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.
A midsummer day in 2023 did not start well. Tempted outdoors by afternoon sun, we dawdled eastwards on the towpath. Early teasels and thistles paraded fifty shades of green. Ivory blackberry blossom presaged juicy fruits. A small duck family glided on the water. A discarded iridescent lizard leg and curious skeletal figures of mice looked incongruous alongside the natural beasts.
Hot and thirsty when we reached Mytholmroyd, we refreshed in The Dusty Miller’s astroturf beer garden. It may not be eco-friendly but at least it replaced tarmac rather than a real lawn. The pub frequented by notorious coiners, we discussed the recently aired Gallows Pole drama, caressed by a warm breeze. Returning via the Sustrans path, brambles vied with equally ubiquitous balsam. Having recently discovered the non-native species was edible, I considered harvesting the pods when they ripened.
Geese gathered at Hebble End where, early January 2024, dippers dipped. Further on, ripples in the gorged canal lapped at dilapidated houseboats. Truncated tree roots stubbornly grew through the wall at Mayroyd. Mirrored reflections of trees and sheep added an other-world feel. Too dingy and cold for beer stops, we headed straight back on the Sustrans, but flagging, briefly rested on a suspiciously regular-shaped rock.
A sodden winter segued into a wet spring. The first dry day in memory, clouds and a keen wind made it chilly, especially on Black Pit Aqueduct where we leant over to see flowers sprouting from stone, buds sprouting from trees, a football trapped in weeds and the intriguing carved head.
We dodged crowds in the park by taking the far path, garlanded with garlic flowers. More ransoms on the Sustrans, I carefully selected a few leaves, disturbing microscopic insects in the undergrowth. A small landslip created a small cave nearby. Ducks circled for crumbs as a couple ate butties. The woman kindly invited us to sit but we left them in peace to enjoy the soothing sounds. As the path opened out, bees supped from gaudy dandelions studding lush grass.
At Carr Lane, we ascended a steep muddy path and descended near an arched railway bridge where we stood in the mire to peer up Stubb Lane. Uncertain of a way through, we turned left alongside Calder Brook which disappeared beneath a tiny bridge to be carried underground to a river outlet. At Hawksclough, we debated the provenance of a converted barn and adjacent house. Now known as Hawksclough Farm, the old stone bridge was built to serve the one-time manor house. We waited for a gap in traffic to explore The Square, an attractive enclave set back from the main road.
Diminutive cherries guided us onto the towpath. Daisies dotted the banks. Canada geese nested opposite. As the sun made a fleeting appearance, we squatted on Broadbottom Lock to warm our faces before continuing onto Mayroyd. Machinery for investigating the lock floor lay idle at the blocked waterway leaving Strontium, appropriately also known as the growler, churning up water like an avaricious yellow beast.
Approaching Victoria Bridge, hybrid daffodils and tulips lined up to show off to the growing number of strollers. We avoided congestion by heading down Holme Street and across Pitt Street bridge.
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.
The sudden appearance of brightness on a late July Friday afternoon prompted another forage. On the familiar slog up to Heptonstall Road, brambles already ripened. Eschewing them as polluted, we continued up to find the ridge slopes dominated by bracken and heather, rock-hard apples and only a smattering of bilberry shrubs. We past a climber limbering up at Hell Hole Rocks onto the twisting stone steps and squeezed through overgrowth to the top path, bemused by two women doing a photo-shoot perilously close to the edge.
Luscious scarlet clumps hung heavily from rowan trees (aka mountain ash). On tasting a sharp sour fruit, I wasn’t surprised processing required mountains of sugar although it left a pleasant after-tang. Hitherto avoiding mud, the descent into woodland was squishy in places. Hunting for the broken wall, we were momentarily confused by the dry brook amidst a disappointingly wet summer.
.Certain it was the right place, I clung onto weedy branches and grabbed a felled stick for extra support on the dodgy descent. A dog came along and nudged me, followed by another then a hiker. “Are you alright? She asked. “Yes; I’m waiting for your dogs to pass. Bad timing as I’m trying to go down this path.” “Is it a path?” “Depends on your definition!”
At the bottom, a pale yellow garlic leaf signified the spot normally visited in April. We turned left and perched on mossy rocks to be immersed in restful greenery and the sounds of leaves rustling and birds’ wings fluttering in the lush canopy.
