Its December and should be crisp and cold with a winter sun, frost and sometimes a dusting of snow. But not this December here in Yorkshire, currently its damp, shrouded in fog, windy with torrential driving rain that falls horizontally (not vertically as it should).
Travelling to Hebden the other day in torrential rain and wind I was stopped in a long queue of traffic thinking there must have been a car accident. But as I got closer I could see a emblazoned police car parked horizontally across the road and a very helpful policeman advised that the road was under three feet of water and was closed.
I needed to get through and Mr Policeman advised I needed to take the "top" road. Shocked, I had no idea how to even find the "top" road. Mr Anonymous in the car behind me was going my way and very kindly said I could follow him. So, three or four of us turned around and set off in convoy following the very kind Mr Anonymous climbing the very steep and narrow hill leading to the top road.
In my little mini cooper with a young lady in her tiny KA behind me we cautiously traveled the steep hill through a fast massive rushing river of water flowing down the roadway; water that was coming off the Yorkshire moors and hills that had no other place to run other than down the road. Overloaded natural streams were bursting through cracks in the dry stone walling on to the road in front of me. I have never seen water like it in England, it was an unbelievable sight and must have been at least three inches deep as it cascaded down the immensely steep hill to the valley below. I have witnessed this type of flooding in the washes in Arizona after torrential rainfall, but never in England.
Our little cars held on beautifully and did us proud as we risked the flooded dips and cascading rivers which our Anonymous leader very carefully and diligently leading us mile after mile along the winding narrow "top" road to the safety of the low road and our onward journeys. The road was dangerous and covered in branches, leaves, gravel and muck swept down off the moors in this deluge of unnatural rainfall and weather. Had it not been for the dense fog the view across the Calder Valley would have been sensational. We made it, through, safely, as we wound our way down, through all the rubbish on the road, round hair pin bends and into Hebden via Mytholm passing the stately St James Church shrouded in a swirling mist with its tower protruding towards heaven.
Our very kind Anonymous leader pulled over, checked in with us we OK and knew where we were headed and wished us well on our journeys. This gentleman was a real star. Thanking him profusely, we continued on our weary ways, me personally, looking forward to a piping hot cup of strong Yorkshire tea at my final destination.
16.12.15
Wednesday 16 December 2015
Friday 4 December 2015
Saddleworth Moors
My goodness what a difference a few weeks make up here in the wild wet foggy moors of West Yorkshire. Travelling to Hull today across the bleak but somehow beautiful moors I was hit by dense fog which only added to the atmospheric Saddleworth moors. The moors are eerie at the best of times. No civilisation for miles, just flat land of varying shades of green and taupe, lolling and rolling for as far as the eye can see smothered in a dense pea souper. Possibly the odd sheep nibbling whats left of last years moss, if you're lucky.
Leaving home after my early morning cuppa tea. Off out to work. I had a 2 hour journey across these bleak moors, but unlike a few weeks ago when the moors went drenched in the autumnal crisp ray of Yorkshire sunlight with patches of glistening frost tucked under the gorse and in the shade of the ferns, this gloomy dank foggy morning had a very different eyes view and feel.
Although eerie on a clear day, this morning felt particularly sinister yet beautiful all at the same time. This juxtaposition was uncanny; I was surprised by this stark side by side and overlapping contrast. Nevertheless, there was also an element of excitement and adrenaline rush in driving across such a bleak environment in dense fog knowing how bare desolate and stark the terrain was on either side of me and remembering the sinister activities that once scarred this landscape.
I had an uncomfortable feeling in my tummy and a sadness in my heart of knowing what despicable crimes had been committed here all those years ago. There was no getting away from the fact that this was an unpredictable, melancholy and grim part of the world that regurgitated dark memories and mixed emotions contrasted by the natural beauty and colours of these rolling Yorkshire moors.
My return journey conjured the same emotions and thoughts.
Home for a piping hot cuppa tea with a large slice of Victoria sandwich. Mmmm.
04.12.15
Leaving home after my early morning cuppa tea. Off out to work. I had a 2 hour journey across these bleak moors, but unlike a few weeks ago when the moors went drenched in the autumnal crisp ray of Yorkshire sunlight with patches of glistening frost tucked under the gorse and in the shade of the ferns, this gloomy dank foggy morning had a very different eyes view and feel.
