July 24, 1982: Mankinholes to Ponden Hall
Stoodley Pike
Breakfast on the morning of Saturday, July 24th, was at 8:00. Jay had sworn off the fried tomatoes and I wasn’t too thrilled with the black pudding, but we managed to do justice to the rest. We taped up (I had a small heel blister) – but all of the time we had saved by doing our chores the night before was subverted by the fact that Rich and Keith now had to do theirs. Thus we weren’t on the road until shortly after 9:00.
Once again we disdained a short cut – it was a sign of my general energy level on this trip that I was quite happy to keep to the prescribed route. This meant that we had to go back up the flagged path, but it also meant we would have a chance to visit the famous Stoodley Pike, which dominated scenery for so many miles hereabouts. The reason for this celebrity is that on top of the hill there stands a monument, reaching some 120 feet into the sky, memorializing the surrender of Napoleon in 1814. Here we had our first rest and then began a descent into the Calder Valley. Jay and I were playing a new game: name the member of the Tude family who fits the following description. The member who is always high: Alta Tude; the member whose writing is always realistic: Vera Simila Tude, etc. We substituted the Son and the Some families as we charged downhill, quite mystifying the young lads in our company – who must have thought us quite mad.
The paved road through Collis Wood (well, once paved) took all the steam out of us as the steep descent on such a grudging surface tortured our feet. We had a brief rest at the River Calder (Hebden Bridge off to our right) and then crossed the highway for an equally steep ascent. This part of the walk was very strenuous – with hazy sun beating down on us, making it quite warm for a hard uphill slog. It also appeared that an official route had been established on the hillside somewhat at variance with Wainwright’s original instructions – which we had to do without for about half a mile. We rose from 350 feet to over 1000 feet in less than a mile, catching our breath at last on Pry Hill, where the sheep were being rounded up by efficient dogs and whistling shepherds.
Then it was down to Colden Water for a few minutes in the shade, and then up again to 1250 feet at the edge of Heponstall Moor. The boys were briefly tempted by a nearby farm, which had an off-license, but I encouraged them to press on in the hopes of reaching a real pub during opening hours. I then lead the way myself on a corking charge across the heathery moor, over Clough Head Hill and up to the gate of a reservoir cottage. By this time we could see the Pack Horse Inn, a glittering white prize shining below us, and this encouraged the others to pass me by as we neared Graining Water and its ferns and footbridge; soon the lads were inventing a short cut up a grassy bank to the road which lead to the inn, some quarter of a mile off-route.
The lads in front of the Pack Horse Inn
My first question to the barman was, “What time do you take last orders?” Assured that we had over an hour to drink, Jay I quaffed through two pints each, sneaking nibbles at our YH lunches and eating some Pack Horse crisps. Between pints one and two I called Tony Babarik at Between The Sheets in Notting Hill, where I was still filling in as a part-time staff member, for a brief chat. I felt a bit scruffy in the pub – which again had its admixture of local gentry – since I was dressed in white t-shirt, mucky tan pants, a handkerchief as a headband, and socks (boots had to be left outside).
We left the pub at 3:00, when it closed, and forced our tired feet back into our boots. Then we retraced our steps on the tarmac road and followed another reservoir road to the northwest. The Walshaw Dean Reservoirs were almost empty – a sign of the dry weather hereabouts. As we were about to regain the moor at the end of the upper reservoir Rich and Keith indicated that they now wanted to hurry on in pursuit of a bus to Haworth – and so we said goodbye. I thanked them for letting us tag along these last few days (or were they tagging along with us?). We never saw them again.
Top Withins
As we passed mile 50, on Withins Height, I had Jay take my photo – I had just completed my 500th mile of long-distance footpath walking in Britain. Top Withins House itself, a ruin associated with Bronte’s Wuthering Heights, was a disappointment – perhaps it was too sunny to impress on this day. Anyway there were too many trippers about and the route had been graveled for them – this surface hurt our feet. We preferred to walk above the road on a tiny path in the heather – as we made our last descent through farms to the Ponden Reservoir. Route finding was not easy; once we asked a local in a car; and once we mistakenly walked up a private drive and were attacked by half a dozen Cavalier King Charles Spaniels.
It was 5:50 when we reached Ponden Hall, our refuge for the night. It had been quite warm and humid and we were tired. With all the ups and downs and unpleasant road surfaces, today’s fifteen miles had seemed much harder than the previous day’s seventeen.
Our arrival at the farmhouse, believed to have been the Thrushcross Grange of Bronte fame, was hardly auspicious. Our landlady, Mrs. Taylor, didn’t seem to remember we were coming (having forgotten that today was Saturday). We were offered cold drinks and taken to our bedroom. I had expected a dormitory environment, but Jay and I were discomfited to find that the only other occupants of this large room were Esther, a talky, unhappy, ill-tempered woman from Muswell Hill, and her dog. While we were sipping at our drinks in our exhausted state she insisted on interrogating me about the construction of the room and haranguing me with tales of a leg injury she had sustained while walking the dog two days earlier.
When she left the room her place was taken by a bright ten year-old named Russell, who was equally chatty, though pleasantly so. Russell showed me how to use the shower – though not how to choose a temperature between ice and fire – while Jay, who had announced that he was not going to sleep in any room with a woman – went downstairs to complain (quite rightly) to our landlady.
It seems that the crabby one was only in the empty men’s dorm because she objected to the snores of Russell’s mom. After a word to her from Mrs. Taylor she moved back to her original room with ill-disguised malice, rejecting Jay’s apologies for wanting a little privacy with the remark, “That’s all right – I never liked Yanks anyway.” Most of this took place while I was in the shower. Jay also reported that in moving back to her old room our ex-bedmate had bumped her head. No wonder that at the communal dinner table at 7:00 she sat there like death’s head at the feast – refusing to look at us and only speaking once – to one of Mrs. Taylor’s serving daughters – “You’re standing on my foot!”
Our other companions were Russell, his mom (a huge ugly woman with no teeth, but a pleasant enough manner) and three related walkers, one man and two women, who were doing stretches of the PW with the help of a car. Near the end of a quite delicious meal another male walker – an insurance surveyor from Twyford – took the place of Esther at the table. This chap, doing the PW alone in a rush, was clearly used to talking to himself and, to our pain, continued the semi-monologue in our presence. But as soon as Esther had removed herself from the room entirely we all had a jolly time.
(Several years later, when my long-time walking companion Tosh Lee was talking about taking the kids in her English Novel course up to Bronte country, I was able to recommend Ponden Hall. This pilgrimage became an annual event and dozens of American School in London students followed me and Jay into the by now Estherless dorm rooms of the hospitable Taylor family – though the Taylors eventually left Ponden Hall to offer local b&b services nearby.)
After dinner we walked around a bit in the dusk. I called Dorothy. Jay, Russell, and I played snooker, and we all tried to get used to the unearthly shrieks of the resident peacocks, who had taken up perches on the roof. During the night I was sure I heard a voice cry out, “Elmer, help!” – but it must have been one of these beautiful birds.
To continue with the next stage of our walk you need: