Long Way to Heptonstall

A patchily sunny mid-August weekday, we walked a round-about way to Heptonstall.  Starting riverside, we picked the first blackberries of the year, then climbed Foster Mill Bridge and the slippery steps.  Garnished with Himalayan balsam, I carefully gathered a few pods on the way through Hollins.  A while since we travelled this route, we recalled the first turn up the woodland path onto Lee Road, but not the second and continued to Northwell Lane.

Attractively thin trees lined the crazy-paved cobbles, traversed by linear runnels and roots.  Mistakenly turning right at the next junction, the path narrowed, making pod-collecting easy as the balsam literally lay in our way, but navigation tricky, especially as our exit was hidden behind a thick trunk.  Squeezing past, we found a snicket onto Draper Lane.  Further up than intended, I suggested walking down to Tinker Bank Lane but Phil was in favour of carrying on, albeit uncertain of our location.  I assured him he’d soon recognise the route to the mysterious stones.  On reaching the telltale clutch of signs, we crossed Draper Lane (busier than usual due to gasworks on Heptonstall Road), and a stile into meadows.

Panoramic views revealed Hardcastle Crags, Shackleton and the line of Hebden Water.  Evocative-shaped clouds floated like candy floss in the azure.  Sturdy gateposts stood detached from drystone walling.  A pair of women and kids picnicked and a dog bounded up.  I was secretly thankful it was theirs and not an irate farmer’s!  St. Thomas’ church tower hove into view as we proceeded towards outlying houses. On Towngate, we entered The Cross Inn and took pints to the beer garden.  Two men hogged the only sunny table so we settled for shade  A cheery woman came out to remark “It’s lovely here” and take phone snaps.  Very chatty, she elicited the men were from Leeds and had been hiking in the crags.  She had come over from Sheffield for a mooch round Hebden before visiting the churchyard. “Did you see the grave?” “Yes, but that’s not why I came.” “Yeah, right!”  We discussed the increasing busyness of Hebden, house prices, brutalist architecture, upcoming daytrips and the grimness of her home town of Middlesbrough.

Phil bought more beer but as it became chilly, we headed out front where the sun still shone and perched on a wooden ledge enjoying early evening warmth.  Hungry and slightly tipsy, we walked down the closed road to observe the gasworks holes.  A couple strode past, sarcastically commenting it was coming on well.  From The Buttress, Phil detoured on an errand.  I was soon home, only to realise I’d forgot my keys and waited for him on the garden bench. The woman next door appeared and remarked “ At least you can rest.” “True.” 

Unsure if it was the prolonged pub stay, that night, I started to feel ill and spent a week in bed.

Rake Forage 2

Mentioned in a foraging book acquired at Christmasⁱ, we bought an inexpensive berry picker for the 2023 harvest.  On the cusp of a heatwave the previous year, this time we had to wait for respite from incessant rain.  Towards Crow Nest, bees flitted between large marguerites and pesky round beech nuts hampered the climb through the west end of the wood. 

To avoid muddy fields, we kept to New Road where a smattering of shrubs enabled a successful trial of the gadget.  On proceeding, a couple we recognised stood in the centre of the road as she retrieved the berries she’d dropped. “You want one of these!” I laughed, brandishing the useful implement.  She’d mainly been foraging ‘pineapple weed’.  “What’s that?” She pointed to ubiquitous plants bearing small round yellow flowers sprouting among the chippings (i.e., wild camomile). 

We continued past Old Chamber to The Rake.  Phil commandeered the picker while I got purple hands manually plucking low-hanging juicy fruits.  Initially in a good spot, he moved up to a section with a narrower verge.  His rucksack dumped on tarmac, I hastily shifted it when a car unexpectedly approached.  Getting fatigued, I declared it was enough and double-bagged the haul – an impressive 2 lb.  A leisurely stroll back allowed us to admire dramatic skyscapes, stunning views, oversized lambs, and bleached petrified trees resembling llama heads.

Rinsing the berries, I observed the tool combed up leaves and tiny green berries among ripe ones.  A small caterpillar almost evaded me.  The critter wiggled on my fingernail as Phil opened the door so I could rehome it outside.

May Belles

The after-effects of bad colds lingered into early May.  However, we were inspired to make an effort Tuesday, by Ray Mears extoling the health benefits of woodlands on breakfast telly.  As grey skies brightened in time for a late afternoon walk, we set off for Nutclough, detouring on Valley Road to watch falling cherry blossom before heading along Foster Lane to find hidden gammon enclaves, cluttered ginnels, clay animal ornaments, and flowers springing from every crack.

