Saturday Belles (Nutclough and Colden)

May started fine but health and commitments prevented outings until a damp and grey Saturday when we succeeded in a trip to Nutclough before more drizzle descended. Plenty of bluebells en route, a clump at the corner of Mason Street were particularly lovely, as we told the woman whose garden it was. On The Buttress, two women doing selfies were more interested in admiring each other than the blooms.

In the wood, lines of blue led up the slope where the bells mixed attractively with ivory garlic and cream anemones. The brook overflowing, we took the higher path, resplendent in acid greens. A woman inexplicably clambered alongside the opposite bank, making her sheepdog bark in alarm. We paused briefly at the stone bridge before going up to Sandy Gate and back down small steps between gardens. Reaching the other side of the clough, we braved the delta-like islands, searched for treasure, and hopped across makeshift stepping-stones. Valley Road teemed with weekenders. We veered onto the riverside path seeking to regain calm solitude but were scuppered by men peeing al fresco!

The following week, I missed several stunning days due to debilitating CFS. An attempted walk Friday ended up in the local pub and we resolved to get further on a glorious Saturday. Luckily, we were just in time for the 596. The bus was packed and we were subjected to incessant chatter from kids and yummy mummies on the ride ‘up tops’. We alighted at Edge Lane to be greeted by fields of gold before a quiet walk up the lane.

Lilac honesty clusters flourished in hedgerows. Heady scents and fluffy seeds wafted in a gentle breeze. Lambs mottled with white, black and brown, grazed behind wire, some boldly scrutinising us, others seeking refuge behind ewes. At May’s Farm Shop, a pied wagtail selected morsels near the bins. I rang the bell for a teenage girl to come and serve us. Waiting for warm pasties, I scanned the jarred sweets. My usual cough drops cheaper than pre-packed, I asked for ‘a quarter’. Very polite about my outdated terminology, she confirmed modern schooling didn’t include imperial measures. Fair enough I thought, but it seemed daft they omitted to teach miles.

A man entered, looking surprised to see Phil. “I take it you know him from The Store”, I laughed. “Yes, it’s odd seeing people out of context.” “He does get out from behind the counter sometimes!” Enjoying our lunch on a sun-drenched bench, the famous May stopped to exchange a few words. I commented on a piece in the local paper praising her community service – about time she received recognition. As if to illustrate the point, a young lad asked her which dog biscuits his mum usually bought. You don’t get that in the Co-op!

Refreshed, we made our way through the village. A pheasant call filled the air. Yellow cow parsley and dandelions studded curving green lanes. A barn remained ramshackle amid evidence of gentrification, the scaffolding impeding backward views.

At Jack Bridge, people drank outside the New Delight. Welcoming as the garden looked, I didn’t fancy beer two days’ running. We continued between profuse hedges on Hudson Mill Lane and descended narrow steps, flanked by burgeoning bilberry shrubs, to Hebble Hole. The makeshift bathing spot fully occupied, we stopped only briefly on the clapper bridge to marvel at the change in water levels after the short dry spell. Not that it had expunged mud from the clough paths. Tricky in places, especially wearing sandals, it was worth the effort for truly stunning sights.

Extending as far as the eye could see, bluebells carpeted fallow areas, invaded crannies between stones, overshadowed campion and celandine, and abutted spreading garlic, which also bloomed with ostentation. Hastening past the travesty of Lower Lumb Mill, we began to flag on the bridleway and waited for a pair of women striding purposefully and talking loudly, to overtake us. Slightly revived by the break and a swig of pop, the home stretch via the hot and dusty main road was still a schlep.

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.

Unnatural Beasts (Canal to Mytholmroyd)

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.

Old Lanes (Tinker Bank, Northwell Lane and Heptonstall)

Walking Friend recently gave me several local interest books plus access to her veritable library so I could borrow more. As the winter of 2023/24 brought a series of health and household travails, the kindness was well-timed. Together with wet weather, we’d had few chances to get out and about and I immersed myself in the literature, noting oft-visited areas worthy of more attention and others to explore in future.

After Phil recovered from an operation and me from a bout of sinusitis at the end of January, we set off on a jaunt to Heptonstall via Tinker Bank with renewed interest.

