A patchily sunny mid-February Sunday, we walked through the park beginning to bloom with almonds and cherries, up to Wood Top, in search of new lambs. On the ascent, recent research enabled us to place the long-gone Victoria Mill and the station warehouse and further up, to speculate on the origin of the farmhouse.
Date stamped 1657, tall arched doors either side signified it started out as a laithe house before it became the site of one of the many dyeworks and finishers in the area. Established by William Barker in 1860, it was fed by the millpond we’d noticed 3 years back in the field alongside Spencer Lane. We paused on the climb to retrace its lines, noting the brighter aspect of the other side of valley, making the grass literally greener. *
Too early for lambs, pregnant ewes munched grass and gnarly turnips scattered on the pastures. Seeing a heap of them at Old Chamber, Phil joked: “You laugh now but when the UN start delivering them, you’ll be fighting for the Brexit turnip!” Barking dogs lurking in the barn made us eager to move on. Thus I forgot to look for old bank and ditch remains (evidence of a historic enclosure). The honesty box shut, we continued onto New Road, resembling a stream. We searched for treasure only to find broken pot shards before the flow was channelled downhill at the sharp bend.
Remarking a line of dilapidated shacks may denote a poultry farm, we giggled at the end one labelled Weasel Hall Farm – could it be The Old Chicken Shed Airbnb? We passed the hall (rebuilt by The Leeds and Manchester Railway Company circa 1840) and two broken gates to squelch down the muddy path to Palace House Road, amused by the pointless pedestrian crossing.
We detoured down cobbled steps to the ruins of Calder Bank and onto the canal opposite converted Edwards Mill. Near the runoff, water gushed into the river and nascent yellow of celandine and daffodil buds studded the banks. We crossed Blackpit Lock into town on an errand and regarded the sad state of the old civic hall, now known as the Crown Inn or ‘R N IN’ , as the sign on the dilapidated edifice now read.
* See ‘Turning Seasons Up Wood Top’, February 2021
References: The West Yorkshire Woods Part 1: The Calder Valley, Christopher Goddard
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!
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.
The after-effects of bad colds lingered into early May. However, we were inspired to make an effort Tuesday, by Ray Mears extoling the health benefits of woodlands on breakfast telly. As grey skies brightened in time for a late afternoon walk, we set off for Nutclough, detouring on Valley Road to watch falling cherry blossom before heading along Foster Lane to find hidden gammon enclaves, cluttered ginnels, clay animal ornaments, and flowers springing from every crack.
Roofing underway on the old tavern, building material strew the clough’s main entrance. Anxious to escape the noise and dust, I hastened past the creaky iron gates into the quiet oasis. Curly ferns bedecked mossy walls. Fluorescent lichen covered rotting stumps. Beech babies sprouted from layers of decaying leaves. Bees feasted on bright yellow dandelions and celandine, shiny wood anemones and ultra-violet bluebells.
The water copious, it was hard to imagine we’d walked up the dry brook only last summer. Able to reach ‘the islands’ in stages, we enjoyed an extensive pootle among deep green wild iris yet to bloom and spongy earth, spotting a yellow wagtail perched on a rock and picking a few garlic leaves.
We then hopped back to ascend the higher path and wait for a man to move off the stone bridge, only for him to plonk on the bench to read. Stymied, we continued to Sandy Gate and rested on the wall opposite Hirst Meadow. Newly-planted trees held out a future promise of free fruit and nuts. Cutting through the small steps at Birchcliffe, white bells and primroses looked stark against dominant greens and blues.
Too nice for a boring shopping trip as intended Wednesday, we opted to stay in the valley. Hoping for lunch at May’s Farm Shop before a downhill walk, we waited at the bus stop where Walking Friend’s neighbour fed posh bread to the geese. The bus then sailed past displaying ‘not in service’! Anxious to get home, The Neighbour rang a taxi but with a longer wait than for the next bus, we wished her luck. Getting hungry, we abandoned our plan, scanned diminished pie supplies in Saker and went in the co-op for meal deals. Taking backstreets to the towpath, we gawped at a bloke stupidly teetering on the aqueduct wall on the way to the park. Eating on wooden seating beside the café, we shielded our food from roaming dogs before walking on the back path and up to the station, diverted by ivory nettle and garlic blooms, trumpeting cowslips and candle-like laurel blossom.
On the Sustrans Path, we eschewed a garlic forage and continued to a meadow of emerald grass and perky dandelions. Crossing Carr Lane Bridge, I struggled on the upward stretch and stopped for a closer look at pungent herb Robert, and again at the corner of Wood Top where clumps of indigo forget-me-nots and bluebells fed the ravenous bees. From the lovely grassy lane, we took the path atop the old quarry and Crow Nest Wood, gorgeously smattered with flora dancing beneath twisty trees. In the wood, we perched on deadwood opposite the small waterfall, revelling in quietude and solitude before crossing the stream to be surrounded by bluebells.
