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 Very polite about my outdated terminology, she confirmed modern schooling didn’t include imperial measures.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.

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.

Barking Mad in Colden Clough

Inspired by Walking Friend’s photos of fresh pesto on Facebook, we took advantage of a sunny Wednesday for a late March forage in Colden Clough.  As I hunted for my walking boots, Phil loitered outside the house.  Suddenly I heard distressed woofing close to the open door.  Apparently, Phil had spooked a dog walking past with a hippy.

In contrast to the treacherous arctic conditions of February, we enjoyed a steady walk through Eaves and the deserted playpark, and up the steps to the bridleway.  At Lumb Mill, we paused to admire dramatic lines created by sunlight behind trees.  As we neared the upper mill ponds, the hippy with dog approached.  On seeing us, he kindly attached the dog’s lead.  Expressing thanks, I commented it was odd that his dog had been alarmed by Phil earlier, whom canines normally loved.  Loose stones made the last upward stretch to the ‘garlic fields’ hard-going.  We rested on a rock before getting to work.  Early in the season, bright green leaves exuded pungency.  Young buds had yet to flower.  Declaring 2 carrier bags’ full sufficient, we headed back down the stony slope.  From the higher vantage point, we espied portions of the path alongside the stream, once fully navigable.  Tempted to explore, Phil was put off by a hippy woman performing extreme yoga by the mill ponds.  Returning to the relatively flat bridleway, clumps of oakmoss seemingly reflected beams from an ivory moon rising in the east.  After sorting half the garlic leaves, I collapsed on the sofa with back ache and fatigue while Phil almost fell asleep on the spot.

12 days of garlic-themed dinners and preserving ensued.  Supplies exhausted, we embarked on a second foray on Easter Monday, this time taking the bus up to Colden.  Although it had sounded quieter than the previous 2 days, when the town centre had been insanely busy, cars streamed on the main road.  A traffic jam stretched to New Bridge.  “That’s people not going to the virtual duck race!” I quipped.  A few other passengers rode on the predictably delayed bus, all getting off in Heptonstall.  We continued alone to the corner of the still-amusingly titled Crack Hill.  Along the lane, arrestingly yellow gorse sprung out of hedgerows.  Pheasants and sheep populated lush fields.  New lambs gambolled, grazed and stared at us with curiosity.  A merciless wind blew straight in our faces, negating the warming effects of the sun.  It’s not called Cold-en for nothing!

May’s farm shop permitted only one person to enter at a time.  I waited patiently in a small queue.  We then  stood in a patch of sun to sup pop, well away from a couple drinking beer on outdoor seating and a family picnicking on a slope beyond the farm buildings.  A large sow snuffled at straw inside the barn.  Suddenly, manic squealing started up   A litter of piglets clambered and tugged at each other as they fought for mother’s teats.  Mindful of social distancing, we in turn jockeyed for position as small children and a pair of women hiking past also peered over the metal gate to witness the spectacle.

With the strong wind behind us, we walked back along Edge Lane to the small path signed Pennine Way, crossing Smithy Lane and a stile onto farmland.   As we climbed a second stile, ferocious barking assailed us.  Expecting a dog to chase us from the other side of the wall, as had happened on previous occasions, two mutts bounded in our direction, threateningly baring their teeth.  Phil shouted and made as if to flee.  “Don’t run,” I implored, then turning towards the farmhouse where a woman could be seen calling to the dogs, I yelled: “this is not on!  It’s a public right of way!”  They made little sign of heeding her but luckily, we gained the third stile and got off their land before they got any closer.

Shaken by the encounter, we calmed somewhat at the sight of a flock of curlews wheeling above the meadow to our left.  The paved section of the path became inevitably muddy as we navigated the last section and we hung back for a couple of doddery old men heading for the clapper bridge.  On the top causeway, the curlews looked like dots in the sky.  Tiny buds sprouted from stick-like trees.  Late afternoon light effused the causey stones.  On the path down to the garlic fields, we waited for a straggling group to vacate the area.  We chanced a clamber further down the slope to gather another 2 bags full, then proceeded down the familiar route, entranced by soft shadows cast by towering copper beech trees.

