Hike around Hebdon Bridge

Hebdon Bridge Circular.

19th October 2024.

A funny place is Hebden Bridge. It is described as a picturesque market town in West Yorkshire that is known for its stunning natural surroundings and vibrant arts scene. Nestled in the Pennines, it has steep hills, charming cobbled streets, and unique independent shops and cafes.

The town has a rich history, with a heritage tied to the textile industry, particularly wool.

Nowadays, it could probably be better described as grim, gritty and a little bit depressing. The tourist scene has exploded, and due to insufficient parking, you need to arrive before 7 a.m. or park up to a mile away along the main road.

Like most tourist destinations, most things are massively over-priced and of very little value. An example was on our way back, we wandered around and found ourselves in the local Heart Foundation Charity shop, which sold my favourite hair care products, which were at least 30% more expensive than what I usually pay.

The community is known for its creative spirit, hosting various festivals and events throughout the year. It is a lively and welcoming place to visit or ( not live) if you don’t mind having your pants pulled down (I am referring to prices here - nothing else!)

Hebden Bridge is also popular with hikers and nature lovers, thanks to nearby moorland and scenic trails, and this is why we come. It’s about an hour from where we live, so we can get an early start without setting off in the dark.

This was a new walk for us, and arriving early, we parked on the roadside to save ourselves threpence ( an old Dewsbury saying). And set off with water, a couple of egg mayonnaise sandwiches and the obligatory bag of crisps.

The forecast was good. However, there had been a few days of heavy rain, and it got muddy very quickly. I was wearing my Innov8 mudclaws for this reason, and although not waterproof, they perform well in challenging terrain.

We quickly reached a steep ascent, and by the time we got to the top, our hearts were pumping and racing; we stopped briefly to enjoy the view, then set off over open moorland.

This was not a popular path, and parts of it were very overgrown; on at least one occasion, we had to double back due to inaccessibility because we couldn’t see the path, and it was boggy and water-logged.

After around 30 minutes, we were wet - my feet were squelching, and the route felt like we were walking in treacle, but we sallied on like true troopers with grit and determination or serious lunatics, depending on your views.

We eventually got onto a small country road and took a steep left path through 2 adjacent walls signposted to some waterfalls. The path was old stone bricks which were damp and green looking, and I looked at them and thought, “Blimey, they look slippy”

I believe I was halfway through that thought when both my feet disappeared in front of me, and I ended up smashing my tailbone and lower back on those evil stones. I also tried to slow my fall with my hands and badly twisted my left wrist, and boy, did that hurt!

For a few seconds, I was so shocked. I don’t think I’ve ever fallen before, so it seemed a bit more dramatic and scary than it probably was. After the initial pain wore off, GB helped me up, and we made our way gingerly down the rest of the treacherous path, passing some wild swimmers on their way home.

My back ached, and after a while, I knew it was just badly bruised, and as long as I kept moving and didn’t sit down, I would be fine, although my wrist was giving me more grief.

We also had other challenges, like some twat of a farmer putting barbed wire over our right of way (as well as disposing of a fingerpost), so we had to navigate not getting our throats ripped open.

My Mother said that they used to take a pair of wire cutters as it’s common behaviour from dictatorial-style landowners.

We were well behind with our time, and to be honest, we were cold and wet, and the weather had become increasingly depressing, so I didn’t object when GB insisted we cut the walk short and head back to the car.

We ended up lollygagging back to Hebdon Bridge along the canal, and for the last 2 miles, the sun came out, warming our souls.

We still managed just over 12 miles.

We sat in the car with a flask of tea and a couple of cakes, and life couldn’t get much better.

What is the moral of the story?

Sometimes, things don’t go to plan, and we have to be adaptable and resilient; there's no point in flogging a dead horse for the sake of ego.

Ditch it whilst you can.

Always eat cake 🍰