We returned home via Eaves and Church Lane where bees infested balsam in full bloom. I’d recently discovered from The Forager’s Calendar that they were edible and looked forward to adding the pods to curries – a much better way of expunging them than pointless bashing.
Barely enough bilberries for a small bowlful, we cooled down with choc ices to which Phil discovered they stuck rather well. Rather luxurious for the post-apocalyptic world of Threads!*
A warmer but cloudier mid-April Sunday provided another free food gathering opportunity. Having leafed through ‘The Forager’s Calendar’ beforehand, we agreed to stick to wild garlic.*
Going the other way round to the favoured spot in Eaves Wood, we headed towards Eaves and onto leaf-strewn paths. As we trudged upwards through layers of dead foliage, squirrels scampered among bare branches while pale green moss and gnarly roots punctuated the omnipresent reds.
I dithered at each junction but Phil confidently proceeded upwards until we reached the one where we thought the less-trodden paths led into the more neglected woodland. However, we misguidedly ended up clambering a tricky slope. As Phil continued striding, I had difficulty navigating large boulders. Unable to reach anything to hold onto, he came back to rescue me.
At last we regained the path proper. On safer ground, we paused to regard the tangle of deadwood, shrubs bearing unripe berries, striated rocks and cavernous fissures. Delicate shoots protruded in unpromising brown earth. Worried we might not recognise the garlic patch from the wrong side, the shiny leaves were hard to miss. Not yet flowering, a smattering of celandine broke the monotony of dark green. After a half hour carefully picking from different parts of the spreading patch, we took a rest. A couple approaching from the other direction offered a friendly hello. I wondered if it was as tricky further on as Phil suggested. They didn’t seem to think so.
Arguably, it was harder climbing up over the broken wall than down it as we normally did, but at least a dry spring didn’t add to the struggle. The higher path muddy, daffodils faded to white to be overtaken by a riot of dandelions, providing fodder for bees. As we paused on the flat overhanging rocks to gaze down on the still-brown canopy of Colden Clough, curlews rang out from the grey skies above.
Further down, climbers, off-roaders and makeshift campers enjoyed weekend recreation. Silver birch made an avenue of the final slope. Bluebells emerged at the top of the Cuckoo Steps. Settling down for a late lunch and iPlayer viewing, the ‘woke’ ‘Saving Our Wild Isles’ took some finding. “It’s a conspiracy!” joked Phil. But it did solve the mystery of why gull-like curlews visited us in spring (to nest on the uplands).
Easter Sunday 2023, Phil suggested a pilgrimage to the cross, freshly installed on Good Friday. Making steady progress up steep Horsehold Road, wraith-like trees twisted with the curves, chestnut buds emerged from twiglets and emerald gems bedecked mossy walls. A clump of daffodils marked the entrance to a ‘hillside dog park’. What on earth did they need that for? Towards the top, we detoured through a diminutive wooden gate to reach the cross. Imbibing the panorama, the bench was welcome on the rocky outcrop to rest aching legs although I wasn’t, strangely, out of breath – possibly due to a recent climb up The Buttress for the traditional Pace Egg.
Returning to the road, we turned off cobbles at the bend onto the link path. Alongside the top of Horsehold Wood, curlews cried in the moorland breeze. Celandine carpeted the verges. A bee fed from a dandelion. A young lad raced past to splash in the runoffs – was he training for the Olympics? Squeezing through a stile, grass banks littered with the small yellow flowers stretching down to the stream, demanded attention. In Beaumont Clough, the cute stone arch bridge provided an excellent spot to snack on hot cross buns.
Perching on the edge, muddy blue waters reflected green rocks below us, as desiccated leaves leant a red contrast to the banks. Soothed by the gurgling, a sheepdog made me jump as it repeatedly approached then scampered back to the accompanying woman. Misinterpreting my edginess, she thought Phil’s rucksack was another collie which her dog wanted to play with. “I see. I’m a bit nervous of dogs.” “Okay, I’ll keep her well away. She’s harmless but very lively. “Yes. I bet she keeps you fit!”