Back on the bridleway, a horse rider thanked us as stood on the verge for her to pass.  A woman accompanied by 2 kids and 2 spaniels walked the opposite way.  “Oh no, it’s the stupidest, craziest of all dog breeds,” Phil tittered.  One of the spaniels broke from the group and bounded towards us.  Braced for another stressful encounter, it veered off the path, apparently chasing a deer.  When we got within earshot, I suggested to the woman she put her dogs on leads.  “What?”  “You need to put your dogs on leads. There are deer here.”  “I live here!”  she responded.  “Your dog just chased a deer!”  “Ooh, scary!” she laughed.   Angered by the incident and by inconsiderate dog-owners in general, I asked Phil: “I live here?  What the hell does that mean?“  “That she owns the place?  “Well, she should care more about the bloody wildlife then, shouldn’t she. Cold-hearted bitch!”  Thinking of the horse and rider passing shortly before, I wondered if dogs should be kept on a lead on a bridleway.  Apparently not, but owners are required to control them so they didn’t intimidate animals, or people for that matter, on any public right of way.

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.

More photos at: https://1drv.ms/f/s!AjkK19zVvfQti5kFMOjpK3hzqAL9Dw

May Time at May’s

The dry and sunny weather persisted well into mid-May.  On Thursday, Phil decided he was having a day off.  It happened that this coincided with Marisa’s free day and we arranged an afternoon jaunt.

We caught the bus to Colden to alight at the bottom of Edge Lane and walk up.  Hedgerows burst with seasonal blooms, as escapees from nearby gardens vied for space among clumps of wild flowers.  We almost got mown down by a car which turned out to be driven by someone we knew.

On arrival at May’s farm shop, it was cheese pies and teas all round.  For dessert, we shared a punnet of strawberries and a

We were confronted with yet more beauty as dappled paths were edged with verdant grass interspersed with vibrant bluebells.

Up on the top causeway we stayed at the higher level until just below Slack Top, we rested in a small field that has been turned into a ‘garden’.  As we perched on rocks, we marvelled at the effort required to lug the larger ones into place.

We continued to just above Lumb Bank where we descended the dreaded steep path.  Thankfully, not too tricky due to the arid conditions.

Reaching the ‘old road’ we paused to admire the stone gatepost.  Marisa said it had originally joined onto Old Gate.   I couldn’t figure out how, but subsequently consulted maps which seemed to suggest a possible route.ⁱ  We followed the path through the lower part of Eaves wood to emerge onto the main road.  From there, we took the shortest way back to our street where Marisa and I spent a minute looking at the garden, before she continued into town for errands.

Note:

1. Following a line from what is now Market street, it is possible to see how the old road could have snaked through Mytholm and up towards the top causeway, before lower routes through the valley bottom were developed.

More photos at: https://1drv.ms/f/s!AjkK19zVvfQtivpxZjpApqavO5TomA

 

Jack Bridge to Colden*

Early August had been a bit of a let-down.  I spent the first week ill in bed, watching the changeable and showery weather through the window with only intermittent and non-dependable sun.  Fortunately the second weekend stayed fine.  After a hot Saturday, Sunday brought a few clouds, cooling the temperature down a notch and creating ideal conditions for a walk.

We caught the bus to Colden and alighted at Jack Bridge.  Walking alongside Colden Water, we made frequent stops to examine wildlife in the hedgerows: bees hovered on purple balsam; strange orange insects came out in force to mate; thistle flowers gave way to downy seed heads.

Beside a barbed wire fence we spotted a wooden step ladder.  On the other side, a dilapidated caravan surrounded by outdoor furniture made us speculate about the al fresco living conditions of the less-fortunate locals.

 

Nearing Strines Bridge we detoured round the posh house and gardens into the field for a closer look.  Maybe it was my imagination but it seemed in more of a sad state than in our visit last spring.

Further up the lane we climbed a stile into a different field.  Causey stones led diagonally to a small wood.  A muddy path, churned up by mountain bikes then ran alongside the pine wood to the bottom of Rodmer Clough.  Signs of cultivation appeared in the hedges as we reached the corner of Land Farm.  From there, we had a hot, uphill climb to Edge Lane and along the top.

The grass path we usually sneak up to reach High Gate Farm had become too overgrown necessitating a return to the road.  Passing ‘Hot Stones’, we noticed a lone standing stone.

At May’s, I commandeered the bench looking down the lane while Phil entered the farm shop to order hot cheese pies and tea.  As we waited I was being eaten alive by midges.

 

After eating we walked down the road to Crack Hill, still finding amusement in the name.  Proceeding to Slack and through Popples Common, we admired the bright new heather.  We rested on the bench just before Heptonstall, contemplating the landscape.

A dad passing on the road with two young girls on bikes amused us.  “Come on!” he shouted, in typical competitive parent style, as they struggled up the hill.  Bypassing the village, we descended Green Lane into Slater Ing.

A bit confused at first, as we had never walked this part in reverse before, we soon started to recognise the familiar rock features.  The muted light was particularly good for capturing their characteristic shapes.  The rocky path took ages to navigate and felt like hard work.  Eventually we reached the easier part above the large flat stones, again struck by the beautiful display of heather lining the route.  We took the steps at Hell Hole Rocks.