Hearing the bleat of new-borns, Phil clambered up to the field wall and I peered over the next stile. Neither of us sighting lambs, I lost sight of him. No answer to my calls, he eventually hove into view, saying I’d missed him falling on his arse: “Most undignified!” “There’s nobody here to see!” The downward path tricky with felled trunks and thick mulch, we held back at seeing a sheepdog scampering at the bottom before proceeding to Palace House Road. Approaching home, we noted the splendid hawthorn at the top of the street. Having walked past it the previous day, the Mayflower was better admired from afar.
Sunday, we wandered into town via Oldgate, where emerging golden poppies and dandelions going to seed, wafted in the warm breeze. The centre rammed during the extra bank holiday weekend, families crowded on the wavy steps, kids paddled in Hebden Water and reddening drinkers spilled from pub patios to pavement. We escaped down Dickensian Garden Street, peered at the mysterious well and used an overgrown shortcut to Albert Street. Feeling hot, I rued bringing a coat and sympathised with an old mate, also over-dressed. After a chat, we left her to her errands and headed for the riverside path. Resplendent in foliage, the familiar blue and white bells were joined by pale pinks.
Fairly busy with walkers, the pebbly beach was deserted, allowing us to drink in the restful rippling water reflecting leafy branches above red-iron stones. As fish leapt to snap at insects, a primitive dragonfly leapt from stone to stone, attempting to take flight. At the bowling hut, we crossed onto the CROWS path for a shady return. The old mill ruins garlanded with anemones and creeping buttercup, unreachable wild garlic spread unmolested in the swamp-like ponds.
Early October brought a crop of fungi, berries and beech nuts, which crunched under our feet as soon as we left the house. Starting rather cloudy, I made a quick errand and loitered for Phil to meet up. Tempted by the greasy spoon, we were unsure if brekkie was served at lunchtime and bought hot pies to eat in the park instead. Hopes of an accompanying cuppa were dashed as Parklife was closed but we made use of free wooden seating. As we munched, we observed the pretty autumn colours of unreachable trees beyond the playground before strolling along the back path. Edged with lilac spiky balls, wispy willow herb and a rainbow of fungi, button mushrooms clustered round tree roots, chicken-of-the-wood looked way past the sell-by date and exploded puff-balls exuded nauseous dust-mould. Above us, red berries gleamed. Mistaking them for rowan, Phil tasted one, leading to a numb mouth and copious spitting!
The skies cleared as we headed up towards the station, leaves rippling in the reflective river and Wood Top Road a sheen after recent rain. The Boar goats didn’t heed our passing or the obtuse ‘slowly does it’ sign near the farm. Turning right, the green path was roofed by beautiful golden boughs of beech and oak. Summer pinks held on in the hedgerow as fly agaric made a seasonal appearance.
Proceeding to the disused quarry, it appeared blocked. Wondering if it was anti-flood measures, we squinted at a sign for clues, which turned out to be about pointless balsam-bashing! Maybe rotting roots had caused the trees to fell themselves. Glad of the stick I’d picked up, I pursued Phil up a dodgy slippery hillock, noted no cascade in the ‘gorge’ and realised we could’ve used the usual path! Up through Crow Nest, green and orange foliage held onto stick-thin branches sprouting from twisty trunks. Missing chunks from mushrooms suggested something found them tasty.
The characteristic stink of sulphur hit us as we turned right on the first downward path. Spotting a discarded remembrance poppy, I poked about in the loam and almost slid on claggy clay at the lower end, while jumping over the rut.
Regaining tarmac, a photographer with a tripod straddled the track. We held back in case he was shooting a panorama but he cheerily waved us on. Still finding a handful of edible blackberries, I didn’t recall ever eating them so late in the year. Heading onto Palace House Road, birds tweeted in garden shrubs and a glorious yellow sycamore spread over the railway bridge. Passing the co-op carpark, geese squawked in the entrance, eating wild nuts. There are better places, I remarked. Yes, but they can’t get to them with having webbed feet ‘n all. What about our street? Oh yeah, there is that!
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!
A breezy sunny Friday mid-June, we crossed the main road to the Methodist church lawn searching for a pair of goslings to find one asleep and the other hidden beneath a parent’s wing. We paced ourselves on the slog up to Palace House Road and turned up the lane. Awash with riotous flowers, a bee buzzed from one towering foxglove to the next. We rounded the next corner where rhododendrons drooped. Hawkweed lined the grassy path. Bluebells faded in adjacent fields. Sunlight blazed through glass-like grass seed droplets.
On the tricky path at the east end of Crow Nest Wood, what resembled tracks to the ‘stone circle’ were probably made by bikes although apparent offerings bedecked an ‘altar’ of flat stone strengthening the feeling of mysticism. Emerging onto New Road, hawkweed competed with clover in the left-hand verge. Buttercups rendering the first field gold, fast-growing young sheep grazed in the next. On our right, ‘private’ signs bedecked new wire fencing, obscuring clear views of the rainbow wildflower meadow reminiscent of a shampoo advert.