Roofing underway on the old tavern, building material strew the clough’s main entrance.  Anxious to escape the noise and dust, I hastened past the creaky iron gates into the quiet oasis.  Curly ferns bedecked mossy walls.  Fluorescent lichen covered rotting stumps.  Beech babies sprouted from layers of decaying leaves.  Bees feasted on bright yellow dandelions and celandine, shiny wood anemones and ultra-violet bluebells.

The water copious, it was hard to imagine we’d walked up the dry brook only last summer.  Able to reach ‘the islands’ in stages, we enjoyed an extensive pootle among deep green wild iris yet to bloom and spongy earth, spotting a yellow wagtail perched on a rock and picking a few garlic leaves.

We then hopped back to ascend the higher path and wait for a man to move off the stone bridge, only for him to plonk on the bench to read.  Stymied, we continued to Sandy Gate and rested on the wall opposite Hirst Meadow.  Newly-planted trees held out a future promise of free fruit and nuts.  Cutting through the small steps at Birchcliffe, white bells and primroses looked stark against dominant greens and blues.

Too nice for a boring shopping trip as intended Wednesday, we opted to stay in the valley.  Hoping for lunch at May’s Farm Shop before a downhill walk, we waited at the bus stop where Walking Friend’s neighbour fed posh bread to the geese.  The bus then sailed past displaying ‘not in service’!  Anxious to get home, The Neighbour rang a taxi but with a longer wait than for the next bus, we wished her luck.  Getting hungry, we abandoned our plan, scanned diminished pie supplies in Saker and went in the co-op for meal deals.  Taking backstreets to the towpath, we gawped at a bloke stupidly teetering on the aqueduct wall on the way to the park.  Eating on wooden seating beside the café, we shielded our food from roaming dogs before walking on the back path and up to the station, diverted by ivory nettle and garlic blooms, trumpeting cowslips and candle-like laurel blossom.

On the Sustrans Path, we eschewed a garlic forage and continued to a meadow of emerald grass and perky dandelions.  Crossing Carr Lane Bridge, I struggled on the upward stretch and stopped for a closer look at pungent herb Robert, and again at the corner of Wood Top where clumps of indigo forget-me-nots and bluebells fed the ravenous bees.  From the lovely grassy lane, we took the path atop the old quarry and Crow Nest Wood, gorgeously smattered with flora dancing beneath twisty trees.  In the wood, we perched on deadwood opposite the small waterfall, revelling in quietude and solitude before crossing the stream to be surrounded by bluebells.

Hearing the bleat of new-borns, Phil clambered up to the field wall and I peered over the next stile.  Neither of us sighting lambs, I lost sight of him.  No answer to my calls, he eventually hove into view, saying I’d missed him falling on his arse: “Most undignified!” “There’s nobody here to see!”  The downward path tricky with felled trunks and thick mulch, we held back at seeing a sheepdog scampering at the bottom before proceeding to Palace House Road.  Approaching home, we noted the splendid hawthorn at the top of the street.  Having walked past it the previous day, the Mayflower was better admired from afar.

Sunday, we wandered into town via Oldgate, where emerging golden poppies and dandelions going to seed, wafted in the warm breeze.  The centre rammed during the extra bank holiday weekend, families crowded on the wavy steps, kids paddled in Hebden Water and reddening drinkers spilled from pub patios to pavement.  We escaped down Dickensian Garden Street, peered at the mysterious well and used an overgrown shortcut to Albert Street.  Feeling hot, I rued bringing a coat and sympathised with an old mate, also over-dressed.  After a chat, we left her to her errands and headed for the riverside path.  Resplendent in foliage, the familiar blue and white bells were joined by pale pinks.

Fairly busy with walkers, the pebbly beach was deserted, allowing us to drink in the restful rippling water reflecting leafy branches above red-iron stones.  As fish leapt to snap at insects, a primitive dragonfly leapt from stone to stone, attempting to take flight.  At the bowling hut, we crossed onto the CROWS path for a shady return.  The old mill ruins garlanded with anemones and creeping buttercup, unreachable wild garlic spread unmolested in the swamp-like ponds.

Finding The Light (Eaves Wood to Heptonstall)

The end of February intermittently cold, grey stuff drifted in the valley Sunday morning.  Amidst the mizzle, a bright spell tempted us on a short walk to Heptonstall.  As we climbed the Cuckoo Steps and onto the ridge, the damp dullness returned.  Muted tones of grey and brown merged into powder blue in the distance.  At the stone gatepost, we reconsidered the purpose of the unexplained steps and waited for half a dozen dorky mountain-bikers to pass before continuing to the disused quarry.

