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 Very polite about my outdated terminology, she confirmed modern schooling didn’t include imperial measures.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

Unnatural Beasts (Canal to Mytholmroyd)

A midsummer day in 2023 did not start well. Tempted outdoors by afternoon sun, we dawdled eastwards on the towpath. Early teasels and thistles paraded fifty shades of green. Ivory blackberry blossom presaged juicy fruits. A small duck family glided on the water. A discarded iridescent lizard leg and curious skeletal figures of mice looked incongruous alongside the natural beasts.

Hot and thirsty when we reached Mytholmroyd, we refreshed in The Dusty Miller’s astroturf beer garden. It may not be eco-friendly but at least it replaced tarmac rather than a real lawn. The pub frequented by notorious coiners, we discussed the recently aired Gallows Pole drama, caressed by a warm breeze. Returning via the Sustrans path, brambles vied with equally ubiquitous balsam. Having recently discovered the non-native species was edible, I considered harvesting the pods when they ripened.

Geese gathered at Hebble End where, early January 2024, dippers dipped. Further on, ripples in the gorged canal lapped at dilapidated houseboats. Truncated tree roots stubbornly grew through the wall at Mayroyd. Mirrored reflections of trees and sheep added an other-world feel. Too dingy and cold for beer stops, we headed straight back on the Sustrans, but flagging, briefly rested on a suspiciously regular-shaped rock.

A sodden winter segued into a wet spring. The first dry day in memory, clouds and a keen wind made it chilly, especially on Black Pit Aqueduct where we leant over to see flowers sprouting from stone, buds sprouting from trees, a football trapped in weeds and the intriguing carved head.

We dodged crowds in the park by taking the far path, garlanded with garlic flowers. More ransoms on the Sustrans, I carefully selected a few leaves, disturbing microscopic insects in the undergrowth. A small landslip created a small cave nearby. Ducks circled for crumbs as a couple ate butties. The woman kindly invited us to sit but we left them in peace to enjoy the soothing sounds. As the path opened out, bees supped from gaudy dandelions studding lush grass.

At Carr Lane, we ascended a steep muddy path and descended near an arched railway bridge where we stood in the mire to peer up Stubb Lane. Uncertain of a way through, we turned left alongside Calder Brook which disappeared beneath a tiny bridge to be carried underground to a river outlet. At Hawksclough, we debated the provenance of a converted barn and adjacent house. Now known as Hawksclough Farm, the old stone bridge was built to serve the one-time manor house. We waited for a gap in traffic to explore The Square, an attractive enclave set back from the main road.

Diminutive cherries guided us onto the towpath. Daisies dotted the banks. Canada geese nested opposite. As the sun made a fleeting appearance, we squatted on Broadbottom Lock to warm our faces before continuing onto Mayroyd. Machinery for investigating the lock floor lay idle at the blocked waterway leaving Strontium, appropriately also known as the growler, churning up water like an avaricious yellow beast.

Approaching Victoria Bridge, hybrid daffodils and tulips lined up to show off to the growing number of strollers. We avoided congestion by heading down Holme Street and across Pitt Street bridge.

Sticky Spring (Common Bank to Old Town)

As we set off on a bright Saturday late February, I stopped down the road to chat to an elderly neighbour sweeping outside her house and Phil craned to watch rooks flying overhead. We then proceeded through the heaving town centre. Red faces festooned the pub in the square, implying an early start to weekend drinking.

At the top, we lingered to look at the stone trough and bricked-up doors in the wall opposite before crossing Keighley Road and climbing the cobbles to School Street. Hoping for a closer view, the sharp incline of Bankside took us behind Stubbings School. Unfamiliar with the back alleys, we escaped via a snicket and wended to Common Bank Wood where barriers signified fiddling was still underway.

Shadows spiralled up bare trunks of drastically thinned out trees, their skeletal branches fingering Fairweather clouds. The paths sticky with mud and stepping-stones impeded by deliberately placed sticks, I became anxious and froze before managing to jump over the small stream by grabbing Phil’s hand.

The path to Dod Naze also squelchy, I stuck to the side and pulled myself along wire running atop the fence, noting no lambs only rams in the fields. Hot and tired from the effort, we rested on the bench at the corner, surrounded by vibrant crocus and valley views, and stripped outerwear. A man with a very small child, much faster than us despite small legs, overtook us. Up the steps to Rowland Lane, panoramas of Heptonstall and Old Town fanned upwards, the horizon dominated by Old Town Mill.

