Day Twenty Five

Wednesday 31 March - Hebden Bridge to Cowling.

More reservoirs! More moors! I left Hebden Bridge (where, incidentally, I had had an excellent three-course supper in the White Swan for the grand sum of £5, the bargain of the week) by way of Heptonstall, which perches about 500 feet above the valley. 500 feet was quite enough for a starting climb. From Heptonstall, I picked up a path which contours along the top of the valley, connecting with other paths to rejoin the Pennine Way. I missed the last connecting path, so I dropped in vertically on to the PW after climbing a wall.

Then I went straight uphill on to Heptonstall Moor, which like the rest of the uplands was blanketed in snow from an overnight fall. Compared with Northern Ireland and Scotland, which had had feet of the stuff, we had got off very lightly. The snow had not obscured the footpath. The temperature was just above freezing, so the mud was still muddy. A set of fresh footprints provided a reiable route to avoid the worst of the clag, and the occasional stretch of slabs allowed me to move a bit quicker.

Descending from the moor, it was reservoir time again. After Corple Lower Revoir came Walshaw Dean Lower, Middle and Upper Reservoirs. I found a relatively sheltered spot behind the wall of one of these – the wind had got up again – to munch my delicious Hebden Bridge pastie, before setting off across the moorland again.

This particular bit of moor has literary associations. A ruined house called Top Withens is said to have inspired Emily Bronte to write Wuthering Heights. Haworth is only three miles away, and she would no doubt have wuthered in the vicinity, but even the Bronte Society plaque admits that the ruin never bore any resemblance to Heathcliff's house as described in the novel. But atmosphere it does have in spades, especially in a winter landscape.

"Wuthering Heights is the name of Mr Heathcliff's dwelling. 'Wuthering' being a significant provincial adjective, descriptive of the atmospheric tumult to which its station is exposed in stormy weather. Pure, bracing ventilation they must have up there at all times, indeed; one may guess the power of the north wind blowing over the edge, by the excessive slant of a few stunted firs at the end of the house; and by a range of gaunt thorns all stretching their limbs one way, as if craving alms of the sun." (Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte.)

A few sheep offered to show me round, and there was a spacious picnic area, but I walked on. Two young women came the other way with a small dog and a sling for chucking a ball. I was hoping for a demo – sling the ball, dog chases ball into snow, dog never seen again – but no dice. I walked down among farmland to Ponden Reservoir, where a group of youngsters were having an adventure in canoes. The instructor was ostentatiously standing up in his canoe, dishing out orders. Again I hoped, again I was disappointed.

After some more farmland, the PW made its last break for the moors today. Ickornshaw reached new heights of gooeyness, slabs giving up at some of the worst spots. A tramp through waterlogged fields took me down to the A6068 road between Ickornshaw and Cowling, with my b&b a matter of yards away.