A colonnade of skinny birch trees framed the hewn rock, filtering scant light into slithers of silver.  Hell Hole Rocks initially unoccupied, we lingered to take a closer look but it wasn’t long before people and dogs arrived.  We puffed and panted up the stone steps and paused at ‘photographers corner’ to catch our breath and atmospheric views with Stoodley Pike and wind turbines barely visible on the hazy horizon.  Passing through the wooden gate, we tramped the narrow path to the nascent tree plantation where a new bench was dedicated to covid victims.  Round the corner, we dawdled up Southfield, laughing at a field full of bathtubs – was it a lame museum? – and noting a smattering of pussy willows, snowdrops, crocuses and primroses lighting up dark verges. 

Too chilly to sit in the churchyard, we headed instead for The Cross Inn, Altered since our last visit, an acquaintance who made old coins into jewellery, showed us a black sheep logo fashioned from a silver crown and reliably informed us as snow was forecast, the spring flowers would be dead by tomorrow.  Very Yorkshire!  Escaping the rugby, we sat under an umbrella in the beer garden where Phil made price comparisons with extortionate Leeds and related tales of lost pubs.  As he went to the loo, a woman peered through the back gate and asked me: “Have you seen Marguerite?” “No.”  And when Phil re-appeared, as did a man, pacing and smoking.  Soon joined by a fellow, Phil said I’d missed a fight between elderly geezers who’d spent the previous evening drinking and snorting.  We took the quickest way home via the main road and The Buttress, stopping briefly to admire a neat row of snowdrops and to warm up in a dazzling patch on Hangingroyd Road, just before the sun dipped behind the hills.

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?

Autumn Woods Medley

The seasons slow to turn, early October stayed warm and sunny.  We took a Friday afternoon walk in warm sunshine.  Town packed, we visited a couple of shops before finding pies for lunch.  We ate in the park, noting slowly turning trees and bemoaned the mowing of wildflower patches.  Heading up Wood Top, Boar goats grazed in lush fields.  We cut through the farm buildings onto the beautiful grassy lane where unripe brambles clung in the hedgerows, and turned left onto the top of the old quarry where impromptu streams and nettles made the going tricky.  Striding ahead, Phil came back to help me, getting stung in the process.  Hot and sweaty, I squatted on a wall to recover before going down to the oddly empty waterfall.

Shady Crow Nest Wood displayed a few signs of autumn in the form of acorns and beech detritus but disappointingly no fungi.  We kept to the top line all the way to the druid stones.  Deep shadows gave the treeline an eerie aspect and elongated our profiles.  After taking the scary rutted path home, I collapsed on the sofa, feeling slightly out of breath which was meant to be good I believe!

Two days later, we enjoyed a pootle in Nutclough.  Having the place to ourselves for a while, we explored the swamp, noted new streams and tried to capture leaves falling in the gentle breeze before crossing haphazard stepping-stones.  Oak sprigs scattered the shrunken small islands.  Tiny fish swam beneath layers of decaying leaves.  Rotting mushrooms of ivory and tan sprouted from deadwood.

The sunken bench now almost totally submerged, I found it rather trickier crossing back to sit on the higher bench.  A passing hiking group speculated on creation of the landscape.  I confirmed it was once a millrace. Walking up the top path, crimson leaves littered the path.  Clumps of pink fungi clung to thick trunks.  Foaming water gushed beneath the stone bridge.  A thoughtful man with child and dog stepped aside for us.

We climbed up Sandy Gate, savouring sun and wind in our faces and kicking crunchy leaves in the gutter.  Cutting the corner off using the small steps at the Birchcliffe Centre, the same man ascended giving us chance to return the favour.  The old chapel no longer advertised a free school but a ‘to let’ sign for the hostel left us wondering how that worked?  Town heaving as ever, we ducked through an arch for supplies from the convenience store.

Life conspired against us meaning no walks for the best part of a month.  At the start of November, we re-visited Lumb Bank (see Copperopolis) and the following week, caught the last two hours of sunshine on a glorious Saturday.  Hurrying through the ridiculously heaving town centre, we hiked up School Street and into Common Bank Wood.  The mellowing canopy visible from our street, it didn’t disappoint close up.  Predominated by beech and oak, fading greens and pale yellows were punctuated by golden oranges.  Branches coiled upwards straining for the blue.  Foliage rustled in a gentle breeze.  Saplings sprouted on the loamy banks.