Walking to the riverside, we joked about everything in town turning into an Airbnb when we saw the decrepit old workshop near Foster Mill Bridge had been sold. Development underway, we wagered it was destined to become yet another holiday let. Taking care on slippery steps up to Hollins and slippery mud in the wood, we ascended to the top and crossed to Tinker Bank Lane. Amidst the felled trees carpeted in emerald moss and decayed vegetation, we paused to examine the stone which once formed the base of a medieval wayside cross. Further up, we waited for a flock of chickens to cross the road (ha, ha!) into Pinfold Lane and proceeded to the Octagonal Chapel. Afternoon sunlight bounced off the crags opposite, made harsh geometric shadows on the iconic building and emphasised the tips of obelisk monuments to the worthy dead.

Across Northgate, we scanned the entrance to Whitehall Farm but were unable to determine the starting point of the railway to Blake Dean, and the plaque marking the location of the 16^th century Cloth Hall. At the junction with Towngate, we wended between the Tudor Stag Cottage (formerly part of the ‘Sign of the Stag’ pub, now a holiday cottage) and the fisheries, then down enclosed steps to the old co-op buildings to be waylaid by an elderly character telling us how he’d restored an old header tank, on display as a planter.

We perused the Great Well, dungeon doorway and the stocks before heading for Northwell Lane to see the latter’s original location. The carved post rested incongruously on someone’s drive. Continuing down, we pondered on the length of the driveway from the signed gates to actual Northwell House. We crossed Lee Wood Road and made our way on squelchy, winding woodland paths, past the horse farm and onto the riverside path near the bowling hut. We stopped briefly on the way home to observe the expanding collection of zany figurines and budding snowdrops near the allotments.

Burnished (Rawtonstall)

A rare crisply sunny day mid-November, we aimed to ride up to Blackshaw Head and return through Rawtonstall.  Google informed us a bus was due but the bus-stop displayed only services to Eaves and Smithy Lane.  Resigned to foot-slogging, we walked up Bridge Lanes, peered over walls at unofficial allotments eyed by a robin perched on the rickety fence, and crossed near the Fox & Goose.  Soggy fallen leaves became drier towards Church Lane.  Revelling in the warm sun on our faces, a man strode up from behind, agreed it was the best sort of autumn day, enquired about our destination and helpfully described alternatives.  I assured him we lived locally so knew the area.  We exchanged names and continued companionably until reaching his house.  The postie strode downhill, greeted us and chatted to our new friend at the corner of Saville Road.  Hot and breathless from the steep ascent, we paused at intervals, forced from watching chimney smoke wreath the treetops, by a gas engineer complaining his van couldn’t round the sharp bend.  Phil reckoned the relentless two-way traffic was a result of people driving no further than the shop. 

On Rawtonstall Bank, the Cat Steps appeared newly cleaned up and signed but still dodgy.  We opted for the usual route up Green House Lane.  Going slowly to conserve energy, we admired exuberant moss and ferns and lean trees converting to gold.  Their thin shadows criss-crossed lines of gravel and tarmac.  At the top, we awaited a couple and accompanying dog to pass. “He’s a bit muddy and might jump on your legs.” They informed me. “I don’t like that!” 

Venturing onto Dark Lane, the world suddenly became quiet.  Birds flew among fair-weather clouds and settled on telegraph wires above fields dotted with brown and white sheep.  A hazy Stoodley Pike matched the pale sky.  Blues turned a murky green on the sloping hillside while copper highlights burnished nearer foliage.  Tackling the sticky ground, we side-stepped onto uneven verges when a woman riding a horse, followed by a man and child on bikes, tootled past.  Mixed transport!  Noting yet more changes at the corner of Long Hey Top, we hesitated but soon found the bench between the cypresses to rest, snack and gaze upon resplendent views.

On both sides of the valley, fifty shades of red vibrantly stretched to the vanishing point.  Phil remarked it was once possible to take panoramic photos before the trees grew taller. “We came out to see the trees; now you’re complaining of too many!” I laughed, “and they hide the sewage works.”  Down Turret Hall Road, we dodged walking groups and mountain-bikers, re-examined the miracle of the ‘electric bray’, and caught glimpses of the sinking sun between leafy greens and gleaming tones towards Oakville Road.  A Santa bag was dumped at the corner of the main road – someone had already had enough of Christmas!  Phil paused opposite Stubbings. “Pint?” “Not bothered.” “You don’t get enough entertainment.” ”This is my entertainment, no need to spend money.”  As if to underline the point, I indulged in a good run of kicking crunchy leaves on the Old High Street, thinking they made an excellent film sound effect.

