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?

Rake Forage

On the path up to the west end of Crow Nest mid-July, bright yellow ragwort and baking grass usurped fading pink digitalis and dog roses.  The shade of the woodland was welcome but not the nasty climb.  At least I’d worn walking shoes rather than sandals.  At the top, we kept straight on across fields, where fierce sun was tempered by a wispy breeze.  Although no livestock occupied our route, large sheep resembled cattle in adjacent pastures.

A series of makeshift stiles and gates led to a metal gate.  We heaved the creaking rust and turned left towards The Rake where wimberryⁱ bushes were instantly visible.  Phil eager to pick immediately, berries were more plentiful further up.  Dry patches between the mud in a deep ditch made foraging easier as we continued to ascend.  In danger of overheating after half an hour picking, I retreated to the shady side of the lane, unable to resist collecting a few more morsels until Phil eventually conceded it was enough in the heat.

We lounged in seed-laden grass near an old gatepost at a curve on the lane to eat pastries and drink homemade pop.  Panoramic valley views revealed a mysterious Colden Clough below hazy blue hills.

Planning to return via Pinnacle Lane and along the top of Horsehold wood, we figured a bridleway sign indicated a quicker downward route.  Deep lilac thistles nestled in tinder-dry hedgerows.  Ramshackle barns stood in yellow fields beyond drystone walls. Desiccated trees reached skyward.  Not seeing anyone all afternoon, we encountered a few walkers and mountain bikers on the way to Old Chamber.

The campsite busy, we waited on the bench outside the honesty box while a couple of hikers fussed over cake and ice cream to buy eggs.  Keeping to the cobbled road, a group of dorky boys overtook us as we paused to marvel at huge ferns.  Further down, we grazed on a few ripe raspberries.  The whole road festooned with burgeoning fruit shrubs, it would be worth returning in a few weeks for blackberries.  People sitting in the garden and several parked cars signified Weasel Hall had been split into separate dwellings.

Struggling with a heavy gate mechanism, I hurt my hand and jumped back in pain to be stung on the leg by a long nettle.  Swearing, I grabbed a dock leaf and stuck it down my sock. “That’ll look stupid but I don’t care!” “Yep, it looks stupid alright!” Phil chuckled.  Back home, I weighed the wimberries to find the haul came to a paltry 5.6 oz.  It’d take a long time to make a living!

i     Also known as bilberries. Tiny, but packed with vitamin C

Remembering the brambles from last month, we wended up New Road.  At Weasel Hall, we avoided gate injuries and stopped to marvel at a potted conifer adorned with cones resembling candles.  We soon found the hedgerows laden with blackberries ripe for picking, alone apart from a couple of crows squawking aggressively among the Fairweather clouds as they chased a kite.  Further up, trampled grass indicated other foragers had beaten us to it.  Nevertheless, we spent an hour harvesting from the plentiful crop, and even found a few stubborn wimberries to add to the haul as well as orange-glowing hawkweed.  Reaching into the prickles, I felt a sudden sharp stab on the back of my hand.  Catching a glimpse of a rapid flying insect, the sting later manifested as a curious mauve bruise. 

On reaching Old Chamber, we wondered whether a field gate was meant to be open.  A few minutes later, a farmer with a trailer and a pair of boisterous sheepdogs emerged.  Unsettled, I collapsed on the bench while Phil bought cake from the honesty box.  We had no idea what the oddly brown jam-filled confection was, but it was delicious.  Refreshed, we continued up Back Lane, found two berries on the next corner, and decided we’d had enough.

Returning via Spencer Lane, the busy farmer trundled up and down on her tractor.  Sheep munched grass or shaded lazily beneath leafy boughs.  A sign reading ‘Slow Ere’ raised a chuckle.  Finding more berries at Wood Top, a passing man remarked on the excellent yield this year.  We sped up on perennially dark Wood Top Road but paused on Mayroyd Lane to examine an apparent growth from a balsam plant.  Discerning false eyes, it took a moment to identify the monster not as a tiny snake but a hawkmoth caterpillar.  Overheating on the towpath, Phil nipped in the co-op and I plodded home with 2 bags-full, to find purple juice had seeped onto my jeans.  At least they weren’t clean on!

Mayroyd to Hawksclough

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.

Confined Walks 6 – Common Bank to Old Town

On a hot Tuesday amidst the early August heatwave, we considered ideas for a shady walk.  The picturesque Buttress route led us down and round to the top of town and up the unnamed old cobbles towards Birchcliffe.  School Street, leading to Osborne Street, rose steeply beneath the blistering sun.  On entering Common Bank, we immediately felt cool in the dark wood.  Unlike other nearby woodlands, it appeared to change little with the seasons.

Evergreen holly, their prickly brown leaves spiking our feet, twisted branches, and rotting stumps providing fodder for clumps of multi-coloured fungi, gave the impression of eternal winter.  At the small stream, a new walkway of fresh yellow wood kept our feet dry.  On the path between the meadows, ladybirds rested on purple seed-heads.  Disinterested goats eyed us lazily to our left while on the right, a decrepit piece of farm machinery faded from red to pink.

