“God, the wind. It peeled the stones
from the skull of St Thomas’ church,
left its mouth slacked to a yawn or a scream,
sounding vowels through the nave, through
the clock-eye, the altar stones, the flat-backed
flat-packed dead in their wedding gowns.”
Wendy Pratt – Heptonstall Graveyard

Lisa had bought in a bunch of English delicacies for me to cook for breakfast. Bury black Pudding, sausages, bacon, eggs and beans spiked with chip shop curry sauce were consumed. We packed up our belongings and loaded them into the car.
Derick was to drop us across the Pennine range into that there Yorkshire, Hebden Bridge to be exact, with a few side attractions along the way.  Lisa popped home to bid us farewell and then we were off.

Our first destination was a sculpture known as the Singing Ringing Tree. The Singing Ringing Tree is made of pipes formed into the structure of a tree. It is sited up on the Pennines above Burnley. We drove north through Lancashire , through the town of Rawtenstall which I knew of as Jane Horrocks from Absolutely Fabulous was born there. Our path took us up into the Pennines till we were on a desolate ridge looking down on the city of Burnley. We parked in a half full carpark and made our way down a path with fenced farmland either side. The path dropped down the hillside before taking a righthand turn and extending towards the sculpture which we could see 100m or so away. We stepped over puddles which were frozen solid. Once we had dropped down the bank far enough to dissuade us from back tracking it was clear that we were not wearing enough layers. The thing that makes the British cold so soft is the lack of wind. Up here there was a decent breeze forcing the frozen air into us and it was bloody cold. Mum persevered like a trooper; my fingers started to go numb. We made our away along the track and reached the ‘tree’. The sculpture is renowned for not making noise, however on this day it was emitting a low haunting moan which totally suited the moment and vibe of the surrounds.
We made it back to the car without succumbing to frost bite. The heating was cranked up and we continued along our way. We drove through the range of hills through beautiful villages and hamlets which were clearly in decline. The expanse of All Creatures Great and Small style scenery was topped off with occasional blasts of sleet and hale alternating with the odd moment of wintery sun.

Our next goal was the grave of the poet Sylvia Plath in the village of Heptonstall. Viewed on a map Heptonstall looks to be a part of Hebden Bridge. However, if one looks in profile it becomes clear that the steep side of the dale means that one needs to be particularly keen on hill climbing to go for a wander between the two. Knowing this I asked Derick to take us past on our way to Hebden. After multiple loops around the tight steep cobblestoned roads we finally found a way to get near to St Thomas’ Church . We jumped out and Derick went to find somewhere to hover in the car as we did our grave crawling.
We first walked the old graveyard. The church has the considerable ruins of the first church which dates to 1256 , it fell into disrepair after a storm in 1847 and a Victorian replacement sits along side it. After a bit of furious googling I discovered that Sylvia is buried across the lane in the “extension” graveyard. So, we wandered across and started trawling along the lines of the dead. A spectacled chap in an anorak was also searching the graveyard. I was fairly sure we were after the same plot and then he asked if we knew where Sylvia Plath was buried. I brought up a youtube video that showed the way, but it wasn’t easy to interpret as it was filmed in summer with bushy full trees rather than the current more sparse environment. In the end it did lead me to the grave. Syvia’s second surname, her married name from the tumultuous marriage to Ted Hughes, is scratched off by those who blame him for her suicide¹. ‘Hughes’ has been regularly scratched off and repaired since the 1980’s and was last repaired in the early 2020’s . The name was scratched off on our visit. We paid our respects, took a photo and called the gentleman across to it before wandering on our way back to meet Derick in the car.

Derick dropped us down to Hebden Bridge. When we got there traffic stopped at one point as 2 geese were using the pedestrian crossing to cross the road. We dropped our bags at our guesthouse, bid Derick farewell and then wandered along to find a pub till check-in time. I spent two nights in Hebden Bridge in 2019 when I came to brew with Vocation Brewery. I remember the joy of being in a valley after the flatness of southern England. I remember feeling at ease with the horizon now being in the correct place in the sky.
We first popped into the Old Gate but it was doing a cranking lunchtime trade and there wasn’t an inside seat to be had. We continued through town and popped into The Prince Albert. A wet led pub tucked into a back street run by a family: we heard the young barmaid tell a caller “way ya go then, just pop upstairs un see my ma”. I ordered a pint and a ½ of Old Peculier and crisps, poppadoms and scratchings.  Up until now mum had been drinking 1/2s. This was the first beer to cause her to ask for a full pint straight after her 1/2.
We walked back to our guesthouse and hauled our bags up the steep stairs to our rooms. After a quick surveying of the scene, we headed out to the end of town where a community owned pub called The Fox and Goose sits. We sat with pints in a side room and listened to a group of senior Gen X / Boomers discussing their bewilderment with the world.

“man is man , woman is woman I don’t know why they are trying to change that”

“cooking!? I can do beans on toast, I can do cheese on toast … oh and I can do a mean curry!”

“next time you see me I will be a Reform candidate, bahahahahah”

Maybe he was joking. Mum was in the unisex toilets at the same time as him and apparently he couldn’t stop going on about how WEIRD it was to be peeing near a woman.

We headed back into town in search of sustenance. Mum’s Old Peculier consumption was catching up with her. First, we tried the kebab shop where I had a great experience last time ‘dining with them’ both nights. This time we hit a “cash only” sign. Did I pay cash five years ago when I was here? Probably. At this juncture it seemed like to much hassle hunting out a cash machine, so we continued on to the fish and chip shop.

It probably won’t surprise anyone to know that I am a big fan of fish and chips. They are important to me. During covid restrictions I took to making my own as I missed them so much. However, I have a complicated relationship with British fish and chips. On one hand I am a vocal defender of British food. It has become the butt of jokes unfairly often laughed at by those in lands with much worse gastronomic standards. On the other hand most English fish and chips are not very good. The practice of storing the food in warmers after cooking so they go nice and soggy is apparently to deal with the massive demand. I am not sure I buy that; I think at some point it was decided that the convenience of being able to collect ones food immediately after it was ordered was worth the very real detriment to the food itself.
Anyway, I decided I would expose mum to the English fish and chip experience. The chippie was around the corner from The Prince Albert. Despite being Hebden Bridge this wasn’t some posh tourist aimed middle class chippie. It was full of Yorkshire accents broader than a sword and tongues just as sharp. Upon entering the stern wee woman holding court announced “my fryer is on a break so there will be a wait”. This news was met with incredulous consternation by all but mum and me. I ordered fish and chips and a meat and potato pie (because you have to order the weird stuff) and curry sauce. As we left the queue that had formed to order did not want to yield to let us escape. Elbows as sharp as picks were jostling for prime position. Mum got the full experience. We went to the Prince Albert hoping to be able to eat there but I asked as I bought the pints and was told we were welcome to eat brought in food but not fish. We sat by the fire were men with dogs sat conversing. One of them went to the gents and some people came in and managed to accidentally step on the paw of one of the border terriers that was tucked under the table. A yelp was emitted but no real damage inflicted. I said to the man upon his return “that is the problem with having such well-behaved dogs, people don’t even see them”
 We drank our beers and walked back to the vertical guesthouse and dined on the greasy goodies in mum’s room before I climbed up to mine and gave in to sleep cocooned in the security of the deep valley.

1. I realise that is a rather simplistic summing up of the thoughts out there on the marriage of Ted and Syvia. The triangle of Ted Hughes, Syvia Plath and Assia Wevill became one of the forerunners of the modern culture wars. A whole post would be required to do it and my thoughts on it justice. ↩︎