We progressed up to the Pennine Way, noting that what was previously a detour through Callis Wood, now cheekily formed part of the main route, marked by new wooden steps and signage. We wended through the trees down to a narrow bridge and crossed to the towpath, dotted with daffs and primroses. Among derelict barges, a large one was done up as a posh Air BnB. Not hankering for beer, we decided against a drink at Stubbings and as it was grey and cool by the time we reached home, didn’t regret the opt-out. Although noisy, the canal geese weren’t yet nesting but a pair of whites seemed to be considering the co-op carpark as a nesting site. We hoped they realised it wasn’t a good idea.
A wet March 2023 eventually gave way to a warm springlike day early April. Waiting for me out on the street, Phil took photos of a brick wall, much to a neighbour’s bemusement. Climbing the Cuckoo Steps onto the defunct High Street, exuberant pink blossom and dazzling dandelions reflecting golden sunshine, diverted our attention. At the Fox and Goose, it was our turn to be bemused by a chalkboard sign – what on earth was scythe peening?* At Eaves, fancy daffodils danced by Colden Water and a pair of kites danced in the air. Painted plastic Easter eggs left discarded on the low wall of the small playpark, had obviously hatched early.
Pale green tree buds and catkins sprouted from spindly twigs along the Bridleway. An impossibly deep blue sky was broken only by wisps of cloud floating above the valley. Approaching derelict Lumb Mill, silvery torrents teemed in the brook, inundating tangled sycamore roots. Elongated shadows stretched across redundant paving. Spongy ground held star-like celandine captive as we clambered over the slippery arched stone bridge.
On the higher path, we waited for a hiking couple to pass the millponds before continuing. Struggling when the path became steep and stony, we avoided sticky mud by detouring onto a hillock looking down into the glade. Last autumn’s fallen copper beech leaves had transformed it from characteristic reds to less edifying browns. Our efforts were rewarded by sightings of stately silver birch framing the route, a fly supping delicately on a rarely seen Greater Stitchwort and extended if undeveloped, ‘garlic fields’.
We began selecting sparsely from the young crop when I saw Walking Friend and The Poet resting in the near distance. Phil continued picking while I went to confirm an arrangement with her. The Poet joked he called the favoured picnic spot ‘Flat Rock’ because “it’s flat and a rock”. “Or it’s a rock and it’s flat!” I countered. Phil joined us to hear of their walk and ice cream stop at May’s before they accompanied us back to the garlic patch where they left us to more foraging. Descending the clough, we caught up with them gazing into the stream. Normally a good place for dippers, there were no sightings today. Back on the Bridleway, Walking Friend indicated a bench we’d never noticed before, thoughtfully placed next to a pond, adjacent to a row of houses. Getting hungry, we bade goodbye and hurried home where I discovered my bag of leaves was weightier than Phil’s for once!
At the start of February, we made use of an overcast but fine Saturday for a much-needed walk. Recovering from sinusitis and not having ventured up hills for some time, I struggled to climb The Buttress. We stopped at the small graveyard for a breather and views, and again on Heptonstall Road to marvel at a bizarrely denuded but fruiting apple tree. We continued to Lee Wood Road and headed into the wood. On the shiny grey tarmac, a green stripe in the middle of the lane gave way to a litter of decaying foliage. Slimy fungi less profusive than usual, a holly sprig sprouted from a truncated stump. Vibrant walls housed frondy jade moss and curly emerald ferns. Among a smattering of cyclists, runners and dog-walkers, a striding man dragged his pooch behind him. We felt sorry for the poor thing with its tiny legs!
Of a number of options, we took a stony path down towards Hebden Water. Gnarly tree roots augmented worn steps to help our footing on the muddy surface. Branches writhed in the steely sky. An old gatepost resembled an oversized keyhole. Copper beach leaves lent a rosy glow to the cobbles.
At the bottom, Phil fancied a drink in The Blue Pig. Quite busy inside, My Mate from the co-op sat at the bar. “Alright?” “I am now I’ve got a pint.” Agreeing Chinook was indeed tasty, Phil ordered the same from the harassed-looking barman. As he whinged he couldn’t be bothered checking membership, we smiled and went out to the empty benches, supping leisurely while enjoying the soothing gurgle of the foamy weir.
Returning via the riverside, we paused at the picturesque iron bridge before crossing into the livestock-free field and up to Midgehole Road where we espied our first catkins of the year. Back on the river, we tried to fathom why the path appeared altered at the next weir. Light fading, we walked quickly onto Salem Fields where teens listened to hip-hop – the mean streets!
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.
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?
Cool Places - Our Back Yard 