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 Very polite about my outdated terminology, she confirmed modern schooling didn’t include imperial measures.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

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.

Willow Gate

 

Marisa and I set out on a sunny late March afternoon.  We walked along the riverside where I noted the decaying tree stump (half the size as the last time I had seen it) and several new waterfalls.  Climbing the recently-repaired steps to Midgehole Road we continued to Hardcastle Crags gate and through the upper car park to find the Willow Gate path.

 

We stopped briefly in a lovely field scattered with interesting rocks and boulders, admiring the views.  Continuing up along ancient causey stones,  we noted letters carved into them.

I spotted remains of mysterious wall and imagined the buildings that once stood here.  Impressive rocks on our right resembled squares and pillars.  We then came to the famed ‘Slurring Rock’.  Marisa told me that people used to skate down it in their clogs.

 

We carried on through Foul Scout Wood, across a makeshift bridge and a field containing ancient gateposts.  At the hamlet of Shackleton, old barns held testament to a long history.  Sheep alarmingly dyed red shared grazing space with pheasants.

We proceeded downhill to the edge of Crimsworth Dean.  From here we took the quicker way back, turning right onto the NT track, using new-looking steps to skirt the car parks and crossed the bridge to Midgehole.

 

Passing The Blue Pig we waved to an acquaintance but decided to head straight to town.  We took the lower riverside path and felt the chill off the water.  Lower down, we took the left-hand side path, spotting young garlic and yellow flowers across the ‘swamp’.  Emerging onto Windsor View we walked into town,

 

More photos at: https://1drv.ms/f/s!AjkK19zVvfQtipoWzalc3B0dRYP1SA

again taking the river path when possible.