Each week I send out a short, fresh reflection from the road – photographs, sketches, and observations from old places that still have something to teach us. What follows is a moment from those travels.
"Finely knapped or shaped and dressed flints have been used since the Middle Ages principally for church building...Rough flints were thought adequate for farms and cottages...the larger stones were largely halved and quartered. Thus the black hearts of the flints were exposed and it is these which impart that jet sparkle..."
Olive Cook: English Cottages and Farmhouses.
I’ve been bound to this patch of earth, in one form or another, for almost a thousand years. Since then, I’ve layered and crustated with materials from these parts. They define me like the rings of a tree.
For most of that time, I’ve had a single purpose. Alongside the rise and fall of the Thames, I’ve convened the ebb and flow of people from west to east.
Before things silted, they tickled my foundations when their barges scraped the wharf. The barges brought the timbers for my tower - a beacon of their faith.
And then they ripped out my fripperies and whitewashed my walls until, in more recent times, they tried to take me down. Somehow, I hung on, and from that point onwards, there was a twist in my DNA. They moved from east-west to north-south; coming through the north door and leaving through the south.
I sense their flow at first-light every morning, when they arrive with their animals. I hear the same words over and over again: Dolly, Bonny and Patch. From monastic chanting to pedigree panting. They pause, amidst the coming storm, and my oaken bones creak with delight in the knowledge that I still give respite.
One thing they all have in common is a need to make their mark.
I am a totem to them. Without me they feel rudderless. They have imprinted me with their hopes and fears, their gains and losses, their happiness and sorrow.
And now, out of respect for my age, they make their mark with pen and paper.
Through their marks they find succour and correspondence with the natural world around them.
Their marks stretch out upon my surface like a ticker-tape through time.
I am a Time Machine.
Without me there’d be no gasp or remark, as my leaning tower rises from the mists on the Thames. Without me there would be no perspective. Without me, no-one would know these parts or know themselves.
I came about for a single purpose, but now, I am many things to many people: all faiths and none.
I still have my secrets, like the Virgo Virginium on the timbers, and the bottled hair in my walls.
But, my biggest secret, I call my Northern Lights.
On the sharpest of dawns, my corsetry of flint - like tiny, time-burnished mirrors - echoes the gentle lapping of the Thames, and my walls shift and shimmer with joy.
Hebden and Vicinity.
I head out on an old packhorse road on Splinter my bike and like the Romans get caught up in the corrugated landscape.
It was a tough ride - of about 22 miles, skirting Heptonstall (where Sylvia Plath is buried) and moving up into the wild moors around Gorple Reservoirs.
I took the ride with one intent: to capture the ancient packhorse routes, the canal basin, the wild moors and the local vernacular to give you a taste of this unsung place.
I've included a film of my bike ride further down and you can get a better sense of my journey from that; but here is a Pure Scroll (no words) introduction to this beautiful place.
Pure Scroll No Words
Hebden Gravel Loop
My favourite part of the ride was coming down from the wuthering heights of the moors, into the tranquility of Hebden Dale and then on to the bustling, creative hub of Hebden Bridge.
Enjoy!
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Each week, this Digest offers a small pause – photographs, sketches, and reflections from historic places that still carry meaning. It’s a weekly practice of noticing, continuity, and learning to see more deeply.
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