Although eerie on a clear day, this morning felt particularly sinister yet beautiful all at the same time. This juxtaposition was uncanny; I was surprised by this stark side by side and overlapping contrast. Nevertheless, there was also an element of excitement and adrenaline rush in driving across such a bleak environment in dense fog knowing how bare desolate and stark the terrain was on either side of me and remembering the sinister activities that once scarred this landscape.
I had an uncomfortable feeling in my tummy and a sadness in my heart of knowing what despicable crimes had been committed here all those years ago. There was no getting away from the fact that this was an unpredictable, melancholy and grim part of the world that regurgitated dark memories and mixed emotions contrasted by the natural beauty and colours of these rolling Yorkshire moors.
My return journey conjured the same emotions and thoughts.
Home for a piping hot cuppa tea with a large slice of Victoria sandwich. Mmmm.
04.12.15
Wednesday 25 November 2015
Christmas Light up in Mytholmroyd 2015
It was cold, crisp, the sky was indigo, clear and littered with bright shining stars. The Calder ran fast and strong under one of the town bridges, whooshing right past the boundary of St Michael's Church where the Christmas Festivities began last Saturday 21st November 2015 with the Mytholmroyd Christmas Market and Light Switch on.
In St Michael's Church Square on a beautiful late Autumn/Winter afternoon all wrapped up in our woolly winter coats, hats of all shapes and sizes, scarves, gloves and boots we (my niece, small nephew and I) browsed the delightful wares of the very talented artists and crafters in the Mytholmroyd and surrounding area, many of them handmade.
The outdoor and indoor market was buzzing with every generation and gender all enjoying the festivities accompanied by Christmas sweet mince pies, homemade cakes, biscuits and pasties and large chocolate bars for every child, obtained as a gift from Father Christmas himself who arrived, to the surprise and delight of the girls and boys, and mingled amongst the crowd, chatting and laughing and participating.
Balloon makers and face painters; wine tasting and cheese sampling; art, craft and photography; bakers and foodies; antiques and even a masseur...there was something for everyone, even a welcome piping hot cuppa Yorkshire tea held between the gloved hands of the crowds to warm the cockles of your heart on this clear starry night.
The town Mayor compered the event with the local school children's choir entertaining us all with Christmas Carols close to the extremely tall pine (ready for the light switch on) which we (including Father Christmas) all heartily and overwhelming joined in with from our song sheets and childhood memories. Many of the Carols and songs being childhood favorites. We sung and sung and sung, not wanting it to end.
It was chilly but Christmasy and wintery, making for an enjoyable and memorable afternoon. Suddenly, the children began the important countdown under the organisation of Mr Town Mayor 10...9...8...7...6...5...4...3...2...1...0...and pow the town Christmas tree came alive with flashing tiny lights in all shades of blue and green with a dash of red and white. Beautiful. A great cheer went up from all and sundry with oooh's and aaah's and everyone peering up to the sky. Then, in perfect timing, the street decorations, along the High Street sprung into life too. What a great sight. Christmas festivities in Mytholmroyd had begun.
A great afternoon; thank you one and all and a very Merry Christmas.
25.11.15
In St Michael's Church Square on a beautiful late Autumn/Winter afternoon all wrapped up in our woolly winter coats, hats of all shapes and sizes, scarves, gloves and boots we (my niece, small nephew and I) browsed the delightful wares of the very talented artists and crafters in the Mytholmroyd and surrounding area, many of them handmade.
The outdoor and indoor market was buzzing with every generation and gender all enjoying the festivities accompanied by Christmas sweet mince pies, homemade cakes, biscuits and pasties and large chocolate bars for every child, obtained as a gift from Father Christmas himself who arrived, to the surprise and delight of the girls and boys, and mingled amongst the crowd, chatting and laughing and participating.
Balloon makers and face painters; wine tasting and cheese sampling; art, craft and photography; bakers and foodies; antiques and even a masseur...there was something for everyone, even a welcome piping hot cuppa Yorkshire tea held between the gloved hands of the crowds to warm the cockles of your heart on this clear starry night.
The town Mayor compered the event with the local school children's choir entertaining us all with Christmas Carols close to the extremely tall pine (ready for the light switch on) which we (including Father Christmas) all heartily and overwhelming joined in with from our song sheets and childhood memories. Many of the Carols and songs being childhood favorites. We sung and sung and sung, not wanting it to end.