 

As we travelled through Eaves Wood and out onto Heptonstall Road, I said it was a long way to go for a cheese pie – like the olden days!

*The walk from Jack Bridge to May’s is the reverse of the ‘Edge Lane detour’ we took with M&M in April 2016.

More photos at: https://1drv.ms/f/s!AjkK19zVvfQtisVqMstvRkcBy1eWvg

Colden to Heptonstall

The last Sunday in March started sunny but partly cloudy, perfect for walking.  We took the quick way up through Mytholm and along the track into Colden Clough.

We noted the newly constructed managed weir on the river just before Lumb Mill.  Stopping for a short rest, I realised I had not yet taken photos of the ‘twin trees’ with my new camera.  Halfway up the clough, we dallied in the garlic fields to pick a few early season leaves.  At Hebble Hole we crossed the clapper bridge, and took the small steps up to Hudson Mill Lane.

We continued along the road, turning left towards Colden Village and onto May’s.  I entered the farm shop to buy pies.

 

I did not pick my moment well: several people arrived at the same time, including a woman in slippers and a dressing gown.  As we sat on the bench outside eating the warmed pies, we watched a pied wagtail delicately searching between the cobbles for morsels, and chatted.

 

 

Phil suggested the shop had created a culture of dependency within a 500 metre radius.  I reckoned the catchment area was somewhat wider as many people drove there.  Feeling tired, I checked the bus times but it would be almost an hour until the next one.

We walked down Edge Lane, observing our first field of new lambs, through Popples Common towards Heptonstall.  On the edge of the village, I again considered waiting for the bus.  Instead, Phil suggested visiting the Cross Inn.  We sat in the beer garden supping pints.  It started to get cooler with the waning sun.  We finally agreed to catch the bus home.  A cat followed us to the bus stop.  As we waited, I collected rather nice cedar cones form the small park on Hepton Drive.

More photos at: https://1drv.ms/f/s!AjkK19zVvfQtippLMXnh6q5-g4Oxgw

Up and Down Colden

Five days into 2017, another cold, bright day dawned.  We set off early afternoon to catch a bus ‘up tops’.    We alighted at the last stop, Smithy Lane.

From behind the bus stop we took the small old path that we had descended the previous September, again admiring the old wooden gate and worn stones as frosty grass crunched underfoot.

Reaching Edge Lane, we gazed southwards towards the dazzling sun before walking onto High Gate Farm.  We entered May’s Shop to buy lunch.  Shock, horror!  No pies!

 

We settled instead for sandwiches and tea, eating on the bench looking back out to the road we had just travelled.

We then headed down the grassy path to Fold Lane and through Colden village.  The now-familiar jumble of farm junk, old stone buildings and gate posts punctuated the journey down the lane, edged with ice where the sun never shone.  Back on Smithy Lane we turned right and followed the bend round to Hudson Mill Road, taking in a collection of warning signs on the corner.  From the bridleway we headed down the first flight of steps.  We made our way gingerly down the icy steps into Hebble Hole.  The glade looked like a winter fairyland!

 

 

Wanting to stay in the sun as long as possible, we crossed the clapper bridge and climbed upwards to the old causeway.  Looking back, I caught stunning views of clouds and contrails against a gorgeous blue sky.   We followed the yellow footpath signs for quite some way until we came to a junction.

Pausing on the conveniently-placed bench, we considered a choice of three routes: up to Heptonstall; straight down to Lumb Bank; down to the right taking a steep set of stone steps.

 

We opted for the latter and emerged above Lumb Bank Mill.  From there we took the windy but relatively safe route back across the river and onto the bridleway for a quick return home.

Peace and Tranquility in Slack and Colden

A mid-September Sunday, we caught the bus upwards.  Alighting at Slack Top, crows, horses and harvesting added to the pastoral scene.  Behind the fields, the church tower peeked out amid the tree line, as if it was growing out of the hills.  .

We crossed the road to examine the milestone and interesting signs.

Walking through Popples Common, we marvelled at strange carved stones and at the view towards the vanishing point, redolent of the mid-west.

 

 

As we reached the brow, we turned up Crack Hill (with inevitable chuckles!) and walked along Edge Lane, enjoying the tranquil scenes with grouse in a field, old ruins and gate posts.

At May’s Farm Shop we bought cheese pies to eat on the picnic bench outside.

I strolled around the farm buildings and snuck in the old cow shed to look at ancient stalls and interesting junk.

We then backtracked along Edge Lane until we came to a sign pointing down towards ‘Pennine Way’ and ‘Hebble Hole’.

