Wet grass and nettles...not a few of my favourite things

Weird how you can remember which way to go, even if you’ve only been there once before, isn’t it? The Penistone Boundary walk is about 17 miles long and I was amazed how well we remembered the route after doing it once before about 18 months ago. We tackled this walk on Friday 8th August, which was apparently a very auspicious day for the Chinese, as it is 2008 as well. The little yellow Boundary Walk logo (is it a ram, is it an owl?) which is tacked onto prominent posts and stiles kept us on track, but we also relied on paths worn in grass and completely spontaneous recollections like ‘isn’t this near where we hoped there would be a tea room?’ and ‘we saw the turkey here’ and ‘we walked under some pylons down this path’. Perhaps it was this skill that enabled our ancient ancestors to migrate in search of the best mammoth herds.
Friday was a warm day, with bright sun, then dark clouds, then blue skies keeping us guessing about waterproof coat status. Lesley and I are of course getting ready for The Hack and this was a good practice. Cee came with us again, having bought lovely new boots the day before and wielding her lovely new digital slr camera. She was official photographer for the day. My husband dropped us off at Scout Dyke reservoir at about 9.15am and as soon as we started to push through the tall vegetation the theme of the day presented itself, wet grass and nettles. I immediately regretted forgetting my walking gaiters as the water ran down my trousers and seeped into my boots. The information booklet for this walk (go to www.visitpenistone.co.uk/see_and_do_sport/see_do_boundary_walks.html) says that this part of the walk can be wet. Yeah. You don’t say.
We enjoyed walking through fields towards the distinctive wind turbines that are visible for so much of this walk, greeting horses and cows as we passed them in fields. Although we walked past several farms and through at least one yard it seemed rather too early to see people out and about just yet and the first person we were able to chat to was a bird watcher keeping an eye out near Royd Moor Reservoir. We had watched squadrons of geese heading for the res as we walked towards it and wondered where they were coming from. The twitcher thought that they were from Cannon Hall and Bretton Lakes and that they were coming to Royd Moor to rest and feed in relative peace; we’d seen them lined up on the muddy edge of the water.
After taking the long straight road past a farm with a couple of Alsatians in a wire pen going bonkers, we came to a new stone pinfold type affair for walkers and cyclists to rest in. It’s got a stainless steel ‘table’ with engraved points of the compass and interesting facts on it, which helped us understand the fabulous panorama you can enjoy from there. After a sandwich for Cee and Lesley and a Brunch Bar for me we were en route again through more horribly wet grass, walking on the other side of the ridge that the wind turbines line up along. We were making for a farm with some lovely restored holiday cottages in it and walked through the yard, saying hello to a friendly chap in a barn who was obviously used to people traipsing over his property. Very soon we met another farmer on a quadbike, balancing a blue drum of something on his knee whilst bumping along. He stopped to remind us of the way, probably because he didn’t want us to end up wandering through his cattle in the barn which is beside the footpath. The cows watched us stumbling over their field with interest, although we were faster than usual because Lesley isn’t keen on being in a field with cows at all and always gets a bit of a move on when they’re around.
It was about now I decided to change my socks because my feet were really squelching and I didn’t want them to get sore and soggy. So I felt a lot more comfy as we crossed the road at Catshaw, and we stopped to have a look at a roadside monument, an ancient old stump called Catshaw Cross. It looked rather like a worn tooth, all too easy to miss if you are speeding past in a car like so many people were doing. Penistone must have been a very feline area, we walked past a place called Cat Hill later on. The route then took us past a bungalow which was being renovated by a friendly guy who was happy to acknowledge ownership of a military vehicle in his garage. We thought it would be useful when the revolution comes and wondered if he was going to be in the vanguard with the owner of the tank that can be seen on a hill overlooking Jackson Bridge. We were walking down hill by now towards the infant river Don. Cee’s tidy nature was offended by a bucolic mixture of cows, brown and black, and sheep, greyish, all in the same field. It reminded me of toy farms my brothers used to assemble on the living room floor when we were kids, so I didn’t mind. I would even have been happy to see the odd zebra or rhino.