It was chilly but Christmasy and wintery, making for an enjoyable and memorable afternoon. Suddenly, the children began the important countdown under the organisation of Mr Town Mayor 10...9...8...7...6...5...4...3...2...1...0...and pow the town Christmas tree came alive with flashing tiny lights in all shades of blue and green with a dash of red and white. Beautiful. A great cheer went up from all and sundry with oooh's and aaah's and everyone peering up to the sky. Then, in perfect timing, the street decorations, along the High Street sprung into life too. What a great sight. Christmas festivities in Mytholmroyd had begun.
A great afternoon; thank you one and all and a very Merry Christmas.
25.11.15
Tuesday 27 October 2015
Rock & Roll in Hebden Bridge
It was dark and damp and there was a mist, or maybe it was a fog, as I waited alone on the platform for the Calder Vale train to finally pull in. Pulling my mink fur collar up higher, it did nothing to keep out the chill. Strangely I found myself completely alone on this dreary dank, badly lit platform. Sounds and senses were heightened as I sat engulfed in my cream cashmere trying to beat off the damp that had begun to sink deep into my bones.
Solitude is something I normally like (and need on occasions) but tonight alone in the swirling mist sitting on the uncomfortable wrought iron railway bench took on a bit of a scary and worrying atmosphere.
AS the time progressed the mist became fog, getting thicker and thicker and swirling heavier and heavier around my stilettos, I was finding I could see less and less and certainly not across the train line to platform 2. I was very grateful to my heavy cashmere ensconced with the large mink collar and my felt feathered wide brimmed hat to fight the Autumn air. After the Picture House lights, chattering, hilarity and popular music this was an unexpected mysterious scene I had not envisaged or encountered before when taking the train home after a jolly old evening of rock and roll with the ladies of Hebden Bridge in the beautiful Pennine hills and dales.
The night had fallen quickly since stepping out of the smokey, pleasant and friendly
atmosphere of the annual city dance and into the eerie unwelcoming light of platform 1. Suddenly I focused on someone pacing somewhere close by; I could see no one though, only hear the purposeful striding of an anonymous companion. Whoever it was, never came closer or into view. I pulled my mink tighter and clutched my handbag as, with a long echoing toot reaching me through the fog, the train pulled to a slow halt and I leapt up the wooden steps and made my way along the narrow corridor to an empty compartment, sliding the door shut behind me I sank into the tapestry upholstered bench, relieved to be homeward bound.
Pulling away from the platform and the anonymous invisible strider I was safely chugging my way home to cotton and woolen mill town of Sowerby Bridge and free for a short while from the dank Yorkshire fog that had penetrated my lungs. Closing my eyes and resting my head back I began imagining my fine bone teacup and saucer of strong Yorkshire tea and supper of spam fitters and tinned fruit and evaporated milk that awaited me fireside at mum's.
27.10.15
Solitude is something I normally like (and need on occasions) but tonight alone in the swirling mist sitting on the uncomfortable wrought iron railway bench took on a bit of a scary and worrying atmosphere.
AS the time progressed the mist became fog, getting thicker and thicker and swirling heavier and heavier around my stilettos, I was finding I could see less and less and certainly not across the train line to platform 2. I was very grateful to my heavy cashmere ensconced with the large mink collar and my felt feathered wide brimmed hat to fight the Autumn air. After the Picture House lights, chattering, hilarity and popular music this was an unexpected mysterious scene I had not envisaged or encountered before when taking the train home after a jolly old evening of rock and roll with the ladies of Hebden Bridge in the beautiful Pennine hills and dales.
The night had fallen quickly since stepping out of the smokey, pleasant and friendly
atmosphere of the annual city dance and into the eerie unwelcoming light of platform 1. Suddenly I focused on someone pacing somewhere close by; I could see no one though, only hear the purposeful striding of an anonymous companion. Whoever it was, never came closer or into view. I pulled my mink tighter and clutched my handbag as, with a long echoing toot reaching me through the fog, the train pulled to a slow halt and I leapt up the wooden steps and made my way along the narrow corridor to an empty compartment, sliding the door shut behind me I sank into the tapestry upholstered bench, relieved to be homeward bound.
Pulling away from the platform and the anonymous invisible strider I was safely chugging my way home to cotton and woolen mill town of Sowerby Bridge and free for a short while from the dank Yorkshire fog that had penetrated my lungs. Closing my eyes and resting my head back I began imagining my fine bone teacup and saucer of strong Yorkshire tea and supper of spam fitters and tinned fruit and evaporated milk that awaited me fireside at mum's.
