Day One

Everyone’s just finished their first week back at school. When I went out with Bet at half past seven this morning the world was hushed and still, as if it was saying to us, Shh, they’re all still sleeping. We walked up through the woods and across the fields up to Old Town. The tops of the hills still had clouds draped over them and there was a sleepy, don’t-want-to-wake-up yet, feel to the air. The wind turbines up near the reservoir weren’t moving at all and tree branches were as still as if they’d been painted. There was some noise - a cow bellowed and a dog barked, and they seemed as though they were close to my ear, intimate and personal, even though the cow was nowhere to be seen and the dog was over somewhere near Dodd Naze. The day hadn’t decided yet what it was going to be, a cloudy grey pyjama day, or a slow start after which the clouds would sweep away leaving everything fresh and bright. Over towards Midgley, eastwards, the clouds were hazy enough to let the sun through and it reflected on the water droplets hanging in the air making the whole valley glow golden with celestial light, as though it were the promise the day to come. I watched a black cat walk across a field, and although it was quite far away, I felt we were connected, that it was my early morning friend.

The moors were still asleep. The heather was dark and the peat black. The stone walls glowered and I stepped lightly, so as not to disturb them. From up here, the valley below was hidden in mist, and it felt as though this moor top was the only place in the world. A flock of meadow pipits flew about my head, darting this way and that and singing out their morning defiance into the stillness. Bet chased sticks, ignored everything else. We didn’t see a soul.

We came back down by Wainsgate Chapel. The air was softer here than on the moor. I could smell the grass and the trees, flowers in people’s gardens. A dragonfly flew across the path. It was slow, it’s vibrant colours muted by the morning. Maybe later, if the sunny day comes to pass, it will dart and hover, flashing iridescence, but not now. It landed on a twig and stayed still, maybe deciding it was too early yet to be up and about. Crows were cawing  their breakfast conversation in the orchard opposite the chapel.

Coming back down the fields the clouds had moved, shifting themselves about like blankets, as the day tossed and turned, waking slowly. Stoodley Pike was playing now-you-see-me-now-you-don’t. Cows stood still in the field and watched as we walked past, interested, but not enough to be bothered to move. The woods were quiet. The splashes and trickles of the stream and the waterfalls more like bathroom washing sounds than the rushing and roaring it has done of late.

We got home at nine, and everyone was still sleeping. The day still undecided.

This is the piece I thought I would write this morning, about my morning walk up on the hills. As I walked I looked, listened, thought about what I might write. Going up the hill I was gathering impressions in my head, celestial clouds, bellowing cow, still wind turbines. I thought I should write them down so I didn’t forget anything, but when I felt in my pockets I didn’t have anything to write with. A couple of scraps of paper, but no pen, no pencil. Well, I’d just have to remember then. Stillness, mist, dog barking, cat in the field, dark heather. It began to feel like one of those games when you look at a selection of objects on a tray and then the tray is taken away and you have to remember as many of them as you can. You always forget one or two - or I do - and I thought something was bound to fall out of my head. The cat or the meadow pipits or Stoodley Pike. I had to find something to write with.

I saw the milkman in Old Town and said good morning and thought about asking him if he had a pen, but chickened out. Now I was up on the moor, and it seemed that no one had carelessly dropped a writing implement on the path. I decided to improvise. There were lots of puddles and they were surrounded by areas of black wet peat which had to be good to use as ink. The reeds and grass were too soft, so I found a heather twig and dipped it in the peat and wrote some words on my piece of paper. Not terribly legible, but I could tell what they said. Result! I held the paper in my hand so the ink could dry and carried on back to Wainsgate and Old Town Mill. 

But as  I went I gathered more items for my memory tray. And near the Mill I found a feather - practically a real pen. Unfortunately there was no black peat here, so I had to make to with common mud. But I can say with certainty that feathers are easier to write with than heather twigs. If I’d had the feather up on the moor where the peat was, I’d have been able to write pages.

Anyway, here’s what I did write. I’m sure you can tell which is heather and which is feather.  

That was this morning, and the day turned out to be gloriously sunny - a fantastic start for the Walk and Ride Festival. I went to watch the crazy cyclists taking part in Up the Buttress.

The Buttress is an old packhorse road which goes straight up the hill from Hebden Bridge towards Heptonstall. It's really steep. The first part is 1 in 3, then it 'levels out' to 1 in 5. In days of old they built a pub at the bottom (The Hole in the Wall) so travellers could psych themselves up with beer before making the ascent. Nowadays it's used as a footpath - but such a steep one that there's a handrail to help you on your way.

Today it was the route of a bike race. Only 400 metres maybe, but only the toughest make it to the top. 

You could self select whether you wanted to be an Elite and start at the packhorse bridge, or a Have-a-Go-Hero and start up the slope where the 1 in 5 bit starts. Then the racers were sent off one at a time, with people along the route cheering and shouting words of encouragement. "Dig in" seemed to be a favourite. Some set off with enormous energy, powering up the first bit of the slope before the gradient got to them. Others were fighting from the Start. Some gave up and carried their bikes.

I met friends there, walked up the buttress in leisurely fashion, cheering the cyclists on as they passed. At the top we watched people come over the finishing line. A young man was recording their finishing times, taking their details. He asked one panting finisher if he could take his name and the guy just nodded, unable to speak. Luckily one of his friends was there and knew his name. Someone else pointed out that the finishing line was right next to the graveyard, and wondered if any of the cyclists had gone straight in. Another asked where the oxygen tent was. One young man said the worst thing was how bumpy a ride it was, the cobbles meaning that you couldn't build up momentum.

I'm not a cyclist. In fact, I'm one of a very rare breed, that many don't even believe really exist. Don't tell anyone, but I can't ride a bike. Really, I never learned. My dad tried to teach me, but I didn't want to learn and being stubborn, never did. Maybe one day I will. If I did, it would be tempting to have a go at this - it's short, it's really bloody tough, but it's over quickly. People say short bursts of really strenous exercise are good for you. Well, in that case riding Up the Buttress is as good as it gets.