Stopping often on the almost-black muddy path, we stepped aside as a pregnant woman in pagan apparel, accompanied by a man and a woman with a camera, tripped downwards.  The latter smiled at us: “A lovely day for pictures!”  Was it a belated Samhain photo-shoot?  The full stream easy to navigate using large stones and a wooden bridge, we continued up between fields of large goats and sheep with curly horns.  Two Asian women stood near the top gate, doing selfies and giggling.  “We’ll never know why that’s so funny!” observed Phil.  Finding the climb up Wadsworth Lane taxing, we took a breather on the bench at the corner before continuing to Rowlands Lane.

Below us, sunlight glinted on treetops in the valley.  Ahead, fluffy clouds sailed above Old Town mill.  Capturing the views, Phil clambered on a wall and cut his hand on the barbed wire.  I helped him patch the painful gash with tissue and hand gel which stung mightily.  I distracted him from the pain by pointing to the ground “mini apples!” “Oak apples.” “Do oaks have apples as well as acorns?” “No, it’s caused by a parasite.” “How odd. I’m not sure I’ve seen that before.”

At the end of the lane, we curved round onto Sandy Gate and took a slippery path into a squelchy Nutclough, looking markedly different a month on.  Carefully watching our footing, we got scared at the sight of two fierce-looking dogs but the family held them as we past.  Avoiding town, we went home via Valley Road.  I helped Phil unload so he could treat his injury more thoroughly.

Up the Hill Backwards – Heptonstall Circular

Summer stayed with us into September.  My ankle not hurting for two days, I bravely agreed to tackle The Buttress, garlanded in leafy greens and balsam pink.  Taking it slow, we rested briefly in the small graveyard and picked blackberries on Heptonstall Road before crossing for another climb up the winding stone steps.

Required to move twice from the same spot as a man then a woman descended, I wondered why he hadn’t warned me they were a couple!  Side-stepping two more walking groups, I remarked it was like Piccadilly Circus.  We took the signed footpath up to Southfield, admired valley views from the playing fields and walked up Longfield.  Thistle down resembled cotton wool balls in the hedgerows.  Enlarged rosehips looked more like tomatoes.  Garden escapees made uncannily geometric shapes.  Red admirals grazed on lilac buddleia.

Phil inexplicably wanted to visit Sylvia Plath in the larger graveyard.  I waited on a central Phil inexplicably wanted to visit Sylvia Plath’s resting place.  I waited on a central bench in the larger graveyard for him to locate it and couldn’t resist a sneaky peek in turn.  Precious stones and trinkets adorned the headstone.

We crossed to St. Thomas’ churchyard where sharp shadows made black lines against the bright sky and a scattering of coins were left for David Hartley.  The practice of making offerings to the dead rather mystified us.

We took a breather beneath a shady yew tree before exiting via the top gate, heading back through the estate and down to the rockface.  Pausing at yet more bramble bushes, a quartet of women eyed us in a concerned fashion.  “Oh! You’re blackberrying. We were worried when we saw the ‘sudden drop’ signs.”  “We haven’t dropped off the cliff,” I laughed, “But watch your step!”

Down in the woodland, we were arrested by fly agaric.  Never previously spotting the iconic red and white toadstools locally, I later discovered they signalled the imminence of autumn.   Observing we usually walked the other way up the ridge, I said it felt as though we’d gone up the hill backwards.

Reverting to the usual way up the following year, we had another forage.  Avoiding geese which now often gaggled on our street, we ascended the Cuckoo Steps and Heptonstall Road.  Phil immediately started picking blackberries.  Concerned about traffic pollution, I waited until we turned onto the woodland path.  Up on the ridge, ripe wild apples added to the freebie food.  A spider used its woven string to angle for unsuspecting insects.  Strong sun necessitated a hat and water.  Shadier passing the old quarry, we paused at Hell Hole Rocks to observe posh boy antics.  “Rupert Climbs!” I quipped.  We found slimmer pickings at photo corner and proceeded along the narrow path to Southfield where butterflies greedily sucked from buddleia.  In the churchyard, we sat on the bench beneath the severely hacked yew tree.

A pair of women wandered about.  “Are you looking for Sylvia Plath?” “No. David Hartley.”  As a family group arrived to do likewise, a toddler amused himself picking up pennies scattered on the grave and putting them down again.  A museum sign announced coiners history workshops, explaining why the village was infested.  There’d be even more when the TV drama was broadcast!  Emerging from West Laithe, we headed down the main road where pipeline excavations made a right mess of the cobbles.  But at least the road closure meant we could gather yet more berries without fear of poison.  Striding hikers asked what we would do with our sizeable haul.  “Dunno, crumble?”  in fact, after baking a humungous berry and apple treat, we had sufficient for jam too.  Experimenting with liqueur in the last smidge, Phil declared he’d invented ‘Jambuca’.  Not quite, but I saw no evidence on google that anyone had tried it with blackberries.  I would heartily recommend it!