Utilising the shortcut from Lane Ends, stones on the path kept mud at bay as we mused on the provenance of old-sounding names such as Foot Kiln, Top Oth Croft and, on Billy Lane, Top Oth Hill. We rang a friend’s doorbell but getting no answer, continued to Old Town Post Office. The young man at the café counter informed us there was no sandwich bread because the cyclists ate it all. The substitute sticky ginger cake proved delicious. Phil commented it was like being on holiday. “It always is round here,” I replied, “There are pros and cons.” We cleared our pots to the counter, complemented the cake, browsed the shop where we learnt three curlews had just flown over the moor, and asked to use facilities. Locked as the café prepared to close, they gave us the key to the loo in the garden from where we heard the curlews. They had obviously decided it was spring.

The temperature dropped beneath ominous skies shrouding Stoodley Pike as we exited onto Billy Lane and down Sandy Gate. We made brief stops to redon layers, laugh at more dubious-sounding names, make small-talk with an art acquaintance, and examine a curious mix of winter and spring flora. Withered roses shared thorny stalks with fresh-looking rosehips while green moss conquered deadwood. We took the shortcut at Birchcliffe and avoided the busy town by taking back routes home.

Old Lanes (Tinker Bank, Northwell Lane and Heptonstall)

Walking Friend recently gave me several local interest books plus access to her veritable library so I could borrow more. As the winter of 2023/24 brought a series of health and household travails, the kindness was well-timed. Together with wet weather, we’d had few chances to get out and about and I immersed myself in the literature, noting oft-visited areas worthy of more attention and others to explore in future.

After Phil recovered from an operation and me from a bout of sinusitis at the end of January, we set off on a jaunt to Heptonstall via Tinker Bank with renewed interest.

Walking to the riverside, we joked about everything in town turning into an Airbnb when we saw the decrepit old workshop near Foster Mill Bridge had been sold. Development underway, we wagered it was destined to become yet another holiday let. Taking care on slippery steps up to Hollins and slippery mud in the wood, we ascended to the top and crossed to Tinker Bank Lane. Amidst the felled trees carpeted in emerald moss and decayed vegetation, we paused to examine the stone which once formed the base of a medieval wayside cross. Further up, we waited for a flock of chickens to cross the road (ha, ha!) into Pinfold Lane and proceeded to the Octagonal Chapel. Afternoon sunlight bounced off the crags opposite, made harsh geometric shadows on the iconic building and emphasised the tips of obelisk monuments to the worthy dead.

Across Northgate, we scanned the entrance to Whitehall Farm but were unable to determine the starting point of the railway to Blake Dean, and the plaque marking the location of the 16^th century Cloth Hall. At the junction with Towngate, we wended between the Tudor Stag Cottage (formerly part of the ‘Sign of the Stag’ pub, now a holiday cottage) and the fisheries, then down enclosed steps to the old co-op buildings to be waylaid by an elderly character telling us how he’d restored an old header tank, on display as a planter.

We perused the Great Well, dungeon doorway and the stocks before heading for Northwell Lane to see the latter’s original location. The carved post rested incongruously on someone’s drive. Continuing down, we pondered on the length of the driveway from the signed gates to actual Northwell House. We crossed Lee Wood Road and made our way on squelchy, winding woodland paths, past the horse farm and onto the riverside path near the bowling hut. We stopped briefly on the way home to observe the expanding collection of zany figurines and budding snowdrops near the allotments.

Lee Wood to Riverside

At the start of February, we made use of an overcast but fine Saturday for a much-needed walk.  Recovering from sinusitis and not having ventured up hills for some time, I struggled to climb The Buttress.  We stopped at the small graveyard for a breather and views, and again on Heptonstall Road to marvel at a bizarrely denuded but fruiting apple tree.  We continued to Lee Wood Road and headed into the wood.  On the shiny grey tarmac, a green stripe in the middle of the lane gave way to a litter of decaying foliage.  Slimy fungi less profusive than usual, a holly sprig sprouted from a truncated stump.  Vibrant walls housed frondy jade moss and curly emerald ferns.  Among a smattering of cyclists, runners and dog-walkers, a striding man dragged his pooch behind him.  We felt sorry for the poor thing with its tiny legs!

