1/13/2024 0 Comments Canadian geese meadow buttercup![]() Predictably rammed, we went home via the co-op for supplies. ![]() Careful of my footing after that, I stared at a jackdaw for several seconds until a lack of movement indicated it was stuffed! Fatigued, hot, hungry and thirsty, we took the riverside route into town. Descending the concrete steps to Joan Wood, I slipped on round grit and hurt my knee. More aquilegia and marguerites, along with herb Robert, hawkweed and the first foxgloves of the season, inhabited the ridge. Birds sang in rustling red and green beech foliage overhead.įrom the top path, we turned left to Hurst Road. ![]() We crossed the tree-bridge intending to squat in the sun but unable to get comfy, made use of the metal bench higher up for refreshment. A newly-placed bench and debris round the firepit created an eyesore at the waterfall. We crept close to the magnificent display of flowers embedded between spear-like leaves until impeded by squelchy ground. The top of the swamp even more overgrown, we forded the low brook to the islands to see a red dragonfly, creeping buttercups, pendulous grass delicate cow parsley and indigo alkanet. Worried they didn’t like us, I hurried through but Phil stood to laugh at them arguing with each other. A pair of crows squawked in overhead branches. I lifted the creaky latch on the side gate and we picked our way through the thickly overgrown side path. The clough’s entranceway still blocked by vans, the gate was unusually locked. On Foster Lane, fat bees hopped among pale pink dog roses and aquilegias. Up the shortcut, fancy poppies took the place of the Welsh variety. We’d forgotten his exhibition and entered to peruse his interesting new work. On the way, my old art teacher waved at us from Northlights’ doorway. Warm but breezy at the start of June, I fought indolence for the promise of wild irises in Nutclough. ![]() On the homeward stretch, vibrant orange hawkweed lined the banks and cute goslings paddled in still waters. As I bagged a table at the canalside pub, he went to the bar and came back out to say they’d run out of cask ale. “Beer!” he declared, and immediately sped up. Having supplies with us, I asked if Phil wanted a pop stop or a beer stop. Mauve and white cultivated irises resembled tricorn trumpets. Rosy rhododendrons hung in ostentatious clumps. Returning via the towpath, marguerites mimicked the bright sun. On Oakville Road, rays shone through papery yellow poppy petals while deep gold buds were yet to unfurl. “Yes but we’ve been all round Hebden this is what he does.” ”Putting people at risk? How stupid!” I marched up to Bridge Lanes, down Robertshaw Road and onto the towpath where we ventured over lock number 10. “Can you not find anywhere better?” I demanded of the woman poised to video the escapade. Heading for the Cuckoo Steps, I was alarmed by a mountain biker preparing to descend. Finally transitioning from summer to autumn, outdoors looked uninviting on a cold, dank late November Sunday, I hoped a walk would warm us up. The sunny stroll was a stark contrast to the next westerly foray. Unwilling to smoke near the child, we retreated to the nearby low wall, glancing back to see mum lighting up. “She’s not being hot-housed!” We giggled. The parents oblivious, dad suggested she look at the pond (meaning the canal) and the swans (meaning the geese). After eating our fill of steak and chips, we supped a second pint and watched a small girl in a pushchair behind us trying to read words. At Stubbing Wharf, we grabbed the one free canalside table but sitting in full sun a bit much, moved as soon as a shaded alternative became vacant, to the chagrin of the waitress. Vibrant orange, yellow, scarlet, cerise and violet distracted us from scummy brown water.
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