Distance: 25.9km (108.2km), time spent: 9:15.
Weather: Some fog, some sun, some rain, bewildering.
What comes down, must go up again? At first, I wanted to cut short the time needed to get back on the track again, so I planned on taking a taxi from one bridge to another, Hebden to Jack, and head back to the Pennine Way from there. In the morning however, moments before I go out to the taxi, I decides against it. Yesterday I missed out on Heptonstall and I did not think much of it then, but after reading some more about the village, I want to visit it. The taxi driver might feel snubbed, but I care less, I get less time in a car and more time out walking (although, my blistered foot will probably care).
View from Hell Hole outside Heptonstall, Stoodley Pike monument in th distance.
It was all natural fireworks outside during the night. And the residues after the storm still lingers on the sky when I stand out on the precipice outside Heptonstall. Dark and dramatic clouds, with the looming Stoodley Pike monument all the way back in the horizon, like a huge lightning rod.
The St Thomas the Apostle church in Heptonstall.
The ruins of the St Thomas à Becket church, Heptonstall.
Heptonstall is a charming village with cobbled streets and houses built in black and grey bricks, characterised by large first-floor windows to maximise the light for weaving. Although it was the church here that caught my attention. Or rather the two churches sharing the same churchyard, one complete, the other one only a shell. Ruins has always fascinated me, and this one no less. Originally founded in 1260, dedicated to St Thomas à Becket, the church was damaged by a gale in 1847 and has been a ruin since. Still standing next to it is the new church, St Thomas the Apostle, although it did suffer a lightning strike back in 1875.
Looking back on the way back to the Pennine Way.
Initially, the grey sky makes for a despondent mood in the churchyard. Albeit it is quite fitting given the scenery, with the ruins of the church, the old graves and tombstones standing or lying around. A gothic scene. When the layer of clouds breaks up however, the light becomes wonderful, eviscerating away the dark shadows, brooding mood and any lingering ghosts hiding. I walk underneath the remaining arches of the ruined church, looking up at the sky where there should have been a roof, forgetting about the time.
Heptonstall Moor.
There is no getting away from the fact that I now have to do the walk all the way back to the creek at Colden Water and the acorn waymarks of the Pennine Way. Only that I now can follow the waymarks for the Hebden Bridge Loop and find out where I took the wrong turn. The walk is pleasant, as the walk down was yesterday, but there is a part of the path that is quite overgrown (and so wet against the legs). In the end it all turned out quite well, except for my bloody blister, I got to take two different routes to and from Hebden Bridge. I am back on the Pennine Way just above where I left it yesterday, left the trail too early then.
Down in the surprisingly lovely and hidden valley, where the Pennine Way crosses over Graining Water.
The beautiful light over Heptonstall left while I left the village, and so the walk up towards Heptonstall Moor is underneath a grey sky. It will be more of an undulating walk today than yesterday, but while most walkers apparently end this stage at Ickornshaw, I have not yet decided upon where I will stop. Part of the path going up towards the moor is ambigious in terms of where it goes, but I find the way, mostly due to the handy map booklet that I have.
Walshaw Dean Middle Reservoir.
Heptonstall Moor is by all means a minor moor in comparison to the others so far. Although the bleak weather, interspersed with some blue windows, gives it the desolate feeling that I so enjoy. I am a lonely figure walking across this landscape, and at the sight of a rain shower moving across the moor, I wrap my jacket tighter around me and prepare for a minor wet onslaught. The rain barely misses me, making only a few drops of rain count. From my perspective, it was fascinating to see the rather empty scenery in front of me disappearing in the veil of rain. Only a few scattered houses, most of them farms, are visible in the direction I am heading.
Flagstone path to Withins Height, looking down at the Walshaw Dean Reservoirs.
All across the moor I had looked at a gap in the landscape and it soon became apparent that I had to cross over that very same gap. Believing it to be a short, but cumbersome climb up and down, I am pleasantly surprised when I find myself down into a narrow and lush little valley. It is a wonderful hidden valley. Yet again the sun does magic with the light, as it makes a brief appearance on the sky while I am down into the gap. All the green and verdant bracken are illuminated by the light. The path crosses over the streams of Graining Water on small wooden bridges before it leaves the valley. Strangely surrealistic, but shortly after I have emerged up from the gap, the sun disappears and the scenery returns to its pale hue again. As if the crossing of the gap was just a dream.
Wind and wuthering, Top Withins seen from above.
The ruins of Top Withins, probably wrongly associated with the Emily Brontë novel Wuthering Heights.
