Autumn Walking — Through the Liminal Spaces

Today I was out on a group walk. The air was crisp and cold. I could feel the bite of the cold air as I breathed in through my nose. The sky had a blue-grey haze as the sun pushed through the high, thin cloud. A gentle northerly breeze made us all put on our hats, and some reached for their gloves.

We walked out of Addingham, passing the grey stone houses, most of them breathing out steam from their central heating systems. The cold, fresh air seemed to enhance my sense of smell. As we walked through the village, I caught the fresh, soapy smell of laundry and then the pleasant scent of one of my companions' perfume.

We moved into fields and moorland as we climbed towards Addingham High Moor, crossing rough pasture with clusters of mushrooms intriguing us as we passed. The red and white of fly agaric, the white of snowy waxcaps and others besides.

As the steepness of the ascent increased, the sound of harder breathing grew and the chatter decreased.

We entered a band of dying brown bracken, bringing home forcibly the seasonal processes of dying back and regenerative decay. Each of us walking through this liminal space in time and geography, quietly looking ahead to the gritstone-lined high moor that beckoned us upwards.

A stop just below the crag allowed the group to come back together, catch their breath and bring out flasks and snacks. We sat on boulders, chatting amicably, each opening a flask and drinking in the warmth from its steaming contents. The rustle of wrappers accompanied the conversation as everyone refuelled, ready for the next section.

As I sat, I noticed with surprise, on the side of my gritstone boulder, a tiny red-capped lichen beside a small cup-shaped lichen. I quickly photographed them with my phone to check later whether they might be matchstick and pixie cup lichens, species I understood could be indicators of air purity.

High above the Wharfe Valley, I found this surprising, given the industrial heritage of the area.

Close by, I saw some small, pointed, translucent fungi, similar in shape to psilocybin mushrooms, but with caps so thin that the gills were visible all the way through. Another photograph for later identification.

Our brief break over, we started upwards through the gritstone boulders defining the top of the moor. As we approached the summit, the winter sun came fully out, bringing amazing light and warmth.

I'd just been talking with a woman about how we both preferred the opportunity not to rush a walk, but to take our time and notice the nature and terrain. We both stopped and allowed the sunshine to rest on us for a minute before moving forward with the rest of the group.

Small moments of intrigue and joy came along the route. A glistening spider's web spread between brown fern stems, a gorse bush still bearing yellow flowers as if in spring, and leaves bearing scarlet patches amid their autumn gold.

A shared consideration of the remains of a withered and dead ash tree with another walker.

Conversations both trivial and serious, the sharing of anecdotes and life histories, accompanied our walking. Banter and jokes, care and concern sat as easy companions within this group.

Walking as we approach another year's end, as we see and feel winter approaching, we reflect on the year that has been and share our hopes for the year to come.

The season deeply and subtly influences our conversations. How we will pass the winter and festive season. Whether we will get the opportunity to see family, where, if we are fortunate, we might escape to for a little while, or perhaps take advantage of the colder weather and enjoy skiing and other winter activities.

The transition from summer is seen and heard everywhere.

White Wells — A Victorian Pursuit of Wellness

We stopped for lunch at a remote white house on the hillside, with an old hand-painted sign saying Baths.

Someone explained that the large Victorian hotel we could see down the slope towards Ilkley was part of the town's history as a fashionable Victorian spa resort.

I later discovered that the little white building was White Wells, a bathhouse with a history stretching back more than 300 years.

The original baths were established around 1700, with further development in 1791. The cold spring water was believed to possess medicinal qualities, attracting people seeking relief from a variety of ailments.

During the nineteenth century, Ilkley developed into a fashionable centre for hydropathy, or the water cure. Visitors came to take the waters, exercise in the fresh moorland air and recover their health. Large hydropathic establishments, including Wells House and Ben Rhydding Hydro, were built to accommodate those seeking the supposed restorative benefits of the environment.

White Wells had been offering its cold-water treatments long before these grand Victorian establishments appeared.

The building still contains historic plunge baths fed by natural springs, and even today, brave souls occasionally take the plunge into the freezing water.

I couldn't help reflecting on how the pursuit of health and wellbeing has changed over the centuries, and yet how familiar some of the underlying ideas remain.

Here we were, more than 300 years later, walking through the same landscape, seeking in our own way some of the benefits of fresh air, physical activity, companionship and immersion in the natural world.

The Swastika Stone — A Mystery from Prehistory

Further on — or perhaps it was before the bathhouse, I can't quite recall — we stopped at a prominent gritstone outcrop.

I was told it was the Swastika Stone.

Someone pointed out the intricate and symmetrical carving, something that looked somewhere between a swastika and a strangely misshapen four-lobed paisley print.

It was suggested that this was a Neolithic carving.

I later discovered that the stone is one of the most unusual examples of prehistoric rock art on Rombalds Moor, a landscape containing hundreds of ancient cup-and-ring markings.

The carving consists of a series of small, cup-shaped hollows linked by curving grooves to form its distinctive design. The original has become weathered over the centuries, and a much clearer copy was carved on an adjacent stone.

Its precise age remains uncertain, although it is generally associated with the prehistoric tradition of rock carving dating from the Late Neolithic and Bronze Age.

Nobody knows what the design originally meant.

The swastika was an ancient symbol in several cultures long before its appropriation by the Nazis in the twentieth century. But whether the carving on Ilkley Moor carried some religious, spiritual or other significance remains a mystery.

I found myself wondering about the people who had stood on this same outcrop thousands of years before us, patiently working their markings into the hard gritstone.

What were they trying to communicate? What did this landscape mean to them?

It was one of those moments when the landscape seemed to open a window into another time.

One to talk about, although no one in the group appeared to know the significance of the markings. I was left curious and thirsting for more knowledge.

The Return to Addingham

As we dropped into Ilkley, we entered a world of sophistication and city money dressed in semi-rural twee.

Walking into the town through its manicured gardens, three lilac jewels shone out from the leaf litter.

Everyone gathered around, curious. These beautifully coloured lilac blewit mushrooms drew everyone's attention, none of us having seen them before.

We turned left and headed back west along the river, following the Wharfe towards Addingham, where we gathered together for our farewell ritual of tea and cake.

Everyone looked content and relaxed, although a few spoke of being tired.

For me, my head was full of the conversations, the people I'd met and the flora I'd seen. I felt relaxed and fulfilled. I had been present for myself and others.

I'd had half an eye on the time towards the end, knowing I needed to get back with enough time for tea before going climbing later. The demands of everyday life hadn't disappeared, but neither had they diminished the experience.

Walking in autumn is so rich. It provides for different conversations and different observations. It celebrates the liminal spaces in the year, in geography and in our lives.

It encourages gentle reflection and opportunities for growth and renewal as we move towards another year.

One small step at a time.