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.