Day Three
I managed to rip a little toe nail off in the morning and could not wear walking boots. So I had to put on my soft leather shoes, which have poor grips.
Arriving on the outskirts of Hebden Royd by bus, we went up from Brearley, following the way markers for Churn Milk Joan. The pathway is steep, very steep where it leaves the old trackway, passed forgotten meadows in the woods. I was excited to discover the first bluebells of the season had started to open.
Going up wasn't too bad because I could scramble, but it would have been very difficult to come down. Sophie fell over and cried, but dusted herself off and carried on. I was impressed by her attitude. The views were awesome, but the one photo we took is over exposed.
On Heights Road, we rested on a bench. Clearly, a popular destination for picnickers, the ground was littered with packets and cans. We continued up Chapel Lane and then onto the moors.
I managed to take a wrong turn into a field and impaled myself on barbed wire before my wife sensibly got us back on the track again. Whereupon we met an old guy bobbling down the hill. He told us the story of Churn Milk Joan, whom, he said, had died on the moors carrying milk in a blizzard. As a memorial, a grieving community erected a seven foot high stone. There's a local tradition that you should leave a few pence on the top as a tribute. He said he'd once put some pesetas on the top and then come back a week later to find all the English coins gone but the pesetas still there. When we arrived, I helped my daughter to place a 20p piece on the top. Then I got Aeisha to take my photo. The reason I'm holding my hat is because she made me take it off because she says I look silly in it.
There are other explanations of the origins of the site, well summed up in this article by local journalist, historian and co-operator, Andrew Bibby.
Next to Churn Milk Joan is yet another Crow Hill. This is the one most people say Ted Hughes was writing about in his poem of the same name. However, according to a friend, there are more than two Crow Hills in the area, so who knows..... However, there were at least some crows in the vicinity.
We crept along the Calderdale Way. Aeisha took a photo of some stones which look like they have sandstone deposits in them, near Cock Hill. This would make sense as it's sandy on the tops.
Going down by the side of the golf course, we made our way to Four Lane Ends, the pub at Old Town.
The photo shows the view toward Heptonstall just before the turn.
Arriving at the pub, we were fortunate: the landlord had decided to start opening it between 12 - 3pm on Thursdays, and we got there in time to order some soft drinks and look at the pigs in the adjacent field. The landlord told us that and they were owned by his wife, who was thinking of getting some oil to rub them down with to stop them from getting sun burn. This was the first time I'd heard about pig sun cream.
We walked straight down from there towards Dodd Naze, then took a right. The path was stony and a stream was flowing down it. My foot was in pain and it took me a long time make my way down but I was cheered by a friendly donkey in the next field who peered at me as I hobbled along, as if it was concerned for my health. Needless to say that my family had forged ahead and were waiting for me at the end of the path.
After this, we crossed the top of Nutclough, over Hurst Bridge and up the trackway to Hurst Road. Then down towards the river and the archery field (technically in Heptonstall).
Only one more part of the journey to do now. We let Sophie play in the river and decided to complete the walk the next day.
Day Four
Once again we started from home, this time going up through Eaves Wood, then passed Hell Hole Rocks. The photo is off a sunburnt me, leaning off the strange rock wall - possibly a moraine of some kind - that stands at an angle in front of Hell Hole Rocks.
Aeisha noticed that someone had written 'F**k' on it in yellow paint. 'Look,' she said, 'someone's written f**k on the rock'. Sophie piped up, 'Mummy, what does f**k mean? Is it a swear word?'. 'Me: 'Never you mind what f**k means, just keep walking. We don't want to hear it'. So on we went with our delightful daughter skipping around our feet going 'f**k, f**k, f**k'
There's a path above St James's church that hugs the hill roughly on the boundary with Heptonstall, so we followed that, before taking a turn up passed the back of Lime Avenue and the side of Heptonstall New Road. We came off that, passed some boats (of all things), and then down the steps, and towards the Archery field once more, by an old setted pathway that descends to the bottom of the valley.
The photo shows Sophie and me at the end of the journey. She'd forgotten about the new word by then, thank God.
We'd done it! Thanks to the photographer, my wife, Aeisha.
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