Thinking it dumped, Phil said the fact it still had wheels attested to current use.  A shiny new gate led out to Wadsworth Lane where brambles competed for space with wild geranium on crumbling stone walls.  Sweaty after the climb, we rested briefly on a bench at the corner before taking the small steps to Rowland Lane.   Ramshackle gates framed hazy views of Old Town and Heptonstall.  Brown cows grazed calmly in the field, undeterred by flighty jackdaws.  Garden fugitives interloped in the wild undergrowth.

On reaching Lane Ends, we dithered before cautiously approaching The Hare and Hounds.  As we espied a couple of punters, glasses in hand, Phil suggested a pint.  Hesitantly, I agreed to our first pub pint since lockdown!  The front entrance extolled social-distancing and the application of hand-gel.  Inside, more signage bade us wait to be seated.  A young man directed us through the occupied beer garden to tables in the carpark.  During a short wait for the table to be cleared and beer brought, an old pub-goer of years gone by shouted over from the beer garden.  We laughed as she mistook Phil for a significantly older regular at our old local.  She then asked “is he (the old regular) still alive?”  None of us had any idea!  Predictably, Phil wanted food after one drink.  The lad went to fetch menus then told us they were fully booked for dinner; obviously drawn by the mid-week Dishi Rishi meal deal.

The temperature dropped slightly as a gust of wind blew grey clouds upwards from the misty valley.  The landlady arrived in her car and grimaced at the humidity.  She agreed with me that a storm might come “I like the proper ones.” She informed us.

We walked briskly down to Sandy Gate, hedges laden with ripening berries, veering off into the lower end of Nutclough for the coolness of trees once more.

Skirting the town centre, we considered eating at the Italian but unfortunately, pre-booking was essential.  Dinner out scuppered, we sought quick tea inspiration in the co-op.  The return of hot sun after a speedy walk made me rather fraught.  But a cooling ice lolly and reviving coffee soon restored equilibrium.

Cragg Vale Tales 1

 

Since we moved to this part of the world, we have only visited Cragg Vale three times.  In 2015, we met our friends M&M at the Hinchcliffe Arms for a birthday lunch.  With time to kill before they arrived, we explored the churchyard backlit by the watery yellow winter sun. Amongst the jumble of rusting vehicles in the adjacent junkyard, a collection of discarded Christmas paraphernalia added pathos to the scene.

The following year, I had a terrible summer involving the loss of a brother.  Over the August bank Holiday weekend, I struggled with deep depression but forced myself to get out of the house.  We heard of a food and drink festival in Cragg Vale, and rode the bus up.  A few stalls inhabited the pub car park.  It did not take long to exhaust their offerings, although we discovered the best sausages ever!

We parked ourselves outside the Hinchcliffe to eat them hot with a pint of beer.  We then noticed that the superbly named church of St. John the Baptist in the Wilderness was open to visitors.  Exploring the interior we noted that this gem, built in 1815 amongst the textile mills, is now badly in need of restoration.  Dedicated volunteers endeavour to keep it going.

On the 2^nd of January this year, M&M planned a traditional birthday walk to Cragg Vale. Having just fought off yet another dose of sinusitis, I did not feel strong enough to accompany them and instead, we arranged to meet them there for lunch.  It took a lot of effort to be up and ready to leave the house on time to catch the bus at 12.38.  Travelling up the steep incline of Cragg Road, I hoped we would know where to alight, when I spotted the sign pointing down to the Hinchcliffe Arms.

A short upward walk took us to the junction of Church Bank Lane.  With time to spare, we dallied to look down on the compact village centre nestled in a dip – consisting mainly of a couple of farms, a church and a pub.  Cushiony greens adorned stone walls edging the lane all the way down to the brook. I had never seen so many different lichens and moss in one place.

Finding the church locked, we contented ourselves with circumnavigating the churchyard and the junkyard where the accumulated old tractors and vans still stood rusting.  The pile of Christmas decorations were sadly absent.  Arriving at the Hinchliffe Arms, a sign in the window informed declared ‘no food available’.

As we hung around near the door, staff emerged on a break and apologised for the kitchen closure (for a deep clean during which the chef was taking a break).  I mentioned that I had seen him featured on ‘Back in Time for Tea’ serving up Yorkshire Goujons, which led to reminiscing about eating tripe and offal as kids.  They invited us in for a cuppa by the fireside.  Preferring to await M&M outside, we perused planters at the car park entrance where melting ice left structural drops atop oval leaves.

When our friends appeared at the end of their walk over the tops, we entered the bar to spend an hour supping beer, chatting and exchanging amusing anecdotes.  We then walked past the junkyard, turned left, immediately right and through a gate onto a path alongside the brook.  Worn round cobbles marked the route as we past weirs and twisty trees.  Marisa spotted a dipper but as usual, it flitted about too fast to be caught on camera.