27.10.15
Tuesday 20 October 2015
Word of Mouth to the Written Word
Moving to the heart of the Yorkshire moors about eight weeks ago was a big move and change for me and I have been busy settling in and finding my creative spirit and soul again in the this very creative part of England. Just being amongst the dales and Autumn colours has stirred up my soul but finding creative groups to join and participate in has been an absolute pleasure. From creative textiles and beading to my book club and now a scrumptious little writing group meeting in a character pub in the centre of Hebden Bridge - my jewel in the middle of the Yorkshire dales - was the ultimate pleasure last night. Interesting wordy and creative writers huddled around pub tables with a mixture of beverages writing descriptions of places and characters together made for an enjoyable evening. I will be back in two weeks to share the written word again over a large piping hot mug of Yorkshire tea, warming the cockles of my heart on a chilly Autumn evening as I continue to endeavour to perfect my writing skills. Back soon with you all with more written tales and words. Bon chance!
20.10.15
20.10.15
Early Morning at Hollingworth Lake
Today I rounded the hairpin bend
I could only stare
Taking in
The sheer glassy expanse
Engulfed
In the blinding Autumn sun
Glistening like a diamond
Visor snapped down
Squinting
I smile
Admiring the beauty
Little white flags
Daintily bobbing
Dotted across
This large pond
Silently gliding
Soaking up
The early morning rays
Weaving ripples
And leaving runways
As their pilots maneuver
Their rudders enjoying this peace
Majestic swans follow
Making their own paths
What an exquisite tapestry
Of natural beauty
Rounding that corner unveiled
A few duck here
Moorhens there
Circles of gulls
Squawking overhead
announcing this morning
to the world
And the solitary dog walkers
Not a cloud can be seen
As heaven radiates down
I pass on by
Leaving this corner
Of mother earth
till I return later in the day
Mindful of the beauty I witnessed
Ready for my cuppa at start of my day
20.10.15
I could only stare
Taking in
The sheer glassy expanse
Engulfed
In the blinding Autumn sun
Glistening like a diamond
Visor snapped down
Squinting
I smile
Admiring the beauty
Little white flags
Daintily bobbing
Dotted across
This large pond
Silently gliding
Soaking up
The early morning rays
Weaving ripples
And leaving runways
As their pilots maneuver
Their rudders enjoying this peace
Majestic swans follow
Making their own paths
What an exquisite tapestry
Of natural beauty
Rounding that corner unveiled
A few duck here
Moorhens there
Circles of gulls
Squawking overhead
announcing this morning
to the world
And the solitary dog walkers
Not a cloud can be seen
As heaven radiates down
I pass on by
Leaving this corner
Of mother earth
till I return later in the day
Mindful of the beauty I witnessed
Ready for my cuppa at start of my day
20.10.15
Monday 12 October 2015
High Rise to Heptonstall
Winding our way out of Hebden Bridge, up up up, dry walling guards the road on either side and the view across the valley below is stunning. The view is so stunning its hard to keep my eye on the road. A carpet of Autumn gold, reds and russet trees lace the hillside as we wind our way up till we spy the left hand turn leading to the tiny and interesting hamlet of Heptonstall.
As we drive below the sumptuous natural umbrella of trees hanging overhead we take the turn into the rugged cobbled hillside leading to Heptonstall and the final resting place of the American poet Sylvia Plath and wife of the English poet laureate and children's writer, Ted Hughes. The street is only wide enough for one car and bumpy as hell. The street cobbles are large and lumpy, well used and well worn and a trade mark of this fascinating hamlet and a difficult hardworking life that has gone before. These cobbles are known locally as stone setts and have been restored and are in perfect keeping with the era. The population of the village is currently 1,448 but closing your eyes, you can instantly visualise and hear the carts and families that once inhabited here. You can imagine the lives and smell the smells of the past.
Leaving our car in a tiny car park at the end of a narrow opening (that didn't look wide enough for any vehicle) my girlfriend and I set off on foot in the pouring rain to explore. The village was particularly dull and dour on this dreary wet day but somehow it added to the atmosphere and made the village all the more interesting.
Passing a teeny weeny tea room, a general store housing the local post office we wound our way up the steep cobbled street passing a couple of pubs and passing the time of day with a local pensioner staggering down the hill leaning on her walking stick and being dragged along by her scruffy scrawny dog. She was quite a character; through her jumbled words and slurring we translated that she was inviting us to join her for a drink in her "local". Politely we declined, giggling together that she was already under the influence before she had even entered the drinking house. We continued to make our way up up up, puffing and panting ~ it was extremely steep.