Before I descended down into the surprising gap, I had spotted two orange spots moving through the gap. On the road towards the Walshaw Dean Reservoirs I catch up with them, a young French couple doing part of the trail, and on a deadline to reach Horton in Ribblesdale. The orange spots was the colour of their backpacks (or more correctly the raincovers). The sky is breaking up while walking alongside the water, as if the rain clouds dragged the remaning clouds with them. A winding lane of stone slabs leads up through the moors towards Withins Height.
A signpost in Japanese pointing the way to Wuthering Heights.
Looking back up, on the way down towards Ponden Reservoir.
Wind And Wuthering by Genesis come to mind. Here on this wuthering height, I look down upon a large tree, next to a ruin. It is not difficult to imagine that this would form the ideal location for the Earnshaw family and the drama that unfolds in Wuthering Heights by Emily Brontë. I have no trouble imagining how the wind must be in stormy days in this far off farmstead. A perfect place to let the environment be a part of the story unfolding. However, according to the Brontë Society, that Emily Brontë used this place as inspiration for her novel is only a myth. This does not stop tourists (there are even signs in Japanese) from coming here. Nor does it stop Pennine Wayfarers. It is a wonderful site, and the association with the novel just adds atmosphere to the place. Sophie and Roxanne is here, as is the two other walkers we passed by yesterday, Deborah and Eloise. I spend some time here, but not long enough to read Wuthering Heights.
Ponden Reservoir.
The walk down towards Ponden Reservoir accentuates the remote location of Top Withins, with the ruins and large tree getting smaller by every step. I enjoy the walk down, but the area around the lake slightly disperses my good mood. Without being able to properly explain why, it feels ‘pitiful’ in a way. AlthoughI need water, again, so I have to make the detour down to the Ponden Mill Campsite. The only place I could find a place for it close by, according to an elderly man that I talk to on the way down. He exclaims that there now are fewer and fewer Englishmen walking the trail, mostly foreigners (whether this claim is true or not I cannot tell). There are no one at the campsite, but a campsite guest tells me where I can find a water tap.
Some remote farms, seen from the beginning of the Ickornshaw Moor.
Between Ponden and Ickornshaw lies the moors bearing the name of the latter. The clouds has returned when I have made my way up through the minor maze the routes takes from Ponden Reservoir. Definitely windy now, so the solid fence of stone I walk by up towards the moor is welcome. Where the fence ends there is a nice spot for a break, sheltered from the wind. Light is wonderful when walking over the moor. The gristone edge of Wolf Stones is seen in the distance underneath the light, but there are no wolfs howling in the wind. The only sound is me and the wind, walking across the aptly named The Sea. A sea of grass.
View from Ickornshaw Moor.
Small and strange cabins are passed by on the way down to Ickornshaw. In some ways they appear like proper mountains cabins, remote and sturdy, but then the houses of Ickornshaw and Cowling appear in view, dismantling the illusion of being high up in the wild. The way down takes a strange and meandering route, governed by the limitations of public rights of way in England.
Approaching Ickornshaw.
While walking, I had dismissed the original idea of how far to walk today, to Pinhaw Beacon. My blister took care of that. I settle for Ickornshaw. Sophie, Roxanne, Eloise and Deborah are all going to the Squirrel Woods Campsite. I am undecided, I have never been fond of campsites. There is a place offering bed and breakfast here, Winterhouse, but as all the others are settling for Squirrel Woods I go for the same place. Clarissa, who had decided to take it easier today, arrives by bus just minutes before me. The only regret that I have, is that the owner of the Winterhouse looked so hopeful when I walked by, only to see me walk past.
A stone cabin above Ickornshaw.
It is a nice campsite, though, flat and in shade. A problem? Yes, midges, lots of them. No one there when we arrive, so we just pitch our tents and go about our usual business until the owners arrives (hoping that they do). My concerns? Dinner and breakfast, I need both (I did consider the Winterhouse B&B just because of this, the French couple I met ended up there), but Ady says he can arrange a toast for me in the morning. He also says he can make some pizzas for us, so Eloise, Deborah and me changes our plan to go to Cowling for dinner. Ady is the kind of guy that almost has a story for anything, it makes for an interesting and entertaining evening, whether you believe them or not.
Ruin of a farmstead, above Ickornshaw.
Not spectacular, not extremely special, but still another satisfying day on the Pennine Way. My feet and blister has behaved today. All the others, with the exception of Clarissa, are aiming for Malham tomorrow. For myself, I am uncertain, still feeling that my feet are becoming more and more of a concern.
Not the Shitting Bull, the full story you can get at the Squirrel Woods campsite.
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