The last week in May, better weather finally arrived. We hurried into town on a busy Thursday market day to dodge shoppers and buy pies from the bakers. Seeking pleasanter surroundings, we crossed over to the park, not quite as crowded, where Phil found a free patch of grass while I bought pop from the café to accompany our pastries. We then walked east on the towpath to see verges at Mayroyd Lock carpeted with daisies and hawthorn blooming at long last. Towards Mytholmroyd, geese escorted a gaggle of sizeable goslings already losing their fluff. Pointless signs warned us not to walk into the water.
At the other end of town we puzzled over houses overhanging the canal. They appeared medieval but couldn’t possibly date earlier than the industrial revolution.
Towards Brearley, the sprawling industrial estate buzzed with enterprise. A narrowboat looked marooned on waste ground. Attractive flood alleviation works were integrated with a new wetland nature reserve. Colonised by late spring growth, the marsh-loving birds were yet to come. The football pitch which always used to flood, had been moved and protected by levees.
It seemed to take a long time to reach the next lock. We took a much-needed rest while watching a yellow wagtail hop between the wooden struts and gammons navigating a barge through. Phil overheard them complaining about unpainted houseboats. “Said them on their expensive rental cruiser!”
We considered a number of options and decided to continue Luddenden Foot. Perusing heron nests on the way, we spotted one roosting but noted the may blossom less developed. Leaving the towpath at the next bridge, we had a short wait before a stifling bus journey back, prolonged by roadworks. But very weary, we were just grateful to be taken all the way home.
Emerging empty-handed, we found the others shut, dithered about what to do, then returned briefly to the packed square to buy pies for a handy lunch. We walked on the riverside and continued to the end of Victoria Road until it became a cul-de-sac. Hebden Water gushed enthusiastically beyond a low stone wall. Ubiquitous Himalayan Balsam sprouted amid rusting car wrecks. Piles of tyres were artily arranged in front of patchwork buildings.
Overgrown stone steps took us past the glorious sycamore up to a rough path. Dodging a couple of women conversing on the corner, we turned left and paused to catch our breath. Here, the balsam grew tall, lower stems entwined with bindweed, providing a foreground for lines of terraced houses climbing the hills.
A resplendent rhododendron marked the start of the path. Curly ferns provided highlights of yellow against green verges. Small groups of children clutched picnic blankets on their way up to grassy fields. We followed the curves of New Road towards Old Chamber, laughing at local signs telling motorists to ‘turn back’ – very local! At the bridge, we stopped to take in the pastoral scenes. Lambs quickly scarpered across a small field, spooked by a family obviously not used to walking, yelping as they picked their way down the stony path below. “Something tells me that’s a new hobby for them.” I commented. Phil sniggered but I reminded him “there was a time when you considered going to the pub on the canal ‘a walk’. We all have to start somewhere!” At the far end of the field, a brave lamb stared at me curiously over the wall.
At Old Chamber, more lambs were penned into a small triangle. Were they in quarantine? Nearby, a mountain of hardcore was dumped in front of a ruined farm building. On the other side of the valley, a bright yellow air ambulance flew above Midgeley Moor. The honesty box remained open with signs instructing users to enter one at a time. We peered in to see only eggs for sale; sensible to not offer cups of tea right now, I guess.
We skirted Wood Top Farm and turned left onto the beautiful grassy lane to the old quarry. Glade-like in the arid conditions, a variety of implements suggested recent gardening activity. Entering Crow Nest Wood, dappled lighting created a restful ambience. We rested on the almost-dry waterfall where barely a trickle flowed in the brook. Miniscule flowers of white and yellow bloomed beneath fading bluebells. We marvelled anew at the trees simultaneously dead and alive. Probably the case in all woodland, it always struck us particularly in this one; maybe because we knew it so well. Mouldy mushrooms inhabited the rotten lower trunks while new oak leaves sprouted from higher branches. One such tree resembled a wraith performing a dance macabre in the wispy air.
We paused at the chapel where cultivated purple aquilegia competed for space with yellow wild poppies and dandelions in the untended garden. At the marina, we spotted geese, pigeons, a wagtail, a pile of pallets and a small family squatting on the cobbles, but no goslings. Walking back to the park entrance, a man sat on the cinema steps. Still talking into his phone, he abruptly stood and strode in our direction necessitating a sudden dodge.