Of a number of options, we took a stony path down towards Hebden Water.  Gnarly tree roots augmented worn steps to help our footing on the muddy surface.  Branches writhed in the steely sky.  An old gatepost resembled an oversized keyhole.  Copper beach leaves lent a rosy glow to the cobbles.

At the bottom, Phil fancied a drink in The Blue Pig.  Quite busy inside, My Mate from the co-op sat at the bar. “Alright?” “I am now I’ve got a pint.” Agreeing Chinook was indeed tasty, Phil ordered the same from the harassed-looking barman.  As he whinged he couldn’t be bothered checking membership, we smiled and went out to the empty benches, supping leisurely while enjoying the soothing gurgle of the foamy weir.

Returning via the riverside, we paused at the picturesque iron bridge before crossing into the livestock-free field and up to Midgehole Road where we espied our first catkins of the year.  Back on the river, we tried to fathom why the path appeared altered at the next weir.  Light fading, we walked quickly onto Salem Fields where teens listened to hip-hop – the mean streets!

Symphony Number 2 (Slack Top to Hardcastle Crags revisited)

Greeted by glowing trees across the valley on a late October Wednesday dawn, we seized the chance of visiting Hardcastle Crags before clocks reverted to GMT, albeit in half-term again.  Navigating round roadworks to the bus-stop, a workman was hard at it drinking Lucozade and playing with his phone.  Waiting for the 596 in a sunny breeze, we watched the antics of geese on the church lawn.  Remarkably the first time we’d caught a bus since the new £2 fare was introduced, we alighted at Slack Top to walk along Widdop Road.  Against a backdrop of a verdant panorama towards Shackleton, insects fed on unassuming florets atop ivy.  Scarlet holly berries and pink blossom peeked between variegated leaves. Horses calmly grazed and a cat strolled nonchalantly along a boundary wall, ignoring the jackdaws squabbling in the field.

More traffic than 3 years ago we retreated into the gutter as builders, deliverers and farm vehicles sped by.  A clattering tractor trundled up to plough fields and emit the stink of ammonia (apparently from plants not chemicals).  At Clough Hole carpark, we headed straight over the stile where chunky gravel hid beneath crunchy leaves, making the path initially tricky.  The surface improving after crossing the brook, we lingered to marvel at fat sheep, plate-like mushrooms and coins idiotically hammered into a severed trunk – what god was that an offering to?

 Weathered gates led to a turning onto cobbles and down to Gibson Mill.  New tables outside the café were all occupied.  Unsurprising with kids off school but not as busy as expected, we guessed no activities were on offer.  The old round tables had been moved to a grassy patch by Hebden Water where we ate pastries and drank homemade pop from a leaky bottle.  As I faffed with double-bagging, Phil insisted it wouldn’t fit in the side pocket of his rucksack so I grudgingly stuck it in the front of mine.  We went through The Weaving Shed and up a small flight of back steps and teetered on the slippery millpond wall.  Reflections of the back of the mill were held captive in rippling blue water, framed by wispy contrails and fluttering leaves.

Going back through the café, we filled a bag with gnarly apples in return for a small donation and crossed the stone bridge to find the path inexplicably fenced off.  Swallowing my anxiety, I picked my way over makeshift stepping-stones forming a diversion at the base of the cascade and apologised to an approaching hiker for my slowness. “Take your time, there’s no rush,” she smiled.

As unexpected showers descended, concentric rings formed in the next millpond, silvery in the dimness.  Unruffled ducks swam between frilly weeds, deadwood sculptures and drooping branches.  We walked onto the forested centre.  In contrast to 2019, among startlingly bright reds, brassy oranges and tarnished yellows, vivid greens persisted in the canopy.  The freshened route fizzed with multi-coloured ferns and fungi exploited the plentiful mulch.  Becoming too damp, we decided to turn back.  So much for more time in the longer daylight!  Back aching with the weight of the extra bottle, I shouted to Phil who was marching ahead, that I couldn’t carry it anymore.  He waited for me to catch up and succeed in stuffing into his side pocket (hmm!)  The load lighter, I limboed beneath the fresh fence as Phil threw catalogue poses on the waterfall.

On the wide track from the mill, sunlight returned to geld tall pines. Flagging and unable to recall any suitable rest stops, we squatted on mossy rocks strewn with acorns to sup pop, slogged on towards the main gate, and spotted a cyclist vacating a sturdy bit of wall – he obviously knew better.