The path looked very old and narrow, edged with dressed stone, wooden fence posts and rickety gates.  We crossed Colden road once more and continued following the signs.

This took us over gates and styals, round the side of a large house and down through more fields.

 

 

We arrived at a flight of steep small steps.  Water and mud made them potentially treacherous.  Descending carefully, we emerged just above the bridge at Hebble Hole.  Traversing the bridge, we had the glade to ourselves for once.  We sat peacefully, admiring trees and reflections in the water – like fairyland.  We then crossed back over the bridge and took the familiar quick route home through the clough.

More photos at: https://1drv.ms/f/s!AjkK19zVvfQtiM1othXhKZcNEcrHJA

 

Edge Lane Detour

On a remarkably sunny Wednesday in April, Phil and I caught a bus from Market Street to Callis.  We had arranged to meet two walking friends somewhere up the tops and kept in touch via text.

We walked up Jumble Hole, admiring the scenery as usual, especially the lovely waterfalls and ruined houses (some with spring gardens which made us laugh).

We found the uphill climbs hard work, but took it easy and stopped at Staups Mill for a break.  We then carried on to the small bridge taking us across the pretty brook and up to the fields below Blackshaw Head.

I paused to text our friends and check the map for a quick way down to Colden.  I had worked it out when a passing driver confirmed my instinct and we proceeded on the Calderdale Way across farmland until it met the Pennine Way going down to Hudson Mill Lane.

Just before the junction with Smithy Lane, we admired new born lambs.  Our friends awaited us on the bench at Jack Bridge.  We all walked up to May’s for the excellent cheese pies.

As Marisa and I went to use the primitive loo, a sheepdog cowered from us in fear.  I said it made a change; it was usually them that spooked me!

 

Marisa suggested going up Edge Lane as an alternative route back to Jack bridge.  We set off, with Hot Stones Hill on our right.

At the next junction, a sign directed travellers to tantalisingly named places such as Lower Earlees and Salt Pie (a historic stop on the packhorse tracks).

We turned down the lesser-used School Land Lane which skirted the bottom of Rodmer Clough, where a ruined chimney looked the remains of a fairy castle, and round the edge of Land Farm.

We then had a choice of routes and took the lower one. As it skirted a wood, the path became narrower.  A screeching bird could be heard but not seen…

Emerging in a field, the grass path became paved with ancient causey stones.  We crossed a styal onto New Road. I struggled to keep up with the pace setters and welcomed a short rest.

Marisa pointed out Strines Bridge in a field a little way down.  I asked if we could get to it.

The answer was yes.  Further down the lane we turned down a short driveway and across a very nice garden.  A tiny stream tinkled alongside us as we crossed a wooden bridge and then followed the line of the stream into a field.

Again, the grass path revealed old causey stones.  Peaceful sheep grazed next to the impossibly cute stone bridge, traversing a sky-blue stream.  A sharp arch was accessed by a tiny opening.  We remarked that the packhorses must have been very small (I later found out that the bridge was most likely a footbridge linking Strines Farmhouse with Coldenⁱ.

From there, it was a relatively easy walk back down the lane to Jack Bridge.  We headed straight ahead back onto Hudson Mill Lane, and down the small, steep steps to Hebble Hole.  The boots I had chosen to wear that day proved ill-advised as my toes hurt with every step down.

We took the lower path to the garlic fields.  Phil did most of the picking as I felt exhausted and dehydrated.  I thought we were staying down in the clough but were led upwards to the top causeway.  I became even more fatigued.  Thankfully, we did not climb all the way up but instead came back down above Lumb Bank.  Mind you, loose stones and dried leaves made the path very tricky, causing more pain to my feet.

Utterly exhausted, I eschewed a visit to the pub. The day had already been too long for me. I  also felt far too sweaty to be in mixed company. I started stripping off garments even before I got in the house.  Once indoors, I hastily removed more clothes and doused myself in cold water.  I realised I had heat exhaustion.  Angry and upset, I ranted that when I said I was tired, dehydrated, and in need of rest, I really meant it.  The next day I still suffered from exhaustion.  On reflection, I decided it was my own fault – I should have heeded the signs that I had reached my limit and got on a bus instead of struggling on.

Nevertheless, the walk itself was lovely and it gave me ideas for further exploration of the Colden area (at a manageable pace)!

More photos at: https://onedrive.live.com/redir?resid=2DF4BDD5DCD70A39!118018&authkey=!ADRkaR0M8cPUjdY&ithint=folder%2c

ⁱ https://historicengland.org.uk/listing/the-list/list-entry/1133947