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
Tuesday, 27 October 2015
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
Monday, 5 October 2015
Let's get the Washing Out
Washing washing everywhere
Row upon row, line upon line
Cheekily blowing in the Yorkshire breeze.
Knickers and Y-fronts
We're not proud up 'ere
Blue skies appear
So hang out ya bloomers
All shapes and sizes
A merriment of colours and fabrics
No matter the weather
They'll be flapping front o living room window
For all to ponder
And some to scare
A veil of mist hangs over the tops
So hang out ya sheets, why not?
No matter the damp, the rain or the frost
They'll dry, will they not?
And come to unpeg at'end of day
Although stiff as aboard
That'll be ok?
A frost underfoot
And we'll get it out there
Ballooning boxers, blouses and brassieres
Flapping shirts, skirts and socks
Dangling stockings and trouser legs.
All a wonderment for any an eye
Any weather, anything goes
Just get it out there
It'll dry, wont it?
So along the streets
Of back to back houses
Rows of terraces
And garden lawns
We're shrouded in linens
And a wild array of clothing
Flipping and flapping
in the Yorkshire air
Any old weather
Tis washing day
So lets get it out there
05.10.15
Row upon row, line upon line
Cheekily blowing in the Yorkshire breeze.
Knickers and Y-fronts
We're not proud up 'ere
Blue skies appear
So hang out ya bloomers
All shapes and sizes
A merriment of colours and fabrics
No matter the weather
They'll be flapping front o living room window
For all to ponder
And some to scare
A veil of mist hangs over the tops
So hang out ya sheets, why not?
No matter the damp, the rain or the frost
They'll dry, will they not?
And come to unpeg at'end of day
Although stiff as aboard
That'll be ok?
A frost underfoot
And we'll get it out there
Ballooning boxers, blouses and brassieres
Flapping shirts, skirts and socks
Dangling stockings and trouser legs.
All a wonderment for any an eye
Any weather, anything goes
Just get it out there
It'll dry, wont it?
So along the streets
Of back to back houses
Rows of terraces
And garden lawns
We're shrouded in linens
And a wild array of clothing
Flipping and flapping
in the Yorkshire air
Any old weather
Tis washing day
So lets get it out there
05.10.15
Sunday, 4 October 2015
Hebden Bridge - A Jewel in West Yorkshire
Hebden Bridge a jewel snuggled between the luscious hills, dales, river Calder & Hebden and the Rochdale Canal, is a delightful quirky little retreat for a truly topical, interesting and awesome day out, walk, bike ride or a vegan lunch. They say its one of the friendliest and accommodating small towns in England. Anything goes here. Flamboyant hair, outrageous outfits and busking in the centre cobbled square is a treat for every visitor. Interesting and arty shops nestled around traditional cobbled streets with a cafe, coffee shop and restaurant to sate every palate and desire. Ducks and swans to feed under the beautiful iron bridge with the delightful sight of regular well known Hebden artist, building free standing rock sculptures, in the middle of the river Calder. This gem of an attraction is still home to a traditional baker, grocers and florist providing first class produce, as well as a traditional fruit and veggies market each week. A must visit and perusal to Jules China shop, the Pot Shop, the Polish Pottery shop and Innovations Gift...you will not be disappointed. If you're interested in antiques there is the Hebden Antique Centre and an odds and sods market on a Wednesday in Market Square just across the iron bridge. Art and craft is in abundance with B Beads, Pottery Painting, Northlight Art Studios and plenty of activities in the Town Hall and Library including a book club meeting on Friday afternoons. If its theatre you are interested in there is Hebden Bridge Little Theatre and the Hebden Picture House. You can easily spend a full day meandering the wonderful cobbled streets of this little town but without doubt you will be back as there is so much to soak up and enjoy. Hebden is a little piece of paradise tucked into the Valley of Calderdale's beautiful luscious countryside.
04.10.15
04.10.15
Heaven and Earth
Heavens mist shrouds the tops,
Carpets of violet adorn the hillside.
Cattle carefully hop the terraces,
And sheep graze in and out of the flora.
Winding my way higher and higher
I take in the beauty of this ride.
Luscious ferns frame the circumferences
While dry walling stands guard at the borders.
Fences are sparse; hedges few,
But weathered Yorkshire stone embraces
The stunning natural wonders
Of these green majestic dales,
And a tapestry of purple heather
Carpets the gradient.
Rolling hills kiss the clouds,
Mist veils the peaks
And sun rays streak the landscape.
Listening in, there is not a sound
Except the tranquil sound of
The natural flow of a stream
And birds twittering.
God's own country sates
My appetite for this journey.
Watching this natural mutiny appear,
Between heaven and earth,
An arc of light and vivid colour
Lurches beyond the swirling mist and cloud
Where the feathery purple heather glows.
And a never ending rainbow
Surges under a railway arch.
I continue to wind, up and up,
Led by the ancient walls.
And encompassing earths beauty
Between heaven
And this golden luscious countryside
I am at peace.
04.10.15
Carpets of violet adorn the hillside.
Cattle carefully hop the terraces,
And sheep graze in and out of the flora.
Winding my way higher and higher
I take in the beauty of this ride.
Luscious ferns frame the circumferences
While dry walling stands guard at the borders.
Fences are sparse; hedges few,
But weathered Yorkshire stone embraces
The stunning natural wonders
Of these green majestic dales,
And a tapestry of purple heather
Carpets the gradient.
Rolling hills kiss the clouds,
Mist veils the peaks
And sun rays streak the landscape.
Listening in, there is not a sound
Except the tranquil sound of
The natural flow of a stream
And birds twittering.
God's own country sates
My appetite for this journey.
Watching this natural mutiny appear,
Between heaven and earth,
An arc of light and vivid colour
Lurches beyond the swirling mist and cloud
Where the feathery purple heather glows.
And a never ending rainbow
Surges under a railway arch.
I continue to wind, up and up,
Led by the ancient walls.
And encompassing earths beauty
Between heaven
And this golden luscious countryside
I am at peace.
04.10.15
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