Exiting onto the towpath, signs redolent of Royston Vasey proclaimed ‘local use only’. Fish swam beneath bright ripples in the canal, but still no sign of goslings. Turning towards Mayroyd, we climbed onto the lock, avoiding another small family. A layer of scum and fallen blossom coated the water, blocking any view of wild life. The way ahead seemed rather busy. We retreated and stayed on the left side hoping to avoid busier stretches, taking the steps up to Palace House Road. Peeking over the wall down onto the canal at Hebble End, there were still no pesky goslings!
We gave all a wide berth and walked through clouds of floating dandelion seeds and upon the fading chalk art, to the end of the street, giggling at pathetic bunting in ‘Brexit Close’. We took The Buttress down to the Packhorse Bridge, and into the square where a solitary figured occupied a bench. I discovered later that an anti-lockdown demo, consisting of 8 sociopathic hippies had taken place. Getting a few errands, we popped in the fancy wine shop to smirk at the exorbitant prices and dance to Sister Sledge and purchased the fabled goat meat from the very local butchers.
We crossed to the other side of the lock again, evading the idiotic bank holiday smokers and drinkers, and enjoying a quiet patch of sunlight until the coast cleared. Continuing past Hebble End, the angry white geese noisily defended their territory against half-breed ducks. One, a mix of mallard and runner duck, swam in an ungainly fashion, struggling to keep its long neck up . At the next exit point, we walked down a dirt track housing half-demolished vans, to the river and spotted a wagtail hopping from rock to rock.
We enjoyed a long overdue picnic lunch in the warm sunshine, realising it was the first time since early March we had bought ‘lunch out’. Discussing the recent Cummings farrago, we agreed the cat was out of the bag now. Although physical distancing was not being totally ignored, friendship groups had definitely formed. I learnt the art beloved of Daily Mail photographers, misleading the viewer into thinking small clumps of people were actually one seething mass. An infamous local character staggered from one group to another, wearing a mask round his chin. Phil suggested his keyworker probably put a stack in his house to protect the rest of us!
At the boundary, more Margarites grew in hard gravel also home to a smattering of clover and trefoil. We crossed the main road to the ancient hamlet of Hawksclough and walked home via the Sustrans cycle path. As the habitat changed, so did the flora. Bright kingcups dazzled beside grey granite while fading wild garlic and miniscule blooms stretched upwards in the shade of riverside trees.
The bus emptied at Old Town, leaving us alone to travel to the terminus. Awe-struck by the moorland landscape, we lingered to take photos. My camera strap broke again and Phil fixed it for me (I was not having much luck doing it myself).
We continued to Haworth Old Road where an old waymarker had been attractively re-painted; the writing picked out in bold lack against a stark white background. We turned sharp right onto the road, then left. Grassy Small Shaw Lane zig-zagged downwards, edged by tall evergreens and punctuated by signs declaring the land private and forbidding cycling. At the bottom we were confronted by a large house. A sign directed us left onto a small path. As a couple with a dog exited a gate, we checked with them that the route was passable.
We soon emerged in the moor-like field which I remembered, particularly the ruins and a good large rock, ideal for a lunch stop. We made our way up to eat our pies, finding it had become much more overgrown in the intervening years, with heather, moss, lichen and pixie cups.
We continued, through the next gate into dark woodland where the red floor contrasted with deep green foliage. At the start of the old mill ponds, felled trees thwarted our attempts to find a downward path.
He came over and was taken by the posh pie stall with a massive queue of punters being fleeced (which later prompted us to consider ideas for selling stuff to idiots). I said he would be better off going to the bakers, where we bought pastries at a third of the price. We then walked up to Commercial Street and admired structured flower beds and bees.
A more pleasant distraction was found in a moth that resembled a leaf. As it settled on a nearby plant, we vied with each other for the best spot to get a close-up shot. My efforts were appalling but earlier I had captured a tiny moth among a clump of small white flowers.
Cool Places - Our Back Yard 