We passed through a second gate and soon after, ascended steps amongst mill ponds.  Clumps of bright green algae dotted the surface.  Wintery black trees reflected into the depths.  As we climbed back up, we espied crumbling walls marking the site of an old paper mill, making a mental note to come back and explore in summer.

Ascending yet more steps we came to a gap in the wall and headed up to the road.  Just before we reached the top, I was amused by a sign consisting of an angry-looking black cat in a red triangle.  ‘Watch Out’ was written in large letters underneath.  We emerged onto Cragg Road opposite the Robin Hood Inn which was of course shut.  I had mentioned that according to google, there would not be a bus until after 4 o’clock.

The timetable at the nearby bus stop confirmed this. There was no option but to continue walking down to Mytholmroyd.

As we neared the end of the long road, we spotted a mutual friend coming towards us and stopped to exchange new year greetings.  One of the two children accompanying him jabbered onto me in an incomprehensible manner.  I nodded and smiled.  We entered the Shoulder of Mutton (now recently fully re-opened by a celebrity comic) but as predicted, they stopped serving food at 3 p.m.; we had missed it by 10 minutes!  Luckily, as we continued down to Burnley Road we spotted a bus and caught it just in time.  Back in Hebden, we went to The Oldgate and said hello to a group of friends.  Table and drinks secured, we were able to order food at last – three hours later than planned!  After eating, I started falling asleep so said goodbye and returned home before fatigue set in.

More photos at: https://1drv.ms/f/s!AjkK19zVvfQti5gWWa2i7APXI4OXWw

 

A Rare Visit to Gibson Mill

It is a rare thing indeed for us to purposefully visit Hardcastle Crags in summer.  Almost as rare (apart from holidays), we set off at 1 p.m. on a mid-July Sunday to catch Gibson Mill’s opening hours.

We took the most direct route via Hangingroyd Lane and the riverside path.  New rock art stood in the centre of Hebden Water, where the banks were adorned with green and white flourishes.

At the bottom of the steps up to Midgehole Road, loud barking caused me to jump out of my skin.   A large dog leapt up from behind tall grasses.

Phil let out an involuntary shout.  Two women appeared, along with a smaller dog causing more commotion.  The women apologised, saying it was a rescue dog responding to our fear.  That sounded reasonable, except I hadn’t even seen the mutt, so how could I be fearful in advance?  Later, Phil felt sorry for shouting at a rescue dog but I said (not for the first time) that dog owners should control their charges when they are likely to come into contact with other walkers.

On Midgehole Road, signs declared the Crags car park full.  We weaved between parked cars and clumps of irritatingly slow people to the main gate.  Staying on the top track, we walked speedily to Gibson Mill.  We immediately entered the building and climbed to the top floor to be met by the sight of a Victorian-era kitchen.  An iron range arrayed with a selection of contemporaneous cooking vessels stood against the back wall. To the right, a shallow Belfast sink perched on brick legs.  Around the cracked windowsill, peeling whitewash revealed fading yellow paint.

Through a door on the left we found a larger room with tungsten bulbs suspended from a high ceiling.  The ample space was occupied by Yan Wang-Preston’s ‘Forest’ exhibition, the main object of our visit.  I had expected arty photos of trees.  It turned out to be a project documenting the uprooting of mature trees in China and transplanting them to concrete cities where of course they die.  Utter madness!  Why can’t they grow new trees?

Downstairs, we made our way to the café for freshly-made sandwiches and tea.  We chose a table on the terrace and got a different view of the mill pond.

From the upper floor, I had noticed small splashes hitting the water’s surface.  What had looked like raindrops, I now realised, were being made by small fish.

After eating, we went out front to finish our drinks.  On the surrounding tables, yet more barking dogs threatened to cause alarm but thankfully, they were kept at bay.  I spotted an acquaintance sitting nearby with a friend.  We exchanged greetings before they entered the mill to peruse the exhibition.

We took the slower, but less populous and pleasanter riverside route back to the main entrance.  Tall pines stretched into the summer sky, the canopy giving respite from the muggy afternoon heat.  Impossibly large stones punctuated the paths and stream, some sporting strange holes.  Foliage made attractive greyscale patterns on eroding surfaces.  At the almost-dry weir, dippers dived among square paving rendered visible by the low water level.

As we rested on a nearby bench, I heard something drop to the ground.  At first, we could see nothing.  Then Phil realised it was his phone.  The screen had cracked (For the third time.  Luckily, he has since discovered he can buy the parts to fix it himself).

On reaching the end of the crags, we continued on the riverside as much as possible, staying on the left-hand side towards town, foraging a few raspberries from sporadic bushes.

We paused briefly on Victoria Road where a tractor seemed imprisoned.  Headlights gleamed wide-eyed behind an iron gate fastened with rusty iron chains.  Polished blue paintwork reflected blue sky.  Getting ready for the local show, no doubt.

 

More photos at: https://1drv.ms/f/s!AjkK19zVvfQti4JrYWA4b2_1LeHp3w