Ghosts of Eaves (Eaves Wood)

Thinking it would be quicker, we reverted to the tried and tested route for the usual Eaves Wood forage. But the going was slow, mainly due to strong winds. Climbing the ridge, clouds scudded and catkins prematurely came unstuck from swaying branches. I swayed almost as much while Phil tried out the video function on his new camera. We slogged up past Hell Hole Rocks and stood briefly at ‘photo corner’. A daffodil clump lent a hint of yellow to a drab vista. Behind us, empty garden swings moved back and forth as though occupied by ghosts.

Proceeding along the flat tops, the invisible gusts became more violent and may have blown us off if they were easterlies. I clutched spindly heather well away from the edge waiting for a walking group to pass. Calmer in Eaves Wood, the spring gushed like a tap. Phil hesitated at the squelchy slope. I grabbed a stick to test the ground and help us reach the garlic.

Backs aching from picking, we walked on the middle path to our preferred sitting rock which was piled with detritus. We chose a mossy stone as an alternative and took in the restful scene. Fungi decayed on silver birch. Slender trunks vied for light. Stoodley Pike appeared wraith-like between monochrome trees. The peace was disturbed by a small dog bounding and sniffing at us before impatiently herding a lagging couple.

As we continued down the long stairway to Eaves, brightening skies highlighted surreally vivid mosses and emerging bilberry blossom. Based on last July’s failed expedition, we guessed the deer who haunted the place would get the berries before us.

Clapped Out (Colden Clough)

Despite achiness and fatigue, we embarked on our first spring forage on a rare dry and sunny March Sunday. Going to Colden Clough, we paused at Bankfoot. Moss lay in carpets on the turreted bridge over Colden Water. Mysterious holes pock-marked the abutting wall. Their original purpose was uncertain . At Eaves, a woman ushered a group of variously sized children from the playground up to the top track. A boy adoringly lifted the tiniest girl up the steepest steps.

‘Flood management’ at Lumb Mill resulted in hacked trees and a collapsed wall next to the chimney. Dismayed by the scene, we splashed through water over the small arched bridge, then slogged up the stoney path, squelched in a mire and crunched through copper beach leaves striated with sharp shadow lines near the hermit cave.

The wild garlic patch had expanded but most plants grew down the precipitous slope and could not be safely reached. As the leaves were quite small this early in the season, we picked sparingly from those that could and found we had enough energy to continue walking.

A pickle of tumbled stone momentarily confused us at the tree root steps. Golden celandine, buttery catkins and a bright new wooden fence gleamed in the light, guiding us to Hebble Hole. On the clapper bridge, we noted repairs were now undetectable. Resting on a rock, we were enjoying the quiet company of the tripping brook when a couple turned up. After allowing their dog a quick dip, they departed, to be replaced by a bemused spaniel searching for his human until he hove into view.

To avoid the worst of the mud on the return, we used the top causeway, where bare trees still exuded a wintry feel despite clear blue skies overhead. As stamina dissipated, we felt clapped out and plodded along the last stretch home.