Day Three

Two years ago Simon Armitage walked the Pennine Way from north to south and, one sunny day in July,  Johnny, Bet and I joined him to walk from Ickornshaw to Hebden Bridge – about 15 miles across the moors. Johnny and I had been doing quite a bit of barefoot walking so we took sandals with the idea that we’d walk some of it barefoot, but have footwear to hand if we needed it. Simon has written a book about his walk, Walking Home, in which he quotes me as saying I like to walk barefoot because it means you can get a better feel of the walk. And it’s true. Knowing what it feels like to walk on smooth mud or springy heather, gravel or boulders, through squelchy mud or water  adds another dimension, makes you feel connected with the land. And after you’ve done it for while it doesn’t hurt.

When I was a teenager I walked barefoot all the time. I went out for whole days, nights on the town, holidays, whole terms at university, and didn’t even take any shoes with me. My feet are pretty tough. 

That day we walked up onto the moors in our sandals, then took them off when we reached the heather. Simon asked what we were doing and photographed our feet.  We talked about how wonderful and natural it was. About half a mile later I stubbed my little toe and broke it. I didn’t know then that it was broken, just that it hurt like hell. And later, when I decided the stones on the path had got quite sharp and it was time for sandals, I couldn’t put them on because of the swelling. So I walked the whole way with bare feet and Simon thought I was mad. I probably was.

His book came out this summer and this morning, as part of the Walk and Ride Festival he gave a reading at Marsden Mechanics. This evening, also at the Mechanics, there’s another talk with a SA connection, this time the Stanza Stones. Simon has written six poems, Snow, Mist, Rain, Dew, Puddle and Beck, which have been carved into stone and placed in the landscape. There’s a trail of 47 miles through the Pennine Watershed taking in all of these stones. Tom Lonsdale was the Landscape Architect tasked with finding sites and managing the carving of Simon Armitage’s poems into the Pennine rock. At 7.30 he will be spilling the beans on the inside story. 

Bet and I slipped out of the house at twenty to six this morning. It was still dark, but you could make out the horizon, so I reckoned if we walked along the road to the Blue Pig, then by the time we got there it would be light enough to come back along the river.

The street light up Keighley Road cast the valley into utter blackness. I’d put my coat on because there was a hint of rain in the air - and it has handy pockets - but it was really warm out and I hadn’t done it up. When I turned off into Midgeholes Road I found myself fastening it. I thought, why are you doing that, it’s not cold, then realised it was for security. Why having my coat done up in the dark should make me feel safer I’ve no idea, but it worked.

Bet wasn’t pleased with the road option. Every time we passed a way into the woods or to the river she tried to go along it. She didn’t care about the dark. 

By the time we reached the Blue Pig the light was grainy. There was cloud cover, which didn’t help. But also we were walking through a wooded valley where the night clings on for longer than it does on the hills. The path leading to the river is wooded and the entrance to it looked like a scary black hole. Bet wasn’t bothered. Pleased to be off the road she disappeared into the darkness, and so I followed her. And of course, it’s never as bad as you expect it to be. I could see the river below me rushing over stones, dark as treacle, and when we reached the bridge over to the field the expanse of grass was suddenly silver. Lights were on in a couple of farmhouses, comfortable glows where early risers were making cups of tea in their dressing gowns.

As we walked back the birds began to sing. We went up Hurst Road and into Nutclough Woods - as familiar to us as favourite shoes, and it was easy walking into the darkness this time. By the time we came out onto our road, colour was starting to seep into the morning.