Along Midgehole Road, unseasonal dandelions clung to crevices and copper beech dominated views down the valley.  Veering onto the riverside, a heron standing patiently on the weir caught a fish as we watched.  Footsore by then, we struggled home.  My jeans muddy, I was gratified to see even his had a splattering.  Going upstairs to change, I discovered mucky bits on the bedroom rug;  had they come off him or me?

Puddling in Colden Clough

A bright but breezy start to March prompted us to re-visit another familiar haunt.  Getting ready seemed to take ages, making me quite impatient.  Finally, we left the house and walked westwards up the main road.   Several cars parked on the pavement at Bridge Lanes made me wonder if they had different laws in those parts.  Seeing a woman come out of one, I was about to have a go when she said hello.  It was an ex-neighbour, laden with groceries, poised to cross the road. On enquiring about the pavement parking, she suggested it was for unloading purposes.

Past the Fox and Goose, the cold wind blew straight in our faces.  Feeling buffeted, we wondered how long we would be out.  But it eased off as we turned into Church Lane.  We took the easy way up to Eaves, via the play park and steps to the bridle track.  Already, my legs began to tire.  Hearing me sigh, Phil said “don’t start getting grumpy.”  To which I retorted, “what do you mean start? I already am grumpy! I haven’t even taken any photos yet!”  He chuckled and challenged my claim that I had not yet seen anything inspiring.  Then, I noticed reflections in the puddles occupying every pothole.  In small watery worlds of black and blue, branches and sky appeared trapped, framed by displaced hardcore.

Cheered somewhat, we continued to Lumb Mill and explored the ceaseless torrents, almost full-to-bursting streams and derelict ponds. Underground gurgling indicated yet more water beneath our feet.  We started to climb up to the higher path.  Pausing at the top of the small arch, I  spotted a smaller path behind the chimney.  Having tried it from the top end in autumn, I wondered if we may have more luck from this end.  I stepped in the stream without thinking, making the bottom of my jeans sopping wet.  The path came to an abrupt end just beyond the chimney where a chunk of earth had fallen.  Thwarted, we at least gained a different perspective.  Tall thin trees stretching up to the sun way overhead created ebony shadows on the yellow stone.

We returned to the standard route which  proved hard going.  Large rough stones were replaced further up by the remains of dead trees and deep patches of sticky mud, requiring several small detours off the path.  above the glade, we climbed a strange mound which Phil comedically named ‘the ‘escarpment’, for a higher vantage point.  Square stones,  that had tumbled from the raggedy cliffs opposite, so long ago that they were now adorned with thick green moss, lay stranded amidst a permanent carpet of scrunched copper beech leaves and discarded nut husks.

Proceeding, we descended the steep wooden steps to land in the worst patch of mud so far.  Carefully picking our way through the earth and debris, we stopped on the flat rock to fend off dogs while we ate the wraps we’d brought with us.

As it had taken almost ninety minutes to get that far,  I guessed we only had an hour of daylight left.  We called it a day to get home before dark.  It was only then that I noticed that as well as being soaked through, the bottom of my jeans also had gravel caught up in them!

More photos at: https://1drv.ms/u/s!AjkK19zVvfQti9tvFGnnr5q8QZCxXw?e=Fsf6pZ

 

Domesday (Cruttenstall via Pinnacle Lane)

 

A glimmer of sunlight in early January prompted me to suggest a mission to find Cruttenstall – an ancient settlement mentioned in the Domesday Book.  On a list of sites to investigate as part of background research for Cool Places, I’d not actively followed this up for some time although we did chance across one or two last year.

We set off at lunchtime, bought pasties from the bakers and proceeded up Palace House Road to the familiar path towards Crow Nest.  Taking the diagonal path on the right, views of the north side of the valley provided an opportunity to use my film camera for the first time, pre-loaded with black and white film.  Past Weasel Hall, we continued on New Road, where grey cobbles glistened in patchy sunlight, round the bend to the TV mast.  We had considered a detour for a cuppa at Old Chamber but due to short daylight hours at this time of year, we headed straight up instead.

A signed path on the right led us through steep, muddy fields.  The climb proved much harder going than I’d anticipated. Out of breath, I stopped to sip water allowing another couple, garbed in proper hiking gear, to overtake us.  I then noticed sheep calmly grazing on the other side of the drystone wall.  Behind a winding dirt path, black branches appeared stark against a pale blue sky.