Light and Dark

Utilising hot, dry July weather, we got on with DIY in the garden and made a couple of train trips but hadn’t taken any local walks.  Keen to get out after a period of debilitation and a wet start to August, we hoped the rain would hold off for a gentle walk along the canal.  We paused to pose on wicker chairs which residents of a nearby street had installed in front a sign proclaiming it a garden.

The towpath busy, a cruiser performing a 3-point turn attracted a small crowd.

Further down, the number of  posh barges had increased, some recognisable from a recent visit to Brighouse.  A shoal of barely discernible small fish pecked at flatbread on the dark water’s surface, giving the illusion of magically shrinking.  

Wildflowers provided lots of colour in the grassy banks.  Yellow ragwort, wild iris, orange corncrake, pink thistles and magenta willowherb held their own amongst pervasive Himalayan balsam.  A wooden hut looked as though a hobbit might reside within.  Sadly, it was just a shed.

At Fallingroyd Bridge, we navigated the dangerous stretch of road to turn right onto Carr Lane and crossed the railway line via the green bridge.  Ambling up the dirt track, no small birds could be seen or heard, in contrast to March.  We picked a few early blackberries on the way to Wood Top Farm.  We retreated from a brief by hastening up the grassy lane.  It promptly stopped as we stood aside for a group of mountain bikers.  Expecting they headed for the old quarry, the dank spot was deserted.  We rested on a relatively dry fallen silver birch.  Phil unable to find his baccy, he wasn’t sure if he’d brought it out and dropped it, forcing us to re-trace our steps.  Of course it was on the sofa where he’d left it!

Erringden Ellipse

Warm sunshine tempered by a pleasant breeze Spring Bank holiday Monday, we discussed options for an outing.  Phil searched for more magic stones, all some distance away while I perused the map.  Seeing a much closer outcrop labelled ‘Foster’s Stone’, I proposed a shorter walk to find it.  I assembled a makeshift lunch before we headed to the other side of the valley.  On Palace House Road, fallen fluffy catkins resembled dust on the pavement.  We crossed to take upward paths and scenes of heaving streets in the town below, a riot of bluebells giving the illusion of violet fields and jackdaws hopping between scattered stones.  Meadows on the hillside beyond shone gold with wild buttercups.

Climbing up the western edge of Crow Nest, a man built a fire, which seemed odd on a hot day.  Emerging on New Road, we eschewed the lumpy grass option and continued on cobbles.  Shocking pink clover and yellow dandelions splattered the verges.  Downy seed heads formed perfect circles.

Old Chamber quite busy with campers, we peeped in the honesty box but finding only eggs on sale, didn’t fancy carting them round all afternoon.

We ascended gently up Back Lane, pursued by a teenager on an undersized motorbike and through a gate into fields where strange mounds and spooky dead trees evoked the holy land.

Passing through another gate, we found ourselves at right angles to the path from the pylon.  We turned left alongside stone walls and across several more stiles than I recalled, to eventually meet up with the next junction.  A sheepdog squatted on the corner of Pinnacle Lane.  Not wanting to be rounded up, we waited behind a creaky metal gate for the accompanying human to appear before proceeding.

Picturesque to start, the last part of the lane proved tricky.  Nasty flies lurked in a muddy quagmire as a group of walkers with a tiny dog came the opposite way, requiring some dodging.

We turned right through a notably new wooden gate, and searched for a suitable picnic spot alongside the brook.  Among the mysterious rocks, we espied a nice flat one and stepped carefully between tussocks and delicate cuckoo flowers, buzzing with bees and small heath butterflies

After eating, we followed the tree line along the top of Horsehold Wood, gazing down on more bluebells clumping hazily amid tall grass.

Phil thought he spotted Foster’s Stone, but with other outcrops nearby as well as apparently carved stones, it was hard to be sure.   They required examination from the lower paths when we next ventured into the woods.

Approaching the last gate, a sharp pain in my foot necessitated a pause to remove a sharp plant spike.  Our knees ached taking the final steep descent on Horsehold Road.  We paused at a field where supine sheep grazed on overgrown grass.  A mother and lamb lay comically at right angles. “Push-me-pull-ewe!” The breeze refreshing up Erringden, it dropped significantly lower down, making us rather hot. Luckily, we made it home before heatstroke set in.

Luddenden Foot via Brearley

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.