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.

Midgley Moor Revisited

On officially the hottest March day since 1968, we decided it was about time we re-visited Midgley Moor.  We set off for the square, got pasties from the bakers and rounded the corner to wait for a bus up to Lane Ends.  Alighting at the Hare and Hounds, we retraced the route we took in 2016, up Popples Lane towards Dick Lane, and turned left until we reached the track opposite a farmhouse up to the gate signed Calderdale Way.  A jogger descending the moor left the gate off the latch as she saw us approach, wishing us a good walk.  Their size resembling cattle from a distance, large sheep scarpered from the path as others eyed us warily from the feeder in an adjacent field.  As we headed upwards, upcoming heather stretched towards the horizon dominated by the windmills of Ovenden Moor.

On the ridge, emerald patches of grasses and moss punctuated lines of russet, burnt sienna and yellow ochre.  We left the main path for less navigable boggy patches, moor ponds and tussocks, to peruse the plethora of mysterious stones.  Many remembered from our last visit, the expanse of stone circles and monoliths seemed more remarkable than ever.  Spotting the familiar Greenwood Stone from the carved date 1777, we made use of it to shelter from the stiff breeze and ate our pasties.  Lost in a world of wonder, we hadn’t noticed hard-looking sheep staring at us in a warning fashion.  “I think we’d better go. They obviously think they own the place.”  “Well, they kind of do.”  We walked in a straight line to the large boulder (identified previously as Robin Hood’s Pennystone).  The legendary outlaw may or may not have been a giant, but superhuman strength was certainly required to haul it into place.  A little further behind, we explored Miller’s Grave and wondered over smaller stones scattered upon the landscape before returning to the main path via a cleared stretch, enjoying the crunch of desiccated heather roots underfoot.

Although fairly certain of the direct route, we double-checked with a couple striding down the slope.  At the trig point, late afternoon sun made angular shadows against chalky white.  Curlews swooped and hovered in an azure sky, almost within touching distance.  As the paths diverged again, we veered right, not caring we would bypass churn milk Joan.   Narrow paths led down towards Old Town.  As a fence barred our way, Phil thought we had to double-back to the golf course and started climbing.  A Tornado jet roared past.  It looked so close, I ducked!  Glancing behind, a man ran across a stile and grateful for confirmation of a right of way, we descended to the rutted farm track.  Worse for wear but not too muddy, we continued alongside a field bizarrely displaying ‘no person’ signs.  “What are the stiles meant to be for? Sheep?” 

At the corner of the field, a narrower path led straight down to Heights Road where a bus whizzed by.  We proceeded to the pub to find the couple we’d seen on the moor chatting to the driver of a car in the middle of the lane.  From the carpark, I noseyed over to a friend’s garden but was unable to see her.  The male half of the couple greeted us.  It turned out they now owned the pub and gave us some gen on re-opening and extending the patio since the pigs had gone to Cragg Vale (no doubt to be made into sausages).  Tired and thirsty, we squatted on a wall a little further down.  Phil asked if it was the right place for the bus.  “No, but I don’t know when the next one is.”  At that moment, one stopped on Billy Lane.  Cursing, we tried to run up to the corner but didn’t make it.  More swearing ensued as we moodily made our way down the road on foot, cutting the corner at Birchcliffe.  We were soon back in town where we were stopped by an acquaintance wanting prints of photos we’d taken of his houseboat and made a quick visit to the shop before wearily trudging home.