At the top of the field, a gate led out onto a paved lane I recognised as our return route from Stoodley Pike in May 2018 (the juncture of Broad Lane and Horsehold Lane).  Straight across, signs proclaimed access to Pinnacle Farm only.  Deducing the signs were aimed at vehicles, we strode onto a delightfully grassy Pinnacle Lane.

As we approached the farmhouse, a man disappeared round the back.  I had not expected the downward path so soon but to be sure, I checked with a woman who happened to be in front of the house. “No, that’s our garden” she replied, not unpleasantly.  She then proceeded to give directions to the pike and looked bemused when I informed her that was not our objective.  “We’re trying to find Cruttenstall” I said, then added, “for historical research” (In case she wondered what on earth for!)

The woman told us to continue to a line of trees further on.  I had already guessed from the map that this would lead down to the Pennine Way but thanked her for the confirmation.  continuing, we eschewed a smaller footpath which would also have led to our destination as looking rather dodgy, and arrived at the line of trees indicating an intersection with the national trail.  Again, I recognised it from visiting the pike.

Through a large wooden gate, the path sloped downwards.  An azure haze dominated the view eastward with Heptonstall church tower appearing ethereal on the opposite side of the valley.  On our right, bright green lichens, dotted with small red flowers, carpeted sturdy stone walls.  To the left, a brook tripped down the slope.  Phil noticed that rocks had been deliberately thrown in to determine its course.  This evidence, coupled with the fact that further down it had gouged out a deep valley, suggested it was an old waterway.  Although the scene was not new to us, I remarked that having a historical objective in mind gave a new perspective to the landscape.  Hungry, we clambered over deep tractor ruts to stop among stones away from any traffic (not that we saw any), quickly ate the pasties then continued.

At the bottom of a dip,  the familiar cute arched bridge traversed the brook.  We took a moment to admire its small but perfectly-formed dimensions with shimmering water reflecting thin trees in the fading light.  We then crossed to climb another steep incline up to the fabled Cruttenstall.  Today just a farm, we saw no point getting closer.  As I had suspected, we’d passed nearby several times but gained a better picture of its context thanks to a specific quest.

We continued to follow the steepening valley, now with the brook on our right.   Loud barking emanated from a large house and instead of testing the ferocity of the hounds, we opted for a path through Callis wood, indicated by an acorn sign.  Happily, it was also a shorter route.

Arriving at a very familiar junction, we had a choice of turning right through Horsehold Wood or left down to Callis.  We chose the latter as a safer bet in the darkening afternoon.   We walked quickly westwards on the towpath, except for a short wait while a workman moved dredging machinery to let us through.  Back home, we removed our shoes  at the doorstep.  Along with our jeans, they were clarted in mud.

 

 

Eaves Wood to the Corpse Road

Right at the end of December 2019, the grey lifted somewhat.  We decided to go up Eaves Wood to catch the sun on the ridge.  Never disappointing, we discovered amazing tree shadows striating the path beneath a clear blue sky. At Hell Hole Rocks, a man clambered about, apparently practicing falling!

Behind, Stoodley Pike peeked spookily between black tree branches.  We  waited for a couple dawdling with a tiny dog on the steep stone steps until we could ascend.  A rowdy crowd of kids, this time with a boisterous dogs, almost knocked us off the precipice.

That ordeal over, I was left breathless at the top and stopped for a much-needed break.  To stay in sunlight, we turned right along the ridge-top path and paused at the gate to the newly planted wood.  A delicate white flower fluttered in the light breeze.  We meandered through onto Southfield.  Then the clouds gathered, obliterating the warmth and brightness. In the churchyard, we discovered it infested  with tourists, including a crowd round the grave of Sylvia Plath.

We retreated to the bench behind the yew tree to eat clementines then wandered slowly among the gravestones and within the ruin.  For once, I actually stopped at the resting place of David Hartley where a scattering of coins had been left by admirers.  I joked they should be clipped!

Through the village, we started down the road when I suggested we take the corpse road.  I was quite pleased to find the right entrance to the path,  but for the second time, we mistakenly took the upward path to the right of houses, leading back to Southfield.  Back on the correct path, twisty trees edged  the narrow route, incredibly muddy in places.  Back in Eaves Wood, I searched in vain for the engraved stone.