Soon we were slashing through more nettles , walking through more fields of sheep and at one point traipsing through someone’s garden on the way to Hartcliff Hill, or rather the road than winds round it. The garden’s owner was lying under a Morris Minor, wearing overalls and crocs. He returned to the vertical to let us through the gate, whilst holding back his dogs, who were enjoying a good bark at us. Hartcliff hill has some sort of a tower on top, but we bypassed it in favour of a few words with a gent and his companions who were parked in a little lay-by enjoying the view over Langsett. The man and a lad were picking bilberries and asked us where we were going. When we explained that our immediate aim was Cubley Hall he told us it had been a home for orphaned girls just after the war. Leaving them we walked on down the long straight road, trying to ignore a horrid smell of dustbins that was coming from some hidden source. We were distracted by the sight of weasel or a stoat rushing over the road ahead; it stopped momentarily to have a good look at us.
Cubley Hall appeared like an oasis after a few more miles. Fantastic! A drink and a sit down! Just like last year a wedding was in full swing, with happy guests looking elegant in frocks and suits and a tiny little boy sporting a scaled down tux. They were out in the garden preparing for the wedding celebrations and didn’t seem to mind us on their periphery; there’s nothing like a wedding to have a good stare at. Cubley Hall does super-good sandwiches, with bowls of chips and salad as standard. Just what we needed to power us on our way and they did, we carried on with renewed vigour eastwards towards the River Don again. There was a very pretty stretch alongside a stream with fields of corn on one side, which contrasted with a gloomy railbridge that we passed under towards Spring Vale.
Spring Vale is on the outskirts of Penistone and after walking past a council recycling site we crossed the river on a packhorse bridge. Last year the bridge was closed off because it needed repairing, this time it looked fine and coped with us tramping over it. I ran over double quick just in case. The information board explained that the parapet was at the right height to allow pack ponies to walk over without damaging their panniers. The path then climbs up a steep hillside towards High Lea Farm and I felt sorry for any pack ponies that might have followed that route. However, there is some compensation in the great views of Penistone, which included the cricket pitch, the viaduct and a mysterious domed building. Can anyone tell me what it is?
After saying goodbye to a field of curious calves we crossed the A629 and climbed up through more fields, admiring a massive Claas combine harvester parked up on the path as we went. Whilst we decided where next to go, a happy spaniel came bounding through a gate on the other side of the field and then disappeared. We went through the gate, but no sign of the dog. There was lots of Himalayan Balsam growing beside the path here and we amused ourselves by pinching the seed capsules till they burst, which I suppose is what gives the plant its nickname of touch- me- not. After walking under the line of pylons we had seen since we walked towards Cubley we came near to Daisy Lea farm, which is at the end of a track next to a wood. Cee also spotted a field of beetroot, which seemed rather strange to see in such quantity, but not unlikely. It’s got to grow somewhere and maybe this was the beetroot triangle, like the rhubarb triangle near Wakefield. We could hear dogs barking frantically and saw several ducks rushing across the farmyard, but luckily the path took us through a wood and we scuttled past. Avoiding dogs has been a consistent feature of our routes so far and so far every single dog we’ve met on a path has been well controlled. Thank you dog owners.
The route took us out onto the main Penistone to Silkstone road, which was where we finished last year, but this time we were determined to finish, even though this was unexplored territory for us. The path leads up beside a gate decorated with butterflies and magpies to Pye Flatts and then on through fields with lots of bleating sheep in them. We stopped to ask a man and his dog which way to go because the invaluable Boundary Walk logo was lost in the hedgerow somewhere and he gave us the unwelcome news that Scout Dyke reservoir was at least two hours walk away, laughing as he said this. However, he did point us in the right direction and after a while we found ourselves in the familiar area of Gunthwaite, which is cool and shady with a river running beside the road. We met a man walking beside his daughter on her pony, who told us ‘I’m going to get one of these’; as though the phenomena of horse transport was novel in Gunthwaite.
To be honest, as we had walked across fields at Gunthwaite we had looked across at the A629 and seen the little cars tootling along and thought it seemed miles away. In fact we had stopped to eat some buns to boost our energy levels and to phone my husband to break it to him we’d be a while yet, which is something he’s begun to expect. But we soldiered on and after crossing the Sheffield to Huddersfield railway line, having watched a train passing and resisted the urge to wave like the Railway Children, we were nearly at the Outdoor Activity Centre opposite the reservoir. But it wasn’t quite over, because as we walked up the little lane we could hear gruff barking coming from a bungalow garden. I braced myself to walk unflinchingly past a ravening hound, but saw instead a tiny Chihuahua jumping up against the gate. We crossed the road to sit beside the reservoir at a picnic bench, where the midges picnicked on us whilst we waited for our lift.

