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.
As we set off on a bright Saturday late February, I stopped down the road to chat to an elderly neighbour sweeping outside her house and Phil craned to watch rooks flying overhead. We then proceeded through the heaving town centre. Red faces festooned the pub in the square, implying an early start to weekend drinking.
At the top, we lingered to look at the stone trough and bricked-up doors in the wall opposite before crossing Keighley Road and climbing the cobbles to School Street. Hoping for a closer view, the sharp incline of Bankside took us behind Stubbings School. Unfamiliar with the back alleys, we escaped via a snicket and wended to Common Bank Wood where barriers signified fiddling was still underway.
Shadows spiralled up bare trunks of drastically thinned out trees, their skeletal branches fingering Fairweather clouds. The paths sticky with mud and stepping-stones impeded by deliberately placed sticks, I became anxious and froze before managing to jump over the small stream by grabbing Phil’s hand.
The path to Dod Naze also squelchy, I stuck to the side and pulled myself along wire running atop the fence, noting no lambs only rams in the fields. Hot and tired from the effort, we rested on the bench at the corner, surrounded by vibrant crocus and valley views, and stripped outerwear. A man with a very small child, much faster than us despite small legs, overtook us. Up the steps to Rowland Lane, panoramas of Heptonstall and Old Town fanned upwards, the horizon dominated by Old Town Mill.
Utilising the shortcut from Lane Ends, stones on the path kept mud at bay as we mused on the provenance of old-sounding names such as Foot Kiln, Top Oth Croft and, on Billy Lane, Top Oth Hill. We rang a friend’s doorbell but getting no answer, continued to Old Town Post Office. The young man at the café counter informed us there was no sandwich bread because the cyclists ate it all. The substitute sticky ginger cake proved delicious. Phil commented it was like being on holiday. “It always is round here,” I replied, “There are pros and cons.” We cleared our pots to the counter, complemented the cake, browsed the shop where we learnt three curlews had just flown over the moor, and asked to use facilities. Locked as the café prepared to close, they gave us the key to the loo in the garden from where we heard the curlews. They had obviously decided it was spring.
The temperature dropped beneath ominous skies shrouding Stoodley Pike as we exited onto Billy Lane and down Sandy Gate. We made brief stops to redon layers, laugh at more dubious-sounding names, make small-talk with an art acquaintance, and examine a curious mix of winter and spring flora. Withered roses shared thorny stalks with fresh-looking rosehips while green moss conquered deadwood. We took the shortcut at Birchcliffe and avoided the busy town by taking back routes home.
Realising roadworks would make for a slow ride, later in May, we again ditched the idea of catching the Colden bus, bought co-op meal deals and proceeded up Fountain Street awash with poppies, to the towpath, awash with marguerites. Painter Friend strolled over Blackpit Lock. “Have you finished early?” I asked. “Yes; I started early. Six hours painting windows – boring!” “I know. I’ve been doing it in our bathroom.” “I’m going to sit in the sun now.” She meant the pub. We sat on the centre cube opposite the café to eat and watch the park antics. Excited kids licked ice cream. A hippy spent an age erecting a pop-up tent. Too lazy to return a stick to its owner, a sheepdog crouched on the grass. We walked up to the station where wild geraniums outshone cultivated flowerbeds. Taking close-ups, I noticed a desire path down to the river but thought better of exploring. On Wood Top Road, the concrete surface was patterned with misty shadows of fern and leafy beech. At Wood Top Farm, grass and buttercups swayed in the meadow and goats the size of small cows grazed the hedgerows.
Continuing to turn left at Wood Hey Lane, leading to Park Lane and onto Nest Lane, splendid hawthorn and blackthorn blossom created garlanded arches. White ransoms, wood anemones, pink herb Robert and violet alkanet enjoyed the shade of the dark green right-hand verge. On the left, cow parsley wafted in bright sunlight. Hikers were dissuaded from supposed public footpaths by signs warning of dogs.
In Mytholmroyd, we visited the Shoulder of Mutton. Newly painted by the new owners (and twinned with its namesake in Hebden), food serving times were extended. A pity they weren’t updated on google as we may have had a pub lunch instead of butties, the landlady told us they currently offered a limited menu, but it would improve following an upcoming midweek closure.
We took pints outside to make use of extended seating alongside Elphin Brook. As miniscule brick mites and beetles crawled on the table, a fly landed on Phil’s eyelid. Below us, insects skimmed the water and a variety of wildflowers populated the bank. Unfortunately, a safety window mitigated against photos of a passing duck family consisting of a dozen adorable ducklings.
Walking through the village centre, we made a small detour to examine a wrecked house, concluding it was probably demolished for the flood defences. On the busy, noisy main road, Phil nipped in the crap Sainsburys before we escaped up Acre Villas back onto the canal for a welcome return to quiet greenery and blossom scents. A woman fed bread to a pair of Canada geese in hot pursuit. “You’ll never get rid of them now,” I laughed. “Yes, they’ve been following me all day!” Nearer home, we paused to admire raspberry-coloured rhododendron, which looked very tasty but probably weren’t!