Muted Reds (Lumb Bank and Eaves)

The gloom lifted for a cold but dazzling Tuesday.  A rare day off for Phil, he smiled on seeing the sun.  I suggested a walk to Lumb Bank, wrapped warmed-up pasties in foil and swathed myself in layers to insulate from the crisp air before we took the customary route via Church Lane and Eaves.  The climb to the first iron gate arduous, we continued up through the canopy where reds were normally guaranteed. The season’s foliage predominantly mellow due to the prolonged summer and late autumn this year, even here the colours were muted although emerald moss and jade lichen glowed. 

Forgetting to continue onto the next iron gate, we climbed further but soon realised we were mistaken (will we ever remember it’s up, down, up!)  After debating carrying on to the top, we decided to backtrack to the dicey Victorian job-creation steps.  The narrow treads slippery with leaves, I descended sideways.  We waited in a sunny patch near the garages for two men dawdling towards us, then headed straight onto the lesser-trodden Old Gate to the poet’s house.  Agreeing the adjacent cobbled path was the nastiest in the valley, we got hot from the effort and panted up Green Lane to the link path shortcut, noting it was newly fenced off in the second field – had someone been worrying sheep? 

Proceeding into Heptonstall, Phil’s colleague waited at the bus-stop.  As we stopped to chat, she conceded the bus wasn’t going to show, rang a taxi and offered us a lift.  “No thanks, we’ve got pasties!”  Finding a sunny spot in Weaver’s Square, we squatted on a low wall to eat. For dessert, Phil opted for a snowy Oreo while I chose a healthy apple, then my guts rumbled alarmingly.  Conscious of the man who’d appeared to fiddle with wires behind us, I whispered urgently: “I need to move.” Why? “Tell you later.”  Thankfully, no disasters unfolded as we wandered into the graveyard to listen to organ-twiddling from the church and search the ruin for the poshest grave near the altar (unsurprisingly, the inhabitants of Greenwood Lee).  We took the ridge path down via Hell Hole Rocks to enjoy misty views of Stoodley Pike, beautiful hues of green and gold, and the last of the afternoon light on the path along the ridge.

Canal Transitions

Amidst an early September heatwave, Saharan dust coated cars and hot air made for squiffy guts. Instead of a planned outing further afield, we opted for a canalside amble and pub lunch.  A patch of wildflowers swarming with bees and spiders enhancing Bridge Lanes, they positively festooned the towpath. 

Vibrant orange, yellow, scarlet, cerise and violet distracted us from scummy brown water.  At Stubbing Wharf, we  grabbed the one free canalside table but sitting in full sun a bit much, moved as soon as a shaded alternative became vacant, to the chagrin of the waitress.  After eating our fill of steak and chips, we supped a second pint and watched a small girl in a pushchair behind us trying to read words.

The parents oblivious, dad suggested she look at the pond (meaning the canal) and the swans (meaning the geese). “She’s not being hot-housed!” We giggled.  Unwilling to smoke near the child, we retreated to the nearby low wall, glancing back to see mum lighting up.

The sunny stroll was a stark contrast to the next westerly foray.  Finally transitioning from summer to autumn, outdoors looked uninviting on a cold, dank late November Sunday, I hoped a walk would warm us up.  Heading for the Cuckoo Steps, I was alarmed by a mountain biker preparing to descend. “Can you not find anywhere better?” I demanded of the woman poised to video the escapade. “Yes but we’ve been all round Hebden; this is what he does.” ”Putting people at risk? How stupid!” I marched up to Bridge Lanes, down Robertshaw Road and onto the towpath where we ventured over lock number 10. 

Arcs of melting ice lay atop the steely surface.  Reflections of bare branches plumbed the murky depths.  Copper leaves drifted as though attached to spindly twigs then clumped at the banks.  Never previously attempted, we bravely picked our way along until we reached a tree allowing us to gain a foothold to higher ground.

Denuded fence posts created a slalom on the very narrow path leading to a flight of steps a short distance from lock number 11.  We lingered above the scunge for different views of the old lockkeepers’ cottage before crossing back to the safer side.

Continuing west, we paused to marvel at pontoons of floating leaves, decrepit barges somehow staying buoyant and denuded cottage gardens. “Where have all the flowers gone?” Phil wondered. “Nobody knows!”