Andrew Marvell might have liked this walk

Yikes! The NSPCC HACK! The 30th August! 25 miles! With these words ringing through our minds we set off for a bit of a toddle on the hottest day so far this year. Lesley’s daughter, Cee, is also thinking of putting herself through this test of endurance, or madness, so she came too. The last time she walked with us I felt like an ogre walking beside a princess, because she wore strappy gold sandals, whilst I wore walking boots. She did wonder about wearing flipflops this time, but plumped for trainers. Was this to be a mistake?

Starting from Holmfirth, we made for Scholes, greeting ponies, horses and builders on the way. From Scholes we trundled on to Jackson Bridge, up to Hepworth where we were able to strike off the road and walk alongside the little river. Someone owns lots of happy chickens along there, a variety of shapes and forms, who were all happily scratting in their runs. The path branched quite soon to take us up a steep muddy track alongside a field that was flooded in bright sunshine whilst we were hidden in the dark damp shadow. The old houses of Jackson Bridge and Hepworth looked charming in the sunshine with gardens and yards full of interesting flowers and objects. We saw lots of cats idling in the heat during this walk. One especially beautiful spotty tabby was basking on a windowsill in Barnside.

Soon we had crossed the road at Meal Hill and began to climb the hill which I think is called Hullock. It certainly looks like one. Wild flowers were growing on the walls and hedge backs and as we sweated up the steepest point we were delighted to find bilberries ready in masses beside the path. We had already stopped a few times to look at the view, which takes in the whole of the HACK route that can be seen from this side of the Pennines, but the bilberries demanded a proper stop to pick, eat and hoard. They’re only tiny, but they are tasty and with such purple juice that our hands were soon stained. A mountain-biker was approaching with great caution from up above us, avoiding the scoured clefts in the dirt path whilst watching for his young son following on behind him. They accepted a few berries from me before continuing on the bumpy path down the hill.

This is a digression, but the bilberries reminded me of a poem by Andrew Marvell called ‘Bermudas’. He imagined the lush vegetation of these exotic islands that he’d never been to: ‘He hangs in shades the orange bright, / Like golden lamps in a green night. .’. These weren’t oranges and it was Yorkshire, not the Bermudas, but the image seemed appropriate. The tiny berries were a deep sapphire blue hidden in their green foliage. I like the way a fanciful idea from a poet who was writing 350 years ago has the power to bubble up without being requested. Thanks, Andrew.

Fuelled by bilberries we reached the top of the mini-mountain that is Hullock and set out along the straight road of Low Common. It’s very quiet and peaceful up there, a great place for horse owners and there were lots of horses for Cee and Lesley to admire. Shuffling across the road at one point was a bright green caterpillar. We were a bit worried about him as a car appeared in the distance, but he must have been frightened by our footsteps because he put on a mighty burst of speed and wriggled to the safety of the verge. It was also a good day for happy looking cows and their calves in the fields; we admired one herd with a muscular bull in their midst, who kept flipping up his nose ring stylishly as he grazed, showing off his piercing with pride. The hedgerows up here are filled with pink wild roses that smell delightful and give a frilly edging to the flat fields. It was a contrast to the steep valley we had just come from.

