Trumpet

G has been to Saddleworth's Whit Friday walks and band contests before. But last year she was just a baby, and far too little to appreciate much of the music and pageantry (for what it's all about, you can read an article I wrote for The Guardian, yes that one, here).

This time was a bit different. At the age of almost 21 months, G was able to take in a lot more of what was going on around her, which particularly involved taking a close interest in the various doting older ladies she encountered during the day.

Also keeping G occupied, as shown in the photo taken during the morning Whit Friday service in our local village square, was a toy trumpet. Mrs J was late back from work on Thursday night because, she said, she simply had to stop by a well-known toy retailer and buy one. With brass bands coming and going all day, she correctly predicted that G would inevitably want to join in.

Given that some of the young children in the Dobcross Youth Band didn't look all that much older than G, it was easy to imagine that it might be her marching with them a few years from now. Much to my surprise, and even though G hasn't yet worked out that you only have to blow into the trumpet rather than put one end entirely in your mouth, the prospect of this filled me with pride.

I won't try to push her into it though. Well, maybe just a teeny bit.

Whit Friday

Today is Whit Friday. If that means nothing to you it's hardly surprising, because it's not exactly near the top of the league for big religious festivals these days. It's not even on the same level as Epiphany, let alone Easter.

Everywhere that is, except Saddleworth. Here Whit Friday is the biggest day of the year, with every village holding a Whit Walk and service in the morning, and then a brass band contest in the afternoon and evening. Why the tradition of celebrating Whit Friday has survived here and nowhere else is not exactly clear, but survived it has. And having moved into the area earlier this year, today was our first Whit Friday in Saddleworth.

With Mrs J off work, we took G up to the middle of our nearest village, Dobcross, in time for the service in the square at 10 o'clock. The picture at the top shows the Dobcross Silver Band marching in. The whole village seemed to be there, and after a few hymns and readings we all walked off behind the band down to Uppermill where bands and walkers from all over the area met for another service. Everyone gets a break now before the serious business of the contests begins later, accompanied by lots of drinking.

The Dobcross Youth Band were there this morning too, with some very junior members who didn't look all that much older than G. If we stay in this area, hopefully we'll be back in years to come to watch G all dressed up and wielding a trombone or something similar. She certainly seemed to enjoy her first experience of it.

In Search Of Ted And Sylvia

I decided to go on a little adventure with G today. It was so warm and sunny I thought a bit of outdoor swimming might be in order, so I packed up our kit and an OS map, and drove off in the direction of Lumb Falls near Hebden Bridge, which is about half an hour away.

I'd heard it was a popular picnic spot but wasn't entirely sure how to get there. After a bit of driving around on a deserted lane I parked up near what looked like a promising footpath, put G into her back carrier, and clambered off in what the map told me was the right way. Happily it wasn't long before I first heard and then saw the falls. As you can see, we had the place to ourselves.

If you've heard of Lumb Falls it's because of a poem written about it by Ted Hughes, who was from Mytholmroyd, which is the next village along. The poem's not actually about the beauty spot, but about a photo of six men taken there who were later killed in the First World War. These days, there's a plaque to mark it, and you can read more about it, including the poem itself, here.

G is already well-used to swimming pools, but this was the first time I'd taken her for a dip outdoors. I got us changed into our kit and scrambled down the rocks to the side of the stream, just overlooking the waterfall and the main pool, which looked far too far away to reach while carrying a baby.

So I decided the best thing would be to just go for a little paddle. G put her feet in and immediately looked unhappy. Even though it was a sunny day, it is still May, and the water was definitely on the chilly side. After the initial shock of the cold had worn off, G was a bit happier.

Perched on the rock, G started to try out some of her crawling moves. Soon she was contemplating a dive into the water.

In truth, the water was too cold for G, and she wouldn't have enjoyed a proper swim very much. So I took her back to the bank and got us both dried off, before clambering back up the hill to the car with her on my back. She'd managed to lose her red sunhat on the way down, but some friendly person had picked it up and left it on a fence post, so I was able to reunite G with it before the next bit of our journey.

A mile or two from Hebden Bridge is Heptonstall, a lovely little village where it doesn't look like much has changed recently. Greedily, it's got one churchyard but two churches, the original one fell out of use in the 19th century and is now a ruin.


And here's the other one, which was built to replace it.

The main reason anyone goes to Heptonstall isn't to marvel at the twin churches. It's to visit a distant corner of the churchyard to see the grave of Sylvia Plath, author, poet and estranged wife of Ted Hughes, who committed suicide in 1963. I left G in her pram in the shade as I walked around the deserted yard. It took a while to locate it, and I was actually about to leave when I eventually spotted it.

The scuffing around the Hughes part of her name is a result of fans, who blame Hughes and his affair with Assia Wevill for her death, scratching it out. I don't think many people come by to see the grave these days, and there are many others in the yard which seem better kept, but one floral tribute had apparently been left fairly recently. There's also a collection of pens. If you want to read more about Sylvia Plath, her Wikipedia entry is a decent enough place to start.

At this point it was well past G's naptime, so I pushed her back to the car and she was soon asleep on the drive home. Learning about all those dead poets had clearly taken it out of her.