Day Eight

This morning was very green. 

When I looked out the sun was reflecting off a window across the valley in flashes, as though it was sending me a message in Morse code. Let’s go up there, I said to Bet, and see what’s going on.

We walked along the river and then up to Heptonstall from the Blue Pig. The sun flashed into my eyes between the trees We walked past the house which had been signalling to me and looked back at the view of the town, at our house in a row of terraces. But the sun was too bright to look for long, and  Hebden Bridge was too bright for my camera. 

Everyone was asleep. In Heptonstall the houses held the sleepers in behind closed doors and curtains blanked the windows. The stones glowed in the morning sun. A cat watched us from a doorway and our feet sounded softly on the cobbled streets. 

I wondered about walking to Mytholm via Hell Hole Rocks, but there wasn’t really time. We headed back towards Hebden along the road, thinking it was the poorer option.  But there was no traffic on the road, and the trees arched across the road, shining green and yellow, and it was beautiful. Through the the trees the hills opposite were a darker green, and up on the hilltops the fields were emerald, dotted with white sheep. 

We walked back through the town. A couple of other people were about - one of them transporting dahlias on a pushbike and wearing singular headgear!

 

This afternoon I ran a family drop-in writing workshop at Bracken Hall Countryside Centre at Shipley Glen as part of the Walk and Ride Festival. I’d never been to Shipley Glen until a couple of weeks ago when I went for a preparatory visit. Across the river from Saltaire, you climb the path which runs alongside the tramway (or, of course, take the wonderful Victorian-looking tram), walk along a residential street for a few hundred yards, and then suddenly you’re there in the wide open landscape, with wooded slopes, moortops, fields and rocky outcrops. It’s know as the lungs of Bradford, and finding this space here so near to the urban sprawl, you can see why.

Saltaire Festival is in mid swing, and the town was packed with people watching bands, eating ice creams, chatting in the streets and cafes and walking through the park. The air buzzed with the noise of fairground joy. Up at the top of the hill it was quieter – mostly dog walkers who weren’t interested in a writing workshop.

We had a few people drop in though to visit the lovely garden at Bracken Hall and gather some words  – including a group of Californians and two Steam Punks! Claire and Nicola helped to make a beautiful map of the garden to place the words into, and the sun kept on shining.