We recovered from the climb on the bench outside the honesty box and enjoyed the scents of sun and hay wafting from early harvesting. As Phil made moves upward, I remarked it’d taken over an hour to get that far and deemed it time to head back. Awful gentrification including a plastic wooden gate off all things on Old Chamber’s converted farm buildings, only one dilapidated building remained – and that probably wouldn’t last long! A sign warned of cows and sure enough, we found them in the fields either side of Spencer Lane. Keeping to the middle of the road at the sight of a large bull complete with nose-ring, we neared the wall to coo at an indolent calf.
The sheep and goats displaced, the latter were found only in the lower field at Wood Top Farm. Returning through the park to Blackpit Lock, a canal-dwelling acquaintance exclaimed appreciation of my Valley Life articles. How nice! A man the spit of The Fast Show character Dave Angel walked ahead of us on the towpath, prompting giggles and a rendition of Moonlight Shadow.
Early May 2022, we headed straight for the middle of Crow Nest Wood. On the way up, wayside poppies, dandelions and bluebells gave a hint of what was in store. On the steep woodland path, our boots sank in deep layers of crunchy leaves. Seeing a small family clamber down over felled trees, we detoured onto hillocks where the stench of sulphur from rotting stumps and acrid fungi filled our nostrils.
Our efforts were rewarded by a sea of lilac at the top. Even taking into account the rainy conditions of last May, the spread of bluebells was incredible! Proceeding east, a thick seam of beech nuts obscured the path and verdant trees obstructed the view. As the almost-dry waterfall looked uninviting, a makeshift camp opposite provided an alternative resting place. Squatting on worm-riddled branches, bees and dragonflies buzzed low to the ground.
Climbing up above the old quarry, we found the bluebells had migrated. Alone apart from a scampering squirrel and flitting butterflies on the way down to the grassy lane, we attempted a spot of tree blossom identification. I managed to discern oak and chestnut from the leaves. Across from Wood Top Farm, goats watched over gambolling kids and ignored lamb-less munching sheep.
Starting down the lane we noted a lesser-trodden path by the side of an old gatepost. We explored the more overgrown section of the wood. Yet more bluebells created a dingly aspect until the path abruptly stopped.
Crow Nest Road in sight, we braved the slope. I was about to clamber over deadwood when Phil spotted a deer path. The dark red road edged with oddly-shaped rocks and tall trees aping animals, Phil indulged in spooky antics. Towards the station, a thick coating of green slime languidly floated on drainage swamps. Waxy mushrooms grew from dumped straw bales. Sturdy walls hinted at bygone Victorian industry. We solved the mystery of ‘Crow Nest annexe’ as it followed the line of the railway sidings after Crow Nest Cottage and Crow Nest House (the station master’s house).
On the bridge near the stoneyard, people with a dog stood close to the river as a yellow ball floated downstream. The pet looked forlorn at seeing its plaything sailing out of reach.
As I stared into pool-like reflections of the canopy above the weir, I was startled by an approaching couple enquiring if it was worth going up tops. I began to describe the layout when they considered their footwear dubious and settled on a canal walk.
Making our way home on the towpath, a Pair of Canada geese herded their cute, fluffy brood of goslings.
Official spring began gloriously albeit breezy. In the park, crows squabbled in treetops, families licked ice cream and teenagers picnicked near the path. Confetti floated from almond trees as the native cherry blossom began to emerge.
Continuing to the station, allegedly tasty dock leaves commandeered hedgerows while custard and cream daffodils occupied raised beds. We started to ascend Wood Top Road, pausing to wonder at ‘Crow Nest annexe’. Occupying the site of the historically bigger station complete with sidings and station master’s house, we could discern disused rail track.
No sign of goats, kids or lambs, fat sheep grazed in harshly-lit fields near the farm. We continued upwards and turned left onto Wood Hey Lane.
Noticeably warmer sheltered from the wind, clusters of snowdrops and magnificent blackthorn outshone flowering shrubs overhanging from gardens. Phil nibbled tender hawthorn shoots as we meandered onto Park Lane and Nest Lane. Bypassing the centre of Mytholmroyd, we turned left onto Thrush Hill Lane, bemoaned a dilapidated ruin and passed through the notorious tunnel. Yet more garden blossom sought to break the confines of fences, jutting onto the pavement.
In the refurbished co-op, we got a couple of reduced items and 3 for 2 snack foods. Thinking I whinged at his choices, Phil bizarrely put them back in the fridge. Famished, “I said they wouldn’t be my first option but I’m really hungry so they’ll do. At the till, we were asked did we need to pay for fuel? I should have said did we look like we had a car? We hurried up the road to the next egress to the towpath, and sat on the bench overlooking the lock to stuff Scotch eggs in our gobs before dogs mugged us for the grub. Striding home along the canal, we detoured slightly to explore a path over the bridge before Mayroyd and wondered at totems to Odin at the moorings.
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.
Cool Places - Our Back Yard 