand side towards town, foraging a few raspberries from sporadic bushes.

We paused briefly on Victoria Road where a tractor seemed imprisoned.  Headlights gleamed wide-eyed behind an iron gate fastened with rusty iron chains.  Polished blue paintwork reflected blue sky.  Getting ready for the local show, no doubt.

 

More photos at: https://1drv.ms/f/s!AjkK19zVvfQti4JrYWA4b2_1LeHp3w