After a while we emerged onto the busy Sheffield road at High Flatts, greeted by twin boxer dogs who gazed hopefully at us through a garden fence. It was really hot by now, so perhaps it was a higher being who had directed our footsteps, because we realised we were near Delph House Farm, purveyors of ICE CREAM to red-faced walkers on sunny days. We were intending to call off at the nearest pub for refreshment, but ice cream was an irresistible lure and we called in to get some. Delph House Farm is obviously a working farm with Friesian Holsteins sat about in surrounding fields, calmly making the milk which goes into the yummy ice cream. I had coffee flavour, Lesley chose a scoop of lemon curd and a scoop of chocolate and Cee went for a scoop of strawberry and a scoop of banoffie. As an ice cream connoisseur, I have to say this is scrumptious stuff. Nevertheless, I remain faithful to the Harbour Bar on Scarborough seafront for a full on retro ice cream experience. I’d like to know what ice cream can match the Alonzis’ product and I invite fellow enthusiasts to inform me via this blog.

Vowing to return, we made for the Fountain pub, just down the road in Ingbirchworth. We visited this village a couple of months ago on the way to Cannon Hall and felt a sense of satisfaction that we were joining up again with familiar routes. The Fountain offered good lunchtime food and the nice lady behind the bar filled up my water bottle, squeezing in some ice cubes for good measure.

Another cheerful lady and her mum set us on the right track round Ingbirchworth reservoir, explaining that we could join up with the road about half way round. We swatted our way through clouds of midges, watching with some misgivings the progress of a tractor spreading muck in the fields ahead of us. Amazingly, we hardly smelt it as we joined the long straight road to Victoria. The aerobatics of a model aircraft looping the loop and dive-bombing over a field of unconcerned sheep entertained us and we could see that the man flying it was clearly part of a club, complete with a club-house (a shed) and a neatly mown landing strip and a couple of spectators and a dog admiring his skills. Repressing the urge to call in and ask for a drink we walked on. We spotted a poignant feature of many roads, the single lost shoe (in this case a baby’s) stuck conspicuously on a gate. Very Tracy Emin, we thought, and wondered why so many shoes end up like this and how their owners get home without realising they’ve lost something.

To our right the grim vision of Hepworth Pipe Works crouched as we marched down the road through Maythorn. A newly built stone enclosure on right invited a quick detour and we think we found the lower half of the contentious Maythorne cross; it has been compared to the Elgin Marbles, as its top half has ended up in New Mill about 5 miles away and the bottom part with a new top is anonymously standing here on the Maythorn road. It would be interesting for walkers to have some information in situ about this 1,000 year old monument, but don’t go to see it expecting muscular centaurs and splendid warriors. After making friends with a Dalmatian running about behind a fence we arrived on the A616 at Victoria, turning towards Barnside and Hepworth. This road gives the walker a truly stunning panorama of Holmfirth and the surrounding Pennines. It was still hot and the deep stone trough beside the busy road could have almost been a temptation to wallow in. The road is scoured by lorries and cars zooming down to New Mill so it was a relief to turn off it and walk through Barnside. This is another cute hamlet of which there are so many round here, with lovely multi-level gardens and ancient houses piled up beside the road. Passing through Hepworth, Cee directed us onto a perfect shortcut by the church.

This is a great path to use because you get a feeling of walking through the past. Part of it is steep and cobbled and it takes you over the obligatory rickety rackety bridge and then out alongthe edge of fields overlooking Hullock on the right. We spotted a tiny baby sock, another lost piece of footwear. Cee’s trainers were hurting her by now and I was a bit concerned that they too might end up abandoned by the wayside. Our attention was drawn by a big marquee in a field, obviously ready for a wedding the next day. It was a fantastic setting for a shindig. But we weren’t invited, so we carried on through Scholes and back to Holmfirth, exchanging a few words with the horses and the builders we said hi to earlier on.

I can’t think of any poetry about lost shoes and socks, but maybe someone who reads this will suggest something that fits.