Gingerly crossing the gushing overflow, I espied delicate flowers poking through railings and a heron patiently waiting in treetops overlooking the river.  We rested near the basin, pondering what we call the ‘pipe museum’ (a storage area for flood defence parts).

Growing colder in the failing light, we hurried back, eschewing an al fresco pint in favour of bargain treats from the co-op’s reduced section.

Threads (A Summer Forage in Eaves Wood)

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 BBC film from 1984

A Picnic in the Crags

As the June heatwave continued, we set off on a midweek walk and picnic.  After visiting the store for pop, we proceeded to Foster Mill Bridge and down to Hebden Water.  May flowers fading, small white and pink blooms dotted a sea of emergent greens.

Crossing at the weir, birds hopped on dappled water.  As Phil lagged on the long steps, I waited at the top, transfixed by slender stems supporting fuzzy grass seeds and tiny flies.  On Midgehole Road, golden poppies and cerise foxgloves swayed gently at curiously-named Hob Cote.  A ridiculous plastic lawn formed the garden of a new house, seemingly built overnight.  We strolled down to New Bridge and squeezed through the snicket into Hardcastle Crags.  Nettles and brambles threatened to prick and sting on the overgrown path.  Getting hot in the uncovered picnic area, we were eager to move on after eating.  Phil suggested going to the actual crags.  A lengthy walk on the riverside path, we recalled a shortcut to the top track.  Hampered by a persistent sheepdog and heat, it took an age to reach Gibson Mill.

We continued past when I suddenly felt light-headed and came to a stop.  The pop hadn’t done the trick; I needed more liquid.  We headed to the café and browsed second hand books, spluttering at the prices.  Buying tea, we were directed to the milk.  Neither of us able to operate the jug, he joked we’d lost our coffee-cup skills!  We sat out back for shade, switching benches when my first choice wobbled alarmingly.  Phil toyed with his wooden spoon, balancing it on the side of the paper cup until a gust sweeping off the millponds, tipped it in.  Slightly recovered, we chanced going out front, finding a dappled waterside table to recuperate further.   I was still sleepy from heat exhaustion but at least we did the right thing, getting out of the sun and drinking magically restorative tea.  About to use the eco-loo, a couple stopped Phil for advice on the iconic millpond photo shot. “I could do tours.” Yes, people pay for photography walks.” “Mugs!”

Returning on the top track, ants scurried on cooling gravel.  We opted to return via Lee Wood Road where a squirrel pretended to be a branch when it saw us and laden shrubs held unripe berries.  Tree foliage creating welcome shade, a cool burst of air actually chilled me for a second.  Phil whinged as I started down The Buttress.  “It’s this or The Cuckoo steps.” “They go to our house.” “So does this. Be there in 10 mins.”  Methinks the heat affected his brain more than he cared to say!

Crow Nest West to East

On a mid-May Saturday, we made our way up to Palace House Road to wend up pretty paths.  Even the racket emanating from an event in the park didn’t spoil our enjoyment of the resplendent floral display.  Golden poppies reflected the bright sun, bluebells drooped in the heat and dandelions were heavy with seeds.  Careful of our footing over the pesky old round beech nuts, we braved the tricky west end of Crow Nest Wood and clambered up to New Road. 

Catching sight of the new lambs we’d heard bleating from the other side of the wall on our last walk, we stopped to watch their gambolling when a woman strode purposefully up to the honesty box.  “What have they got?” asked Phil. “Eggs and ice cream, as usual.”  She nodded then moved off the bench, allowing us to rest and refresh with apples and homemade pop.  Seeing the bottle was leaking from a thin crack in the plastic, I double-wrapped it and stuck it in the front of my rucksack so it didn’t sully his new utility bag.  Passing the ever more elaborate expansion of Old Chamber, we crossed a cattle grid to get closer to a larger flock of adorable lambs before continuing down Spencer Lane to spot the cutes of them all being nudged away from us by its mum.

.  At Wood Top, delicate cuckoo flowers swayed in the gentle breeze.  Unidentified yellow flowers resembled tiny stars.  We headed into the dodgier end of the wood.  The copper path as appealing as last May, bluebells danced in dappled light beneath impressively tall beeches.  Zig-zagging over felled trees on the slope to Crow Nest Road, a duck couple, wisely avoiding the noise, paddled contentedly in the ditch.  We continued to Mayroyd Lane and onto the canal, where downy goslings ate daisies lining the bank.  The park quieter as the event packed up, we hurried on past a screeching busker at Blackpit Lock.