I feel as though I have rather neglected Helmshore recently.
We’ve spent so much of September travelling — first our long wander through the South West and then another weekend away in the Lakes — that my usual paths around the valley have had to manage without me.
And while I was away, autumn arrived.
Not dramatically. There was no single morning when everything suddenly changed. But returning home after an extended absence made all those tiny changes much easier to see.
The mornings are misty now.
The air is damp and cool, and fallen leaves lie soft beneath my boots rather than giving that satisfying crisp crunch that will come later in the season. Dew gathers overnight and catches in the spider webs stretched between grasses and hedgerows, turning them briefly into strings of tiny jewels when the morning sun reaches them.
Somewhere high above the valley, geese are moving.
I hear them before I see them — although often I never see them at all. Their calls drift down through the mist from an invisible sky, one of those sounds that seems inseparable from autumn.
The evenings have changed even more.
The equinox has passed and darkness suddenly feels impatient. By quarter past seven the valley has disappeared into it. Tawny owls call from the trees, heard but unseen, while inside we’ve surrendered and switched on the lamps and the heating against the damp evening chill.
Even the kitchen has changed season.
Gone are the light summer suppers eaten with the doors open. I’ve moved happily into venison casseroles, plum crumbles and steaming bowls of lentil and bacon soup.
Salad simply doesn’t seem convincing when it’s dark outside.
Across Holcombe Moor
Last weekend, Pepper and I set off for a longer walk across Holcombe Moor towards Peel Tower.
It’s a landscape filled with stories.
The moor rises above Ramsbottom and the Irwell Valley, its open uplands scattered with landmarks left by generations of people who crossed, worked and lived around these hills.
Our route took us first towards the memorial to Ellen Strange.
A stone and cairn mark the place traditionally associated with Ellen’s death in 1761. Over the centuries her story became tangled in local folklore, including tales involving a travelling pedlar, but later historical research suggests something more domestic and tragic: her husband was arrested and tried for her murder, although ultimately acquitted through lack of evidence. (National Trust)
From there we continued across the open moor towards Pilgrims Cross.
The stone standing there today dates from 1902, but it marks a much older site. A cross was recorded here as early as 1176 and perhaps stood long before that. It is thought that pilgrims travelling towards Whalley Abbey rested and prayed here; on these exposed uplands, landmarks like the cross would also have provided invaluable guidance to medieval travellers trying to find their way in poor weather. (National Trust)
On the day we crossed it, I could appreciate why.
The wind was fresh and determined.
It turned Pepper’s ears completely inside out and my cheeks increasingly rosy as we made our way towards the unmistakable shape of Peel Tower on the horizon.
Standing high above Holcombe, the 128-foot tower was built in 1851–52 in memory of Sir Robert Peel, born nearby in Bury and twice Prime Minister. It has watched over this landscape for more than 170 years and is one of those landmarks that feels almost inseparable from the hill beneath it. (Historic England)
Pepper was rather less interested in the history.
She was mostly concerned about her ears.
The Secret World Beneath the Trees
Back down amongst the trees of Buckden Wood, autumn was revealing itself in another way.
Mushroom season is in full swing.
And I have a new identification app.
This combination may prove dangerous.
What previously would have been “Oh, that’s a nice mushroom” has now become a prolonged examination involving photographs from several angles, consultations with my phone and excited announcements to Pepper about what I may possibly have discovered.
There were fungi everywhere — pushing through leaf litter, growing beside fallen wood and appearing in damp corners of the forest that I would once have walked straight past.
I’m discovering that learning their names changes the way I look at the woodland. Once you begin paying attention, an entirely new layer of life seems to appear beneath your feet.
I’m keeping my interest firmly to identification and photography rather than dinner, however.
Some hobbies are best approached with caution.
Coming Home
Perhaps travelling is partly responsible for making home feel different.
I know these paths intimately. I walk them through winter mud and spring rain, beneath summer skies and through autumn leaves. When I see them every day, the seasons change so gradually that I sometimes barely notice.
Go away for a few weeks and the landscape jumps forward without you.
The swallows have long departed . The mornings smell different. The woods are damp again. Geese call somewhere beyond the mist and spiders decorate the hedgerows overnight.
Even the food I want to cook has changed.
Autumn hasn’t arrived with a fanfare.
It has simply settled into the valley while my back was turned.
And now that I’m home, I’m rather looking forward to catching up.
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