The tiny Yorkshire stone cottages, once weavers cottages have large first floor windows to allow as much light as possible to penetrate for the weavers who would have been working the looms. Lining either side of the street each were full of character and well cared for; pretty and ensconced with little ornate railings either side of rickety steps and delightful window boxes laden with seasonal plants and flowers. Little cobbled alley ways sprouted off on each side of us leading to other villagers homes that were delightful little menageries to stop and ponder, peruse and admire. This little street was like something out of a story book, a fairy tale or a picture postcard.
Eventually we reached the large ruined church of St Thomas a Becket which was founded in 1260 and stood austere and proud on the hillside. The ruin overlooked the Calder Valley and was exposed to the elements having been severely damaged in a storm in 1847. The new church, St Thomas Apostle had also suffered a lightening strike in 1875. There are three churchyards around the churches in Heptonstall, the oldest is closed now and all the headstones have been laid flat like a grey stone patchwork carpet. This has created a strange atmosphere and energy around the church which on this dull, dour and wet day, as dusk fell, did not make for a comfortable visit.
Taking a different route back, we meandered through the cobbled stone sett alley ways, in the eerie light, down down down stopping at the family run English tea room and enjoying a piping hot cup o Yorkshire tea (to warm the cockles and soul) accompanied by homemade scones, clotted cream and strawberry jam all served in darling mismatched antique English bone china teacups. Absolutely delightful and just the right way to end this dreary day before winding our way back down the steep dark hill to the jewel in the Yorkshire dales, Hebden Bridge and home.
12.10.15
As we drive below the sumptuous natural umbrella of trees hanging overhead we take the turn into the rugged cobbled hillside leading to Heptonstall and the final resting place of the American poet Sylvia Plath and wife of the English poet laureate and children's writer, Ted Hughes. The street is only wide enough for one car and bumpy as hell. The street cobbles are large and lumpy, well used and well worn and a trade mark of this fascinating hamlet and a difficult hardworking life that has gone before. These cobbles are known locally as stone setts and have been restored and are in perfect keeping with the era. The population of the village is currently 1,448 but closing your eyes, you can instantly visualise and hear the carts and families that once inhabited here. You can imagine the lives and smell the smells of the past.
Leaving our car in a tiny car park at the end of a narrow opening (that didn't look wide enough for any vehicle) my girlfriend and I set off on foot in the pouring rain to explore. The village was particularly dull and dour on this dreary wet day but somehow it added to the atmosphere and made the village all the more interesting.
Passing a teeny weeny tea room, a general store housing the local post office we wound our way up the steep cobbled street passing a couple of pubs and passing the time of day with a local pensioner staggering down the hill leaning on her walking stick and being dragged along by her scruffy scrawny dog. She was quite a character; through her jumbled words and slurring we translated that she was inviting us to join her for a drink in her "local". Politely we declined, giggling together that she was already under the influence before she had even entered the drinking house. We continued to make our way up up up, puffing and panting ~ it was extremely steep.
The tiny Yorkshire stone cottages, once weavers cottages have large first floor windows to allow as much light as possible to penetrate for the weavers who would have been working the looms. Lining either side of the street each were full of character and well cared for; pretty and ensconced with little ornate railings either side of rickety steps and delightful window boxes laden with seasonal plants and flowers. Little cobbled alley ways sprouted off on each side of us leading to other villagers homes that were delightful little menageries to stop and ponder, peruse and admire. This little street was like something out of a story book, a fairy tale or a picture postcard.
Eventually we reached the large ruined church of St Thomas a Becket which was founded in 1260 and stood austere and proud on the hillside. The ruin overlooked the Calder Valley and was exposed to the elements having been severely damaged in a storm in 1847. The new church, St Thomas Apostle had also suffered a lightening strike in 1875. There are three churchyards around the churches in Heptonstall, the oldest is closed now and all the headstones have been laid flat like a grey stone patchwork carpet. This has created a strange atmosphere and energy around the church which on this dull, dour and wet day, as dusk fell, did not make for a comfortable visit.
Taking a different route back, we meandered through the cobbled stone sett alley ways, in the eerie light, down down down stopping at the family run English tea room and enjoying a piping hot cup o Yorkshire tea (to warm the cockles and soul) accompanied by homemade scones, clotted cream and strawberry jam all served in darling mismatched antique English bone china teacups. Absolutely delightful and just the right way to end this dreary day before winding our way back down the steep dark hill to the jewel in the Yorkshire dales, Hebden Bridge and home.
12.10.15
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