Recovering from head-colds, we hankered for more autumn colour on a bright mid-November Saturday. The town centre rammed with tourists, a group of Americans wore actual cowboy gear. We climbed up School Street, into Common Bank Wood and suddenly came to a dead end. Where had the path gone? I exploratively clambered seemingly haphazard felled trees. Phil feared a squeeze through holly bushes and returned to the corner to see a machinery-created ledge obscuring the path proper. The familiar route littered in red, skinny trunks leaned skyward on the slope, their crowns wreathed in copper, lime and taupe.
The woodland dramatically thinned out for leaky dams, Phil giggled: “Cranky dams more like! And what do they mean non-native beech? Damn them Neolithics with their European imports!” But the scampering squirrels seemed to like them. As the path became slushy, large rocks made the brook passable. The warmth intensified between the fields. We paused to de-layer, examine variegated withering brambles and mini round apples, windfalls turning from yellow red; with rot rather than ripeness, and laugh at huge ram’s testicles. “Yum! Tasty!” At Dodd Naze, we crossed Wadsworth Lane for a closer look at shimmering, golden ‘shrooms bursting from a tree stump and rested on the bench, enjoying sun on our faces and views down the valley.
Rowland Lane often deserted, a small family trailed us and two women with a dog passed by, closely followed by a runner. Willowy trees reached into the azure. Curious crows atop poles gazed down at our long afternoon shadows. Fast-flowing water turned the ditch into a veritable river. I reminded Phil to avoid the barbed wire as he climbed the precarious wall to capture pink clouds over Old Town mill.
Approaching the junction, a loud cock crow signified hens behind the farmhouse. The eggs in the honesty box were a welcome sight during a supermarket-driven shortage and much tastier than ram’s balls! Down Sandy Gate, spotted wimberries and inedible scarlet baubles interspersed the multi-coloured brambles.
We descended the slippery path into Nutclough, on schedule for softening light to varnish mellowing trees. I stopped to nurse a stitch. Manoeuvring to get the perfect shot, Phil elbowed me. Whether deliberate or accidental, I wasn’t pleased. The Printer striding past with a friend asked: “Are you getting good photos?” I hoped so, especially at the cost of pain. I sat briefly on a metal bench to recover before heading to Valley Road. Noticeably cooler as the sun dipped behind the hill, I put my jacket back on and observed our near-perfect timing. Phil detoured for an errand. Gone awhile, he’d battled with the throngs. I had suggested the co-op – once through an infested town on a fine weekend was enough.
Rushing headlong into the wind on a late April Friday, we barely stopped to greet new people moving into the street or admire the profusion of riverside spring flowers. On reaching Midgehole Road, the gusts dropped and the sun blazed, necessitating the stripping of outerwear. Taking the top track to Gibson Mill, we gauged the distance slightly more than the proclaimed mile from Hardcastle Crags’ main gate. Seating occupied, we squatted on a hollow tree stump to eat butties before approaching the mill building.
Project workers welcomed us to the Land Marks exhibition preview and our workshop leader directed us to the middle floor where we found our group’s photos and poems adorning the outer walls of small sheds. Unfortunate window reflections impaired photography. We exchanged a few words with fellow participants and politely extricated ourselves from an over-friendly acquaintance. Of other group displays, children’s print work stood out. We congratulated the friendly printer responsible. I loved that one kid made a print of Blackpool; nothing says nature like Blackpool!
Further up the track, outdoor installations featured groupwork of wood, natural paint and ceramics. Hanging from a gnarly spruce, they twinkled and tinkled in the breeze. Art appreciation over, we lingered to peruse a downcast wicker shire horse, a dead trunk defiantly sprouting fresh sprigs and children building woodland dens.
On the other side of the track, a signpost indicated ‘ The Crags’. Realising we’d never investigated the actual crags before, we ascended the steps. Turning from wood and gravel to stone, the path climbed between spindly silver birch, leafy fruit shrubs and carefully curated millstone grit. The Victorian curious ended in a dicey overhang. Boot prints on the polished grey surface hinted at past feats of daring.
We returned to the mill for facilities and pop before embarking on a protracted route back alongside Hebden Water. Tall firs made avenues of rusty tracks. Wood anemones looked freshened by gushing springs. Twisty trees were mirrored in bankside hollows. Profusive wild garlic carpeted the slope. Flagging in the heat, we rested on a bench to recover. With very little back support, I thought we’d chosen poorly until a flash of white in the river drew my eye. Phil said I imagined it when a heron stealthily hopped among the rocks toward the weir in search of prey.
