Dog Hill

Near to Rishworth Hunting Lodge I came across a young girl walking a dog that resembled the beast in Hound Of The Baskervilles. She'd actually walked off the lane to increase the distance between me and the dog and was pulling back on its lead in a tug of war that she looked likely to lose. I played through different scenarios if the beast did break free. None of them had promising conclusions. The experience put me further on edge. I was thankful when I reached the moor and was able to relax a bit. Except I didn't. The mist had thickened up now and there was no view at all. Apart from the distant roar of the M62, there was nothing to occupy my mind, and it began to wander back to my car parked in Booth Wood car park. I wondered whether they had broken into my car yet. There wasn't anything of value in there. It would be the damage and the hassle of getting all that repair work sorted out, would be the worst thing. Maybe I should have left my car unlocked and let them just take what they wanted. By the time I reached the trig on Dog Hill these dark ruminations were swilling from one side of my brain to the other. For the first time I noticed that my trousers were soaking with walking through the mist-soaked long grass. 'You miserable bugger,' I said to myself, 'cheer yourself up'.

Burlesque Landscape

And I did cheer up, to some extent. I think it was probably more to the sun breaking through the mist, rather than any self-instigated therapy. As I dropped down the northern side of Rishworth Moor the landscape gradually revealed itself, much like a burlesque dancer...or maybe my imagination was now overindulging on the sensory input. Trans Pennine pylons gradually stood up out of the mist. When I reached the stone walls of the fields, the mist had gone, and the valleys were glowing in a bright haze. I started coming across handwritten signs along the path, written by the local farmer. Their messages were familiar: 'Close the gate', 'pick up your dog poo' and 'no access - private land'. The messages were written on the lids of large plastic containers which were then attached to gates, posts and walls. They reminded me of those Love Heart sweets you used to be able to get in the '70s, except these messages weren't quite as friendly.

Baitings And Ryburn Reservoirs

The circular messages followed me down to Baitings Reservoir. The reservoir was almost empty revealing an old packhorse bridge. I'd seen this reported on the local news over the summer. In 1989, another drought revealed the body of a 23 year-old man with a gunshot wound to his head and weighted down with a pickaxe. He was last seen leaving an Oldham pub the previous year. The murderer has never been found. A couple of people had walked down to the packhorse bridge. I was tempted to do the same, but on a gate leading down to the bridge, one of those handmade plastic signs said it was private land. Given that I'd heard gunshots from a farm as I descended from the moors, I decided I didn't want to end up like that 23 year-old chap. Instead, I walked along the edge of the reservoir towards the dam. Under normal circumstances the reservoir spills over the dam in a dramatic waterfall. Not much chance of that today. I followed a path that continued down the valley and found that the Ryburn Reservoir was in a similar empty state. I had my lunch at a picnic table next to the dam. Suddenly a large dog bound up to me and tried to bite my cheese butty. 'He won't hurt you,' shouted a cheerful woman. I was less worried about being hurt than having my lunch stolen. After a while the dog lost interest and bounded back to its owner. My butty survived the close encounter.

Pike End Road

I crossed the Ryburn Dam and then followed a path uphill towards the Pike End Road. I found it to be a single track road and decided to follow it back to my start point at the Booth Wood Reservoir. The road climbed up the flank of Pike End and provided good views down into the valley. Gradually the M62 came into view and the constant drone of the motorway traffic gradually emerged. From my elevated position I could see the farm that is located in the middle of the motorway. It looked like the traffic was rumbling right outside their front door. I'd completed a walk last year that went right past the farm (see M62 Meander). I descended back down to the Booth Wood Reservoir.

After this morning's ruminations about nefarious activities at the car park, I was quite nervous as I made my approach. Would the car be on bricks and all the wheels gone? Would all the windows be smashed, and my CD collection stolen? In the end, I found the car just as I had left it. I breathed a sigh of relief. Maybe I should seek help for my car park paranoia. There again, I wouldn't fancy parking at that dodgy car park at my doctor's surgery.