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 