Several ups and downs involving steps and tricky slopes, the walk took much longer than anticipated. As the picnic area signalled journey’s end, Phil complained we still had to get home. Passing the small bridge pleasingly decorated with violas and squeezing through the gap in the wall, we climbed the small path up from Midgehole, much steeper and muddier than last time we used it. On gaining Lee Wood, he conceded it was quicker overall. From The Buttress, I hurried home to unshod hot, tired feet. Phil went to the shop, where he ran into the over-friendly acquaintance again and bought yet more half-price Easter eggs and extra garlic.
In a bitterly cold mid-January, the sun unusually shone into the afternoon. Our first walk of the year began by getting pies from the bakers in the square and heading to the park. Too many excitable dogs on the football pitch for my liking, we proceeded to Mayroyd. Perturbed by a gaggle of geese on the canal, Phil advised they wouldn’t nick our food which we munched perched on a low wall above the stoneyard. Augmented by a sturdy upper floor complimenting the newly-built watermill opposite, we remarked on its gentrification. We continued on the towpath. An immoveable lock gate painted a shadowy capital A on the scummy water beneath. Mirror images of a steely blue sky, pink-tinted clouds and wispy smoke from barge chimneys floated by gently. A soft breeze made ripples of reflected bare tree branches.
At Fallingroyd Bridge, we prevaricated before continuing to lock 8. A pair of women encumbered by chic-chi shopping bags, took phone photos of yet another bevy of wildfowl. We crossed to Hawksclough and bemoaned unsightly bins and beer cans blighting the scene. On Calder Brook, an oversized manoeuvring tractor pushed us into the gutter and heavy machinery resembled dinosaurs with their cabs up in the air.
Exploring less-trodden muddy paths signed ‘Wood Top Circular’, we dithered at a junction. Phil laughed at me snapping a makeshift notice about dog shit (for reference purposes)and strode ahead. Stopping at the sight of a lone bird in the scrub, he helpfully informed me: “It’s a lady blackbird!” It was my turn to chuckle. A slippery descent to the green bridge, a frisky mutt scarily darted towards us but obediently heeded the owner’s call to heel. Although not steep, I panted on the incline and remarked it was due to weeks of no actual walking. At Wood Top Farm, we veered down to the station, admiring sunlit south-facing hills beyond.
Back in the park, we examined gnarly bark of cherry and sycamore edging the mossy riverside path. Rings in varying shades of red adorned the former while myriad species of moss and lichen infested every nook and cranny of the latter. Back home, I struggled to shed my clarted boots and collapsed on the sofa, reflecting it wasn’t quite the outing I’d intended. But at least we got some fresh air and exercise, even if it was mainly confined to the shady valley.
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.
During a warm, sunny spring bank holiday weekend, we made a long-overdue return to Pecket Well Clough. I popped in the co-op for picnic food where a scrum in front of the meal deal shelf suggested it wasn’t an original idea. Walking along Old Gate, the riverside steps on the opposite bank of Hebden Water were as crowded as the beach.
We continued to Foster Mill Bridge onto the riverside path, assailed by scents of baking loam and vibrant flowers. Wild carrot and bottle-brush docks bloomed on the water’s edge. Pink anemones shaded between fading bluebells. Creeping buttercup looked much prettier in its natural environment than in the garden. Dappled light made arty shadows on the weir. Yet more families pretended they were at the seaside.
Climbing steps up to Midgehole Road, we found fields of emerald and gold blazing beneath a clear blue sky. Just before Hardcastle Crags, we veered behind the toilet block and paused briefly at the edge of Haworth Old Road. A lush lower Crimsworth Dean stretched northwards. White wood anemones shone white in the hedgerow. In the smaller clough, leafy boughs shaded us from the hot sun and the bluebells from premature bleaching. Descending to the brook, felled trees cluttered a shingled shore we’d hoped to rest on.
We squatted on Kitling Bridge to eat lunch and check the map for a route up to the monument. Unable to discern a path, we proceeded upwards on the Calderdale Way and glanced back to see the structure emerge below. Disinclined to back-track, we continued up Keighley Road to Pecket Well and found a free bench outside The Robin Hood Inn. As we supped pints, traffic continually streamed in both directions.
The cycling couple on the adjacent table made a move to leave and we wondered how their small dog rode a bike. They then put the pooch in a bag. ‘Doggy bag!’ We struck up a conversation encompassing the joys of pet ownership, the state of the world and limited travel options, concluding there were worse places to be stuck. As they headed home over Oxenhope Moor, I thought they’d have been better making the trip the other way round. I needn’t have worried; electric bikes required minimal pedalling uphill.
Speeding vehicles, crash barriers and lack of pavement made the journey down the road trickier for us. We took it steady and observed the surroundings. I poured precious water on grey moss and watched it turn green in front of my eyes. We tried to discern paths in the less-managed Spring Wood, stretching on both sides of the road to the edge of town. A long flight of steps led down to Victoria Road. I’d always assumed unusual roofs on the terraces had dormers added later but Phil informed me they were Dutch houses. The longer day out in extended sunshine had been very enjoyable while stops for sustenance ensured against extreme fatigue.
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.
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.
Cool Places - Our Back Yard 